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The Forbidden Ferrara
Sarah Morgan
Step into a world of sophistication and glamour, where sinfully seductive heroes await you in luxurious international locations.A Ferrara should never share a bed with Baracchi – however high the stakes! Dark-hearted Santino Ferrara has always remembered how long-legged, hot-tempered Fia Baracchi felt in his arms – much to his frustration! Then a million-dollar business deal throws them together, and keeping his distance is no longer an option. But Fia is living a lie.If it’s ever discovered her precious little son is Santo’s heir she’ll be disowned – their families’ feud is legendary! But her real fear? That she can’t forget the scorching memories of her one night with the enemy – and that she still craves more…



A Ferrara would never sit down at a Baracchi table for fear of being poisoned.
So Fia had no idea why he was at her restaurant and terror rippled through her. He didn’t know.
He couldn’t know.
‘Buonasera, Fia.’
A deep male voice came from the doorway and she turned. Still the same ‘born to rule’ Ferrara self-confidence, the same innate sophistication polished until it shone bright as the paintwork of his Lamborghini. He was six foot three of hard, sensual masculinity, but Fia felt nothing a woman was supposed to feel when she laid eyes on Santino Ferrara.
He was her biggest mistake.
And, judging from the cold, cynical glint in his eye, he considered her to be his.
Did he know?
Had he found out?
Fia wasn’t fooled by his apparently relaxed pose or his deceptively mild tone.
Santino Ferrara was the most dangerous man she’d ever met.

About the Author
USA TODAY bestselling author SARAH MORGAN writes lively, sexy stories for both Mills & Boon
Modern™ Romance and Medical™ Romance.
As a child Sarah dreamed of being a writer, and although she took a few interesting detours on the way she is now living that dream. With her writing career she has successfully combined business with pleasure, and she firmly believes that reading romance is one of the most satisfying and fat-free escapist pleasures available. Her stories are unashamedly optimistic, and she is always pleased when she receives letters from readers saying that her books have helped them through hard times.
Romantic Times has described her writing as ‘action-packed and sexy’, and nominated her books for their Reviewers’ Choice Awards and their ‘Top Pick’ slot.
Sarah lives near London with her husband and two children, who innocently provide an endless supply of authentic dialogue. When she isn’t writing or reading Sarah enjoys music, movies, and any activity that takes her outdoors.
Readers can find out more about Sarah and her books from her website: www.sarahmorgan.com. She can also be found on Facebook and Twitter.

Recent titles by the same author:
ONCE A FERRARA WIFE …
DOUKAKIS’S APPRENTICE
THE TWELVE NIGHTS OF CHRISTMAS
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Forbidden
Ferrara
Sarah Morgan

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For my editor Lucy Gilmour, who is wise,
clever and always wears great shoes. Thank you.

CHAPTER ONE
THERE was a shocked silence round the boardroom table.
Amused by the reaction, Santo Ferrara sat back in his chair. ‘I’m sure you’ll all agree it’s an exciting project,’ he drawled. ‘Thank you for your attention.’
‘You’ve lost your mind.’ It was his older brother who finally broke the silence. Cristiano, who had recently relinquished some of his responsibility in the company to spend more time with his young family. ‘It can’t be done.’
‘Because you didn’t succeed? Don’t beat yourself up. It’s fairly common for a man to lose his edge when he’s distracted by a wife and kids.’ Santo loaded his tone with sympathy, enjoying the brief interlude in what had been a long, punishing few weeks. And if he felt a slight twinge of envy that his brother had gone on to be as successful in his personal life as he was in business then he told himself that it was just a matter of time before he found the same thing himself. ‘It’s like seeing a great warrior fallen. Don’t blame yourself. Living with three women can soften a man.’
The rest of the Board exchanged nervous glances but wisely chose to remain silent.
Cristiano’s gaze locked on his. ‘I am still chairman of this company.’
‘Precisely. You’ve taken a back seat while you change nappies. Now leave the good ideas to the rest of us.’ He was being deliberately combative and Cristiano gave a reluctant laugh.
‘I’m not denying that your proposal is exciting. I can see the business potential in adapting the hotel to accommodate a wider range of sports and appeal to a younger demographic. I even agree that expanding on the West coast of Sicily has potential for a certain type of discerning traveller—’ he paused and when he looked at Santo his eyes were deadly serious ‘—but the success of the project rests on you gaining the extra land from the Baracchi family and old man Baracchi would shoot you through the head before he sold to you.’
Good-natured banter gave way to tension. Those around the table kept their eyes down, everyone well aware of the history between the two families. The whole of Sicily knew the history.
‘That is my problem to deal with,’ Santo said in a cool tone and Cristiano made an impatient sound as he pushed back his chair and paced over to the expanse of glass that overlooked the glittering Mediterranean sea.
‘Since you took over day-to-day running of the company you have more than proved yourself. You have done things I hadn’t even thought of doing.’ He turned. ‘But you will not be able to do this. You will simply inflame a situation that has been simmering for almost three generations. You should let it die.’
‘I am going to turn the Ferrara Beach Club into our most successful hotel.’
‘You will fail.’
Santo smiled. ‘Shall we bet on that?’
For once his brother didn’t return the smile or take up the challenge. ‘This goes deeper than sibling rivalry. You cannot do this.’
‘Enough time has passed for us to put grievances aside.’
‘That,’ Cristiano said slowly, ‘depends on the grievance.’
Santo felt the anger start to heat inside him but alongside the anger were darker, murkier emotions that sprang to life whenever the Baracchi name was mentioned. It was a visceral reaction, a conditioned response reinforced by a lifetime of animosity between the families. ‘I was not responsible for what happened to Baracchi’s grandson. You know the truth.’
‘This is not about truth or reason, but about passion and prejudice. Deep-rooted prejudice. I have already approached him. Made him several more than generous offers. Baracchi would see his family starve before he sells his land to a Ferrara. Negotiations are closed.’
Santo rose to his feet. ‘Then it’s time they were reopened.’
A man cleared his throat. ‘As your lawyer it’s my duty to warn against—’
‘Don’t give me negatives—’ Santo lifted his hand to silence the man, his eyes still fixed on his brother. ‘So your objection isn’t the commercial development which you concede makes sound business sense, but the interaction with the Baracchi family. Do you think I’m a coward?’
‘No, and that is what troubles me. You use reason and courage but Baracchi has neither. You are my brother.’ Cristiano’s voice thickened. ‘Guiseppe Baracchi hates you. He’s always been an irascible old man. What makes you think he will listen to you before he loses that infamous temper of his?’
‘He may be an irascible old man but he’s also a frightened old man in financial trouble.’
‘I’m willing to bet he’s not in so much trouble he’ll take money from a Ferrara. And frightened old men can be dangerous. We’ve maintained the hotel there because it would hurt our mother to sell our father’s first hotel, but I’ve been talking to her recently and—’
‘We’re not going to sell. I’m going to turn it around but to do that I need the land. All of the land. The whole bay.’ Santo saw the lawyer’s agitation but he ignored him. ‘I don’t just want the land for watersports, I want the Beach Shack. That restaurant pulls in more custom than all our restaurants in the hotel. This is not about fuelling a feud, it’s about protecting our business. While guests walk away from us to eat at the Beach Shack and watch the sunset, we are losing revenue.’
‘Which brings us to the second problem in this ambitious scheme of yours. That restaurant is run by his granddaughter—a woman who very possibly hates you even more than her grandfather.’ Cristiano looked him straight in the eye. ‘How do you think Fia will greet the news that you intend to make an offer for the land?’
He didn’t have to think. He knew.
She would fight him with everything she had.
They would clash. Tempers would burn hot.
And woven through the tension of the present would be the past.
Not just the long-standing feud over land, but their own personal history. Because he hadn’t been entirely honest with his brother, had he? In a family where no one had secrets, he had a secret. A secret he’d buried deep enough to ensure it would never see the light of day.
The sudden rush of black emotion took him by surprise. With an impatient frown he glanced out of the window to the beach beyond but he didn’t see sand or sea. Instead he saw Fiammetta Baracchi with her long legs and temper hotter than a red chilli pepper.
Cristiano was still watching him. ‘She hates you.’
Was it hate?
They hadn’t discussed feelings, he thought. They hadn’t discussed anything at all. Not even when they’d ripped each other’s clothes off, when his body had screamed for hers and hers for his, not once in the whole wild, erotic, out of control experience had they exchanged a single word.
And instinct told him she’d buried her secret as deeply as he’d buried his.
As far as he was concerned, that was the way it was staying.
The past had no place in this negotiation.
‘Under her management the Shack has gone from a few rickety tables on the beach to the most talked about eatery in Sicily. Rumour has it that she’s a talented chef.’
Cristiano shook his head slowly. ‘You’re walking into an explosive situation, Santo. At best it’s going to be messy.’
Carlo, their lawyer, put his head in his hands.
Santo ignored both of them just as he ignored the elemental rush of heat and the dark memories that, now woken, refused to return to sleep. ‘This feud has lasted too long. It’s time to move on.’
‘Not possible.’ Cristiano’s voice was harsh. ‘Guiseppe Baracchi’s grandson, his only male heir, died when he wrapped a car around a tree. Your car, Santo. And you expect him to shake your hand and sell you his land?’
‘Guiseppe Baracchi is a businessman and this deal makes perfect business sense.’
‘Are you going to tell him that before or after the old man shoots you?’
‘He won’t shoot me.’
‘He probably won’t need to.’ Cristiano gave a grim smile. ‘Knowing Fia, she’ll shoot you first.’
And that, Santo thought without emotion, was entirely possible.
‘This is the last snapper.’ Fia lifted the fish from the grill and plated it up. The heat from the fire warmed her cheeks. ‘Gina?’
‘Gina is outside checking out the driver of a Lamborghini that just pulled into our car park. You know she has a taste for men who can keep her in the style of her dreams. I’ll take those.’ Ben scooped up the plates and balanced them. ‘How is your grandfather tonight?’
‘Tired. He’s not himself. He doesn’t even have the energy to snap at people.’ Fia felt a ripple of worry and made a mental note to check on him next time she had a lull. ‘Are you coping out there? Tell Gina to leave the customers alone and work.’
‘You tell her. I’m too chicken.’ Ben skilfully dodged the waitress, who came sprinting into the kitchen. ‘Hey, be careful or we’ll be sending you out on the boat for more snapper.’
‘You’ll never guess who just turned up—’
Fia shot a glance at Ben as she started on the next order. ‘Serve the food or it will be cold and I don’t serve cold food.’ Aware that Gina was virtually trembling with excitement, Fia decided it would be quicker and more efficient just to let her gush. She added seasoning and olive oil to fresh scallops and dropped them onto the pan. They were so fresh they needed nothing but the best quality oil to bring out the flavour. ‘It must be someone exciting because I’ve never known you starstruck before and we’ve had plenty of celebrities in here.’ As far as she was concerned, a guest was a guest. They were here to eat and her job was to feed them. And she fed them well. Expertly she flipped the scallops and added fresh herbs and capers to the pan.
Gina sneaked a look over her shoulder to the restaurant. ‘It’s the first time I’ve seen him in person. He’s stunning.’
‘Whoever he is, I hope he booked because otherwise you’re going to have to send him away.’ Fia shook the pan constantly. ‘It’s a full house tonight.’
‘You won’t be sending him away.’ Gina sounded awestruck. ‘It’s Santo Ferrara. In the flesh. Only sadly not showing anywhere near as much flesh as I’d like in an ideal world.’
Fia stopped breathing.
Weakness spread through her body and then she started to shake, as if she’d suddenly been injected with something deadly. The pan slid from her hand and crashed onto the flame, the precious scallops forgotten.
‘He wouldn’t come here.’ He wouldn’t dare. She was talking to herself. Reassuring herself. But there was no reassurance to be had.
Since when did she know anything about what motivated Santo Ferrara?
‘Er—why wouldn’t he come?’ Gina looked intrigued. ‘Seems logical enough to me. His company owns the hotel next door and you serve great food.’
Gina wasn’t local, otherwise she would have known the history between the two families. Everyone knew. And Fia also knew that the Ferrara Beach Club, the hotel that shared her perfect curve of beach, was the smallest and least significant of the Ferrara hotel group. There was no earthly reason why Santo himself would choose to give it his personal attention.
Her concentration shot, Fia caught her elbow on the side of a hot pan. Pain seared through her and brought her back to the present. Furious with herself for forgetting the scallops, she plated them up with meticulous care and handed them to Gina, functioning on automatic. ‘This is for the couple on the waterfront,’ she croaked. ‘It’s their anniversary and they booked this six months ago so make sure you treat them with reverence. This is a big night for them. I don’t want them disappointed.’
Gina gaped at her. ‘Aren’t you going to—’
‘I’m fine! It’s just burned flesh—’ Fia spoke through her teeth ‘—I’ll put it under cold water in a minute.’
‘I wasn’t thinking about your elbow. I was thinking about the fact that Santo Ferrara is standing in your restaurant and you don’t seem to care,’ Gina said faintly. ‘You treat every customer like royalty and when someone genuinely important turns up you ignore him. You do know who he is? The Ferrara, yes? Ferrara Resorts. Five star all the way.’
‘I know exactly who he is.’
‘But Boss, if he’s come here to eat—’
‘He hasn’t come here to eat.’ A Ferrara would never sit down at a Baracchi table for fear of being poisoned. She had no idea why he was here and that lack of insight frustrated her because she couldn’t fight what she didn’t understand. And mingled in with the shock and anger was dread.
He’d walked boldly into her restaurant at peak time. Why?
Only something really, really important would make him do that.
Terror rippled through her. No, she thought wildly, it couldn’t possibly be that.
He didn’t know.
He couldn’t know.
With a final curious glance, Gina hurried out of the kitchen and Fia ran cold water over her burned elbow, trying to reassure herself that it was a routine visit. Another attempt by the Ferrara family to hold out an olive branch. There had been others, and her grandfather had taken each and every olive branch and snapped it in two. Since her brother’s death, there had been nothing. No overtures. No contact.
Until now …
Functioning on automatic, she reached above her head for a fresh bulb of garlic. She grew it herself in her garden, along with vegetables and herbs and she enjoyed the growing almost as much as she enjoyed the cooking. It soothed her. Gave her a feeling of home and family she’d never derived from the people around her. Reaching for her favourite knife, she started chopping, trying to think how she would have reacted if the circumstances had been different. If the terror wasn’t involved. If the stakes weren’t so high—
She would have been cold. Businesslike.
‘Buonasera, Fia.’
A deep male voice came from the doorway and she turned, the knife turning from a kitchen implement to a weapon. The crazy thing was, she didn’t know his voice. But she knew his eyes and they were looking at her now—two dark pools of dangerous black. They gleamed bright with intelligence and hard with ruthless purpose. They were the eyes of a man who thrived in a cut-throat business environment. A man who knew what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to go after it. They were the same eyes that had glittered into hers in the darkness three years before as they’d ripped each other’s clothes and slaked a fierce hunger.
Those three years had added a couple of inches to his broad shoulders and more bulk to muscles she remembered all too well. Apart from that he was exactly the same. Still the same ‘born to rule’ Ferrara self-confidence; the same innate sophistication, polished until it shone bright as the paintwork of his Lamborghini. He was six foot three of hard, sensual masculinity but Fia felt nothing a woman was supposed to feel when she laid eyes on Santo Ferrara. A normal woman wouldn’t feel this searing anger, this almost uncontrollable urge to scratch his handsome face and thump that powerful chest. When she was near him, every feeling was exaggerated. She felt vulnerable and defenceless and those feelings brought out the worst in her. Usually she was warm and civil to everyone who stepped inside her kitchen. Reviews commended her hospitality and the intimate, friendly atmosphere of the restaurant. But she couldn’t even bring herself to wish this man a good evening. And that was because she didn’t want him to have a good evening.
She wanted him to go to hell and stay there.
He was her biggest mistake.
And judging from the cold, cynical glint in his eye, he considered her to be his.
‘Well, this is a surprise. The Ferrara brothers don’t usually step down from their ivory tower to mingle with us mortals. Checking out the competition?’ She adopted her most businesslike tone, while all the time her anxiety was rising and the questions were pounding through her head.
Did he know?
Had he found out?
A faint smile touched his mouth and the movement distracted her. There was an almost deadly beauty in the sensual curve of those lips. Everything about the man was dark and sexual, as if he’d been designed for the express purpose of drawing women to their doom. If rumour were correct, he did that with appalling frequency.
Fia wasn’t fooled by his apparently relaxed pose or his deceptively mild tone.
Santo Ferrara was the most dangerous man she’d ever met.
Without exchanging words, she’d fallen. Even now, years later, she didn’t understand what had happened that night. One moment she’d been alone with her misery. The next, his hand had been on her shoulder and everything that had happened after that was a blur. Had it been about human comfort? Possibly, except that comfort implied gentle emotions and those had been in short supply that night.
He watched her now, his face giving no hint as to his thoughts. ‘I’ve heard good things about your restaurant. I’ve come to find out if any of them are true.’
He didn’t know, she thought. If he knew, he wouldn’t be toying with her.
‘They’re all true, but I’m afraid I can’t satisfy your curiosity. We’re fully booked.’ Her lips formed the words while her mind raced over the possible reasons for his visit. Was that really all this was? An idle visit to check out the competition? No, surely not. Santo Ferrara would delegate that task to a minion. Her brain throbbed with the strain of trying to second-guess him.
‘We both know you can find me a table if you want to.’
‘But I don’t want to.’ Her fingers tightened on the knife. ‘Since when did a Ferrara dine at the same table as a Baracchi?’
His eyes locked on hers. Her heart beat just a little bit faster.
The searing look he sent her from under those dense, inky lashes reminded her that once they hadn’t just dined; they’d hungered and they’d feasted. They’d devoured each other and taken until there was nothing left to take. And she could still remember the taste of him; feel the rippling power of his body against hers as they’d indulged in dark, forbidden pleasure, the memory of which had never left her.
In a crowded room she wouldn’t have known his voice, but she knew how he’d feel and her palms grew hot and her knees weakened as her thoughts broke free of the restraints she’d imposed, liberating memories so vivid that for a moment she couldn’t breathe.
He smiled.
Not the smile of a friend, but the smile of a conqueror contemplating the imminent surrender of a captive. ‘Eat at my table, Fia.’
His casual use of her name suggested a familiarity that didn’t exist and it unbalanced her, as he’d no doubt intended. He was a man who always had to be in control. He’d been in control on that night and there had been something terrifying about the force of passion he’d unleashed.
She’d taken him because she’d been in desperate need of human comfort.
He’d taken her because he could.
‘This is my table we’re talking about,’ she said in a clear voice, ‘and you’re not invited.’ She had to get rid of him. The longer he stayed, the bigger the risk to her. ‘You have your own restaurant next door. If you’re hungry then I’m sure they’d accommodate you, although I admit that neither the food nor the view is as good as mine so I can understand why you find both lacking.’
There was a stillness about him that made her uneasy. A watchfulness that she didn’t trust.
‘I need to speak to your grandfather. Tell me where he is.’
So that was why he was here. Another round of fruitless negotiations that would lead the same way as the others. Thanks goodness he’d made this visit at night, she thought numbly. No matter what happened, she had to ensure he didn’t return during the day. ‘You must have a death wish. You know how he feels about you.’
Those eyes were hooded as he watched her. ‘And does he know how you feel about me?’
His oblique reference to that night shocked her because it was something that had never been mentioned before.
Was he threatening her? Was he about to expose her?
Relief had been replaced by sick panic as various avenues of horror opened up before her. Was that why he’d done it? To have a hold over her in the future? ‘My grandfather is old and unwell. If you have something to say you can say it to me. If you want to talk business, then you’ll talk to me. I run the restaurant.’
‘But the land is his.’ His soft voice was a million times more disturbing than an explosion of temper and that control of his worried her because she felt none where he was concerned. She thought about what she’d read—about Santo Ferrara more than filling his brother’s large shoes in his running of their global corporation. And suddenly she realised how foolish she’d been to think that the Beach Club was too insignificant to be of interest to the big boss. It was precisely because it was too insignificant that it had caught his attention. He wanted to expand the Beach Club, and to do that he needed—
‘You want our land?’
‘It was once our land,’ he said with lethal emphasis, ‘until one of your unscrupulous relatives, of which there have been all too many, chose to use blackmail to extract half the beach from my great-grandfather. Unlike him, I am willing to propose a fair deal and pay you a generous price to regain that which should never have left my family.’
And it was all about money, of course. The Ferraras thought everything could be bought.
Which was what frightened her.
The initial feeling of relief that had flooded her had been replaced by trepidation. If he were intent on developing the land then she’d never be safe.
‘My grandfather will never, ever sell to you so if that is what this visit is about you’re wasting your time. You might as well go back to New York or Rome or wherever it is you live these days. Pick another project.’
‘I live here.’ His lip curled. ‘And I am giving this project my personal attention.’
It was the worst news she could have had. ‘He hasn’t been well. I won’t let you upset him.’
‘Your grandfather is tough as boots. I doubt he is in need of your protection.’ A few layers of ‘civilized’ had melted away and the dangerous edge to his tone told her that he meant business. ‘Does he know that you’re deliberately attracting my customers away from the hotel to your restaurant?’
He was six foot three of prime masculinity, the force of his nature barely leashed beneath that outward appearance of sophistication. And Fia knew just how much heat bubbled under the cool surface. She’d been burned by that heat.
His passion has shocked her, but nowhere near as much as her own.
‘If by “deliberately” you mean that I’m cooking them good food in great surroundings, then I’m guilty as charged.’
‘Those “great surroundings” are exactly the reason I’m here.’
So that was what had brought him back. Not the night they’d shared. Not concern for her welfare or anything that was personal.
Just business.
If she weren’t so relieved that there wasn’t a deeper reason, she would have been appalled by his insensitivity. Whatever else had happened, a death lay between them. Blood had been shed.
But one inconvenient death wouldn’t be enough to stand in the way of a Ferrara on the path to acquisition, she thought numbly. It was all about empire building. ‘This conversation is over. I need to cook. I’m in the middle of service.’ The truth was she’d all but finished, but she’d wanted him out of here.
But of course he didn’t leave because a Ferrara only ever did what a Ferrara wanted to do.
Instead of walking away he lounged against the door frame, sleek and confident, those eyes fixed on her. ‘You feel so threatened by me you have to have a knife in your hand while we talk?’
‘I’m not threatened. I’m working.’
‘I could disarm you in under five seconds.’
‘I could cut you to the bone in less.’ It was bravado, of course, because not for one moment did she underestimate his strength.
‘If this is the welcome you give your customers I’m surprised you have anyone here at all. Not exactly warm, is it?’ The fringe of thick lashes made his eyes seem darker. Or maybe the darkness was something they created together. She knew that the addition of just one ingredient could alter flavour. In this case it was the forbidden. They’d done the unforgivable. The unexplainable. The inexcusable.
‘You’re not a customer, Santo.’
‘So feed me and then I will be. Cook me dinner.’
Cook me dinner. Just for a moment her hands shook.
He’d walked away without once glancing back. That, she could handle because, apart from one night of reckless sex, they’d shared nothing. The fact that he’d played a much bigger role in her dreams wasn’t his fault. But for him to walk back in here and order her to cook him dinner, as if his return was something to celebrate …
The audacity of it took her breath away. ‘Sorry. Fatted calf isn’t on the menu tonight. Now get the hell out of my kitchen, Santo. Gina manages the bookings and tonight we’re full. And tomorrow night. And any other night you wish to eat in my restaurant.’
‘Gina is the pretty blonde? I noticed her on the way in.’
Of course he would have noticed her. Santo Ferrara not noticing a blonde, curvy woman would be like a lion not noticing a cute impala. That didn’t surprise her. What surprised her was the ache in her chest. She didn’t want to care who this man took to his bed. She’d never wanted to care and the fact that she did terrified her more than anything. She’d grown up witnessing that caring meant pain.
Never love a Sicilian man had been the last words her mother had flung at her eight-year-old daughter before she’d walked out of the door for ever.
Afraid of her own feelings, Fia turned her back and finished chopping garlic, but they were the ragged, uneven cuts of an amateur, not a professional.
‘It’s dangerous to handle a knife when your hands are shaking.’ Suddenly he was right behind her, too close for comfort, and she felt her pulse sprint because even though he wasn’t touching her she could feel the warmth of him, the power of him and feel her answering response. It was immediate and visceral and she almost screamed with frustration because it made no sense. It was like salivating over a food that she knew would make her ill.
‘I’m not shaking.’
‘No?’ A strong, bronzed hand covered hers and immediately she was back in the darkness of that night, his mouth burning against hers, his skilled fingers showing her no mercy as he drove her wild. ‘Do you think about it?’
She didn’t need to ask what he meant.
Did she think about it? Oh, God, he had no idea. She’d tried everything, everything, to wipe the memory of that night from her mind but it was always with her. A sensual scar that was never going to heal. ‘Take your hand off mine right now.’
His hand tightened, the strength in those fingers holding hers still. ‘You finish serving food at ten. We’ll talk after that.’
It was a command not an invitation and the sure confidence with which he issued that command licked at the flames of her anger. ‘My work doesn’t finish when the restaurant closes. I have hours of work and when that is done I go to bed.’
‘With that puppy-eyed boy who works for you? Playing it safe now, Fia?’
She was so shocked by the question that she turned her head to look at him and the movement brought her physically closer. The light brush of her skin against the hardness of his thigh triggered a frightening response. It was as if her body knew. ‘Who I invite into my bed is none of your business.’
Their eyes met briefly as they acknowledged privately what they’d never acknowledged publicly.
She watched, transfixed, as his gaze turned black.
A long dormant feeling slowly uncurled itself inside her, a response she didn’t want to feel for this man.
What might have happened next she’d never know because Gina walked in and when Fia saw who she was carrying she wanted to shout out a warning. She wanted to tell the other girl to run and not look back. But it was too late. Her luck had run out. It was over. It was over because Santo was already turning to locate the source of the interruption, an irritated frown scoring the bronzed planes of his handsome face.
‘He had a bad dream—’ Gina cooed, stroking the sobbing toddler. ‘I said I’d bring him to his mamma as you’ve finished cooking for the night.’
Fia stood, powerless to do anything except allow events to unfold.
Had circumstances been different she would have been pleased to see a Ferrara shocked out of his customary cool. As it was the stakes were so high she watched with the breath trapped in her lungs, reluctant witness to his rapidly changing emotions.
His initial irritation at the disturbance gave way to puzzlement as he looked at the miserable, hiccuping child now stretching out his little arms to Fia.
And she took him, of course, because his welfare mattered to her above all other things.
And two things happened.
Her son stared curiously at the tall, dark stranger in the kitchen and stopped crying instantly.
And the tall, dark stranger stared into black eyes almost identical to his own, and turned pale as death.

CHAPTER TWO
‘CRISTO—’ His voice hoarse, Santo took a step backwards and crashed into some pans that had been neatly stacked ready to be put away. Startled by the sudden noise, the child flinched and hid his face in his mother’s neck. Aware that he was the cause of that sudden display of anxiety, Santo struggled for control. Only by the most ruthless application of willpower did he succeed in hauling back the searing anger that threatened to erupt.
From the security of his mother’s arms, the child peeped at him in terror, instinctively hiding from danger and yet intrigued by it.
And she would have been hiding, too, Santo thought grimly, if she had anywhere to hide. But she was right out in the open, all her secrets exposed.
He didn’t even need to ask the obvious question.
Even without that instant moment of recognition he would have seen it in the way she held herself. That raw, undiluted anxiety was visible to the naked eye.
He’d come here to negotiate the purchase of the land. Not for one second had he anticipated this.
From the moment he’d walked into the kitchen she’d been in a hurry to get rid of him, and now he understood why. He’d assumed their past history was to blame for her response. And of course it was. But not in the way he’d thought.
There was a heaviness in his chest, as if his heart were being squeezed in a clenched fist.
Confronted by a situation he hadn’t anticipated, he struggled with emotions that were new to him. Not just anger but a deep, primitive desire to protect.
The weight in his chest bloomed and grew into something so huge and powerful he felt the force of it right through his body.
I’m a father.
But even as he thought it, he also thought, this is not how it was supposed to be.
He’d always assumed that he would eventually fall in love, marry and then have children. He was a traditional guy, wasn’t he? He’d seen his brother’s joy and his sister’s joy and he’d arrogantly assumed that the same experience awaited him.
He’d missed it all, he thought bitterly. The birth, first steps, first words—
Tormented by those thoughts, Santo gave a low growl.
The toddler’s eyes widened with alarm as he sensed the change in the atmosphere. Or perhaps it was just that he detected his mother’s panic. Either way, Santo knew enough about children to know that this one was about to dissolve into screams.
With another huge effort of will, he forced himself to suppress his feelings. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done. ‘It is late for someone so young to be up.’ He injected his voice with the right amount of gentleness, focusing on the child rather than the mother. Even looking at the boy sent a searing pain through his chest. It was a physical effort not to grab him, strap him into the seat of his Lamborghini and drive away with him. ‘You must be very tired, chicco. You should be in bed.’
Fia stiffened, clearly taking that as criticism. ‘He has bad dreams sometimes.’
The news that his son suffered from bad dreams did nothing to improve Santo’s black, dangerous mood. What, he wondered darkly, had caused those dreams? Reminded of just how dysfunctional this family was, anger turned to cold dread.
‘Gina—is it Gina?’ He glanced at the pretty waitress and somehow managed to deliver the smile that had never failed him yet and it didn’t fail him now as the girl beamed at him, visibly overwhelmed by his status.
‘Signor Ferrara—’
‘I really need to speak to Fia in private—’
‘No!’ Fia’s voice bordered on desperate. ‘Not now. Can’t you see that this is a really bad time?’
‘Oh, it’s fine,’ Gina gushed helpfully, blushing under Santo’s warm, approving gaze. ‘I can take him. I’m his nanny.’
‘Nanny?’ The word stuck in Santo’s throat. No one in his family had ever employed outside help to care for their children. ‘You look after him?’ He didn’t trust himself to use the words ‘my son’. Not yet.
‘It’s a team approach,’ Gina said cheerfully. ‘We’re like meerkats. We all look after the young. Only in this case there is only one young so he’s horribly spoiled. I look after him when Fia is working, but I knew she’d finished cooking tonight so I thought I’d bring him for a cuddle. Now he’s calmed down he’s going to be just fine. He’ll go straight off again the moment I put him in his bed. Come to Auntie Gina—’ Cooing at the sleepy child, she drew him out of Fia’s reluctant arms and snuggled him close.
‘We still have customers—’
‘They’re virtually all finished,’ Gina said helpfully. ‘Just waiting for table two to pay the bill. Ben has it all under control. You have your chat, Boss.’ Apparently oblivious to the tension crackling around them, Gina cast a final awestruck glance at Santo and melted from the room.
Silence reigned.
Fia stood, her cheeks pale against the fire of her hair, dark smudges under her eyes.
Words were some of the most deadly tools in his armoury. He used them to negotiate impossible deals, to smooth the most difficult of situations, to hire and fire, but suddenly, when he needed them more than ever before, they were absent. All he managed was a single word.
‘Well?’
Despite his heightened emotional state, or perhaps because of it, Santo spoke softly but she flinched as if he’d raised his voice.
‘Well, what?’
‘Don’t even think about giving me anything other than the truth. You’d be wasting your breath.’
‘In that case why ask?’
He didn’t know what to say to her. She didn’t know what to say to him.
Their situation was painfully difficult.
Before tonight they’d never actually spoken. Even during that one turbulent encounter, they hadn’t spoken. Not one word had been exchanged. Oh, there’d been sounds. The ripping of clothes, the slide of flesh against flesh, ragged breathing—but no words. Nothing coherent from either of them. He was a man confident in his sexuality, but he still didn’t really understand what had happened that night.
Had the whole forbidden nature of their encounter acted as some sort of powerful aphrodisiac? Had the fact that their two families had been enemies for almost three generations added to the emotion that had brought them together like animals in the darkness?
Possibly. Either way, their relationship had been like a blast from a rocket engine, the sudden heat tearing through both of them, burning up common sense and reason. He should have known there would be a price. And clearly he’d been paying that price for the last three years.
‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’ His tone was raw and ragged and he watched as her breathing grew shallow.
‘For a supposedly clever man you ask stupid questions.’
‘Nothing—nothing—that has happened between our two families should have prevented you from telling me this.’ With a slice of his hand he gestured towards the open door. ‘This’ had vanished into the night with the accommodating Gina and letting him out of his sight was one of the hardest things Santo had ever done. Soon, he vowed. Soon, the child would never be out of his sight again. It was the only sure thing in this storm of uncertainty. ‘You should have told me.’
‘For what purpose? To have my son exposed to the same bitter feud that has coloured our entire lives? To have him used as some pawn in your power games? I have protected him from all of that.’
‘Our son—’ Santo spoke in a thickened tone ‘—he is my son, too. The product of both of us.’
‘He is the product of one night when you and I were—’
‘—were what?’
Her gaze didn’t falter. ‘We were foolish. Out of control. We did something stupid. Something we never should have done. I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Well, tough, because you’re going to talk about it. You should have talked about it three years ago when you first realised you were pregnant.’
‘Oh, don’t be so naive!’ Her temper flared as hot as his. ‘This was not some cosy romance that had unexpected consequences. It was complicated.’
‘The decision whether or not to tell a man he’s the father of your child is not complicated. Cristo—’ Floored by the monumental issues facing them, he let out a long breath and dragged his hand over the back of his neck, seeking calm and not finding it anywhere within his grasp. ‘I cannot believe this. I need time to think.’ He knew that decisions made in the heat of anger were never good ones and he needed them to be good ones.
‘There is nothing to think about.’
Santo cast his mind back to that night, a night he never allowed himself to think about because the good was irrevocably entwined with the really, really bad and it was impossible to unravel the two. ‘How did it happen? I used—’
‘Apparently there are some things even a Ferrara can’t control,’ she said coolly, ‘and this was one of them.’
He looked at her blankly. The whole night had merged for him. Pulling out details was impossible. It had been crazy, wild and—she was right—ill-advised. But what they’d shared hadn’t been the product of rational decision-making. It had been sheer animal lust, the like of which he’d never experienced before or since.
She’d been upset.
He’d put his hand on her shoulder.
She’d turned to him.
And that had been it—
Such a small spark to light such a raging fire.
And then, even before the heat had cooled, she’d had the call telling her that her brother had been killed. That single tragic phone call that had sliced through their loving like the blade of a guillotine. And after, the fallout. The recriminations and the speculation.
The young waiter appeared in the doorway, his eyes on Fia. ‘Is everything OK? I saw Luca awake, which is always nice because I managed to snatch a lovely cuddle, but I heard raised voices.’ He shot Santo a suspicious look, which Santo returned tenfold. The news that everyone appeared to be cuddling his son except him simply fuelled his already fiercely burning temper. An unfamiliar emotion streaked through him—the primal response of a man guarding his territory.
So his child was called Luca.
The fact that he’d learned the name from this man drove him to the edge of control.
What exactly was his relationship with Fia?
‘This is a private conversation. Get out,’ he said thickly and he heard Fia’s soft intake of breath.
‘It’s OK, Ben. Just go.’
Apparently Ben didn’t know what was good for him because he stood stubbornly in the doorway. ‘I’m not leaving until I know you’re all right.’ It was like a spaniel challenging a Rottweiler. He glared at Santo, who would have given him points for courage had he not been way past admiring the qualities of another man. Especially a man who was making puppy eyes at the woman who, only moments earlier, had been clutching his child.
‘I am giving you one more opportunity to leave and then I will remove you myself.’
‘Go, Ben!’ She sounded exasperated. ‘You’re just giving him another reason to throw his weight around.’
Ben gave her one last doubtful look and melted away into the darkness of the night, leaving the two of them alone.
Tension throbbed like a living force. The air was heavy with it. He could taste it on his tongue and feel the weight of it pressing down on his shoulders. And he knew she could feel it too.
His head was a mass of questions.
How had no one guessed? Had no one questioned the identity of the child’s father? He didn’t understand how she could have hidden such a thing.
‘You knew you were pregnant and yet you cut me out of your life.’
‘You were never in my life, Santo. And I was never in yours.’
‘We made a child together.’ His low growl came from somewhere deep inside him and he saw her recoil as if the reminder came as a physical blow.
‘You need to calm down. In just ten minutes you’ve frightened my child, virtually seduced his nanny, bawled me out and been unforgivably rude to someone I care about.’
‘I did not frighten our child.’ That accusation angered him more than any of the others. ‘You did that by creating this situation.’ And he still didn’t understand how she had kept her secret. His usually sharp mind refused to work. ‘This is your grandfather’s idea of revenge? Punishing the Ferraras by hiding the child?’
‘No!’ Her chest rose and fell, her breathing shallow. ‘He adores Luca.’
Santo raised his eyebrows in disbelief. ‘He adores a child who is half Ferrara? You expect me to believe that age has finally gifted a Baracchi with tolerance?’ He broke off, alerted by something in her eyes, some instinct that went bone-deep. And suddenly it fell into place. Finally he understood the truth and the reality was another blow to his already aching gut. ‘Cristo, he doesn’t know, does he?’ It was the only possible explanation and one that was confirmed by the look in her eyes.
‘Santo—’
‘Answer me.’ His voice didn’t sound like his own and he saw her take a step backwards. ‘You will tell me the truth. He doesn’t know, does he? You haven’t told him.’
‘How could I tell him?’ Underneath the desperation was a profound weariness, as if this issue were a heavy weight she’d been carrying for too long. ‘He hates everything about your family, and he hates you more than any man on the planet. Not just because your surname is Ferrara, but because—’ She didn’t finish the sentence and he let it hang there because to get involved in a discussion about her brother’s death would mean being sidetracked, and he refused to be sidetracked.
They had a child.
A child that was half Ferrara, half Baracchi. An unimaginable bloodline.
A child born out of one night that had ended in tragedy.
And the old man didn’t know.
He wondered how her grandfather could not have seen what he himself had seen instantly.
White-faced, she stared at him. Santo was so shell-shocked by the enormity of the secret she’d been carrying, he was reeling from it. How had she done it? She must have lain there every morning wondering whether today would be the day she’d be found out. Whether today would be the day a Ferrara would come and claim their own.
‘Madre de Dio, I cannot believe this. When the child is old enough to ask about his father, what did you intend to tell him? On second thought, don’t answer that,’ he said thickly, ‘I am not ready to hear the answer.’ He knew as well as anyone that life was no fairy story, but belief in the sanctity of family ran strong in his veins. Family was the raft that kept you afloat in stormy seas, the anchor that stopped you from drifting, the wind in the sail that propelled you forward. He was the product of his parents’ happy marriage and both his brother and sister had found love and created their own families. He’d assumed that the same would happen to him. Not once had he considered that he would have to fight for the right to be a father to his own child. Nor had he dreamt of his child being raised in a family like the Baracchis. He wouldn’t have wished it on anyone. It was a nightmare almost too painful to contemplate.
Her breathing was shallow. ‘Please, you have to promise me that you will let me deal with this. My grandfather is old. He isn’t well.’ Her voice shook but Santo felt no sympathy. He felt bitter and angry and raw.
‘You have had three years to deal with it. Now it’s my turn. Did you really think I’d allow my son to be raised in your family? And without a father in his life? The notion of family is alien to a Baracchi.’ He jabbed his fingers into his hair, his stress levels turning supersonic. ‘When I think what the child must have gone through—’
‘Luca is happy and well cared for.’
‘I saw your childhood.’ Santo let his hand fall to his side. ‘I saw how it was for you. You don’t understand what a family should be.’ And it broke his heart that his son had been raised in a family like that.
Her face was ghostly pale. ‘Luca’s childhood is nothing like mine. And if you know what mine was like then you should also know that I would never want that for my son. I don’t blame you for your concern but you are wrong. I do understand what a family should be. I always have.’
‘How? Where would you learn that? Certainly not in your own home.’ Her home life had been fractured, messy and unbelievably insecure because the Baracchi family didn’t just fight their neighbours, they fought amongst themselves. If family was a boat built to weather stormy seas, then hers was a shipwreck.
The first time they’d met properly she’d been eight years old and hiding on the far side of the beach. His side, where no Baracchi was supposed to tread. She’d taken refuge in the disused boathouse, amongst jagged planks of wood and the acrid smell of oil. He’d been fourteen years old and totally at a loss to know what to do with his wild-haired intruder. Was he supposed to hold her captive? Ask for a ransom? In the end he’d done neither. Nor had he blown her cover.
Instead, intrigued by her defiance, spurred on by the lure of the forbidden, he’d let her hide there until she’d chosen to return home.
Weeks later he’d found out that the day she’d kept her solitary vigil in his boathouse had been the day her mother had walked out, leaving Fia’s violent Sicilian father to cope with two children he’d never wanted. He remembered being surprised that she hadn’t cried. It was years before he realised that Fia never cried. She kept all her emotions hidden inside and never expected comfort. Which was probably because she’d learned there was none to be had in her family.
Santo’s mouth tightened.
Maybe she did shut people out, but there was no way in hell he’d let her shut him out. Not now. Not this time. ‘You made your decision, by yourself with no reference to anyone else. Now I will make mine.’ He cut her no slack. Didn’t allow the beseeching look in her eyes to alter him from what he knew to be the right course of action.
‘What do you mean?’
‘When I’m ready to talk, I’ll contact you. And don’t even think of running because if you do I will hunt you down. There is nowhere you can hide. Nowhere on this planet you can take my son that I can’t find you.’
‘He is my son, too.’
Santo gave a humourless smile. ‘And that presents us with an interesting challenge, doesn’t it? He is possibly the first thing our two families have had in common. When I’ve decided what I’m going to do about that, I’ll let you know.’
As the furious growl of the Lamborghini disturbed the silence of the night, Fia just made it to the bathroom and was violently sick. It could have been panic, fear, or some noxious combination of the two, but whatever it was it left her shaking and she hated the weakness and the feeling of vulnerability. Afterwards she sat on the floor with her eyes closed, trying to formulate a plan but there was no plan she could make that he couldn’t sweep aside.
He would take control, the way the Ferraras always took control. His contempt for her family would drive his decision-making. And part of her didn’t blame him for that. In his position she probably would have felt the same way because, now, she understood how it felt to want to protect a child.
Fia wrapped her arms around her knees and pulled them closer, tucking herself into as small a space as possible.
He hadn’t listened when she’d tried to explain herself. He hadn’t believed her when she’d told him that she’d made sure that Luca’s childhood was nothing like her own.
His mission now was to rescue his son from the Baracchi family.
There would be no softness. No concessions. No compromise.
Instead of being raised in a calm, loving atmosphere, Luca would be subjected to the intolerable pressures of animosity and resentment. He’d be the rope in an emotional tug of war.
And that was precisely why she’d chosen this particular rocky, deadly path and she’d lived with the lies, the worry and the stress for three years in order to protect her son.
‘Mamma sick.’ Luca stood there, his favourite bear clutched in his arms, that dark hair rumpled. The harsh bathroom lights spotlighted every feature and for a moment she couldn’t breathe because right there, in her son’s face, she saw Santo. Their child had inherited those unforgettable eyes, that same glossy dark hair. Even the shape of his mouth reminded her of his father and she wasn’t going to start thinking about his stubborn streak …
Realistically, it had only been a matter of time before her secret was out.
‘I love you.’ Impulsively she dragged him into her arms and kissed his head, letting the warmth of him flow into her. ‘I’m always going to be here for you. And Gina, and Ben. You have people who love you. You won’t ever be alone.’ She held him tightly, as she had never been held. She kissed him, as she had never been kissed. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to blame Santo Ferrara for assuming that his child was being raised in a toxic atmosphere. He had no idea how hard she’d worked to ensure that Luca’s childhood was nothing like her own.
And as he snuggled against her, happy and content, she felt her eyes fill.
What had she lacked, she wondered, that her own mother hadn’t felt this same powerful bond? Nothing, nothing, would induce her to walk away from her child. There was no price, no power, no promise that could make her do such a thing.
And there was no way she was going to let Santo take her son.
Blissfully ignorant of the fact that their lives were teetering on the edge of a dangerous chasm, he wriggled out of her arms.
‘Bed.’
‘Good idea,’ she croaked, scooping him up and carrying him back to his bed. Whatever happened, she was going to protect him from the fallout of this. She wasn’t going to let him be hurt.
‘Man come back?’
Her insides churned again. ‘Yes, he’ll come back.’ She was in no doubt about that. And when he returned he’d bring serious legal muscle. She had no doubt about that, either. Events had been set in motion and there was no stopping them. No stopping a Ferrara from getting what he wanted.
And Santo Ferrara wanted his son.
She sat on the bed, watching her son fall asleep, her love for him so huge that it filled every part of her. The strength of that bond made it all too easy for her to imagine Santo’s feelings. Deep inside her, the guilt that she worked so hard to suppress awoke.
She’d never been comfortable with her decision. It had haunted her in the dark hours of the night when there were no distractions to occupy her mind. It wasn’t that she regretted the choice she’d made. She didn’t. But she’d learned that the right decision could feel completely wrong. And then there were the dreams. Dreams that distorted reality. Twisted the impossible into the possible. Dreams of a life that didn’t exist.
Blocking out images of black, silky lashes and a hard, sensual mouth, Fia stayed until Luca was safely asleep and then returned to the kitchen to clear up. Because she’d sent the staff home she had to do it herself, but the mindless work helped calm the panicky knot in her stomach. She poured her anxiety into each swipe of her cloth until every surface in the kitchen shone, until sweat pricked her brow, until she was too bone-tired to feel anything except the physical ache of hard labour. And then she grabbed a cold beer from the fridge and took it to the small wooden jetty that butted out from the restaurant.
Fishing boats bobbed quietly in the darkness, waiting to be taken out onto the water.
Usually this was a time to be calm, but tonight her nightly ritual failed to produce the desired effect.
Fia kicked off her shoes and sat on the jetty, feet dangling in the cool water, her gaze sliding to the lights of the Ferrara Beach Club on the opposite side of the bay. Eighty per cent of her customers tonight had come from the hotel. She had reservations for plenty more, booked months ahead. Twisting off the cap, she lifted the bottle to her lips, realising that by being good at what she did, she’d inadvertently drawn the eye of the enemy.
Her success had brought her out from under the radar. Instead of being irrelevant to the all-powerful Ferraras, she’d made herself significant. This was all her fault, she thought miserably. In pursuing her goal of providing for her family, protecting her son, she’d inadvertently exposed him.
‘Fiammetta!’
Her grandfather’s bark made her jump and she sprang to her feet and walked back towards the stone house that had been in the family for six generations, a feeling of sick dread in her stomach. ‘Come stai?’ She kept her voice light. ‘You’re up late, Nonno. How are you feeling?’
‘I’m as well as a man can be when he sees his granddaughter working herself to the bone.’ He scowled down at the bottle in her hand. ‘A man doesn’t like to see a woman drinking beer.’
‘Then it’s a good job I don’t have a man I need to worry about.’ She teased him lightly, relieved that he had the energy to spar with her. This was their relationship. This was Baracchi love. She told herself that just because he didn’t express it didn’t mean he didn’t feel it. On some days she actually believed that. ‘What are you doing up? You should be asleep in bed.’
‘Luca was crying.’
‘He had a dream. He just wanted a cuddle.’
‘You should leave him to cry.’ Her grandfather gave a grunt of disapproval. ‘He’ll never grow up to be a man the way you coddle him.’
‘He’s going to be a fine man. The best.’
‘The boy is spoiled. Every time I see him, someone is hugging him or kissing him.’
‘You can’t give a child too much love.’
‘Did I fuss over my son the way you fuss over yours?’
No, and look at how that turned out. ‘I think you should go to bed, Nonno.’
‘Can I cook for a few people? That’s what you said to me—’ he winced as he walked stiffly towards the waterfront ‘—and before I know it my home is full of strangers and you are serving good Sicilian food on fancy plates and lighting candles for people who wouldn’t know the difference between fresh food and fast food.’
‘People travel a long way to taste my cooking. I’m running a successful business.’
‘You shouldn’t be running a business.’ Her grandfather settled himself in his favourite chair at the water’s edge. The chair he’d sat on when she was a child.
‘I’m building a life for myself and a future for my child.’ A life that was now overturned. A future that was threatened. Suddenly she didn’t trust herself not to betray what she was feeling. ‘I’ll fetch you a drink. Grappa?’
She had to tell her grandfather about Santo, but first she had to work out how. How did you tell someone that the father of his precious great-grandchild was a man he hated above all others?
Fia walked back to the kitchen and grabbed the bottle and a glass. It was a long time since he’d mentioned the Ferraras. And that was because of her, of course. Concerned for Luca, she’d insisted that if he couldn’t speak the name positively then he wasn’t to speak the name at all.
At first she was just grateful that he’d taken her threat seriously, but now she was wondering whether it meant he’d actually softened over time.
Please. Please let him have softened—
Fia put the glass on the table in front of her grandfather and poured. ‘So what’s wrong?’
‘You mean apart from the fact that you are here every night slaving in that kitchen while someone else looks after your child?’
‘It’s good for Luca to be with other people. Gina loves him.’ She didn’t have the family she wanted for her son, so she’d created it. Her son was never going to be lonely in the way she’d been lonely. He had people he could turn to. People who would hug him when life threw rocks.
‘Love.’ Her grandfather grunted with contempt. ‘You are turning him into a girl. That’s what happens when there is no father to teach a boy to be a man.’
It was the perfect opening for her to tell him what she needed to tell him. But Fia couldn’t push the words past her dry throat. She needed time. Time to discover what Santo intended to do. ‘Luca has male influences in his life.’
‘If you’re talking about that boy you employ in the restaurant, there’s more testosterone in my finger than he has in his whole body. Luca needs a real man around.’
‘You and I have very different ideas about what makes a real man.’
His bony shoulders slumped and the lines on his forehead were deep. In the past month he appeared to have aged a decade. ‘This isn’t what I wanted for you.’
‘Life doesn’t always turn out the way we plan it, Nonno. When life gives you olives, you make olive oil.’
‘But you don’t make olive oil!’ He waved a hand in frustration. ‘You send our olives to our neighbours and they make our oil.’
‘Which I use in my restaurant. The restaurant that everyone in Sicily is talking about. I was in the paper last week.’ But somehow the buzz that she’d got from that fleeting moment of success had gone. Recent events had diminished it to nothing. ‘The week before I was mentioned in an important travel blog. The article was called “Sicilian Secrets”. I’m doing well. I’m good at my work.’
‘Work is what a woman does before she finds a husband.’
Fia put the bottle down on the table. ‘Don’t say that. Soon, Luca will be old enough to understand you and I don’t want him growing up with that opinion.’
‘Men ask you out! But do you say yes? No, you don’t. Dark, blond, tall, short—it’s always “no”. You shut everyone out and you have done since Luca’s father.’ He looked at her intently and Fia’s fingers tightened on the bottle.
‘When I meet a man I’m interested in, I’ll say yes.’ But she knew that wasn’t going to happen. There had only ever been one man in her life and right now he despised her. And worse, he thought she was an unfit mother.
Barely able to think about that, she focused on her grandfather and felt a flicker of worry as she saw him absently rub his fingers across his chest. Impulsively, she reached across the table and touched his hand. When he immediately withdrew, she tried not to mind. Her grandfather wasn’t tactile, was he? It was silly of her to even try. He didn’t hug her and he didn’t hug Luca. ‘What’s wrong? More pain?’
‘Don’t fuss.’ There was a long silence while he glared at her and something in his gaze made her stomach clench.
Was it just her guilty conscience or did he—?
‘You weren’t going to tell me, were you?’ The harshness of his voice shocked her and she felt as if the earth had shaken beneath her feet.
‘Tell you what?’ Her heart was suddenly pounding like a drum in a rock band.
‘He was here tonight. Santo Ferrara.’ He said it as if the name tasted bad on his tongue and Fia put the bottle down before it slipped from her hand.
‘Nonno—’
‘I know you banned me from mentioning his name but when a Ferrara walks onto my property, that gives me the right to talk about him. You should have told me he was here.’
How much did he know? How much had he heard?
‘I didn’t tell you because I knew this would be your reaction.’
He thumped his fist on the table. ‘I warned that boy not to step onto my land again.’
Fia thought about the width and power of those shoulders. The haze of dark stubble accentuating that hard jaw. ‘He’s not a boy. He’s a man.’ A wealthy man who now ran a global corporation. A man with the power to shake up everything she loved about her life. A man who had gone off to talk to lawyers and think about the future of her son.
Their son.
Oh, God—
Her grandfather’s eyes glowed bright with rage. ‘That man walked into my home—my home—’ he stabbed the air with his finger ‘—with no respect for my feelings.’
‘Nonno—’
‘Did he have the courage to face me?’
‘Calma! Calm down.’ Fia was on her feet; the emotion was a burning ball at the base of her ribs. If her grandfather was this upset now, how much worse was it going to be when he found out the truth? It was starting again, only this time Luca would be in the middle of it. ‘I didn’t want him to see you and this is why! You’re getting upset.’
‘Of course I am upset. How could I not be upset after what he has done?’ His face was white in the flickering light from the candle and Fia was sure that hers was equally pale.
‘You promised me when Luca was born that you would let the past go.’
He gave her a long, long look. ‘Why are you defending him? Why is it that I’m not allowed to say a bad word about a Ferrara?’
Fia felt the heat pour into her cheeks. ‘Because I don’t want Luca growing up with that animosity. It’s horrible.’
‘I hate them.’
Fia breathed deeply. ‘I know.’ Oh, yes, she knew. And she’d thought about that every day since she’d felt the first fluttering low in her abdomen. She’d thought about it as she’d pushed her son from her body, when she’d first looked into his eyes and every time she kissed him goodnight. There were days when she felt as if she couldn’t carry the weight of it any more.
Her grandfather’s eyes were fierce. ‘Because of Ferrara, you will be alone in the world when I’m gone. Who will look after you?’
‘I will look after us.’ She knew he blamed Santo for her brother’s death. She also knew it was pointless to remind him that her brother had barely been able to look after himself, let alone another. It had been his own reckless irresponsibility that had killed him, not Santo Ferrara.
Her grandfather rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘If Ferrara dares to come back here again and I’m not around you can give him a message from me—’
‘Nonno—’
‘—you can tell him I’m still waiting for him to act like a man and take responsibility for his actions. And if he dares set foot on my property again I’ll make him pay.’

CHAPTER THREE
SANTO sat and waited in his office at the Ferrara Beach Club—an office hastily vacated in his honour by the manager of the hotel. If he needed an indication as to why this hotel was less successful than the others in the group it was right there on the desk. Lack of discipline and organisation was visible everywhere, from the scattered papers to the dying plant that drooped sadly in the corner of the office. Later, he’d deal with it. Right now he had other things on his mind. Mocking him from the wall was an enlarged photograph of the hotel manager, posing with his wife and two smiling children.
A typical Sicilian family.
Santo stared moodily at that picture. Right now he felt like tearing it down. He’d never considered himself idealistic, but was it idealistic to assume that one day his family would look much like the one in the picture?
Apparently it was.
He glanced at his watch.
Not for one moment did he doubt that she would come. Not because he had faith in her sense of justice but because she knew that if she didn’t, he’d come and get her.
His face expressionless, he waited as darkness gave way to the first fingers of dawn; as the sun rose over the sea, showering light across the smooth glassy surface.
He’d sent the text in the early hours, at a time when most people would have been asleep. It hadn’t occurred to him to try and sleep. There had been no rest for him and he knew there would have been none for her, either.
Exhaustion fogged his mind and yet his thoughts were clear. As far as he was concerned the decision was clear. If only the emotions were as simple to deal with.
He checked his phone again and found a message from his brother, another person who had been frequenting the early hours. Just four words—
What do you need?
Unconditional support. Unquestioning loyalty. All those things that a family should offer, and which his did. He’d been raised with that support, surrounded by love. Unlike his son, who had spent his early years in the equivalent of a pit of vipers.
Sweat beaded on his brow. He could barely allow himself to think about what his son’s life must have been like. What was the long-term impact of being raised in an emotional desert? And what if the abuse hadn’t just been emotional? Although he’d been young, he still remembered the mutterings and the rumours about the Baracchi family. Remembered seeing Fia sporting bruises almost all the time.
The knock on the door was the most reluctant sound he’d ever heard.
His eyes narrowed and he felt a rush of adrenaline, but it was only a young chef from the kitchen, bringing him more coffee.
‘Grazie—’
The rattle of the cup on the saucer and her nervous glance told him that his black mood was visible on his face although they’d probably all misinterpreted the cause. Everyone in the hotel from the top down was jumpy about his visit. Normally they’d have reason. They had no way of knowing that his current mood was caused by something different. That a reorganization of the hotel was the last thing on his mind right now.
She melted away but moments later there was another tap on the door and he knew instantly that this time it was her.
The door opened and Fia stood there, those fierce green eyes glittering like jewels in a face as pale as morning mist. One look at her white face told him that she hadn’t had any more rest than he had.
She looked washed out and stressed. And ready for a fight.
Across the room their eyes clashed.
They’d been lovers.
They’d shared the ultimate intimacy, but that wasn’t going to help them navigate the treacherous waters they now found themselves in because they’d shared nothing else. They had no relationship. Essentially they were strangers. All they’d had were a few chance encounters and one stolen night, one delicious taste of the forbidden. None of that was going to help them through this desperate situation. And it was desperate; even he could see that.
‘Where is my son?’ He snapped out the words and she leaned her back against the door and looked at him.
‘Asleep in his bed. In his home. And if he wakes, Gina is there, and my grandfather.’
The anger rushed at him like a ravenous beast ready to snap through the last threads of his fragile self-control. ‘And that is supposed to provide me with comfort?’
‘He loves Luca.’
‘I think we have a very different idea of what that word means.’
‘No.’ Her eyes were fierce. ‘No, we don’t.’
Santo’s mouth tightened. ‘And will he still “love” him when he discovers the identity of his father? I think we both know the answer to that.’ He rose from his chair and saw her hand shoot towards the door handle. His mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed in a warning. ‘If you leave this room then we will be having this conversation in public. Is that what you want?’
‘What I want is for you to calm down and be rational.’
‘Oh, I’m rational, tesoro. I have been thinking clearly from the moment I saw my child.’
The atmosphere thickened. The air grew overly warm.
‘What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry? That I did the wrong thing?’ Her voice was smoky-soft and that voice drew his eyes to the smooth column of her throat and then to her mouth. It had been just one night but the memory of it had left deep scars in his senses. He knew how she’d taste because he remembered it vividly. He knew how she’d feel because he remembered that too. Not just the smooth texture of her skin, but the softness of her gorgeous hair. Now released from the clips that had restrained it during cooking, it fell down her back like a dark flame, reflecting the sunrise back at him. He remembered the day her father had cut it short in a blaze of Baracchi temper, hacking with kitchen scissors until she’d been left with a jagged crop. A horrified Santo had witnessed the incident and had tried to intervene but the sight of him had simply inflamed the situation.
She’d sat still, he remembered, saying nothing as hunks of long hair had landed in her lap. Afterwards she’d hidden in the boathouse, her fierce glare challenging him to say one word about it and of course he hadn’t because their relationship didn’t encompass verbal exchanges.
And it had been in the boathouse, on that one night that had ended so tragically, that their relationship had shifted from nothing to everything.
Santo hauled in a deep breath, resisting that savage, elemental instinct that had him wanting to flatten her to the wall and drag the answers from her. ‘When did you find out you were pregnant?’
‘Why does that matter?’
‘I’m the one asking the questions and right now you’ll answer any question I choose to ask you.’

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