Bound to the Tuscan Billionaire (10 page)

‘Where are you going?' She reached out a hand to bring him back. She was sated for now, but it was lonely in the big bed without him.

‘You need to sleep.' Dipping down to kiss her cheek, he added, ‘I do too. I have a lot on tomorrow. But don't worry,' he added dryly, ‘I'll be back in the morning to see if you need anything more before I leave.' His sexy mouth curved in a smile as he strolled naked out of the room.

He was so beautiful, and so totally un-self-conscious—and yet so quick to close himself off. Tonight had been wonderful for her, because her emotions had been fully engaged, but what about Marco? Was she just offering him sex on tap?

She suddenly felt shaky and vulnerable, wondering if she had just unwittingly volunteered for the position of Marco di Fivizzano's short-term mistress. What else would his part-time gardener be qualified to do in this billionaire's fast-moving world?

The more she thought about it, the more it seemed that her body's needs had ruled her head. She was living in Marco's apartment of her own free will. She was under his protection. She only had the reverence with which he had kissed her swollen belly to hang on to, but even that had started to worry her. A man like Marco di Fivizzano needed an heir. Was she just his convenient womb?

CHAPTER TEN

T
HE
NEXT
MORNING
Marco left early, as he'd said he would, and he didn't stop by her room as he had promised.

And why did she want him to? Wasn't it better to try to keep him at a distance as he was keeping her? She didn't know any more...

Pregnancy had turned her brain to mush, Cass concluded. She had never been reliant on anyone but her godmother when she was very young—and had certainly never hung around to see if a man wanted sex before she got out of bed. If she had lost her self-respect to this extent, it was time to turn herself back into someone with a pre-pregnancy brain.

In the short time that she'd been living in Marco's penthouse she had become far too complacent. She'd be cleaning his shoes and running his bath next. She didn't even have morning sickness to use as an excuse any more—so what was she doing letting the days drift by?

Things had to change.

She carried her tray back to the kitchen. Who cared what the unfriendly maid and chef thought of her doing things for herself? She had strong arms and a pair of perfectly capable hands, and she didn't need people to run after her. She thanked the chef for breakfast, and apologised for not finishing it, with the excuse that she had eaten too much at supper the night before.

‘But it was delicious,' she said, thanking him.

‘Do you need anything else,
signorina
?' the maid asked her.

‘Nothing. Thank you.'

She closed the door and then cursed her acute hearing.

‘Is there something wrong with my food?' the chef complained.

‘She's pregnant,' the maid whispered. ‘That's why she can't face food.'

‘He's made one pregnant?'

Cass froze, then tensed as they both started to laugh.

‘About time too,' the chef declared, forgetting Cass might overhear him, or perhaps not caring if she did. ‘A man like that needs an heir.'

Hearing her own thoughts echoed sent a chill down Cass's spine. She stilled as the maid hummed in disapproval.

‘I don't know why he picked this one when there are plenty of society women who would oblige him with an heir.'

There was a silence, and then the maid added, ‘News like this is worth money.'

Cass had heard enough. It wasn't her business to berate Marco's staff, so she bit her tongue and walked away. She had to believe the chef and the maid would remain loyal to their employer and keep what they knew to themselves. Loyalty in any household was an unspoken rule, surely?

* * *

The news about his staff's disloyalty broke while he was in a meeting. His PA texted him so he couldn't be caught out by the reports already appearing online. He remained outwardly impassive, but inwardly he was furious. He was a private man, and he didn't care for his private life to be on anyone's lips. He hadn't wanted that for Cassandra, which was why he'd kept her presence in his penthouse quiet. He had wanted her to have these last few months of pregnancy calmly, and in private. No one should be talking about her, let alone his trusted staff—

Trusted staff?

‘My PA selects a short list of potential staff members, and you are supposed to vet them,' he railed at his team of investigators. ‘You're supposed to be the best. That's why you get my work. You're fired.' He cut the line when they launched into an excuse that the chef and the maid at the penthouse had been thoroughly checked out but there was no accounting for human nature.

Everyone has a price, he conceded angrily, showing nothing of his mounting fury as he cancelled his next appointment. Why was business so straightforward, and everything to do with Cassandra so complex?

Was he really worried about people talking? Or had he finally been forced to face the fact that life was changing for him? It would never be the same again now there was a child in the equation—a child that was probably his.

Possibly his, he amended.

Now he had to wonder why he could never trust his feelings. Why couldn't he believe Cassandra? Would the past always haunt him?

The staff at the penthouse had been fired by the time he got there, but there was no sign of Cassandra. His heart rate soared as he hunted for her. He checked everywhere, knowing it didn't make sense for her to leave him. Where would she go? She had been recovering her health in Rome, and already looked so much better. He called the cab company—he called every cab company in the city—but no one had taken a young, pregnant, English woman to the airport—or anywhere else, for that matter.

So where was she?

Absentmindedly, he turned on the TV to scan the news as he paced the apartment. The news item shocked him—angered him. It focused on him and Cassandra, picking over the history between them. The shot they used of him made him look like a demon out of hell, unshaven and riding a Harley—God knew where they'd found it. The picture of Cassandra showed an angel, fair of face and sweet of temperament—like a martyr he'd pinned to the stake. The press wasn't just milking the story, they were making a production number out of it. He had to find her before the paparazzi swarmed all over her—

Too late!

The news had moved on from stock photographs to live shots. He didn't hang around to switch off the set. Cassandra was in the park across the road, and the paparazzi were already swarming.

* * *

She understood now, Cass thought, shoving her hands in the pockets of her maternity jeans as she marched along with her head down, looking neither to the left nor to the right. This must be how her parents had felt
all
the time, not just some of the time. She had never understood the pressures they'd been under before today. She had only tasted fame briefly—or should that be infamy, she mused, chewing her lip.

The papers had been full of the small child playing amongst discarded syringes and empty bottles, and the internet had a long memory, which the bullies at school had taken full advantage of. Even her godmother hadn't been able to shield her from everything. In her turbulent teenage years, when her hormones had been racing, she had thought differently about her parents' notoriety, imagining it must have been glamorous and wonderful to be surrounded by so much attention all the time.

She could see now that those had been the misguided musings of a hormonal only child, looking back at her mixed-up childhood through a veil of resentment. Her parents had thrown their lives away on drugs and alcohol, but they must have been running scared in a doomed attempt to keep up with failing celebrity. And then that stupid fight that ended with them both dead in the swimming pool. It still bemused her to think that it had been over nothing more important than which of them got the last bottle of beer!

But they must have been under incredible pressure if they'd had to contend with this on a daily basis, she reflected as she glanced back over her shoulder at the following pack. She wasn't easily intimidated, but this frightened her. It was relentless, and if the reporters would chase her in her maternity clothes, looking a fright with her hair bundled up in a knot, they'd have no mercy on anyone. They weren't interested in pretty shots—there was no money in them, she supposed. They were like hyenas, feeding on trouble and misery—hyenas with cameras, shoving them in her face. Microphones, mobile phones, television cameras—even members of the public were joining in with anything they could lay their hands on, and all to have a better look at the pregnant mistress of Marco di Fivizzano—to scrutinise her, to examine every blemish and weakness, so they could expose them to the world. Especially her belly. She almost laughed out loud when one man knelt in front of her to get a shot of it, and then darted around to the side to capture another view.

‘This is ridiculous!' she exclaimed, only to be hit by a barrage of questions:

‘Do you have a statement?'

‘Do you know the sex of the baby?'

‘Will you live with Marco when it's born?'

And then, like a miracle, he was there at her side—shielding and protecting her, his strength and power, and sheer presence alone enough to scatter the following pack.

‘What the hell are you doing?' he demanded, directing his fury at the paparazzi as he tucked her firmly beneath the protection of his arm.

For once she didn't try to resist him as he marched her away. ‘What does it look as if I'm doing? I wanted some fresh air.'

‘I can understand that, but why didn't you call me?'

‘I didn't want to trouble you,' she admitted. ‘And I couldn't stay in the penthouse a moment longer with people who were laughing at me.'

‘The staff? They've been fired. That was a misjudgement on my part—I should have checked their references myself.'

‘And I shouldn't be so pathetic, but this pregnancy is making me emotional all the time.' She turned around, and was glad to see the reporters falling back. She guessed they weren't too keen to take on Marco in his present mood.

‘Do you think your staff at the penthouse did this?' she asked.

‘Who else do you think would alert the press?' he said as he flashed his security card at the controls on the private entry system. He held the door for her and then let it slam in the hyenas' faces.

‘They said there was money to be made,' she remembered.

‘A short-term gain,' Marco rapped crisply, standing back as the elevator doors slid open. ‘Neither of them will work in this city again. They'll never be trusted after this.'

‘So their blood money will prove a double-edged sword?'

‘It will,' he confirmed. ‘But I'm only interested in you. Are you okay?'

She glanced up at him, and saw only genuine concern in his eyes. ‘The staff reinforced my thoughts on you using me for sex—for a child, for an heir.' Marco's frown deepened. ‘I had to get out of the penthouse to clear my head—and it did help, though not in the way I expected. It helped me to understand how my parents must have felt when they were chased everywhere by the paparazzi.'

‘This is the first time you have spoken about them.'

‘Yes. Like you, I suspect, I've pushed the past behind me for so long it isn't easy to speak about it to anyone. But even all these years after their deaths, I feel guilty.'

‘You too,' he murmured.

‘I was so unforgiving when I was a teenager. All I could see was that my parents had abandoned me when I was small...' She stopped, noticing how tense Marco had become. ‘Did I say something to upset you?'

He didn't speak, but a muscle worked in his jaw. She guessed he felt as she did, that years of practised silence couldn't be undone in one night.

‘There's something else,' she said as the elevator doors swung open.

‘What?' Marco said.

‘I can help you.'

‘You can help me?' He stared at her incredulously as the elevator headed for the penthouse floor.

‘You don't have time to handle everything, which is how you ended up with those people working in your home—'

‘And your suggestion is?' he demanded.

Marco wasn't used to people challenging him. Too bad. She had something to say and he wasn't going to stop her. It was crucial that he could trust people who worked in his home. ‘You must try to hire more people like Maria and Giuseppe. If you'll let me, I'll help you find them.'

When Marco shook his head with amusement, she added, ‘Just think how much more effective you'd be if you could delegate more. Maybe you wouldn't be so distant—you could make a start with your staff, and then try the same with me.'

She should take the look he gave her as a warning to back off, but instead, she stared straight back at him.

He had to admire her cheek. After her experience in the park he might have expected Cassandra to be shaken and thinking about no one but herself, but she was always thinking about other people—not that he would allow his feelings to run away with him where she was concerned. ‘Are we going to stand outside the door all day?'

‘You haven't answered my question,' she reminded him. ‘Do you want my help with recruiting staff?'

‘There's no need. I will be vetting staff personally in future.'

She cocked her head to one side to stare up at him. ‘Would I have made it through your selection process?'

Her question silenced him. He stared at her, realising the answer was probably no.

Was that what made him make one small concession?

‘It must be boring for you, sitting around the penthouse all day. You needed to rest, but now you're well enough I can see that you need something to do. I'll ring round tomorrow—make some enquiries about part-time work for you.'

She shook her head. ‘That's very kind of you Marco, but there's no need.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I rang the embassy. To be more accurate, I rang the ambassador's private number. He gave it to me at the party. I thought about what you said, and I realised that I wouldn't be using him, and that I actually had something to offer him—I'd be giving, not taking. I'd be doing a fair day's work, and I would be prepared to work in the embassy gardens for nothing, though he wouldn't hear of that. He said I would make a very welcome addition to the embassy's gardening team.'

‘You've got a job?'

‘Yes, Marco. I have.'

His protective instinct flared into life. ‘After today's experience, you're happy to go to work each day with the paparazzi shadowing your every move?'

‘I thought you were going to ring around to try to get me a job?' Before he could answer, she added, ‘And it won't be every day. The work at the embassy is part time.'

‘If I had found you a job it would have been different.'

‘In what way would it be different?' she challenged.