Baby By Accident: International Billionaires III: The Italians (10 page)

She’d thought about nothing other than this inevitable confrontation throughout the week. It had stunned her, the level of determination he’d shown in demanding the test. But she’d managed to dismiss it as a mere show, some kind of odd male need to know he was capable of planting his seed. So, as she girded herself for this meeting, she’d expected his anger and annoyance. She’d expected some sort of monetary offer—which she would have instantly refused. Yet she’d never in her wildest dreams thought he’d do this. Want this. “You can’t want to—”

“I will provide for my child.”

Lise straightened her spine, pride ramming up it like a steel rod. “I can provide for
my
baby myself. I don’t need anything from you.”

“Really?” His tone turned grim. “Even when you will be required to pay off your mother’s mortgage immediately?”

“What?” Her heart and nausea leapt into her throat.

“In full.” He dropped his hands to grip the windowsill.

The threat zinged through all her nerve endings, making her feel like a live wire. She stood and stormed across the room to him, not realizing the danger until she was too near.

The heat of his body engulfed her.

His tiger eyes enthralled her.

The rich musk of him encircled her.

She was inches from him. Inches from the heat of his embrace, the comfort of his caress. For one long second, she remembered waking in his arms last week: the gentle way he’d held her, the warmth of his body surrounding her own, the look in his eyes as he leaned down to kiss her.

The memory slipped away to be replaced with—

Now. His demand. Her rejection.

She tamped down the burn behind her eyes. Hormones.

He glanced at her, one brow arched with…amusement? Awareness?

Her pride demanded she stay where she was. Not let him see how he affected her. “I did what you wanted last time. I gave you the damn DNA test.”

“
Si.
”

He enraged her. The one word. The dismissive tone. The bleak determination in his voice. She had the violent urge to haul off and whack his arrogant, handsome face one more time. Push him over the edge of passionate madness she teetered on.

“Now you use it again?” she cried. “It’s not fair.”

“Life is not fair.” He stood straight, forcing her, damn him, to step back before her breasts brushed his chest. His mouth twisted at her retreat and with a bold look, he followed her step with one of his own.

“Stop.” She tried to jump back, but his hands landed on her arms and held her close to his warmth, his body.

“Why do you wear this thing?” With one flick of his fingers, he unclasped the clip in her hair, causing the strands to fall to her shoulders and into her face. “It makes you appear forty years old.”

The words hurt. And the dismissive tone. And the insult.

“It’s none of your business how I wear my hair.” She scowled at him. “Give the clip back.”

The ends of his mouth quirked in clear amusement. “No.”

She suddenly realized how close they were. His scent, the distinctive, almond silky scent, enfolded her. His hands were large, strong. They held her tightly, yet with a gentle grip, and the heat of his skin on hers warmed her down to her toes. She stared at him, in a daze, abruptly aware of how near his mouth was. His lower lip was lush, his upper lip thin. It was wide, his mouth, and the memory, all the memories came; of his smile, the way his white teeth flashed in contrast to his olive skin. His lips came near her, closer, and her eyes started to close…

Was she crazy?

“Let me go.” She yanked herself back from him and his temptation.

He released her with a flourish. “
Scusi.
” His voice held a sarcastic edge. “I forgot my manners.”

Without giving her another glance, he walked to his desk with a steady pace and stared at his computer. But Lise could see it was a sham, this calmness. The tension in his neck and shoulders told her.

The realization stunned her and appalled her. When had she come to know him well enough to read his unspoken body signals? She didn’t want to know this man. She didn’t want to understand him and she certainly didn’t want to marry him.
Wouldn’t
marry him.

“You are a bastard.” She lashed out at him, trying to cut the unwanted link between them she’d suddenly found inside herself. She wanted no links, no connections. No bonds.

“No.” He kept his back to her, staring at the blank screen of his computer. “I am actually not. And my child will not be, either.”

The utter resolve in his statement shook her. Until this point in this ludicrous conversation, she’d believed that somehow he was going through the motions. He didn’t really want to marry. He couldn’t possibly be serious. Perhaps it was some kind of old-fashioned Italian moral code.

This man had no morals.

So perhaps it was a need to claim a legacy. Or start a dynasty.

This man lived in the moment, though. He’d never shown a sense of loyalty or honor or a need to make a lasting contribution.

“I won’t do it.” But she knew the trap was closing. “I won’t marry you.”

He glanced over at her. “You will. You have no choice.”

“There’s always a choice.” Her heart couldn’t beat any faster. She felt as if she were running, fleeing, yet the hunter moved closer.

“Not in this instance.” His gaze never wavered.

“I can do this on my own.” She kept fighting, kept running. “I don’t need help.”

His bleak smile never reached his eyes. “Lise. Be reasonable. There is no way you can work, pay your bills, take care of a baby—”

“I can—”

“And pay off your mother’s mortgage at the same time.”

The hunter closed, clutched. She fought back, tried to escape. “I’ll sue you for child support.”

He chuckled. The raspy sound of a man assured of his prey. “Then I will sue you for sole custody.”

His words fell like missiles into the very soul of her. They tore through her heart, leaving a burning trail of hopes and dreams. The plans she’d made—of her and her baby together, of how her child would look to her for love and affection, of raising her son or daughter in the way she’d wanted to be raised—he destroyed them with his simple words. His blunt declaration.

“No,” she whispered.

His gaze told her yes.

Her breath burned in her throat. Was she panting? Gasping? What did it matter? She was caught and held. Clearly, he wasn’t going to let go.

“I’ll take my baby.” His mouth firmed. “I’ll keep coming at you with my money and my solicitors until I win. The child will be mine. All mine.”

Her knees wobbled and her hands went cold.

“Unless you marry me.”

“
I
do
.” Vico Mattare said the two words as if they were everyday words.

But they weren’t. Not in any way.

The priest turned to her, bushy eyebrows raised in silent inquiry.

No,
she wanted to yell.
No, I don't.

He began intoning, the familiar verses bouncing around in her head.

Love, honor, cherish, protect. Forsake. Forevermore.

Reality blurred into unreality. Lise couldn’t believe this was happening. Not only the marriage to a man she abhorred, but the surrounding hoopla he’d demanded take place. She’d figured there’d be some quiet ceremony in some judge’s chambers with no one except the two of them in attendance. No mess or fuss. Something she could easily put in the back of her brain and forget in a couple of days.

“Did you think you would be allowed to marry me in a broom closet?” His accent had rolled the words with sarcastic scorn as they’d confronted each other in his office. “Sorry,
Princesse.
You will marry me in front of everyone we know.”

She hadn’t realized the plans he’d had.

Her plans.

In some way, this conniving man standing beside her had found out about her cherished dreams. Dreams she’d put away when Robert had insisted they were silly and expensive. She’d put away the pictures of a fairy-tale-princess dress and replaced it with a sleek, modern white suit. Away went the photos of the wedding cake, tall and ivory, with a cascading fall of sugared roses. In its place, Robert had stated they’d have a nice lunch at his favorite tavern near his work. There wasn’t any reason to go out of the country for the honeymoon, Robert had said, even though she’d always dreamed of Paris. Instead, they’d be much happier taking a short trip to Dover.

She’d been fine with it. She’d even managed to convince Tracy and Suz.

Lise’s attention shot back to reality when a soft, female cough came from her side.

She blinked.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Suz’s red fingernails tapping on the coral satin ribbon wrapped around the perfect corsage of pink-tipped roses and hydrangeas. The wedding flowers were an exact copy of the pictures she’d cut out of magazines during the past few years.

“Say something,” Suz whispered. “Like…I do.”

He’d demanded her friends be part of this farce. He’d demanded they wear the minty-green gowns with flounces and lace, in a design that matched her wedding dress. Tracy and Suz had seemed enchanted with the entire production and when they’d met Vico’s best man and attendant, his brother and cousin evidently, they’d gushed over how gorgeous Italian males were.

The priest stood in front of her, his eyebrows now rising near the top of his forehead. “Miss?” he muttered. “Do you?”

The flowers in her hand, gardenias and roses spiced with baby’s breath and greens, could smash right onto her groom’s long black hair. Her imagination flared as she pictured the commotion that would follow. Her mother would weep with joy. Her friends would gasp in shock. He’d bellow and yell as she marched out of St. George’s, the church she’d chosen when she’d been a young, dreamy reader of regencies. She’d thought it the only place a wedding should be held.

Another cough. This one rough and male.

Lise forced herself to look at Vico Mattare. She didn’t want to acknowledge reality, but she knew he’d give it to her.

His glare beamed with threat.

Taverwood Grange.

Her mother.

“I do.”

The priest heaved a sigh of relief and rambled on about the sanctity of the bond and other bloody nonsense that had nothing to do with this pact made in hell. The crowd rustled behind them, a whisper here, a murmur there. He’d invited everyone. His entire family had flown in from Italy in two leased planes. The entire staff of HSF were here. Her mother’s long list of important people had been given a laced invitation. An exact replica of the one Lise had found years ago in an old cupboard at home and had saved in her wedding dream box.

She’d kept that damn box on the highest shelf of her bedroom closet.

How had he found it?

“
Princesse
.” His voice came from her side, low and threatening. “Give me your hand.”

She glanced at the priest and again, saw a look of astonishment mixed with growing concern on his aged face. Perhaps God had slid a word of horror into his servant’s ear and he would call a halt to this abomination.

“Lise.”

She turned to face reality one more time.

His glare said everything. Everything she already knew. Her home gone. Her mother devastated. Her last hold on her business destroyed.

Plopping her hand into his strong grip, she let him slip the diamond-studded ring onto her finger. The string of jewels sparkled as they slid to the side of the huge diamond engagement ring. The one whose beauty had taken her breath away.

“Put the ring on my finger,” he growled.

His ring, white gold inlaid with three rows of diamonds, had been chosen by Vico also. She’d wanted nothing to do with it. Actually, she’d been surprised this playboy even wanted something that screamed commitment on his hand.

She plucked the ring from his best man’s palm and shoved it onto his long finger.

“You may kiss the bride.” The priest sounded happy to be done with this ceremony.

Her new husband’s hand landed on her arm and pulled her around as if she were his doll. Lise kept her gaze pinned to the center of his chest, the striped grey-and-green tie matching the steel-grey morning coat she’d thought romantic some long ago day as she’d ripped the picture out of another magazine.

Kissing. She didn’t remember any kissing from the one night that had changed her life forever. She didn’t want to kiss him.

Perhaps if she didn’t kiss him, this ceremony wouldn’t count?

A blunt male finger slipped under her chin and nudged.

Closing her eyes, she forced her lips to rise to his. She wouldn’t look at him and then this would fade into unreality and she could dream her way back to when she had control of her life and control of herself.

His mouth, a mouth she didn’t remember, was soft, so soft. The mouth moved across her lips, no tongue, only soft, soft…yearning.

Her eyes popped open to meet his.

Tiger eyes gazed at her, misty and hazy…with what?

He leaned back and away.

“May I present to you, Mr. and Mrs. Vico and Lise Mattare.”

His eyes snapped into his usual sharp, cutting gaze and his mouth, his soft, soft mouth gave her a hard, hard smile.

He’d won again.

M
arried
. Quite, quite married.

Lise kept trying to slip into a numb state, allowing her to ignore what had just happened. However, it was impossible.

Her new husband, a man who couldn’t be ignored, sat beside her at the center table in a sea of tables covering the Claridge's legendary ballroom. Late afternoon sunlight splashed from the long windows and sparkled back from the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Tall baskets of white gardenias mixed with pale pink roses and evergreen stood sentinel along the walls, scenting the air with their perfume. The clink of silver and china blended with the chatter of the guests as they sipped expensive wine and nibbled on the antipasto salad before them.

Precisely as she’d dreamed.

How did he know all this?

A sudden burn to know the answer swept inside her. She turned his way in time to see him smile at his sister across the table, white teeth glinting in the sunlight. Before she could rip her question at him, he flipped his long hair over his shoulder with a careless, casual gesture causing her breath to hitch.

Something curled in her stomach. Not sickness. No, something hot. Something she’d banished to her dreams months ago and had thought, after all the horrific happenings in the past month, it was gone for good. Yet here it was again. A stealthy, silent want.

Her hands tightened into fists in her lap.

He would not win
this
battle.

The tuxedoed waiters swooped in, an elegant line of servants gracefully exchanging one course with another. Soup replacing the salad course. One of seven courses. In this one area, he'd deviated from her wedding dream list. She’d imagined a buffet filled with petit fours and cucumber sandwiches. The plan he’d laid out for her several weeks ago listed a seven-course, sit-down meal featuring a range of Italian delicacies. His family would expect it, he’d said.

His family.

All one thousand of them.

All surrounding them in a sea of boisterous, exuberant Italians. Vico Mattare was quite possibly related to every Italian alive and kicking on the planet.

The clatter of dishes mixed with the chatter of an excited crowd. Enjoying a very expensive, lavish party. Celebrating a harmonious union between two people in love.

He’d been adamant.
She must pretend
.

He’d been clear.
She must go along.

He’d been inflexible.
She must play the game
.

Happy bride. Loving wife. Ecstatic lover.

Right through the prelude to the wedding. At the wedding. At the reception. Concealing his treachery from his oblivious family. Deceiving her delighted staff into believing this wretched situation was what she wanted. Keeping her agitated thoughts and ugly emotions to herself.

She grabbed her water glass and sipped. The cool water ran down her hot throat doing nothing to dampen the burn of her awareness of him and the anger she felt towards him.

“Thirsty?” he murmured. “You have some color in your cheeks all of a sudden.”

Another sip. Her mouth felt as dry as a parched desert.

“I wonder what you are thinking?” His words licked with a wicked tease.

She knew if she glanced at him those eyes of his would be staring at her with sinful intent.

She didn’t look. Didn’t want to see what she’d been seeing for weeks. Those tiger eyes gleaming, the gold flickering, the green glinting. Telling her clearly—Vico Mattare had plans for their marriage.

She’d ignored him before. She ignored him now. She would ignore him later.

The man, for once, was going to be disappointed.

The thought was enough to lighten her spirits. For a moment.

“This is the perfect wedding.” Hannah, a woman not known for her sentimentality, smiled and sighed from across the table. “I compliment you on your taste, Lise.”

This
was
the perfect wedding. If there’d been another groom.

“My new wife has excellent taste.” The pirate by her side chuckled. “In all things.”

“Including husbands,” one of his cousins belted out.

Everyone laughed.

Rage trembled down her arm and right into her hand. She’d love to take up this silver knife lying by the side of her plate and cut his throat. An appropriate ending for a pirate. But ladies didn’t kill or maim, especially during their perfect wedding.

A wedding he’d known every detail about.

She glanced across the table at her two best friends. Suz lifted her champagne glass in a silent toast. Tracy winked. Both of them were clearly delighted.

Delighted. That she was married to this man.

The realization clicked. The memory rushed in. Tracy and Suz grinning at something he’d said at one of the many dinner parties she’d been forced to attend with him during the last month. Grinning and then nodding and then giving her a sly look from across the room. Her two friends had known about her dreams for her wedding. They’d known about her silly habit of saving photos and pictures. They’d known where she hid her wedding box.

Lise glared at them, all of a sudden knowing exactly who she could blame for this monstrous highjacking of her lovely plans and dreams.

Both of them suddenly found their attention drawn away by other guests.

“It would be best,
Princesse
,” her new husband took a sip of wine before continuing, “if you did not appear as if you are contemplating murder at your own wedding.”

“Best for whom?” She continued to glare at her so-called friends. “And don’t call me that nickname.”

“Why, best for you.” Answering her questions and ignoring her demand, his tone stayed relaxed, as if he had not a care in the world. “Do you want to explain to one and all why the bride is not glowing with happiness? Do you want to open that particular Pandora’s box?”

Yes. Yes, she really did. She would love to jump on her chair and yell out her situation to everyone. The action would be gloriously freeing and satisfying.

Her fingers tightened into white fists.

“I see you are contemplating it.”

Finally, she looked him straight in the face. Not since the moment after their kiss at the altar had she dared. But now she did. “Yes.”

“I would advise against it.” His smile mocked, his gaze glittering with challenge. “For your mother’s sake.”

Hate streamed in her veins at the implied threat. The threat he dangled in front of her every time she tried to defy him. The hate for him swept away the anger at her two friends. They didn’t know the true extent of his nature because she hadn’t told them. How could she blame them for buying into the fairy tale when she hadn’t been able to share with them the reality of her nightmare?

“Here we are,” he said nonchalantly as if her hate-filled stare was a mere speck of sand in his existence. “The next course.”

The soup dish swished under her nose to land on the table in front of her. The smell of oysters and garlic drifted up, slipping into her nostrils and mouth and down her throat to touch off the ever-present nausea.

She slid back in her chair, gritted her teeth in a smile at the table’s beaming guests, and attempted to hold her breath.

“Allow me,” he rumbled at her side. The soup, and the smell, disappeared.

“Thank you,” she managed to say through the sickness.

Thank you for ruining my life.

“Vico.” One of his brothers eyed him over a glass of wine. “Why are you stealing your bride’s food?”

“I’m preparing for tonight.” He grinned.

His brother gave him a wide grin back.

“You have been preparing for years.” His uncle roared with laughter.