Italian Mavericks: Forbidden Nights With The Italian: The Forbidden Ferrara / Surrendering to the Italian's Command / The Unwanted Conti Bride. Sarah Morgan
admire your efforts to create the family you didn’t have, but my son doesn’t need paid employees to fill that role. He has the real thing. A family ready and willing to welcome him. He’s a Ferrara and the sooner we make that legal the better for everyone.’
‘Is it?’ Her voice suddenly seemed to gain strength. ‘Is it really better for him to be brought up by parents who are strangers?’
Santo’s mouth tightened. ‘We’re not going to be strangers, tesoro. We’re going to be as intimate as it’s possible for a man and a woman to be. I’m going to rip down those barriers you’ve built. When you’re with me you might as well be naked because there is going to be no hiding. Now get some sleep. You’re going to need it.’
As intimate as it’s possible for a man and a woman to be.
What was intimate about that cold, emotionless statement? He was blisteringly angry. Furious. How did he think they could achieve intimacy under those circumstances?
She wasn’t going to marry him. It would be wrong.
Once he calmed down, he’d see sense. They’d come to an agreement about how to share Luca. And perhaps the three of them would spend some time together. But there was no need to make it legally binding.
Worry about her grandfather mingled with worry for her son and herself and Fia curled up in the bed, but there was no rest to be found in sleep, the dreams racing over her in a dark, tangled rush of disturbing images. Her mother, huddled in a corner of the kitchen, trying to make herself as small as possible while her husband lost his temper. The sight of her walking away, leaving her eight-year-old daughter behind. ‘If I take you, he’ll come after me.’ Standing with her grandfather as they buried her father after the drunken boating accident that had taken his life, knowing that she was supposed to feel sad.
She awoke to find herself alone in the bed. A lurch of fear was followed by a brief moment of relief as she heard the sound of Luca giggling. And then she remembered that they weren’t at home, but in Santo’s deathtrap apartment.
Almost tripping in her haste to get to her child, she shot out of the bedroom and followed the sound, ready to drag him out of trouble.
Expecting to find an energetic Luca fearlessly scaling a cupboard or plunging his curious fingers into a piece of high-tech electrical equipment, she instead found him sitting on a chair in Santo’s sleek, contemporary kitchen watching as his father deftly cut shapes out of brioche.
Weak with relief, Fia paused in the doorway, astonished by what she was seeing. Father or not, Santo was a stranger to Luca. A tall, powerfully built intimidating stranger who was in an undeniably dangerous mood since he’d made the unexpected discovery that he had a son. It was true that he’d helped and supported her the night before, but nothing in his demeanour had led her to believe that there was any softening in his attitude.
She’d assumed that some of his anger would reveal itself in his interaction with the child and yet Luca was clearly not only comfortable, but vastly entertained and delighted with the masculine attention he was receiving along with his breakfast.
Judging from his damp hair, Santo had not long left the shower and it was obvious from his bare feet and bare chest that he’d tugged on a pair of jeans in haste, unable to finish dressing before Luca had demanded his attention. But the real change wasn’t in his dress—or lack of it—it was the way he carried himself. There was no sign of the forbidding, intimidating businessman who had called all the shots the day before. The man currently entertaining one small boy was warm and approachable, his smile indulgent as he wiped his son’s buttery fingers. He looked as though he did this every day. As if this was part of their morning routine.
As she watched, Santo bent down and kissed Luca and when the child giggled, he kissed him again as if he couldn’t get enough of him.
Tears sprang to her eyes and Fia leaned against the doorframe for support.
Watching them made her heart clench. Luca had never had that, had he? He’d never known a father’s love. Yes, she’d surrounded him by ‘family’ but even she couldn’t pretend that what she’d created came close to the real thing. One day Gina would move on, Ben would marry and Luca’s ‘family’ would disband.
Yesterday she’d been so sure that marriage between her and Santo would be the wrong thing for her son. She’d seen no benefit to him in being forced to live with two people whose only connection was the child they’d made.
But of course there was benefit and she was staring at it right now.
If they married, Luca would have his father. Not at prearranged times, like single snapshots taken on a camera. But permanently.
Santo still hadn’t noticed her and, as he spoke to their son in lilting Italian, Fia found that she was holding her breath. When Luca replied in the same language pride mingled with emotions she didn’t even recognise.
She was normally the one who gave Luca his breakfast. It was their morning ritual. And yet here he was happily pursuing that ritual with his father as if the two of them had been doing it for ever.
There was a lump in her throat and the lump grew as Santo leaned forward and kissed his son again, indifferent to buttery fingers that grabbed at his hair. He blew bubbles into Luca’s neck and made him giggle. He pulled faces and tickled him.
He had nieces, she remembered, so he was obviously used to children, but still—
She couldn’t ever remember being kissed by her father and she’d certainly never been kissed by her grandfather. And yet here was Santo, openly demonstrative with his child.
‘Mamma—’ Luca saw her, wriggled off the chair and hurled himself at her, brioche squashed in his fist.
Across the top of his head, her gaze met Santo’s.
As she scooped up her child, she swallowed down that lump that still threatened to choke her.
A quizzical gleam lit his eyes, as if he were asking himself how long she’d been standing there. And suddenly she was very conscious that she hadn’t even paused to brush her hair before sprinting from the bedroom.
There was something inappropriately informal about greeting him with her hair spilling wildly over her shoulders while wearing nothing but the shirt he’d lent her. Their attire suggested an intimacy that didn’t exist and she felt herself flush with mortification as his eyes slid down her body and lingered on her bare legs.
‘Buongiorno.’ He injected the word with familiarity. As if this was a scene they both woke up to every morning.
Even though he’d dragged on his jeans in a hurry he looked utterly spectacular. Indecently handsome and more masculine than any single member of the species had a right to look. He didn’t need the handmade suits to look good, she thought numbly, her eyes tracing the smooth swell of muscle that shaped his broad shoulders and drifting to his board-flat abdomen.
‘Fia?’
She was so distracted by his naked torso that she’d missed the question he’d asked her. ‘Sorry?’
‘I asked you which language you use when you speak to him. English or Italian?’
‘English—’ Thoroughly flustered, she sat Luca back down on the chair. ‘My grandfather spoke to him in Italian. We thought that would be less confusing.’ She braced herself for criticism of that approach but he gave a brief nod.
‘Then we will do the same. You do the English. I’ll do the Italian. That’s what I did this morning and he seemed to understand. He’s very bright.’ Pride in his eyes as he looked at Luca, he rose to his feet with that easy grace guaranteed to draw the female eye. The fabric of his jeans clung to the hard length of his long legs and she saw the muscles in his back ripple as he reached into a cupboard for a mug. She’d drawn blood, she remembered. She’d been so driven out of her mind by him, she’d scratched the skin of that smooth, muscled back. The craving