Married For His One-Night Heir. Дженнифер Хейворд
avoiding any kind of a social life where she might have been recognized. Delilah would have comprehensively vetted the guest list. But Delilah couldn’t have known about Santo. No one knew. Apart from her mother and Franco.
She said good-night to Desaray, her babysitter, then went to check on Leo. Her son was fast asleep, his thick, long lashes shading his cheeks, his thumb stuck in his mouth, his sturdy little body curled in the fetal position in his cozy, white-framed bed. She smoothed a hand over his glossy blond hair and pressed a kiss to his soft, scented cheek.
He was so peaceful, her love for him so all-encompassing, he calmed her nerves. But she still couldn’t settle enough to sleep, so she changed and got ready for bed, then headed to the kitchen for some warm milk.
She had the feeling Santo hadn’t bought her story for a minute. That he’d thought it was as full of holes as she’d known it was. But she was also sure he would never betray her trust—that he would keep her secret. The bigger problem was the business he was conducting with Delilah. If he was considering putting his Supersonic boutiques in her hotels, he would have ongoing interests in the Bahamas. Which would never work.
Dismay clogged her throat. Surely, he would send one of his minions to oversee the project? Chances were, he’d never be here.
But what if he was?
A rap at the door brought her back to reality. Thinking Desaray must have forgotten something, as she was apt to do, she turned off the burner under the milk, padded to the front door and swung it open. “What did you—” She stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of Santo, lounging against the door frame.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. Acutely aware of the expanse of bare skin her silk nightie revealed, she wrapped her arms around herself as the humid, floral-scented air pressed in on her lungs. “Santo,” she croaked, “what are you doing here?”
“Getting some answers.” He brushed past her into the house before she’d even registered he’d moved. Scared her heart might jump right through her chest, she turned to face him.
“How did you know where I live?”
“Your joke to Delilah about sliding down the hill to get home.”
Dammit. She bit the inside of her mouth. Really, she hadn’t been in her right head. She’d simply been desperate to get out of there.
She had to get rid of him. But how?
She looked up at him, then wished she hadn’t, the connection between them crackling like an electrical storm. It reverberated all the way through her, right down to the tips of her toes. Sucking in a deep breath, she corralled her racing thoughts, reaching desperately for the aura of outward calm she had perfected as a Castiglione. “About what?” she enquired evenly, pressing a palm against the frame of the door.
“About why you are really here. What’s really going on with you.”
“We’ve been through that already. It is also,” she said pointedly, “far too late for this type of a discussion.”
“I wholeheartedly agree. I would have preferred to have had it four years ago, but better late than never.”
Her stomach dropped. He wasn’t going to give up. She knew Santo. He was like a dog with a bone when he wanted something. “My head is pounding,” she prevaricated. “If you insist on doing this, can we do it in the morning?”
“I’m flying out tomorrow, so no.” He gestured toward the living room. “Should we talk in there?”
Panic surged through her veins. “No,” she said as calmly as she could manage. “We can do it on the porch. It’s cooler out there.”
He waved a hand at her. “Lead the way.”
She closed the door. Directed him out onto the veranda that ran the length of the villa and overlooked the sparkling midnight waters of the bay. A gentle breeze lifted the leaves of the palm trees, the sweet smell of bougainvillea and frangipani filling the air. But she was too frozen to take in any of it as Santo lounged back against the railing and regarded her with a silent look.
Feeling far too exposed, she wrapped her arms around herself and lifted her chin. “What would you like to know?”
“Why the hell you are hiding in the Bahamas when your mother must be worried sick about you. What were you thinking, Gia?”
She hadn’t been thinking. She’d been doing what she’d needed to do to protect Leo. And she’d do it a million times over.
“I left them a note. They know I’m safe.”
A flicker of dark emotion moved through his gaze. “Why didn’t you come to me?” he growled, the undertone of frustration raking a path across her skin. “You know I would have helped you.”
Her lashes lowered. “We were over, Santo. We had both moved on. What was the point?”
“That’s a lie,” he countered softly. “Why did you leave that morning without saying goodbye, Gia? Why run?”
“Santo,” she breathed. “Don’t.”
His mouth twisted. “Don’t ask why you walked into my arms that night and gave me your innocence? How we could have shared what we shared only for you to walk away and marry another man? Why I woke up the next morning alone, without an explanation? Not a note. Nothing.” A lift of his eyebrow. “Which of those things do you imagine confounds me the most?”
She closed her eyes, a hot, searing pain moving through her until it hurt to breathe. “You knew I was promised to him, Santo. You knew I was going to marry him. There was never any doubt about that.”
“I thought you’d changed your mind.” He threw the words at her in a charged voice that skittered through her insides. “You were emotional that night, Gia. Intensely vulnerable. You didn’t want that kind of a life for yourself. You wanted better.”
“And then I realized what I was doing. I was getting engaged in front of half of Las Vegas the next night. How was I going to walk away? It would have destroyed my father’s honor. His reputation. The Lombardi family’s reputation... It was not undoable, no matter how much I wanted it to be.”
She was Sicilian. A Castiglione. That she would marry Franco Lombardi, the heir to a Las Vegas gambling dynasty, was a fact that had been cast in stone since the day she’d turned fourteen, when her father had approved the match between his only daughter and the eldest Lombardi son. A match that would cement his empire.
Pursuing the career she’d always wanted, marrying a man she loved and walking away from her destiny had never been options for her, something she’d foolishly forgotten during that impulsive, explosive night with Santo.
There had been no more time left to wonder what if. To look for solutions that didn’t exist. To want what she could never have.
She drew in a deep breath. Then exhaled as she met Santo’s dark, tumultuous gaze. “I convinced myself it would be easier if I simply left,” she said huskily. “There was no future for us, Santo. You know that.”
He stepped closer, his expensive aftershave infiltrating her senses with devastating effect. “You know what I think?” he murmured, his warm breath skating across her cheek. “I think we will never know because you walked away, Gia. Because it was easier for you to surrender to the inevitable than to face what was between us.”
The brush of her bare leg against the muscled length of his thigh unearthed a shiver that reverberated through her. Heat pooled beneath her skin at the memory of what all that hard muscle could do. How it could take her to heaven and back. How it might have been worth every disastrous moment that had followed.
She watched, hypnotized, as his gaze darkened to midnight. As the power of what they created together took hold. One step and she would be in his arms. One tilt of her head and her mouth would be on his.
It would