Riccardo's Secret Child. Cathy Williams
your little scheme?’ he enquired with supreme politeness.
‘I haven’t concocted anything!’
Riccardo ignored the interruption. The girl was lying, of that he was convinced, and he would break her before the drive was over. Break her and return to his vastly energetic but essentially uncluttered life.
‘So…this so-called child of mine is…what did you say? Four? Five?’
‘Five,’ Julia said tightly, ‘and her name is Nicola.’
‘And not once did my beloved ex-wife choose to mention this little fact to me. Surprising, really, wouldn’t you say? Considering she always prided herself on her high morality?’
‘She thought it was for the best.’
Riccardo felt a pulse begin to beat steadily in his temple. Merely contemplating deception of that magnitude was enough to stir him. Just as well none of it was true. He slid a sideways glance at the slight creature sitting in the car, her body pushed against the car door in apprehension. So convincing, but so misguided. The most successful gold-diggers were the ones who hid their intent well.
The girl might not be a stunner, but she could act. She could act because she had brains, he considered. Which would make it doubly satisfying when she finally confessed all…
CHAPTER TWO
THE remainder of the drive was completed in uncomfortable silence. Rain slashed down against the window-panes, a harsh, clattering noise for which Julia was immensely grateful, because without that background din the silence between them would have been unbearable.
Towards the end she gave him terse directions to her house, which he followed without speaking.
By the time the sleek Jaguar pulled up in front of the three-storeyed red-brick Victorian house, her nerves were close to snapping. She pushed open the car door, almost before the car had drawn to a complete stop, and muttered a rapid thank-you for the lift. There was not much else she could thank him for. He had been insensitive, hostile and frankly insulting throughout those tortuous couple of hours in the wine bar. He had refused point blank to believe a word she had told him and had accused her of being a gold-digger.
Julia hurried up to her front door, the rain washing down on her as she fumbled in her bag for the wretched front-door key. She was only aware of his presence when he removed the key from her hands and shoved it into the lock smoothly.
‘I want you to tell me what you hoped to gain by spinning me that ridiculous, far-fetched story,’ he rasped, following her into the hall and slamming the door behind him.
Julia looked anxiously over her shoulder towards the staircase, which was shrouded in darkness.
And Riccardo, following her gaze, ground his teeth in intense irritation. She had clung to her fabrication like a drowning man clinging to a lifebelt and he was determined to hear her admit the truth. In fact, hearing her admit the truth had become a compulsion during the forty-minute drive to the house. If not, it would remain unfinished business, even if he never saw or heard from her again, and he was not a man interested in unfinished business.
‘I told you…’ Her voice was half-plea, half-resigned weariness. Both heated his simmering blood just a little bit more.
‘A lie! Caroline would never have kept such a thing from me, whatever her feelings.’
‘OK. If you want me to admit that I made up the whole thing then I admit it. All right? Happy?’
Wrong response. She could see that from the darkening of his eyes and the sudden tightening of his mouth. When she had set out on her mission to be honest she had had no idea about the man she would be meeting. She should have. She had heard enough about him over the years, and particularly in that first year, when Caroline had been pregnant and her hormones had unleashed all the pent-up emotion she had managed to keep to herself during her marriage. But time had dulled the impact of her descriptions, and certainly for the past six months Julia had begun to wonder whether her sister-in-law’s opinions might not have been exaggerated. Moreover, people changed. He would have mellowed over time.
Looking at his dark, hard face and the ruthless set of his features, she wondered whether anything or anyone was capable of mellowing Riccardo Fabbrini.
‘No. No, I am not happy, Miss Nash.’ He gripped her arm and leant down towards her so that his face was only inches away from hers. Julia felt herself swamped by him, struggling just to breathe, never mind control the situation.
But her eyes never left his. She was angry and, yes, intimidated, but he could see that inside she was as steady as a rock and he wanted to shake her until the steadiness turned to water.
No woman had ever roused him as much. This was a contest and he sensed that he was losing.
‘Come into the kitchen,’ she finally said wearily, shaking her arm, which he released. ‘I’ll explain it all to you, but you’ll damned well stop calling me a liar and listen to what I have to say!’
‘No one speaks to me like that,’ he rasped.
‘Sorry, but I do.’ Julia didn’t give him time to contemplate that assertion. Instead, she turned on her heels and began walking through the dark flagstoned hallway into the kitchen, her backbone straight, refusing to be totally squashed by the powerful man following in her wake.
She could feel him and the sensation sent little shivers racing along her spine. It was a bit like being stalked by a panther, a sleek, dangerous animal that was waiting to pounce.
‘Sit down,’ she commanded as soon as they were in the kitchen and she had closed the door gently behind them.
This had been Martin and Caroline’s house and she wondered whether he would recognise any of the artefacts in the room. Doubtful. Caroline had sold their marital home almost as soon as the divorce had come through and had disposed of the majority of the contents, sending the valuable paintings back to him and selling the rest of their possessions, none of which, she had later told Julia, he wanted. She, along with her lover and every single thing in the house, could go to hell and stay there, for all he cared. The few things she had kept had been little mementoes she had personally collected herself, ornaments and one or two small paintings that had been passed on to her by her own parents when they had been alive.
‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’
‘This is not your house, is it? Was it theirs?’
Julia looked at him, watched as his shuttered gaze drifted through the room, picking out the homely array of plates displayed on the old pine dresser, the well-worn, much-loved kitchen table with all its scratches and peculiar markings, the faded, comfortable curtains, now blocking out the dark, rain-drenched night.
‘Yes, it was. It belongs to me now.’
He began prowling through the room, divesting himself of his jacket in the process and slinging it on the kitchen table. The notice-board, pinned to the wall, was littered with Nicola’s drawings. He stared at them for such a long time that Julia could feel the tension searing through her body mount to breaking point. Abruptly she took her eyes off him and began making some coffee.
‘Your daughter’s works of art,’ she said with her back to him.
When she finally turned around it was to find him looking at her, his coal-black eyes narrowed. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
‘She started school in September and…’
‘Why do you insist on sticking to your ridiculous story?’
Julia didn’t reply. Instead, she moved to one of the kitchen drawers and with trembling fingers extracted a photo of her brother, which she handed to him. Martin had been the fair one of them. Even in his thirties, his hair had remained blond, never turning to the mousy brown that hers had. His eyes were blue and laughing.
‘That’s my brother.’
Riccardo