Her Sicilian Baby Revelation (Mills & Boon Modern) Read online

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ she said after a long period of time had passed when he’d left her assertion unacknowledged.

  He loosened his tense shoulders and inclined his head. ‘Anything.’

  ‘Last night you said our fathers were old friends. Did you know Salvatore well?’

  ‘Well enough. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I know so little about him. I don’t like to ask Dante because I can see it makes him uncomfortable. I think he feels guilty that they had such a great relationship while I was this dirty little secret.’

  He could understand why she felt like that. No one had known of Salvatore Moncada’s secret love child, not even Tonino’s own father, who had been Salvatore’s closest friend.

  He wondered how his father would react when he learned Salvatore’s illegitimate daughter was the mother of his grandchild. Probably with open arms. His mother too. There hadn’t been a single conversation between Tonino and his parents in recent years where the subject of him settling down and having babies hadn’t come up, the implication being he needed to find a suitable replacement for the fiancée he’d so callously thrown away. In his parents’ eyes, Sophia had been perfect. Beautiful and rich and from a good Sicilian family. Their engagement had been celebrated in the same way the British celebrated a royal engagement. Their fury at him ending it had been off the charts. They’d taken it personally. They’d accused him of disrespecting the family name and destroying the decades-long friendship with the Messinas. There had been threats. At one point he’d thought his mother was going to slap his face.

  That marriage to Sophia would have seen Tonino spend his life in misery hadn’t concerned either of them.

  With a sigh, he tried to think positively of his parents. He’d had the security of their unconditional love for the first thirty years of his life whereas Orla had never met her father and as for her mother…where was she? She’d missed Aislin’s wedding. Orla rarely spoke of her. She might as well not exist.

  ‘Your father was a man of many contradictions,’ he told her heavily.

  ‘In what way?’

  He thought of the best way to put it before saying, ‘He was a womaniser and a gambler. But he was also a great raconteur. He could tell the most boring story and make it funny. He was not a man anyone would trust to lend money to if they wanted to get it back and definitely not someone any man could trust to leave his wife alone in a room with.’

  Her eyes widened with alarm. ‘He was a sex pest?’

  ‘No. Women loved him. Some loved him a little too much. He broke many hearts.’

  Her lips tightened as she considered this before giving a decisive nod. ‘He didn’t break my mother’s heart.’

  ‘Then she was clever enough not to involve her heart.’

  ‘But not clever enough not to get herself pregnant by a married man.’ She closed her eyes and rested her head against the leather upholstery. ‘Still, who am I to judge her for it? I did exactly the same thing.’

  ‘I wasn’t married, and neither was I engaged,’ he told her firmly. ‘And I shouldn’t have to tell you that you didn’t get pregnant on your own. We were both there.’

  She twisted her head again to look back at him. The faintest trace of colour flared on her cheeks as she asked, ‘Didn’t we use protection?’

  ‘Of course we did.’

  ‘Then how did I end up pregnant?’

  ‘We weren’t always as careful as we should have been…’ He thought of the few times they’d come together in their sleep, Tonino already deep inside her before waking fully and realising he hadn’t put a condom on. He’d withdrawn to sheath himself, knowing even then what a huge risk they’d taken. It was a risk he had never taken before or since, half asleep or otherwise.

  Gazing into her confused green eyes, he felt the burn in his loins that had been such a huge part of him in their time together afresh and found himself leaning closer to her, close enough that the soft scent of her perfume coiled into his aroused senses. ‘Do you not remember?’

  The colour on her cheeks became a burn to match what was happening in his loins. ‘No.’

  ‘But you remember us?’

  ‘I remember most of it, but I don’t remember…’ she swallowed ‘…the actual act.’

  He leaned a little closer still and lowered his voice. ‘There was more than one act.’

  Her jaw clenched while her eyes darkened and her voice lowered to match his. ‘I don’t remember anything we did in bed.’

  ‘It wasn’t always in a bed.’

  Now her face inched closer to him, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘I don’t need to know the details.’

  ‘But I can help you remember.’

  Her lips parted. Their faces were so close that he could feel the heat of her breath brushing like the lightest petal against his mouth. And then she closed her eyes tightly, reared away from him and snapped her eyes back open with a glare. ‘I don’t want to remember, thank you very much.’

  He laughed at this blatant lie. The constriction in his trousers burned but he welcomed it. He would bet his favourite house that Orla was suffering the feminine version of his burn. ‘Scared you’ll remember how good it was?’

  ‘More like I’m afraid to remember how awful it was,’ Orla retorted as airily as she could, resisting the urge to cross her legs tightly for fear that he would know why she was crossing them.

  She’d been about to kiss him. Her mouth had practically salivated in anticipation. The most intimate part of her had throbbed then flooded with a warmth that still tingled acutely.

  ‘The brain is a funny thing, but it does try to protect the body it’s encased in,’ she added.

  Her attempt to stab at the heart of his ego ended in failure. His voice became a sensuous purr that sent fresh tingles careering over her already sensitised skin. ‘I can help you remember, dolcezza. All you have to do is say the word.’

  ‘And what word would that be? Do I wave my hand in the air, yell out “sex” and you whisk me to bed?’ She regretted her flippant remark the moment it left her mouth.

  Tonino leaned in even closer, eyes gleaming. ‘That sounds good to me. Or you can do what you did on our third night together.’

  Orla knew she was taking the bait of the trap he’d laid but was unable to stop herself from whispering, ‘What did I do?’

  The gleam deepened, the strong nostrils flaring as he stared at her appreciatively and put his mouth to her ear. ‘You performed a seductive striptease for me then lay on my bed naked and touched yourself—’

  ‘I did no such thing,’ she cut in angrily, rearing away from him. She would never do such a thing. Hadn’t her grandmother always told her that anything but straight penetrative sex within the confines of marriage was for harlots, the inference being harlots like Orla’s mother? For sure, Tonino was the sexiest man she’d ever set eyes on and for sure her body reacted in wanton ways she’d never dreamed of, but to touch herself for his titillation…?

  Never.

  Please, God, let it not be true.

  Now Tonino was the one to rear back. The look he cast her only made her feel more mortified. ‘Dio, you really don’t remember, do you?’

  The car came to a stop.

  Right on cue, Finn woke up.

  Cheeks flaming with humiliation, Orla removed Finn from his car seat. She was halfway up the steps of the medical centre for his physiotherapy appointment when she realised she’d failed to put him in his wheelchair and still had him in her arms.

  Tonino, Orla decided, was some kind of mind guru. For the third time in two days he’d steamrollered her into doing something she’d thought she would never agree to, in this case, leaving Finn with the duty nurse and letting him take her out to dinner.

  He’d had those powers over her from the beginning. When he’d knocked on her hotel door four years ago an
d asked if he could take her out for coffee the next morning, the automatic refusal that had formed on her tongue had turned into a beaming, ‘I would like that.’

  She hated that the same excitement thrummed through her veins as it had then. She hated that she’d found herself trying over and over to capture the memories of them making love. And she hated that whenever she caught Tonino’s gaze, his knowing glimmer suggested he knew exactly what she was thinking.

  She especially hated that she’d spent an age getting ready. This was not a date. This was dinner. A chance for them to talk with privacy about how they were going to manage the future. She’d still spent an inordinate amount of time dithering over what to wear. In the end she’d settled on a pretty long-sleeved rust-coloured blouse and smart, fitted navy trousers, the two items separated by a chunky belt. She’d forgone her usual flat shoes for a pair of black heels. Outfit decided on, she’d then spent an even longer amount of time dithering over how to wear her hair and how much make-up to apply. She’d ended up leaving her hair loose and applying a little eyeliner and mascara, a touch of blusher and a nude lipstick. Dressed up but not overdone. There was no way Tonino could look at her and think she was dressing to attract him.

  And yet, the appreciation in his eyes when she’d greeted him at the front door had almost had her running back up the stairs to change into a nun’s habit. Only the fact that she didn’t actually possess a nun’s habit had stopped her.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked when she realised they’d left the city and were driving through Ireland’s beautiful countryside. That was one thing she missed about her old home in Kerry—the scenery. The home she’d spent her life in had backed onto forest. They had awoken every morning to the sound of birds chirruping. Now she awoke to the sounds of cars hooting impatiently at each other.

  ‘You will see.’

  Soon they’d turned up a narrow road lined with woodland. A mile later, the trees thinned and somehow curved into an arch to reveal a sprawling stone structure and immaculately kept sweeping gardens artfully filled with stone and marble benches and ornaments, a vast beautiful pond filled with waterlilies and with a wooden bridge traversing it. Dotted around the main structure were small cottages…

  Her heart fluttered with excitement as she asked the question she already knew the answer to. ‘Is this Bally House?’ The pictures she had seen did not do it justice. It was like driving into a magical fairy tale.

  His answering smile was definitely smug. ‘Sì.’

  The driver pulled up in the large courtyard. As she climbed out, Orla noticed with a pang the young couple holding hands as they walked slowly over a meandering path, oblivious to anyone but each other under the setting sun.

  Her fingers felt as if they’d had magnets inserted into the tips, pulling them towards Tonino’s hands. She folded her arms across her chest and rammed her hands between her sides and her arms.

  They stepped into a large reception area. Three people working at the desk clocked their entrance and, in unison, straightened. The shortest of them, a middle-aged woman, hurried over to greet them.

  ‘Would you like a drink in the bar or to go straight to your table?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ll go straight to our table,’ Tonino replied. ‘Thank you, Lorna.’

  He’d been there one night. How could he be on first-name terms with the hotel staff already? Orla wondered in amazement. And, as she followed him over polished-oak flooring through a warren of further reception rooms filled with artful antique furniture and dark leather sofas, she wondered how he knew his way around so well. Did he have an inbuilt satnav?

  When they reached the huge dining room, the maître d’ greeted Tonino by name and bowed his head respectfully to Orla before leading them to a corner table.

  Exposed stone walls, giant fireplaces and thick carpet all drove the feeling of the finest of luxury and yet the restaurant managed to contain the rustic appeal of its setting within it. Each table was set with its own candelabra and she counted six chandeliers hanging from the beamed ceiling.

  ‘Your casement of wine arrived this afternoon,’ the maître d’ said as he placed leather-bound menus before them. ‘Shall I bring you a bottle of it?’

  ‘Yes, and anything Miss O’Reilly wants.’

  ‘Just still water for me, please,’ she said.

  ‘Very good.’ With another bow, the maître d’ turned on his heel and vanished.

  Immediately, Orla stopped pretending to read her menu and leaned forward to ask conspiratorially, ‘You had your own wine delivered here?’

  He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Do you remember that business trip to Tuscany I took four years ago?’

  ‘On my last day in Sicily?’ An image flashed in her head of her sitting on the steps of her father’s villa. She’d been waiting…

  Waiting for what?

  Tonino nodded. ‘I went to see a run-down monastery ripe for conversion.’

  The image disappeared. Orla swallowed moisture into her dry throat. ‘Oh?’

  ‘I bought it. I converted it into a hotel and spa and turned the land into a vineyard. Our first wine bottles have just been produced.’

  ‘That’s what you’ve had delivered here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wow. I’d heard the management here tried to cater to all their guests’ whims but allowing you to have a crate of your own wine…’

  ‘I’m the management, Orla.’

  Confusion creased her brow.

  ‘I bought Bally House three years ago.’ Tonino had no idea why he held his breath after this confession.

  A long time passed where all Orla did was stare at him with open-mouthed shock. Then she leaned forward. ‘You own Bally House? But how? Why? When we met you’d never been to Ireland.’

  ‘The way you described your country intrigued me. When Bally House came up for sale, the details were sent to me—I have scouts who look worldwide for investment opportunities—I visited, saw its potential and put an offer in.’

  The maître d’ returned to the table with the wine bottle in hand. A waiter followed with a bottle of still water.

  ‘Try some of the wine,’ Tonino urged. ‘Please. I would like to hear your thoughts.’

  She pulled a forlorn face. ‘Alcohol doesn’t agree with me any more.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘The first glass of wine I had after the accident went straight to my head. I passed out. I’ve not dared drink more than a sip of it since.’

  ‘Then try only a sip of this.’

  She rolled her slim shoulders then relaxed with a small laugh. ‘Okay, but if I don’t like it, don’t blame me.’

  ‘You will like it.’

  The laugh she gave this time was louder and huskier. When he filled a third of the glass with the burgundy liquid, she shook her head and chided, ‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’

  ‘It is up to you how much of it you drink.’

  Eyes locked on his, she picked the glass up and delicately sniffed the contents. Tonino found himself holding his breath as she put it to her delectable lips and took a sip. Long seconds passed before she swallowed.

  ‘Well?’ he asked. Orla was the first person unconnected to his business or the world of wine to try it.

  ‘It’s rank.’

  ‘Rank?’ The unfamiliar word did not strike him as complimentary.

  ‘Gross. Disgusting. So disgusting that I think I should try a bit more to reinforce just how gross it is.’ She put the glass back to her lips.

  ‘You’re playing with me,’ he accused.

  The smile she bestowed him with was the most genuine she’d given him since their eyes had met in the cathedral. It dived straight into his chest and pierced it. She took another small drink, put the glass on the table and tilted her head to say softly, ‘It’s beautiful.’

 
‘So are you.’

  Their eyes held. Something passed between them that sent his pulses soaring.

  Only the arrival of the waiter at their table broke it. ‘Are you ready to order?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WHEN ORLA TASTED her starter of cured salmon, crab and smoked roe all wrapped in the most delicate pancake, she thought she’d died and gone to heaven. When she took her first bite of her main course of aged fillet of Irish beef and the shiitake tart accompanying it, she decided that if this was heaven, she wanted to stay. If reaching heaven would allow her to drink Tonino’s wine without conking out, then even better. She hadn’t been joking when she called it beautiful. It was easily the most delicious wine she’d ever tasted, and she wished with all her heart that she could have more of it.

  ‘Were you not tempted to make the menu more Sicilian?’ she asked.

  ‘This hotel could not be more Irish,’ he said dryly. ‘I don’t think a Sicilian theme would work, do you?’

  She shrugged. ‘I know nothing of hotels and restaurants. I was just curious. How many hotels do you own?’

  ‘Eighteen. I’m in the process of buying another on the Greek island of Agon. I’m flying there tomorrow to deal with some paperwork.’

  ‘You’re leaving tomorrow?’ That was not disappointment she felt.

  ‘First thing in the morning.’ He grinned. ‘Are you going to miss me?’

  ‘Like a migraine.’

  His laughter filled her ears and sent a warm feeling trickling through her veins. ‘I was going to discuss this with you. I will be away for two days. That will give my staff enough time to set up a bedroom for Finn—when I return to Sicily I want Finn to come—’

  ‘That’s not possible,’ she interrupted. In less than a second, all the warmth in her veins had solidified into ice.