way to the villa—and, nine months later, they had a screaming baby who refused to sleep through the night for at least a year.
It was chaos, but it was their chaos. And they wouldn’t have it any other way.
Revelations of the Night Before
Lynn Raye Harris
SHE could not possibly be pregnant. Valentina D’Angeli’s fingers shook as she studied the test stick, the blue line very clearly trying to tell her she was indeed expecting a baby.
It was too crazy to be believed, and yet …
A chill slid down her spine. The night of the masquerade ball had been the wildest she’d ever experienced; the one night where she’d determined to let down her hair and be the person she’d never been able to be. The free spirit who could sleep with a man and leave him in the morning without a shred of remorse.
For one night, she’d planned to be bold and seductive. She would experience passion and conquer her shyness once and for all. She would be like other women her age—sophisticated, experienced and utterly in control.
Tina set the test stick down and opened another. Surely the first had been damaged somehow. The second would give her the correct answer.
That night had been a good idea in theory, yet even with the anonymity of the mask, she’d been unable to let herself go to the extent her best friend, Lucia, had decided she should.
“You need to get laid, Tina,” Lucia had said.
Tina had blushed and stammered and said yes, of course she needed to—she was tired of being a twenty-four-year-old virgin—but she’d not truly thought it would happen. She’d tried to flirt and dance and be free, but when her partner had pulled her close, his breath smelling faintly of garlic and mint combined, she’d known she couldn’t do it. She’d pushed away from him and run from the palazzo, out onto the dock where it had been quieter and cooler, and gulped in the Venetian night air like a balm.
And that’s when he’d appeared. Not the man she’d run from, but the man she would give herself to before the night was over. He’d been tall, suave, dressed in black velvet and wearing a silk mask over his eyes.
He’d been utterly mesmerizing, and she’d fallen under his spell with far more ease than she’d ever expected. He’d made love to her so tenderly, so perfectly, that she’d wept with the beauty of it.
And with the loneliness of it.
“No names,” he’d whispered in her ear. “No faces.”
She’d agreed, because that was what had made it magical—and yet, once it was over, she’d wanted to know him. She’d felt bereft with the idea she never would.
Tina swallowed the fear that rose from the pit of her stomach and grabbed her by the throat. Sometimes, not knowing was the best thing. She wished to God she still didn’t know.
But as the light from the full moon had slid between the curtains and illuminated the sleeping form of the man beside her, she’d dared to slide the silk mask from his eyes. Her breath stopped in her chest just remembering that moment.
He hadn’t awakened, even when she’d gasped. Even when she’d scrambled from the bed and stood there in the quiet, elegant bedroom of the hotel he’d taken her to. Her heart had turned over, her stomach flipping inside out.
Of all the men in the world.
She’d reacted blindly then. She’d yanked on her clothes as silently as she could—and then she’d fled like the coward she was.
“Right,” she said to herself as she waited for the new test stick to negate the first one. The universe was simply playing a huge joke on her, punishing her for that night of wanton behavior with a man she should not have known at all. What kind of woman gave herself to a man she didn’t even know?
But you do know him. You’ve always known him. Always wanted him.
Tina chewed her lip, her heart beating erratically as the seconds ticked by.
And then the answer came, as clear and soul shattering as the first.
Pregnant.
“There is a woman, my lord,” the man said apologetically.
Niccolo Gavretti, the marchese di Casari, turned from where he’d been gazing out the window of the exclusive Roman hotel’s restaurant and fixed the maître d’ with an even look.
There was always a woman. Women were his favorite hobby—when they weren’t demanding more than he was willing to give or thinking that because he’d slept with them, he owed them something more.
No, he loved women—but on his terms.
“Where is this woman then,” he asked almost wearily.
“She refuses to come inside, my lord.” His tone said that he did not approve.
Nico waived a hand dismissively. “Then she is not my problem.”
The maître d’ bowed. “As you wish, my lord.”
Nico turned back to his paper. He’d come here this morning for a business breakfast with an associate, but he’d stayed to drink coffee and read the paper once the meeting was over. He’d not expected a woman to accost him, but then he was hardly surprised, either. A determined woman was often a force to be reckoned with.
Sometimes the results were quite pleasurable and interesting. Other times, not so much.
Only a few moments passed before the maître d’ returned, apologetic and red-faced. “My lord, I beg your pardon.”
Nico set the paper down. His patience was running thin. He had much on his mind lately, not the least of which was dealing with the vast mess his father had bequeathed to him.
“Yes, Andres?”
“The lady says it is most urgent that she speak to you. But she cannot do so in such a public place. She suggests you come to her room.”
Nico resisted rolling his eyes, but only just. Before his father’s death, Nico had been one of the top-ranked Grand Prix motorcycle riders in the world. He’d won the world championship a few months ago. He knew all about the kinds of schemes a woman might employ to catch his interest. He had been the object of many such plots in his life. Sometimes he played along because it amused him to do so.
Today would not be one of those times.
“Please tell her she will be waiting for a very long time,” he said smoothly. And then he glanced at his watch. “I have an appointment elsewhere, I’m afraid.”
The maître d’s face was a study in contrasts. He looked simultaneously
