Demanding His Hidden Heir. Jackie Ashenden

to think straight.

      Who’d made him forget, just for a couple of days, the constant ache in his heart for what he’d lost.

      And who’d left him without even a goodbye.

      Her gaze went wide as it met his, blanking with shock, and he knew instantly that, yes, it was her. The red-headed, passionate woman he’d had a two-day fling with four years ago.

      He’d tried to forget her. Dio, he’d even convinced himself that he had.

      But as she stared at him with those wide grey eyes, and he felt the burn of a sudden physical hunger, he knew that he’d been lying to himself.

      He hadn’t forgotten. Not the passion that had consumed them or the sense of homecoming that had come over him when she’d put her arms around him.

      Or the fury when he’d woken up two days later, alone. His bed empty. His sheets cold.

      The fury hit him again now, a hard punch to his gut, twisting with the hunger to become something so intense and volatile he could hardly breathe through it.

      Four years, he’d dreamed of her. Four years, he’d woken up hard and aching, wanting something that all the money in the world couldn’t buy him.

      Something that only she had been able to give him.

      He hadn’t gone looking for her; he’d been too proud, telling himself that one woman would do as well as any other, but that was a lie and he knew it.

      And now here she was, years later and thousands of miles from their island, standing in the doorway of an Englishman’s drawing room and staring at him as if what was happening to him was happening to her too.

      What was she doing here? Where had she been?

      He’d taken one unconscious step towards her when the child turned around suddenly and said, ‘Mummy.’ And launched himself towards the doorway, running to her and wrapping his arms around her legs.

      Enzo stopped dead as another punch of shock hit him.

       Mummy.

      The woman—Summer, she’d told him her name was—put her hand on the boy’s head, but that smoky-grey gaze remained pinned to Enzo’s. As if she couldn’t look away.

      That was St George’s child wrapping his arms around her legs. St George’s child, calling her ‘Mummy’. Which meant...

       She’s St George’s wife.

      The shock got wider, deeper, spreading out inside him.

      It shouldn’t matter who she was. It shouldn’t mean a thing. He shouldn’t care, not after all this time.

      He hadn’t wanted to visit Dante’s resort anyway. He’d just lost his first attempt at buying Isola Sacra after someone had bought it from under him, and the very last thing he’d felt like doing was checking up on a potential management issue on Dante’s behalf.

      But his brother hadn’t been able to do it himself because of various commitments and Enzo was control-freak enough not to want to leave it to someone else.

      He’d hated it the moment he’d got off the plane. There had been something about the dense tropical air and the brilliant blue of the sea that had crawled beneath his skin and unsettled him. Made him remember the land he’d come from and the home he hadn’t been able to forget.

      He’d stood underneath the palms, listening to the resort manager catalogue the problems the resort had been having, sweating in his custom-made suit, his hand-made leather shoes full of sand, restless and impatient to be home.

      And then he’d seen her, a pale, curvy woman in a bright-red bikini that somehow matched her hair. She was on her way to the pool, a towel around her shoulders and a book in one hand, and she’d glanced at him as she’d walked past. She’d had the body of a fifties pin-up and a mouth made for sin, and it had curved as her gaze had met his. And that in itself had caught him by the throat.

      Because people didn’t look him in the eye—they were too afraid of him. But she had. In fact, there had even been a certain amusement in her gaze, as if she hadn’t seen the icy, powerful CEO that everyone else saw. The ruthless king of business he’d turned himself into.

      It was as if she’d seen the man he was underneath instead.

      It had suddenly made his trousers feel two sizes too tight.

      He hadn’t thought twice about breaking off his conversation with the resort manager and following her to the pool.

      She’d already settled herself on the lounger and, when he’d approached her, she’d given him a cool look from over the top of her book.

      It hadn’t remained cool for long.

      Electricity had crackled in the air as their eyes had met and an hour later he’d been in her villa, his suit on the floor along with her bikini.

      He’d had her against the wall that first time, fast and hard, no time for niceties. There had only been desperation for them both. She’d gasped as he’d pushed inside her, and she’d felt so hot and tight, her silky thighs wrapped around his waist. Incredible. Her eyes had gone dark as they’d met his, and there had been no fear in them whatsoever. Only wonder. As if she’d never seen anything like him before in her entire life. Nothing had ever turned him on more. And then that wonder had fractured into pleasure as he’d begun to move inside her, driving her against the wall, driving them both into insanity...

      Two days they’d had. Two days when he’d touched and tasted every inch of her, when he’d held her in his arms and shared things he’d never shared with another person before; had given her pieces of his soul that he’d never shared with anyone else.

      And he’d thought that maybe he’d been mistaken when he’d thought home could be a place. That, maybe, home could be a person too.

      Until she’d left him without a word.

      No, it shouldn’t matter. She shouldn’t matter.

      ‘Matilda?’ St George finally ended his conversation with the woman to whom he’d been talking, his craggy face turning puzzled. ‘Is there anything wrong?’

      And the redhead—his Summer—finally tore her gaze from his to look at St George. ‘N-no,’ she said in that familiar smoky voice, the one that had turned husky when he’d been deep inside her. Or when his mouth had been between her thighs. Or when his hands had cupped her breasts, her skin silky against his palms. ‘Simon woke up and got out of bed.’ She bent and scooped the little boy up into her arms. ‘I think he wandered in here by mistake.’

      Matilda. Her name was Matilda. And she was St George’s wife.

      Enzo stood there, frozen, as St George came over to her and bent to the boy in her arms, murmuring something to him. The child turned his head to his father, but for a second looked over St George’s shoulder, his bright golden gaze meeting Enzo’s.

      And realisation hit Enzo like a skyscraper falling.

      Matilda St George was Summer, the island fling whose ghost had haunted him for four long, lonely years.

      And really, even apart from the timing, there was only one way a child could have eyes that colour.

      Enzo’s fist tightened on his tumbler and a crack ran down the side of the glass.

      That boy wasn’t St George’s.

      That boy was his.

      * * *

      Matilda held Simon tightly as Henry murmured to him, her heart beating so fast and so loud she couldn’t hear anything else.

      She’d made a mistake. She’d made a terrible mistake.

      She’d thought she’d been so clever, making sure she’d avoided him the whole weekend—going on a couple of day trips and then in the