She held her daughter ever tighter. She would rather die than be parted from her.
Somehow she didn’t think Luca had been the one to leave the house.
Her intuition was bang on the money.
He strode into the living room as if he had every right to be there. His chest was still bare; a large white bandage had been placed over the wound on his shoulder, his arm resting in a sling.
He made straight for the television and turned it off.
‘I was watching that.’
His nostrils flared. Not taking his eyes off her, he reached into his back pocket and produced two passports.
Blood rushed to her head so quickly it made her dizzy. Her hold on Lily tightened as she watched him, chills crawling up her spine.
Slowly, he waved the passports at her before sliding them back into his pocket.
‘Lily Elizabeth Mastrangelo.’ His words were monotone yet utterly remorseless. ‘Her date of birth puts her at twelve weeks old.’
He might be injured but he still exuded the latent danger she had once found so exciting.
Why did he have to loom over her so? At five feet eight Grace was taller than the average female but next to Luca she always felt tiny.
Why, oh, why had she not moved on sooner? She had got back into physical shape relatively quickly. Obviously if she was comparing her recovery with that of a supermodel who managed to get back into her itsy-bitsy knickers within days, then she had been a failure.
In reality she had been fit enough to move on a month ago.
So why had she dragged it out?
Where had this abnormal lethargy come from?
Why had she not run the moment she had been fit enough?
‘How dare you go through my handbag?’ she said, dredging the words from a throat so arid it hurt to speak.
His eyes flashed. ‘I have every right. You stole my child from me.’
Somehow she managed to grind the words out. She would not let him win. Not without a fight. ‘She is not your child. I had to name you as her father because we’re married.’
‘Yes, she is.’
How she longed to slap the arrogant certainty from him.
‘You did not have the opportunity for an affair and, besides, you loved me. Our sex life was incredible.’
A deep flush curled inside her, scattered memories of being wrapped in his arms, naked, his hard strength...
‘Loved being the operative word,’ she said, a little more breathlessly than she would have liked. ‘Loved, as in past tense. Lily is not your child.’
She refused to acknowledge his mention of the S word. The nightmares of the past ten months had been too great for her libido to do anything but wave a white flag. The only ache had been in her heart. And only in the dark early hours, when the world slept, did her heart acknowledge the aching absence within it.
Luca came before her and dropped to his haunches. The movement caused a fleeting wince to contort his features. The twisting sensation in her belly tightened. Being incapacitated in any form was anathema to him. She could have shot him a dozen times and he would still have the same vital, energising presence.
‘Bella,’ he said in a voice that was far too silky for comfort, ‘she has the Mastrangelo hair. And you were still married to me when you conceived her. I know for a fact you did not cheat on me...’
The tension cramping inside her suddenly exploded and she met his gaze with wild eyes. How stupid was she to think for a single second he would even contemplate Lily being someone else’s? Luca was so insufferably arrogant the thought of his wife cheating would be as likely as the moon being made of Stilton.
And how stupid was she to have named him as the father on the birth certificate?
‘It’s a bit hard to have an affair when your own husband has a tracker in your phone to monitor all your movements, and assigns two bodyguards to chaperone every single movement and report on anything the tracker fails to pick up.’
Lily had finished her bottle. She stared up at Grace, startled to hear her mother’s raised voice.
Luca’s lips formed a tight white line. Still on his haunches, he tilted forward. ‘So you admit she is mine? You admit you wilfully kept my daughter’s existence a secret?’
Forcing her voice down to a lower, calmer tone so as not to distress Lily, Grace stared at him with all the venom she could muster, willing him to feel every syllable that came from her lips like a punch to the gut. ‘Yes. I hid her existence from you, and do you know what? I would do it again. Lily deserves better than to know of the monster who created half her DNA. You might be the sperm donor but I am her mother. She does not need you. And neither do I.’
* * *
The poison in Grace’s voice cut through him, as sharp as a dagger.
Luca had taken one look at Lily and known she was his. He could not say where this certainty had come from but there been no shadow of doubt in his mind. She was his.
He was a father.
Now his detestable wife had admitted the truth, he should feel relief. Instead, a raging burn was working its way through his system, a burn he was struggling to contain.
He would never have imagined such poison being uttered from the lips of his wife, a woman who always saw the best in people and always looked for the humanity in the face of evil.
He had never imagined she would look at him as if he were the Antichrist itself.
His guts rolled as he watched her lift their child onto her shoulder and rub her back, her movements gentle and loving.
The pain in his shoulder was immense. Once they were safely in the air he would take the painkillers Giancarlo had tried to get him to consume. Taking them would likely dull his reactions. Right now he needed every wit about him.
Unable to look at Grace a second longer, he got to his feet. ‘I’m giving you half an hour.’
‘For what?’ she asked tightly, rubbing her nose into their daughter’s thick black hair.
‘To pack. Anything not packed will be left behind.’
That hateful venom came back into her voice. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘You think not?’ On legs that felt heavier than usual, he paced the small room. Somehow she had managed to cram a treadmill, an exercise bike and a rowing machine inside the tight confines. No wonder she had lost all her baby weight. No one looking at her would guess she had recently given birth. This, from the woman who had once told him with a straight face that she was allergic to exercise. ‘I am not giving you a choice.’
‘There is always a choice.’
Abruptly he stopped pacing and stared at her, making no attempt to hide his loathing. ‘This is how we are going to play it: In exactly thirty minutes we will leave this place and return to Sicily.’
He took a breath.
Little more than an hour ago, he had been unaware Lily existed, unaware he was a father. Her thin eyelids were shut, displaying thick black Mastrangelo eyelashes.
His chest constricted, memories of his early childhood suddenly flooding him. His first memories. Waking up one morning at the age of three to find his parents missing. He remembered Bettina, his favourite maid, who was often given the task of watching over him, being red with excitement. His mother had gone to hospital to have the baby. He could still feel the eager anticipation he had experienced at that moment. Even clearer in his mind was the memory of his parents arriving home with the baby, his mother’s pale, tired joy, his father’s beaming