The Italian’s Doorstep Surprise by Jennie Lucas

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THENEXTEVENING, Honora looked at herself in the full-length mirror. She took a deep breath.

The formal gown she’d had made for her in Naples was simple but pretty. The length was short, as it was still August, and soft pink, with an overlay of beadwork. Her dark hair was in a chignon high on her head, glossy and sleek.

At over eight months pregnant, she felt like a whale, but her husband’s eyes still lit up when he came into the bedroom. “You look beautiful, cara.”

“Thank you.” Her cheeks burned hot. Nico looked almost unbearably handsome to her. His powerful body was barely contained by the civilized, perfectly tailored tuxedo.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a fistful of sparkling jewels. “I brought you a gift.”

Stepping behind her, he placed a cold necklace of enormous rectangle-cut emeralds over her collarbone. As he attached the clasp, he lowered his head and kissed the crook of her neck, making her shiver with dangerous desire.

“Perfect,” he said huskily.

She wondered if he would think her so perfect if he knew whom she’d invited to the ball tonight.

Honora faced him, her heart pounding. After his ultimatum on the yacht, he thought she’d given up the issue of his stepmother. But she could not let him keep going down the path he was on. It could only lead to the destruction of his soul. And hers.

Last night, after they’d returned to the villa, he’d kissed her with such sweet tenderness, stroking her body so slowly, so gently, taking his time, so when he’d finally brought her to aching fulfillment, she almost couldn’t bear the intensity of her own joy.

But even then, beneath it all, she’d known she still had to stand up for what was right. She couldn’t remain silently, passively married to a man who was so intent on destroying his own family. After all, if Nico couldn’t forgive the stepmother who’d once been too lost in her own pain to do the right thing, how could Honora expect anything but the same for her and the baby—that they’d be punished or exiled for the slightest transgression?

Either you’re with me, or you’re against me. You must choose.

She was married to him, pregnant with his baby. She was in love with him. She was on Nico’s side. Of course she was.

But sometimes, being on someone’s side had to mean being able to tell them when they were wrong. Even if it made them angry. Even if it caused trouble.

If you don’t like something, don’t suffer in silence, he’d told her. Be honest. Speak up.

And that had just been about a plate of sautéed mushrooms. This was about the rest of their lives.

But she was afraid. More afraid than she’d ever been in her life. Inviting Egidia was a huge risk. Honora knew that if Nico could just see her, talk to her in person, they would finally reconcile. He would either forgive her and be glad, or—

Or he wouldn’t.

“Nico.” She swallowed hard. “There’s something you should...”

“Yes?” He looked down at her expectantly.

Her courage failed her. She looked down, putting her hand on the cool, hard emeralds at her throat. “They’re beautiful. You didn’t have to do this.”

“Of course I did. They match your eyes, and you deserve every luxury.” Leaning forward, he whispered wickedly against her skin, “Especially after last night.”

Her blush deepened as she remembered the previous night’s passion. Every night of their honeymoon he’d found new ways to give her intoxicating pleasure.

She just prayed Nico would forgive her for the public ambush, and eventually understand why she’d had no choice but to do this, to make him face the past he’d gone to such lengths to avoid...

“Are you ready?” Nico murmured, holding out his arm.

“I hope so.” Nervously, she took his arm. Would he still smile at her so warmly when the night was over?

Together, they left the master bedroom and went down the sweeping staircase of the Amalfi Coast villa as guests began to arrive.

They greeted each guest in the foyer, beneath the soaring crystal chandelier high overhead, and above it, the frescoes of cherubs. But there was no sign of Egidia. Honora felt more and more nervous as the minutes ticked by.

Nico seemed proud to introduce her to his glamorous European friends, many of whom were from Rome or farther away still—Milan, Paris, Athens. For once, Honora had no energy to feel insecure when she met the extravagantly thin, gorgeously dressed supermodels and heiresses and female tycoons. She was too anxious about the coming confrontation to care what strangers thought of her.

The villa’s ballroom was as exquisite as a jewel box, filled with flowers, and a string quartet was playing music. Holding a crystal flute of sparkling water, Honora stood beside her husband as he spoke to a small group of people, switching from Italian to English for her sake. She tried to smile and nod and appear as if she were interested in their discussion, which was apparently about some land deal in Malaysia. She felt Nico’s hand stroking her bare upper back. Her shoulders felt tense. Her gaze kept straying to the door.

Then she gave an intake of breath.

Nico noticed at once. He looked down at her with a bewildered frown. Then he followed her gaze. His body stiffened.

“What the hell—” His voice choked off in a strangled gasp as he saw the new guest in the ballroom’s doorway.

“Forgive me,” Honora said quietly. “I had no choice.”

An elderly white-haired woman, round and slightly stooped, dressed in a formal gown that looked like couture, though it was two decades out of fashion, entered the room. Principessa Egidia Caracciola.

Nico’s head was spinning.

For the last twenty-four hours, he’d been congratulating himself that he’d convinced his wife to stop fighting for his enemy, aka his stepmother, and to keep her loyalty where it belonged, with Nico. He’d tried to bind her to him more thoroughly, making love to her last night with agonizing slow gentleness—though it damn near killed him to go slow—and buying her an emerald necklace worth half a million euros, which had once belonged to a tsarina of Russia.

He’d introduced her to the cream of European society, which he’d bulldozed into with his wealth, power and charm. He wouldn’t call them all friends, exactly, but they were entertaining, and useful, and anyway, it gave him satisfaction to think he’d earned his way into the aristocratic circle his father had tried to deny him.

For the last hour, he’d watched Honora, in her sparkling pale pink cocktail dress, her green eyes brighter than the emeralds at her throat, hold her own against them all, talking easily to even the most arrogant Milanese heiress. His heart had burst with pride for his beautiful, clever, kind wife.

Nico had started to relax again. Maybe he’d overreacted. Maybe he could still trust her. Maybe he didn’t need to permanently be on his guard.

And now...this ambush!

He pulled Honora to the side. His jaw was tight. “Is this about revenge?” he said in a low voice, for her alone. “Is that why you invited her here? To win the argument? To hurt me?”

Honora’s forehead furrowed.

“No, Nico,” she said, looking bewildered. “I’m trying to help you make peace with your family. With yourself—”

“Peace!” He’d never heard anything more ridiculous. He felt like his heart was about to explode. He couldn’t believe she would attack him like this, in such an underhanded fashion, trying to humiliate him in front of European society! What had he ever done to deserve this? Nothing! All he’d ever done was treat her like a queen!

With an intake of breath, he turned back to the grand doorway of the ballroom. Egidia Caracciola. His dead father’s widow.

Their eyes met, and his whole body was engulfed in ice.

The ballroom seemed to fall silent, first the guests, then the musicians discordantly cutting off midsong. Nico knew there’d been gossip about the lengths he’d gone to, gathering up Prince Arnaldo’s debts, then trying to force the sale of the Villa Caracciola. There had been commentary about the physical resemblance between the two men. Gossiping about secret parentage was always an enjoyable pastime for the jet set, but he’d thought he’d quashed that rumor. Now, he could feel new whispers building around him like wildfire.

“What have you done?” he said hoarsely.

“Please, Nico.” Honora’s lovely face looked scared. “Just give her a chance. I’m trying to help you. I love you.”

Help. Yes, help him into public humiliation. Love. Love him into an early grave. He felt his chest tighten and squeeze and suddenly remembered how his father had keeled over of a heart attack last Christmas without warning.

You killed him!his stepmother had screamed at Nico at the funeral. I hope you’re proud of what you’ve done, you awful, awful boy!

And now they were facing each other in person for only the third time in their lives. The first time had been on a street in Rome, when he was seven years old. His mother had pushed him forward, both of them hungry, and he’d been wearing clothes that were too small.

Please, Arnaldo, this is your son. Help us.

His stepmother, wearing her sleek designer clothes, had grabbed his father’s arm and gasped, No. I can’t bear it. Tell me it’s a lie.

His father had said coldly, It’s a lie.

Tension pulsed through Nico’s body as he faced his stepmother. This was supposed to be a party. A celebration. Around the elegant ballroom, all his so-called friends, men in tuxedos and the women in shimmering gowns, were watching and listening with interest, the better to gossip about later.

He had to pull it together.

With an intake of breath, Nico walked forward, his traitorous wife trailing behind him. His guests parted, creating a path between him and the elderly Italian woman.

He stopped in front of her.

“Buonasera, signora,”he said with a coolly courteous nod. “Welcome to my home.”

Lifting her chin, his stepmother replied in the same cool tone, “Thank you for inviting me.”

But you weren’t invited, Nico raged inside. He forced himself to smile, to take his wife’s hand. “We are so glad you could come.”

Egidia stood in front of him in her dated gown, her white hair carefully done, and her bright coral lipstick not quite straight on her feathered lips. She drew herself to her full height, which wasn’t much, and looked at him, her forehead creased.

Then she sucked in her breath. Her eyes roamed his face, then filled with tears.

“You do look like him,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to believe it. But you look like Arnaldo when he was young.” Her wrinkled face crumpled, as if she were about to cry. “All this time I never realized...” She choked out, “Villa Caracciola should be yours. I will no longer fight it. You are his son. You are.”

The old lady moved forward, as if to embrace him. Nico tried to step back, holding up his flute of sparkling water like a shield. But it was not enough.

“Which means...” Lifting up on her tiptoes, she threw her arms around him with a sob. “You are mine...”

Gasps and exclamations rippled through the crowd. Some of the guests had tears in their eyes, obviously enjoying the scene, as if it were some melodrama on television, the reprobate prodigal son being welcomed with open arms by his dead father’s widow.

Looking around him, at the way his party had been taken hostage, and his whole life story revealed to people who might somehow use it against him someday, Nico tried to smile and pretend he was calm and pleased. But inside, he was seething with rage greater than he’d ever known. He felt embarrassed, angry, ashamed.

And looking at his beaming wife beside him—so beautiful, so deceitful—he knew just who was to blame.