The Italian's Pregnant Prisoner. Maisey Yates

CHAPTER THREE

       CHAPTER FOUR

       CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       CHAPTER TWELVE

       CHAPTER THIRTEEN

       CHAPTER FOURTEEN

       EPILOGUE

       Extract

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      Once upon a time...

      LET DOWN YOUR HAIR...

      Charlotte Adair’s heart was pounding so hard she was sure the person next to her could hear it. And she was shaking. Shaking and fighting against the rising tide of emotions and memories that were threatening to compromise her ability to think straight.

      Although, it could easily be argued that her being here at all was proving she lacked any ability to think with clarity.

      She had escaped. For five years she had been free.

      But there was unfinished business. Rafe.

      He would always be unfinished business. There would be no fixing that. But she could see him. She could see him one more time.

      And, at least, he wouldn’t be able to see her.

      Pain burst in her chest, hot and acidic, her stomach tightening. Yes, his abandonment had hurt her. Immeasurably. But that didn’t mean the thought of such a powerful man being injured in the way he had been wasn’t painful.

      Of course, any thoughts of Rafe were painful.

      And as she stood in the darkened corner of the antechamber that led into the ballroom, her palms beginning to sweat, the red gown she was wearing started to feel so tight she could scarcely breathe.

      She couldn’t hold off the memories any longer...

      * * *

      “Let down your hair.”

      “You know I’m not allowed to,” Charlotte said, moving away from Rafe, every nerve ending in her body tingling. Every part of her demanding that she follow his simply issued command, regardless of the consequences.

      Which was basically the same demand she’d been issuing to herself from the moment she’d first seen him.

      She wanted him. Whatever that had meant at first, she hadn’t fully known. Only that she wanted to be near him. Always.

      “I see. And what exactly are the rules concerning men in your bedroom?”

      She blushed, her skin heating all over. “Well, I would assume that it’s frowned upon. Of course, it is nothing my father ever thought to forbid me expressly from. I suppose I’m meant to take it as read.”

      Rafe smiled, and she felt the impact of it all the way down to her toes. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. That had been her very first thought about seeing him when he’d come to work for her father two years earlier.

      She wasn’t entirely sure of the circumstances, only that he was an apprentice of sorts, which made her stomach tremble in a not-too-pleasant way. Because while the circumstances of her father’s business were kept largely secret to her, she wasn’t stupid. Yes, she lived a secluded life at his villa in Italy, transplanted from their native United States when Charlotte had been just a child, but in that seclusion she had taken the opportunity to learn how to gain information by quiet observation.

      Charlotte had become part of the wallpaper in the villa many years ago, and as a result she was often underestimated. She liked it that way.

      Being invisible.

      But then Rafe had appeared, and he had not allowed her to remain invisible. He had seen her. From the first. She had been sixteen the first time she’d laid eyes on him, when she had been certain that her heart was going to claw its way up her throat and out of her mouth. Not just because he was beautiful—though, he was certainly beautiful. In his early twenties at the time, with broad shoulders, a jaw so square she thought she might cut her finger on it, and dark, fathomless eyes that she wanted desperately to get lost in.

      He was a tall man, well over six feet, and she had the feeling that if she were to walk up to him and stand just in front of him that she would only come up to the middle of his chest. Which, she could not help but think, would be solid, strong, perfect to rest against.

      Yes, her obsession had begun that first moment, and it had not abated. Apparently, it had been the same for him. He had tried to warn her away from him. But she’d persisted. She’d made a fool of herself, following him around. But it had worked. Eventually, he had stopped telling her to go away. Eventually, they had begun to form a friendship.

      Except, she supposed friends didn’t have to sneak around. Friends did not have to wait until the house was dark, and everyone was safely asleep to meet out in the stables, or to catch a moment with one another in the brilliant light of day out in one of the fields well away from the house.

      It was chaste. Always.

      Until one afternoon when they’d been in the corner of the barn, and he had told her it was time for him to go back to his post—whatever that meant—and she’d been filled with a strange kind of desperation that she could not fathom or fight.

      She had reached up, touched his face with her fingertips. And then she’d had his iron grip wrapped around her wrist, his dark eyes burning hotter than she had ever seen them before.

      Before she could protest—before she could question anything—his mouth had been on hers. Claiming. Marking her as his own.

      She had never been kissed before that moment. Hadn’t even thought much about it. But kissing Rafe was like touching the surface of the sun. She could hardly bear it.

      It was too hot. Too bright. Too much.

      And far too brief.

      But that night, he had climbed the trellis and come into her room. Her tower bedroom, high above the rest of the house, separated from everyone, as she always was. No one came into her bedroom.

      But he had. And he had treated her to another kiss. Then another.