Italian Prince, Wedlocked Wife Read online

  Lucy felt a sudden lump in her throat. She envied the girl’s pure heart. Amelia loved her cousin and believed the best of him. Just the way Lucy had once had faith in people.

  But looking at the girl’s idealistic, shining face, Lucy couldn’t take that same faith from her. Swallowing, she turned away. “Tell me about the villa.”

  “Look at this room first.” Amelia stopped in front of the third door on the left of the second-floor hallway. “The nursery.”

  Lucy couldn’t believe her eyes.

  Just yesterday, she’d thought the Drake Hotel had the most elegant bedrooms she’d ever seen.

  But this nursery was a pure extravagant fantasy. Wide windows overlooked the rosy twilight as the sun fell behind the lake and distant hills. The carpet was thick and pink, perfect for a crawling baby who would soon learn to walk. The crib was white with pale pink bedding. On the far wall, a built-in white bookshelf was lined with hundreds of children’s books. Brand-new toys cascaded from a white antique toy chest, and in the closet, carefully unpacked by unseen hands, were the adorable baby clothes she’d bought in Milan.

  But their morning in Milan, the most fantastic morning of her life, had been nothing more than bribery, an attempt to convince Lucy to pretend to be the Ferrazzi girl.

  Chloe saw the toys and started wriggling desperately, wanting to be put down on the floor to crawl and explore and play.

  Lucy’s throat hurt.

  This baby nursery was everything Chloe deserved. Everything Lucy wished she could provide for her. It was a fairy tale, and she desperately wished she could give it to her daughter.

  But then she’d have to stay married to an ogre. No, worse: she’d be an ogre herself, hurting other people just to keep her own child in silks and toys.

  “I’m sorry,” Lucy whispered, pressing her cheek to her baby’s. She felt like crying. “I can’t give you this.”

  “Ugh. It’s getting dark.” Amelia turned the light switch, illuminating a wrought-iron chandelier that was a fantasy confection of white and pink flowers. “That’s better.” She held out her arms for Chloe. “Can we play a bit? She’s my second cousin now, and we need to get acquainted!”

  Chloe eagerly shook her hippo at Amelia.

  Lucy knew she shouldn’t allow them to be friends, not even for a second. She had to leave this place. Tell everyone that she was not Lucia Ferrazzi. She’d be unable to accept the hush money he’d offered her in the prenup, since her conscience wouldn’t allow her to earn it. She’d take her daughter back to Chicago. Back to their cold, threadbare apartment, to their ripped-up old carpet and sparse secondhand clothes. Back to the desperation of working multiple dead-end jobs, never seeing her daughter, praying the apartment manager would give her time to catch up on rent.

  Maybe, if she begged Darryl, he would let her have her old job back at the gas station.

  “Lucia?”

  Fighting tears, she gave Chloe to Amelia without a word.

  “That’s your room over there,” the girl said, nodding toward a door on the other side before she sat down on the floor near the toys. She smiled down at Chloe, showing her a baby-size grand piano. “Maximo knew you would want it to connect directly to Chloe’s room, so he had it refurbished for you.”

  Lucy had a fantasy bedroom as well?

  She knew she shouldn’t look. Mustn’t. Why give herself a taste of what she’d never have? In a few hours, she would return to Chicago, to the real life that fate had decreed for her. Why even allow herself a vision of what she’d lost? Why make her heart yearn for the fantasy?

  She looked at the closed door.

  Right or wrong, she had to see it. Even if it hurt. She couldn’t spend the rest of her life wondering…

  Leaving Amelia and Chloe playing with toys on the carpet, she pushed open the door.

  It was dark.

  Only the light from Chloe’s room traced the unlit crystal chandelier hanging from the soaring ceiling. She saw blackout curtains drawn across the windows. But the bedroom was huge, in white and blue toile, like exquisite china. In the far corner she saw a dark wood vanity, obviously an antique; multicolored leather-bound books lined the opposite wall.

  She walked farther into the room.

  Inside the walk-in closet, she saw the exquisite designer clothes and shoes she’d bought in Milan, organized neatly. On the other side of the closet were tailored suits and men’s shoes.

  This fantasy bedroom hadn’t been meant for Lucy alone.

  A voice, low and grim, spoke from behind her.

  “You disobeyed me. Again.”

  Maximo!

  But as she whirled around to face him, the open door slammed, plunging the room into darkness. She heard slow, heavy footsteps against the carpet, heard the rapid beating of her own pounding heart.

  “You are a liar,” she gasped, trying desperately to see where he was, “and I’m going back to Chicago.”

  A growl came from the shadows, and suddenly, his body was against hers. Holding her captive, he held her tight against his heat in the darkness.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE bedroom was too dark to see his face, but Lucy felt every inch of him as he crushed her against his body. He was so much larger than her, so much stronger. This flesh-and-blood prince, a man of shadows, uncontrollable, undeniable…

  “You’re not going anywhere but my bed.”

  “No—” She struggled in his arms but to no avail. His lips descended ruthlessly upon hers.

  His kiss was passionate. Unyielding. In the darkness, he seduced her to his will beneath an onslaught of fire. She sagged against him, helpless to resist, helpless even to object. His lips were warm, the taste of his mouth as sweet as molten candy. His body felt good against hers. Too good.

  If something feels too good to be true, it’s a lie…

  With her last drop of self-control, Lucy shoved him away. Grabbing the nearby curtains, she pulled with all her might.

  Violet-gray twilight flooded the room, but it was enough. She was safe. Daylight, the bane of any creature of the night, would cause Maximo to lose his strange power over her.

  Wouldn’t it?

  “Lucia. Look at me.”

  She took a deep breath, then slowly turned her head.

  She’d been wrong.

  The weak winter twilight was no defense against his supernatural power. He was still as tall as ever, as dark, as handsome. And the expression in his searing blue gaze as he scorched her body was…hungry.

  “You’ve disobeyed me for the last time.”

  “You’re right.” She raised her chin defiantly. “Because I’m going to tell everyone that you’re a liar, and leave you—ah!”

  He’d crossed to her in two steps, grabbing her by the shoulders. “It’s time you learned you cannot constantly accuse me of lying.” He pushed her against the wall of curtains, trapping her. Slowly he stroked up her body. “Not without punishment.”

  She felt his featherlight touch against her belly, between her breasts. She leaned back against the wall, desperately fighting her desire.

  “I won’t lie for you,” she gasped. “I won’t pretend I’m that poor lost Ferrazzi girl. I won’t let the people who loved her suffer. Not for money. Not for anything.”

  He stroked her cheek, raising her chin, forcing her to look in his eyes.

  “You,” he said, “are Lucia Ferrazzi.”

  Lucy, some exotic long-lost Italian heiress?

  “No!” She pulled away. “I’m Lucy Abbott. A regular girl from Illinois. Any other claim is ridiculous!”

  “Isn’t that what you called my claim to be a prince—‘ridiculous’? And you were wrong,” he whispered in her ear. “Dead wrong.”

  He drew away. She realized she’d been holding her breath, and angrily exhaled. “I won’t let you pass me off as some long-lost Ferrazzi heiress. Even if I did, it wouldn’t work. If anyone digs into my records in Chicago, they’ll find out who I am!”

  “Sì,” he agreed.
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  His fearlessness bewildered her. “Aren’t you afraid they’ll discover the truth?”

  “The truth is—” he put his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her “—you are the Ferrazzi heir. And you’re the only liar in the room, with your promise to honor and obey.” He glanced back at the bed, then turned back to face her. “What will it take to make you believe I am telling you the truth?”

  She trembled, looking at the enormous bed.

  How many of his kisses would it take for her to lose her soul?

  His first kiss had made her lose all reason.

  His second kiss had made her fall into his arms, breathless and yielding in his embrace.

  What next?

  Two destructive kisses.

  She had to make sure he never had the chance for a third.

  “You can burn the prenup,” she said. “Because I’m not going to pretend to be that girl. I’d rather be out on the street!”

  “Peccato.” He traced her tender bottom lip with his finger. “You’re staying here with me.”

  Her lip tingled where he touched. She could feel the pressure of his kiss still reverberating through her body. She could still feel his mouth, strong and insistent, spreading hers, his tongue plundering her own. One more kiss like that might make her surrender everything she believed in. She’d done it once before, hadn’t she? And Maximo was twice the temptation that Alex had ever been.

  He had twice the potential for devastation…

  Turning her head, she forced him to release her. As she fought to catch her breath, her gaze fell upon a jeweled brush and comb on a silver tray, resting on the dark wood vanity.

  “Those are yours, cara,” he said quietly. “Everything I have is yours. For as long as you are mine.”

  “I’m not yours!”

  “No,” he agreed. Standing behind her, he put his arms around her shoulders. “But you will be. Very soon.”

  With a shuddering breath, she closed her eyes. She wanted so much to lean against him, to let herself go. The heat from his body seemed to come in waves, pulling her like the sea, drawing her to drown in the waves.

  As if he knew her weakness, he pulled her back against his muscled chest. “The tray is all that’s left of my family’s fortune.”

  “What happened to it?” she breathed, trying to gather strength to pull away.

  “Someone ruined us. When I was five, we had English tutors, horses, fine cars. This villa.” He looked around the room. “By the time I was twelve, he’d taken everything. And more.”

  She looked up at him in the mirror. His face was closed off, silhouetted with shadow against the last flickers of purple twilight.

  “What else did he take?” she whispered.

  He abruptly released her.

  “It was a long time ago.”

  His tone was like ice. Obviously the subject was closed.

  And Lucy suddenly felt desperately sorry for him—this man that only minutes before she’d thought an ogre.

  She impulsively snatched the silver hairbrush from the tray. “You always know everything, don’t you?” She held it up with a forced laugh, trying to lighten his mood. “I lost my favorite hairbrush last week. How did you know I needed this?”

  He paused, then looked at her in the mirror.

  “You didn’t lose your hairbrush,” he said. “My men took it.”

  She turned to gape at him. “What?”

  His strong, tall form was silhouetted in front of the fading light. “I needed your hair to run a DNA test in Rome. I ordered my men to break into your apartment.”

  A ripple of cold ricocheted through her body, sending ice down her spine.

  “You—broke into my apartment? You stole my hairbrush?”

  He pushed her toward the bed. “Sit down.”

  “I spent an hour looking for that hairbrush!” Although that wasn’t the point. Trembling with rage, feeling completely violated, she cried, “You sent some seedy bodyguard into my home?”

  “Sit down!”

  He didn’t even raise his voice, but her knees weakened of their own accord. She fell onto the bed, despising the power he had over her. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  “You shouldn’t have done it.” Her shoulders shook. “You never should have done it.”

  “I had to know,” he said quietly. “Your grandfather had petitioned to have you declared legally dead.” He gave a brief, grim smile. “On the first of January, the shares from your trust fund would have reverted to his control.”

  “So it’s true? I really have a grandfather?” she whispered, dazed. “Do I have cousins? Siblings?”

  He stared at her for a moment. “I’m sorry. Just your grandfather, and he does not deserve to be called your family.”

  She looked up at him in shock.

  “He’s the one, isn’t he? The old man whose death you’re waiting for?”

  He looked away from her.

  “Oh my God, what could he possibly have done?” Then she knew, and sucked in her breath. “He’s the one who ruined your family?”

  “I do not wish to speak of it.”

  “But he’s my grandfather!”

  “He’s a stranger to you.”

  “He’s my blood!”

  “You will stay away from him, Lucia.” His voice was sharp as steel, cutting through her with the brutality of a sword. “Speak with him once—just once—and our contract will be void.”

  Meaning no marriage. No thirty million dollars. And now that she’d had a taste of the fairy tale, both for herself and for Chloe, she found it hard to imagine giving it up.

  “You will obey me in this. Nonnegotiable.” His eyes narrowed. “Do I have your word?”

  She swallowed, then took a deep breath. He waited.

  “All right,” she finally muttered.

  But it wasn’t all right. It wasn’t right at all. How could she turn her back on her own grandfather? How could she just wait for him to die, without getting to know him? Without loving him, and giving him the chance to love her—and Chloe?

  The air in the darkened bedroom had grown decidedly chilly. She bit her lip. “But if I really am that baby…”

  He folded his arms. “Sì?”

  “Who saved me from that fire after the accident? Who took me to the United States?”

  “No one knows,” he said coldly. “Connie Abbott was an American tourist staying at my aunt’s pensione when you disappeared. I heard her say she longed for a child. Perhaps she took you.”

  She had the sudden feeling that he was keeping something from her. But before she could put her finger on the feeling, she realized what he’d said.

  Her mother—a baby thief?

  “No! My mother would never—”

  She covered her mouth with her hands.

  How many times had Connie woken her up in the middle of the night—switching schools, jobs and apartments from Evanston to Lincoln to Chicago? Her mother had been a family-practice doctor—Lucy had found the M.D. degree buried in her mother’s papers—but she’d insisted on taking low-paying, low-profile jobs. Almost as if she were trying to stay invisible. Almost as if for all those years, Connie had been looking over her shoulder, afraid someone would find them and take her child away—

  “No.” Lucy took a deep breath. “You have no proof.”

  “Not of how you ended up being raised as her daughter. But I do have proof of your identity.” Turning on a small light, he took some papers from his desk. He sat next to her on the bed, his hard thigh pressing against her leg.

  She looked up at him, holding her breath.

  His lips curved as if he knew the effect he had on her. He probably did. For a man like Maximo, making women ache with desire came naturally as breathing. He was a playboy, wasn’t he? He’d no doubt left a trail of broken hearts around the world, while he himself remained careless and free, always seeking his next pleasure.

  She envied his cold heart.

  “Here.” He handed her the paper
s. “The results of your DNA test. There can be no doubt. You are the long-lost daughter of Narsico and Graziella Ferrazzi.”

  Her eyes flickered over the scientific jargon, but she couldn’t focus on the words. A teardrop plopped noisily onto the top page.

  Her mother wasn’t her mother.

  Her mother had stolen her away from her real family…

  Memories of Connie’s hugs, her comfort after every scraped knee, her cookies after school, her homemade ornaments on the Christmas tree, her laughter and love, all pierced Lucy like a betrayal. When she’d lost her mother nine years ago, she’d thought it was the worst pain she would ever experience in her life.

  She’d been wrong.

  Her mother had known she was dying, but she’d still selfishly kept her secret to the grave. Rather than send Lucy back to Italy, to a grandfather who loved her, she’d left her daughter to languish for six years in foster care, neglected, ignored. Desperate for someone—anyone—to love her.

  “She was never my mother,” she whispered. “All those years, she said she loved me and she…lied to me. She—”

  Then she remembered the last night in the hospital before her mother had died. They’d watched a movie about Italy, and her mother had tried desperately to speak. She’d told Lucy to go to Italy. She’d told her to go.

  But she’d died before she could explain why.

  Lucy closed her eyes, remembering everything about the woman she’d loved more than life. “Mom,” she whispered.

  Holding the damning DNA results against her chest, she leaned back on the bed, holding her knees tightly. She cried, only dimly aware of Maximo beside her on the bed, comforting her body with his own.

  “Chloe!”

  Lucy awoke with a start, gasping her daughter’s name in a panic. Sitting straight up in bed, it took her a moment to realize where she was: her bedroom at the Villa Uccello. She’d fallen asleep! Only the dying embers of firelight, coupled with the moon’s pale shimmer through the wide windows, lit the flickering shadows of the room.

  “Chloe’s safe,” a voice said from the darkness. “Sleeping.”

  Slowly she turned. Maximo was lying next to her on the bed. He was still dressed, apparently wide-awake. As if he’d been keeping watch over her all night.