Kitabı oku: «Sicilian's Baby Of Shame»
Seduced...
When hotel chambermaid Sophie delivers room service to Sicily’s most dark-hearted tycoon, Bastiano Conti, his raw sexuality tempts her to take the ultimate risk—surrendering her untouched body to his!
Shamed...
Bastiano’s ruthlessness is renowned, but even his conscience flickers when Sophie is fired for their indiscretion—the memories of which are branded onto his very soul—and disappears.
Pregnant!
Bastiano finds Sophie working in a bar—disgraced, destitute and pregnant! Rejected by his own family, Bastiano is determined to claim his child...by seducing defiant Sophie into wearing his ring!
There was a gap between their chests, but so in tune was Sophie with Bastiano’s every move that she felt as if their bodies touched.
It was time to stay or go. Sophie knew that. Even at this stage she could smooth it over and make her farewells.
Or she could meet those lips and discover bliss.
‘Come here,’ Bastiano moaned, and his hand came up and pulled her head down to his.
Always she had avoided such contact, and yet now she craved it.
His mouth was soft, and the dark shadow of his skin did not make her skin crawl with its tickle; instead it was rough and delicious and matched the building desire in her.
Now, instead of resisting, she opened her lips, wanting and willing.
His tongue felt like a reward as it coiled around hers. They tasted each other, and they inflamed each other—and not just with their mouths. He was stroking her breast through the fabric of her dress and Sophie ached for bed.
His bed.
Billionaires & One-Night Heirs
Secret babies they are determined to claim!
Raul, Alim and Bastiano—three billionaires renowned the world over for their charisma and commanding ways.
Lydia, Gabi and Sophie—three innocents who cannot resist their seductive appeal.
And when sizzling nights lead to nine-month consequences there is no other option—these billionaires will claim their heirs!
The Innocent’s Secret Baby
Bound by the Sultan’s Baby
Sicilian’s Baby of Shame
Available now!
You won’t want to miss this addictive new trilogy from Carol Marinelli!
Sicilian’s Baby of Shame
Carol Marinelli
CAROL MARINELLI recently filled in a form asking for her job title. Thrilled to be able to put down her answer, she put ‘writer’. Then it asked what Carol did for relaxation and she put down the truth—‘writing’. The third question asked for her hobbies. Well, not wanting to look obsessed, she crossed her fingers and answered ‘swimming’—but, given that the chlorine in the pool does terrible things to her highlights, I’m sure you can guess the real answer!
Books by Carol Marinelli
Mills & Boon Modern Romance
Billionaires & One-Night Heirs
The Innocent’s Secret Baby
Bound by the Sultan’s Baby
One Night With Consequences
The Sheikh’s Baby Scandal
The Billionaire’s Legacy
Di Sione’s Innocent Conquest
Irresistible Russian Tycoons
The Price of His Redemption
The Cost of the Forbidden
Billionaire Without a Past
Return of the Untamed Billionaire
Mills & Boon Medical Romance
Their Secret Royal Baby
Paddington Children’s Hospital
Their One Night Baby
The London Primary Hospital
Playboy on Her Christmas List
Visit the Author Profile page
at millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.
MILLS & BOON
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For my wonderful editor Flo Nicoll.
Thank you for being you.
Carol xxx
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Introduction
Billionaires & One-Night Heirs
Title Page
About the Author
Dedication
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EPILOGUE
Extract
Copyright
PROLOGUE
BASTIANO CONTI HAD been born hungry.
And born a problem.
His mother had died giving birth to him and had never disclosed who his father was. All she had owned had been left to him—a ring.
It was Italian gold with a small emerald in its centre and some seed pearls dotted around it.
Bastiano’s uncle, who had four children of his own, had first suggested that the nuns raise the orphaned baby who’d lain crying in the small maternity ward in the Valley of Casta. There was a convent that overlooked the Sicilian Strait and orphans had usually been sent there.
But the convent was on its last legs.
The nurses were busy but occasionally one would take pity and hold Bastiano a little longer than it took to feed him.
Occasionally.
‘Familia,’ the priest had said to his uncle. ‘Everyone knows that the Contis look after their own.’
The Contis ruled the valley to the west and the Di Savos held the east.
Loyalty to their own was paramount, the priest told him.
And so, after a stern talk from the priest, Bastiano’s zio and his reluctant wife had taken the little bastard to their house but it had never, for Bastiano, been a home.
Always Bastiano had been considered an outsider. If something had gone wrong, then he’d been the first to be blamed and the last to be forgiven.
If there had been four brioches for lunch, they had not been split to make five.
Bastiano had done without.
Sitting in school next to Raul Di Savo, Bastiano had started to understand why.
‘What would your parents save in a fire?’ Sister Francesca had asked her class. ‘Raul?’
Raul had shrugged.
‘Your father,’ she prompted, ‘what would be the first thing that Gino reached for?’
‘His wine.’
The class had laughed and Sister Francesca, growing more exasperated with each passing moment, had turned her attention from Raul.
‘Bastiano,’ she snapped. ‘Who would your zia save?’
His serious grey eyes had lifted to hers and Bastiano had frowned even as he’d given his response. ‘Her children.’
‘Correct.’
She had turned back to the board and Bastiano had sat there, still frowning, for indeed it was the correct answer—his zia would save her children. But not him.
He would never be first.
However, aged seven, Bastiano was sent to collect the brioches and the baker’s wife ruffled his hair and so unused to affection was he that his face lit up and she said that he had a cute smile.
‘You do too,’ Bastiano told her, and she laughed.
‘Here.’ She gave him a sweet cannoli just for brightening her morning and Bastiano and Raul sat on the hill and ate the gooey treat.
The boys should have been sworn enemies—for generations the Contis and the Di Savos had fought over the vines and properties in the valley—yet Bastiano and Raul became firm friends.
The small encounter at the baker’s was enough for Bastiano to learn that he could get by better on charm.
Oh, a smile worked wonders, and later he learnt to flirt with his eyes and was rewarded with something far sweeter than cannoli.
Despite their families’ protests, Bastiano and Raul remained friends. They would often sit high on the hill near the now vacant convent and drink cheap wine. As they looked out over the valley, Raul told him of the beatings his mother endured and admitted that he was reluctant to leave for university in Rome.
‘Stay, then.’
It was that simple to Bastiano. If he’d had a mother, or someone who cared for him, he would not leave.
And he did not want Raul to go, though of course Bastiano did not admit that.
Raul left.
One morning, walking down the street, he saw Gino storm out of Raul’s house, shouting and leaving the front door open.
Raul was gone and, given what his friend had told him, Bastiano thought he ought to check that his mother was okay.
‘Signora Di Savo...’ He knocked on the open door but she did not answer.
He could hear that she was crying.
His zia and zio called her unhinged but Maria Di Savo had always been kind to Bastiano.
Concerned, he walked inside and she was kneeling on the floor of the kitchen, crying.
‘Hey.’ He poured her a drink and then he got a cloth and ran it under the water and pressed it to the bruise on her eye.
‘Do you want me to call someone?’ he offered.
‘No.’
He helped her to stand and she leant on him and cried and Bastiano did not know what to do.
‘Why don’t you leave him?’ he asked.
‘I’ve tried many times.’
Bastiano frowned because Raul had always said that he’d pleaded with her to leave yet she’d always refused.
‘Could you go and stay with Raul in Rome?’ Bastiano suggested.
‘He doesn’t want me there. He left me,’ Maria sobbed. ‘No one wants me.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘You mean it?’
She looked up then and he went to correct her to say that what he had meant was that he was sure there were people who wanted her...
Not him.
She put a hand up to his face and held his cheek. ‘You’re so handsome.’
Maria ran a hand through his thick black hair and it did not feel like when the baker’s wife had; this felt more than an affectionate ruffle and, confused, Bastiano removed her hand and stepped back. ‘I have to go,’ he told her.
‘Not yet.’
She wore just a slip and her breast was a little exposed; he did not want Maria to be embarrassed when she realised that she was on display, so he turned to leave.
‘Please don’t go,’ she called out to him.
‘I have to go to work.’
He had left school and worked now in the bar that was a front for the seedier dealings of his zio.
‘Please, Bastiano...’ Maria begged. She reached for his arm and when he stopped she came around so that she stood in front of him. ‘Oh,’ she apologised as she looked down and saw that her breast was exposed to him, but Bastiano did not look. He was still pretending that he had not noticed.
And she would cover herself now, Bastiano thought, yet she did not. In fact, she took his hand and placed it on her plump, ripe skin.
He was good with the girls but in those cases he was the seducer. Maria was around forty, he guessed, and, for heaven’s sake, she was the mother of his best friend.
‘Signora Di Savo...’ Her hand pressed his as he went to remove it.
‘Maria,’ she said, and her voice was low and husky. He could feel and hear her deep breathing and when she removed her hand, Bastiano’s remained on her breast.
‘You’re hard,’ Maria said, feeling him.
‘Gino might—’
‘He won’t be back till dinner.’
Bastiano was usually the leader and instigator, but not on this hot morning. Maria was back on her knees but this time by her own doing. It was over within minutes.
As he left, he swore he would never return there.
But that very afternoon Bastiano made a trip to the pharmacy for protection, and an hour later they were in bed.
Hot, forbidden, intense—they met whenever they could, though it was never enough for Maria.
‘We’re getting out,’ Bastiano told her. He had been paid and, if all else failed, he had his mother’s ring. He could not stand the thought of her with Gino for even a moment longer.
‘We can’t,’ she told him, even as she asked to see the ring and he watched as she slipped it on.
‘If you love me,’ Maria said, ‘you would want me to have nice things.’
‘Maria, give me back the ring.’
It was all he had of his mother but still Maria did not relent. Bastiano left.
He walked up the hill to the convent and sat looking out, trying to figure it all out. All his life he had wanted a taste of this elusive thing called love, only to find out he did not care for it. It was Bastiano who now wanted out.
And he wanted his mother’s ring.
He stood, walking with purpose to the town below, where he saw it unfold.
A car driving at speed took a bend too fast. ‘Stolto,’ he muttered, and called the driver a fool as he watched him take another bend...and then the car careered from the road.
Bastiano ran in the direction of the smoking wreck but as he approached he was held back and told that it was Gino’s car that had been in the accident.
‘Gino?’ Bastiano checked.
‘No!’ a woman who worked in the bar shouted. ‘I called Maria to say that Gino was on his way home and angry. He had found out about you! She took the car and—’
* * *
Maria’s death and the aftermath had not painted Bastiano in a very flattering light.
Raul returned from Rome and on the eve of the funeral they stood on the hill where once they had sat as boys.
‘You had your pick of the valley!’ Raul could barely contain his fury.
‘I went to check on her—’
But Raul did not want to hear that his mother had been the seducer. ‘And you turned on that fake charm...’ Raul had seen him in action after all. He knew how Bastiano could summon even the shyest woman with his eyes and melt restraint with a smile. ‘I was a fool to trust you,’ Raul said. ‘You as good as killed her.’
Yes, he was the first to be blamed and the last to be forgiven.
‘Stay away from the funeral,’ Raul warned him.
But Bastiano could not.
And the next day things went from bad to worse. After a bloody fight at the graveside, it later transpired that half of Maria’s money had been left to Bastiano.
Raul, once his friend, now accused Bastiano of engineering Maria’s death and swore the rest of his days would be devoted to bringing him down.
‘You’re nothing, Conti,’ Raul told him. ‘You never have been and, even with my mother’s money, you never will be.’
‘Watch me,’ Bastiano warned.
It is said that it takes a village to raise a child.
The Valley of Casta had never really been kind to Bastiano, but when the entire population considered you a cheat, a liar, a seducer, a bastard...that’s what you become.
So, when a drunken Gino came to confront him, instead of taking it on the chin, Bastiano fought back, and when Gino called Maria a whore, Bastiano saw red and did not stay quiet. Instead, he gestured with his hand in the sign of horns and tossed Gino the biggest insult of all.
‘Cornuto!’
Cuckold.
Bastiano, the villagers agreed, was the worst of the worst.
CHAPTER ONE
SOME NIGHTS WERE HELL.
‘Bastiano!’
He heard the familiar, syrupy call of his name and knew that he must be dreaming, for Maria was long dead.
Unusually, he was alone in bed and as dawn sneaked over Rome, Bastiano fought to wake up.
‘Bastiano!’
She called his name again.
When he reached his hand down and felt that he wasn’t hard for her, it was a triumph, and Bastiano smiled a black smile as he silently told her she didn’t do it for him any more.
Maria slapped his cheek.
She wore his mother’s ring on her finger and he felt the cold metal as she delivered a stinging slap, one that had his hand move to his face for the wound was gaping. His cheek was sliced open and there was blood pouring between his fingers.
Bastiano fought with himself even in sleep. He knew that he was dreaming, for the savage fight with Raul had happened at the graveyard; the wound to his cheek had come after Maria had been lowered to the ground.
Everyone had said that it was Bastiano’s fault she was dead.
And it was the reason that he was here, some fifteen years later—lying in one of the presidential suites at Rome’s Grande Lucia hotel.
Raul Di Savo was considering its purchase, which meant that it had been placed on the top of Bastiano’s must-have list.
Bastiano forced himself to wake up. He lay there in the darkness and glanced over at the hotel’s bedside clock. Reaching over, he switched off the alarm. He had no need for it. He would not be going back to sleep.
Bastiano knew the reason that Maria was back in his dreams.
Well, she had never really left them, but that dream had been so vivid and he put it down to the fact that he and Raul were staying at the same hotel.
He heard the soft knock at the main door to his suite and then the quiet attempt to wheel in his breakfast trolley.
‘Puzza!’
Bastiano smiled when he heard the small curse as the maid knocked into something and knew from that one word that the maid was Sicilian.
The door to the master bedroom had been left open but she quietly knocked again.
‘Entra,’ he said.
Bastiano was more than used to room service. Not only was he considering the purchase of this hotel but he was the owner of several premium establishments of his own. He closed his eyes, indicating, as she came in, that he wanted no conversation.
* * *
Sophie could see that he had made no move to sit up so she did not offer him a ‘Good morning’.
The rules were very specific at the Grande Lucia and the staff were well trained.
Sophie loved her job, and though she did not usually do the breakfast deliveries she had been asked to do this one before her night shift ended. She had been called in to work late last night and so had missed the handover where the staff were told of any important guests, their idiosyncrasies and specific requests. Sophie, of course, knew that any guest staying in one of the presidential suites was an important one, and she had checked his name on his breakfast order.
Signor Bastiano Conti.
Being as quiet as she could, Sophie opened some heavy drapes and the shutters behind them so that the guest, when he sat up, would be greeted by the stunning view of Rome in all her morning glory.
And what a glorious day it was turning out to be!
It was as if the theatre curtains were opening on a beautifully set stage, Sophie thought.
There were a few clouds high in the sky that would soon burn off, for it was going to be a warm summer’s day. The Colosseum was picture-postcard perfect and its ancient beauty gave her goosebumps.
Oh, it was a good day indeed for had she not made difficult choices and declined her family’s desire for her to marry Luigi, today would have been the eve of her first wedding anniversary.
For a moment, Sophie forgot where she was and stood there simply taking in the view as she reflected on the past year. Yes, hard choices had been made but she was completely sure that they had been the right ones.
Oh, she was curious about men, of course she was, and though her mother would never understand it, she could readily separate that thought from marriage.
When she had tried to picture her wedding night and sleeping with Luigi, Sophie’s blood had run cold. She had been out with a couple of younger men during her time in Rome but Luigi’s wet, whiskery kisses had left their legacy and, though curious, Sophie had found herself ducking her head from any male advances.
Her parents imagined she was living a sinful life here in Rome.
Sadly, that couldn’t be further from the truth!
Sophie was naïve, she knew that, but she was strong too.
Strong enough to say no to a man and a marriage she hadn’t wanted.
‘Buongiorno.’
A deep voice snapped her to attention and Sophie turned around as she realised that she had just been caught daydreaming, and by an important guest in his own suite!
She went to apologise but her flustered breath was literally taken away for there, lying in bed and idly watching her, was possibly a sight more arresting than the one she had just been feasting on. He was tall—she could see his length in the huge bed. His hands were behind his head and the sheet low on his stomach revealed his naked torso.
He really was magnificent, with olive skin and jet-black hair. The only blot on perfection was a jagged scar on his cheek, yet it only seemed to make him more beautiful. Most of all, it was his eyes that drew Sophie’s. They were grey and piercing and as she met his gaze she found that her breath hitched in her chest and that she could not tear her gaze away. That was rare in itself for Sophie. In her job, she was very used to rich and beautiful men but with this one, with this one, she found that her eyes did not divert and, instead of an apology, her cheeks went a little bit pink.
‘I was just preparing the view for you, Signor Conti,’ Sophie said, and he gave a small smile in return as she made a little joke—as if she had been arranging the scenery outside specifically for him.
‘Thank you.’ He glanced towards the window and the million-euro view. ‘You did a good job.’
And then he looked back at her.
When he had thought her to be taking her time Bastiano had opened his eyes to tell her to hurry up and leave, but there was something about her that halted his usual impatience.
And she mesmerised him now.
The eyes that met his were a very dark brown. He already knew from watching that she was as slender as a blade and wearing a pale green dress and flat shoes, both of which looked to be a little too big for her. Now he examined her face and saw that her thick black hair was worn up in a messy bun with a few long strands escaping.
She looked tired, Bastiano thought, and he guessed that her shift was just finishing rather than starting.
She had made him smile, just a little, but that was a surprise in itself given the dream he had so far failed to banish from his mind. The bedroom was rather messy and he was quite sure that the very sumptuous lounge was not much better; no doubt it was a stray bottle of champagne in the floor that had caused her small expletive on the way in.
‘Would you like me to serve your breakfast?’ she offered, still a little flustered and not just from being caught staring. Sophie made her way over to the breakfast trolley and lifted one of the silver domes.
‘No, thank you,’ Bastiano said. ‘Actually, if you could bring me coffee that would be fine.’
‘Would you like some water, or juice, too?’ she offered, and then he saw the slight twitch to her lips and a certain knowing tone in her voice as she spoke on. ‘Or perhaps you would like both?’
Again he smiled as she revealed her suspicions of his crashing hangover.
‘Please.’
She brought over two glasses and Bastiano drank the cold water as she went back to the trolley and poured his coffee from the pot.
Usually Bastiano poured his own coffee for he did not like attempts at idle conversation, yet it was he who was pursuing it now.
‘Sicilian?’ he asked as she carried the cup to his bedside. She nodded and then, as she placed it on the table, she gave a little grimace, realising that he must have heard her swear.
‘Me too,’ he said calmly, and something in the delivery of his words told her that he got it, for the air was a touch bluer back home.
‘What is that?’ he asked, gesturing to the trolley, for despite the fact she had replaced the dome and covered the food there was now a rich, spicy scent mingling into the air.
‘Shakshuka,’ Sophie said. ‘Middle Eastern baked eggs.’
The gorgeous guest screwed up his nose and Sophie was worried that the kitchen had got the orders mixed up so she quickly checked the paperwork on the trolley but, no, it was correct. ‘You ordered it.’
‘What was I thinking?’ he drawled.
‘I’ve heard that they’re amazing,’ Sophie said, and if the smell was anything to go by then her recommendation was bang on. ‘Would you like me to take them back down and have something else sent to you?’
‘It’s fine.’ He gave a shake of his head. ‘Just leave it.’
‘I hope you enjoy your day,’ Sophie offered, and he gave a slight mirthless laugh and then nodded.
‘You too.’
She went to close the bedroom door but he told her to leave it open.
As she left, Sophie picked up the bottle she had tripped over on her way in and put it on a tray. The room was a disaster and she would love, right this minute, to set about straightening things up, but it was not her job today and it was far too early to service a suite.
Anyway, as of now, she was off duty and so she headed to clock off and collect her things.
‘What are you doing, delivering breakfasts?’ Inga asked as Sophie retrieved her jacket from her locker. Just to be polite, Sophie had made a casual comment as to why she was a few minutes late coming off duty but Inga had, in her usual critical way, pounced. ‘That is for the more senior chambermaids.’
‘I just do as I’m told,’ Sophie said, and poked her tongue out at Inga’s departing back.
They did not get on.
Inga liked to deliver the breakfasts, especially to the very rich men, and though turning tricks was strictly forbidden, Sophie was quite certain that was the reason it was a designer bag that Inga had just put into her locker.
It wasn’t for Sophie to judge and she tried not to.
Her dislike for Inga was simply due to the frequent disparaging comments and the endless digs that were sent her way. Sophie did her best to shrug them off but it was difficult at times. She didn’t even know what she had done to incur Inga’s wrath.
Still, she chose not to dwell on it. Sophie was more than ready for home—she was tired, hungry and ached for bed. Instead of heading out of the side entrance, Sophie, as she often did, decided to exit through the kitchen.
The reason was twofold.
It took her out to the alley, which was closer to the small flat she shared with two others.
And her little diversion would hopefully mean a free breakfast!
There were several chefs that worked in the kitchens, of course, but her favourite was Sicilian and he was just taking a batch of brioches out from the oven as she made her way over. Not the French brioche or even the sweet pastry those here in the north referred to; instead, these were the most delicious plain-baked buns of home. And he had made millefoglie too—also a bun, but with raisins mixed in and sugar on the top. Sophie guessed it was exactly the breakfast this morning’s guest might wish that he had chosen.
Apart from Inga, Sophie was very well liked and popular at the Grande Lucia. She was a very good worker and always went the extra mile for guests. Signor Conti’s mirthless laugh had stayed with her and so, instead of sneaking a brioche for her walk home, she spoke with the chef. He arranged a plate of freshly baked pastries and she put a small silver dome over it and then took her jacket off and, placing it over her arm, she headed back up to Signor Conti’s suite.
She knocked and let herself in and then called out.
‘Room service.’
After the maid had left, Bastiano had got up, taken one look at the eggs and replaced the dome.
His friend Alim, the current owner of the hotel, had always suggested he try them when they met for brunch and last night as he’d squinted at the selections it had seemed a good idea.
Not now.
There was no point him even being here.
Last night Alim had told him that his plans had suddenly changed and that he would not be able to show him through the hotel today as planned.
That wasn’t all that irked Bastiano.
For once—in fact, for the first time in his life—a woman had turned him down.
In recent weeks, Bastiano had decided he would like a wife, and one with a castle in England and money problems had appeared to fit the bill.
It had seemed a decent solution at the time.
Lydia Hayward, with her breeding and porcelain looks would, he had decided, be the perfect trophy wife. It would be mutually beneficial, of course, and for his part he would help with her family’s dire financial situation. He had flown her and her stepfather, Maurice, over to Rome so that he could kill two birds with one stone—view the hotel and put in an offer that would blow Raul out of the park. And maybe return home to Casta having secured a bride.
The more he had thought about it, the more he had decided that it might just be enough to rattle Raul—for Bastiano was more than financially secure, but settled...not so much.
But his plans hadn’t exactly worked out that way.
Lydia had decided she would spend the evening catching up with friends and had left him hanging with the appalling Maurice.
Bastiano hadn’t even attempted small talk with the man; instead, he had come back to his suite, and with his mood too dark to hit the clubs he had hit the bottle instead.
A foolish choice, in retrospect, for it had not been Lydia who had crept into his mind as he’d slept.
It had been Maria.
Fifteen years on and he could not fathom that he had ever cared for another person, for he cared for no one now.
No one.
Bastiano had a reputation for cold-hearted ruthlessness that ran from the boardroom to the bedroom.
Beating Raul Di Savo was the only thing that interested him.
He heard a knock at his door and a voice that was too cheerful for his black mood announce that room service was here.
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