wanted. The passion she’d shared with Enzo had scared her for reasons she couldn’t articulate, so she hadn’t wanted to go there again. Not with anyone.
She’d thought it would be easy, that she wouldn’t miss it but, now that Enzo himself was standing right in front of her, she realised that it hadn’t been easy. And she did miss it. She missed him.
No, she couldn’t do this with him. Not again. Not with Henry downstairs and Simon in his bedroom behind her.
Not even for herself this time.
Forcing the ache away, she made herself concentrate on the here and now, not the past, because she was in danger and so was her son. Not physical danger—Enzo would never hurt either of them; she knew that for truth—but she was wary of the emotional chasm that awaited her if she played this wrong.
And she’d already taken a misstep by denying him the truth. She didn’t even know why she’d pretended she didn’t know what he was talking about, only that she’d been scared. Frightened of how angry he was with her and how badly she wanted to justify herself and explain. But she had a horrible feeling all he’d see in her was excuses.
She had a horrible feeling that that was what she’d see in herself.
But she didn’t want to think about that right now. If she got this wrong, he would more than likely try to take her son from her, and there was no way she was going to let that happen. She wasn’t a particularly brave person, but Simon was hers. She’d lost her parents and her home and she wasn’t about to lose anything more.
And if he wanted the truth? Well, she’d give it to him.
‘Henry told me that he didn’t need to know who Simon’s father was,’ she said, pleased with how steady her voice sounded. ‘So I didn’t tell him. And as for you...’ She swallowed, clutching onto her bravery with everything she had, Enzo’s furious stare making all the words clump together in her throat. ‘I didn’t know about the pregnancy until four months after I came back to England. And then I...took a while to figure out who you were because you didn’t give me your last name.’
He was so tall. So full of indignant Italian fury. He made the air in the hallway around them crackle with the force of his anger. She could feel it pushing against her, wild electricity against her skin.
‘I’m not that difficult to find, cara,’ he said, dark and low, a caress down her spine. ‘Easy enough if you have the will and the determination. If you really wanted to find me.’
‘I did find you.’ Her throat was dry, a sick feeling in her gut as she remembered how her hands had shaken as she’d punched in the number she’d found in the course of a web search. And how she’d felt like throwing up as the phone had rung and rung, because she’d never made a mistake so big before. ‘And I called you. But you didn’t answer. It was some other man. And, when I explained, he called me a liar and told me never to bother you again.’
‘What man?’ Enzo’s eyes glittered. ‘And that’s all it took? Someone told you not to call so you didn’t?’
‘I don’t know who he was,’ she shot back, knowing it sounded weak, yet saying it anyway because it was the only defence she had. ‘He didn’t give me his name. And I...I thought you probably wouldn’t remember me. And that you probably wouldn’t want some inexperienced redhead showing up telling you that you were a father.’
She hadn’t been able to bear that particular thought. Of finding him, only to have him either not recognise her or call her a liar the way the man on the phone had. Or both. And most especially not after what they’d shared on the island together. Where for once in her life she’d felt like someone had actually wanted her.
‘I’m glad you could read my mind so easily.’ Enzo’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘From all the way over in England.’
She flushed, biting down on all the things she wanted to say. Defensive things that only sounded hollow, like excuses. ‘I’m sorry.’ It came out stiff and stilted. ‘I know I should have got in touch with you. There was no excuse for me not to. I just...’
Time had passed. And the longer she’d left it the harder it had become to pick up the phone. Until she’d decided that it was easier on both of them not to do it at all.
You’re selfish. Just like your parents were.
Her uncle’s voice floated through her head, angry and hurt, from the day she’d made that one, cursory protest about marrying Henry.
No, she wasn’t selfish. She wasn’t. She’d given up a lot to marry Henry. And she’d done it for them.
‘If you think a sorry will cut it, you’re sadly mistaken.’ The fierce, predatory lines of Enzo’s face were hard with anger. ‘I can forgive you for walking out on me that morning without a word. But I will not forgive the four years I missed with my son.’
The thread of fear that had been winding round and round her pulled tight. There was no mercy in those beautiful golden eyes; none to be had in his handsome face either.
God, why hadn’t she made sure Simon was asleep before creeping back to her room for ice-cream? Normally, she didn’t allow herself to relax until he was. But she’d been feeling so...jittery.
So what are you going to do? Just give Simon up without a fight?
An unfamiliar determination filled her, crowding out the fear, steeling her spine. No, there was no way in hell she’d do that. Bravery wasn’t her strong suit but she couldn’t bear not to fight for her son.
He might not have been what she’d planned, but there would never be a day when he wasn’t wanted. When he wasn’t loved. And she wouldn’t give him up, not for anyone, still less some arrogant Italian who thought he was God.
No matter what history she might have had with said Italian.
She might once have run from Enzo. But she wasn’t going to run now, not with Simon on the line.
Forcing the fear back, Matilda straightened against the wall. ‘I’m not asking for forgiveness, Enzo. But for what it’s worth, you have my—’
‘Enough,’ he interrupted brutally. ‘Whatever it is you’re offering, it is worth nothing.’ The fire in his eyes blazed. ‘There is only one thing I will accept from you—and make no mistake, Matilda, if you do not give it to me I will take it.’
The fear wrapped around her throat, strangling her. Because there could be only one thing he was talking about. Only one. And he was sleeping in the bedroom at her back.
No. Hell, no.
She’d moved in front of Simon’s door before she’d even thought about it, her gaze meeting Enzo’s head on. ‘No,’ she said, injecting every ounce of strength she had into the word. ‘You’ll take him over my dead body.’
Enzo hadn’t moved a muscle and yet the sense of threat he radiated filled the hallway around them, a pressure so intense she could hardly breathe.
‘The child is mine,’ he said, almost gently. ‘And I will have him.’
Then, before Matilda could think of a reply, he turned and
