Baby By Accident: International Billionaires III: The Italians (21 page)

“Really?” A sardonic dark brow lifted. “The email was addressed to you. From your solicitors.”

“I did not—”

“The cover letter clearly says
at your direction.
”

“That’s not what—”

“I commend you.” He stood, all liquid fluidity, all masculine prime. Leaning down, he grabbed a small suitcase off the floor. “You took me by complete surprise. But after reading through your proposal, I find myself accepting.”

“You said there’d be no divorce, remember?” She frantically scrambled in her head to find some sense, some words to reach him. Some way back to what they’d found these past months. “Where are you going?”

Slipping the suitcase strap over his muscled shoulder, he answered only one of her questions. “I find I no longer want to be married to you.”

A gasp of pain swept into her throat and down into her burning lungs. “But you said—”

“A man can change his mind.” He prowled around the desk and without thinking, she moved away. Menace encircled him, an aura of deep rage. “I remind myself that there are other women in the world. Other women who are not quite as conniving or vicious. I find I no longer wish to be attached to a woman who is nothing more than a money-hungry bitch.”

“I am not interested in your money.” Her temper flared, flushing her cheeks. “I never have been.”

“That was cunning,
mia dolce.
To pretend to be unimpressed with my wealth. To even be dismissive of it.” He leaned on the desk, crossing his arms in front of him. His forearms bunched, bulged, highlighting the dark trace of hair. “I bought the entire act. Amazing, as I have dodged many women with the same intent. I must admit, you are the only one to ever fool me.”

Instant need to reach out and touch him, soothe him and calm him, crashed into her budding anger, her flooding fear, making it hard to focus. The only words that came to her mind were simple truths, not the complicated explanations she obviously needed to convince him of how wrong he was. “I’m not trying to fool—”

“This says something entirely different.” He tapped a long finger on the papers. “I must say our conversation about the prenuptial agreement was a masterstroke. Manipulating me into believing it was my idea not to have one—why, your skills are impressive.”

“I don’t want your money.”
I want you. Can’t you see I want only you?

“Yet you will have it, won’t you? Fool that I am.” His chuckle was rough, raw with rage.

She stared at him, trying to think, trying to stop her heart from shrinking into a ball of agony and dazed fear. What could she say? How could she fix this? The words stumbled, fought for coherence, struggled for voice. For a frantic moment, she thought about blurting out her ultimate truth.

I love you.

But the hard, cold core of his eyes told her it would be useless right now.

Abruptly, he stood, his body now stiff. As if he’d aged in one moment.

“Vico—”

“
Arrivederci, Princesse.
”

“Where are you going?” Her voice sounded reedy, thin and sick.

“I find that I need some space.” He strode to the office door. “Some distance.”

“But then we won’t be able to talk.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “I won’t be able to explain.”

“There is nothing more to say.” He opened the door and stepped out.

“Wait!”

“I no longer want to wait, Lise.” He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes now dull and dead.

The door slammed shut behind him.

H
er head ached
. Her back hurt.

Her heart bled.

Lise stood in the shower, letting the balmy water wash down her skin. The warmth did little to dispel the chilled knot twisting inside.

Why did she expect it would?

Last night’s dinner of hot
stracciatella
soup served with oven-fresh polenta had done nothing to melt the deep ice inside her. Eating it might have helped. But she’d sat in the empty dining room alone. No laughing family surrounding her and no husband looking at her with a warm and wicked gaze.

The worried chef fluttering behind her had been the only reason she’d even taken one sip.

The Italian sun this afternoon had been of no use either in breaking her free from the permafrost glazing her soul. The gleam of the rays had glistened on the lilting waves of Lake Como. The heat had shimmied down her spine and arms. The warmth had slid on her hair and face. Yet the sun had been unable to touch even one of the icicles slashing inside of her.

Not one.

She lifted her head and stuck her face under the rain of water. The warm flow mixed with the cool tears on her cheeks. The water filtered through her closed lashes, soothing the redness around her eyes. Still, soothing the clang in her head and the panic in her heart were beyond its capabilities.

What was she going to do?

Twenty-four hours ago, she’d gone numb with shock. The whole thing had happened so fast. The confrontation had been more brutal and destructive than she’d imagined in her deepest nightmares. He’d been more furious and dead to her than she’d ever thought she’d see. Only one week ago, she’d been joyful and happy and in love. Only one week ago she’d thought, dreamed, hoped. A simple seven days ago, she’d thought they’d found a way to come together for a lifetime, building a bridge over the hateful words and painful demands.

Now though? Now the fairytale dream lay in shambles at her feet.

Why hadn’t she seen this coming?

Guilt had settled on her as she’d sat on the terrace staring blindly at the empty pool. For some reason, the fact it was drained and covered, prepared for winter made her even more depressed.

This was her fault. Her mother should have been told the truth. The truth about her love and her wish to stay with Vico forever. She’d planned on doing it. She’d planned on making it clear to her mother how much had changed. But she’d left it too late. She’d stuck her head in the sand and wallowed in her happiness for too long.

Now great damage had been done.

Lise lifted her hands and wiped away more tears. The memory of his eyes, those golden, tawny eyes which were always alive—alive with passion and tenderness, love and warmth. The memory of how dead they were they last time he looked at her…

A clutch of raw agony caught her throat.

She’d done that. With her willful avoidance of a confrontation with her mother. It was no excuse that she’d been doing it since childhood, that she often merely let her mother grumble and groan without challenging her. It was no excuse she’d thought it could be easily handled at a later time. She hadn’t seen that her mother had become a runaway locomotive, intent on her mission to
get
Vico Mattare. It was no excuse.

She’d damaged him. She’d seen it in his eyes.

The guilt gutted her. Swirling and sucking at her heart and love.

How was she going to fix this?

Because she must. She couldn’t let this go, couldn’t stick her head in the sand again. Because she wasn’t the same child who’d withdrawn into reserved respect as her parents continued to isolate her. She wasn’t the kid who’d only rebelled once when she’d demanded a university degree instead of finishing school. She wasn’t the distant, aloof creature she’d been when her love had walked into her life with his passionate intensity and impatient impetuousness.

She couldn’t let go of this deep, powerful love she never realized she was capable of.

If she did, she’d give up on herself, the new Lise. Give up on who she really was, who she’d found in this home, in his family, in his arms.

She’d lose the essence of her true self if she lost him.

With a sudden resolve, she swept away the last of her tears. She wasn’t going to cry anymore. She wasn’t going to stumble around looking forlorn. She wasn’t going to let go.

Okay, she’d been stupid. However, he’d been stupid too.

Wrenching the water off, she stepped out of the shower and wrapped a plush, lime-green towel around her. She walked to the mirror and looked directly into her eyes. The rims were red, yet the blue was determined. Her jaw firmed.

“I’m not going to let him do this,” she stated to her image. “I am not going to let him win. Not this time.”

Vico had believed the worst instantly. Without giving her a chance. Without waiting for an explanation. She had a part to play in this mess, but he did, too. He should have been more patient. He should have listened.

He should have trusted her.

Lise marched into the bedroom, the one they shared, and over to her dressing room. Jerking clothes off the hook, she started to plan.

He was in London. Hannah had emailed her surprise at his arrival. Her shock at his surly behavior. The mention of some tabloid pictures of his activities last night had been hinted at, which had set Lise’s heart pumping. The gentle question as to whether everything was all right had been too much to answer today.

Everything was not all right.

Still, she was not going to let him keep it that way.

He was surly? Just wait until he met her. Slapping her suitcase on the bed, she began to pack.

There would be no divorce. She’d fight him on it.

There would be no other women. She’d tie him to the bed if she had to.

Somehow she’d find a way to make those tiger eyes come alive once more. With passion and heat. With tenderness and concern. With love, damn it.

With love.

And then…

She twisted her hands around the edge of the towel and took in a deep breath. The flash of her ring caused her to glance down. The flash was not of a cool, clear diamond. The flash was of fiery life. A life she was going to grab and hold on to.

Then…she’d confess those three words. Finally.

T
he deadness
inside him kept expanding.

Minute by slow minute.

First it had clutched and clawed at his broken heart as he’d read the email. Figured out what he’d hoped for was a total illusion. Remembered Lise’s initial reaction to him, reminded himself of the hate he’d thought was gone. Recalled what the true reality was of this marriage of his. Thought of those accusations her mother had spoken. The accusations and labels and damning names Lise had agreed with.

Obviously.

His heart had frozen dead as he’d read the final words of the email.

Vico stared out his office window at the dull, damp clouds hanging above late-afternoon London. When he’d arrived here yesterday, thunderstorms had swept the streets of pedestrians, but now the clouds were merely sullen, a surly reminder of the storm still in store.

Tapping his fingers on the pane, he tried to force the melancholy back, force the thoughts from him. The deadness. Yet they kept marching through his memory and through his emotions like stark soldiers off to war.

His heart hadn’t been enough.

The deadness inside him had wanted more.

In the hours he’d waited for her in his office at the villa, it had crept across his chest and arms. His muscles tightened into rigid bands of pain. When she’d arrived, he found it hard to speak, hard to breathe. His pride was still alive, though, and it had prodded the words out. Protected him from falling to his knees in front of her.

But his pride was now also gone. Gone to the deadness. Somewhere over France, as the plane hummed beneath his feet, his pride succumbed to its own death. Cut to pieces by his memories and regrets.

He’d immediately come into the office when he’d landed at Heathrow, hoping business would distract him. Fifteen years ago, education and then business had saved him from himself. Maybe it would work one more time. The office had been busy, productive—

And surprised to see him.

They’d grown accustomed to his long-distance contact.

Exactly as he’d grown accustomed to life with Lise, accustomed to her laughter and love.

There’d been no love
, the deadness whispered.

Nothing, not the phone calls, the emails, the texts, nothing could pry this last thought out of his head. For the rest of the day, he’d sat in his office staring into space and throwing an occasional brusque comment to anyone who dared to come in and question him or greet him.

Then he’d gone home to silence.

With a sound of disgust, he slapped his hand on the window. Rather than slapping himself.

Last night had been a complete fiasco, but the deadness creeping through him had terrified him. He’d gone out, drunk too much, laughed instead of cried. He ached, groaned inside as he’d flirted, had his picture taken, smiled some more. Still, not all the alcohol in London could force him to go home with the giggling woman he found sitting by him at three a.m. Somehow, he’d found himself on his own sofa, his head swimming.

Alone.

There’d been no escape from his terror then, even in his stupor. The deadness had kept coming, circling around him until it swamped his entire being. In his dazed drunkenness, he’d even seen his soul shrink inside him, while his spirit swirled above his head before disappearing into the air.

Had he cried out? Probably. But there’d been no one there to console or comfort.

Precisely as he deserved.

How could he be angry with her when she was only protecting herself and her child? How could he rage at her when she was only recognizing the reality of his coarseness, his vulgarity, his unsuitability? And how could he hold his fury inside him, when what she was doing was the right thing?

Had he slept? If he had, it was the sleep of the damned.

This morning, he’d stuck himself in the shower, shivering in the water, yet his brain kept working. It appeared to be the only part of him still alive. Thus, he’d found himself at his office, once more, determined to keep some part of him going. He had forced himself to go through every one of his emails today, had pushed himself to make the calls he’d needed to make. He’d met with several new clients, held a board meeting, dictated numerous letters.

Business, even now, had to be conducted.

After all, he’d shortly be paying out quite a bit of money to his ex-wife.

Distant amusement made him chuckle. The sound rasped in his throat.

There wasn’t much left of him, was there? He was now purely a vessel, a hollow man alive for one reason only.

To pay her back. Not as a vendetta or as an act of revenge. Exactly the opposite. Pay her with his penance, as a sacrifice. Pay her for the stupid trick he’d done in a moment of pure selfishness. Pay her back for impregnating her with a child of a savage. Pay her for making her marry him.

He’s not worthy of my little girl.

When had he forgotten this all-important point? Somewhere in the sunny days by her side, the happy moments sharing her with his family, somewhere he’d forgotten. Forgotten his past, his crimes, his unworthiness.

He deserved this. This death. Deserved this and more.

With a jerk, he straightened.

This was the first day of the rest of his life. A life he would now dedicate to her. She’d get the divorce she wanted; it was only what she was owed. She’d get his money too, more than she’d asked for in those documents. And she’d get his
bambino
. Because he could never be the father she wanted for her baby. Somewhere, somehow he’d have found a way to go off the rails and screw over his child, just as he had his own life and his own marriage.

Perhaps this deadness inside him was all to the good.

Because the thought of giving away contact with his son, of never really being a father, merely pinged at his emotions instead of slaughtering them.

Striding to his desk, he reached for his phone.

He would need to notify his family of his wishes. He could not be with Lise ever again, nor his son. However, she needed people who loved and adored her so she’d be taken care of. His family would be shocked, yet not surprised at the news, at his confession of barbaric behavior. His personal activities had always, inevitably caused some kind of disaster. The only thing he’d ever been able to do well was business and this would be the only thing he touched from now on.

This he promised himself. And the
Princesse
. And his unborn son.

“Mr. Mattare?” His PA’s voice echoed over the intercom, just as he skimmed through his personal contacts looking for his momma.

“
Si
?” Vico gritted his teeth and kept clicking on the phone. He didn’t care what the interruption was. Lise was more important than anything at this moment.

“Your wife would like to see you.”

His finger stilled. “What?”

“Your wife is here.” His PA’s voice lilted with friendly regard. “She’d like a moment of your time.”

Lise? She had traveled to London by herself?

He almost howled. His plane had been here, not in Italy. She’d taken a commercial flight, alone and pregnant. His security had not informed him of this visit. They had not told him of her leaving the villa. So they didn’t know. The woman had left the safety of the villa and ventured out with no protection. The woman had hauled her luggage into some damn taxi, dragged it into the airport, and stuck herself in one of those cramped commercial seats without any help.

Was she crazy?

Another thought crashed into him. He didn’t want this. Couldn’t take this. He barely held himself together as it was. With Lise in his vicinity, the fragile hold he had on his emotions would disappear.

But he could hardly tell Sally to send his wife away.

“Send her in.”

“Yes, sir.”

The door flew open. His wife marched into his office and slammed the door behind her. Her face was flushed, her hair wild around her head as if she’d hadn’t run a comb through it in days. She was dressed in an odd jumble of clothing—an old knitted sweater over a grey T-shirt, matched with a tan pair of pants she’d used only when she’d dug around in the villa’s garden.