Demanding His Hidden Heir. Jackie Ashenden

had only been tonight to get through and she’d been congratulating herself on how well that had worked out, Simon in bed early and herself curled up in bed too, watching a movie and eating ice-cream.

      Forgetting all about the one guest she must avoid at all costs.

      And then Simon had woken up and, because he liked people very much, the sounds coming from the drawing room had been irresistible.

      Too concerned with finding her son, Matilda hadn’t noticed the man in the corner at first. She’d given the room a quick scan, spotted nothing and had taken a step further into it before she’d recognised the crackle of electricity that had suddenly hummed over her skin.

      A horribly familiar electricity.

      So she’d stopped. And she’d looked. And there he’d been, standing near the sofa. So impossible to miss, she wondered how she hadn’t seen him the first time.

      Impossibly tall, impossibly broad. Radiating the same fierce, kinetic energy she remembered from years ago, all impatience, restlessness and heat.

      He was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit of dark charcoal and his ink-black hair was cut ruthlessly short, highlighting those aristocratic cheekbones and the strong, sharp line of his jaw, the long blade of his nose and the carved sensuality of his mouth. A beautiful face, intensely compelling. Predatory, fierce and utterly unforgettable.

      But it was his eyes that had caught her, held her. Making her freeze in place right where she’d stood.

      Bright, burning gold. Like the tropical sun on an island years ago and full of the same searing heat.

      Now a shudder coursed through her, a fire inside her that had long been cold suddenly bursting into flame. And, helplessly, she found herself glancing at him again, just to be sure it was actually him. As if the instant response of her body hadn’t been enough.

      But his attention wasn’t on her this time. He was looking at Simon. And she had one second to think that perhaps he wouldn’t notice the colour of her son’s eyes, then his gaze lifted to hers once more.

      And the weight of his fury descended on her.

       He knows.

      Henry was still talking but Matilda had long since ceased to listen. The fight or flight response had kicked in and all she could think about was getting out of the drawing room and away from the man she could still feel staring at her.

      The man with whom she’d spent two intoxicating days.

      The man from whom she’d run without even a goodbye.

      The man who’d fathered the boy she held in her arms.

      She felt strangely hot and cold at the same time, a bit sick too, and it was all she could do not to jerk away from Henry and run from the room there and then. But he wasn’t one for public fusses so she stayed until he’d soothed Simon. Then, before he could do anything else, such as introduce her to his guests, she took her son and fled.

      Back upstairs, Matilda tried to calm her frantically beating heart and attempted not to think about the man and the fury in his golden eyes. About how he’d taken a step towards her and how he’d stopped dead as Simon had run to her.

      And most especially she tried not to think about that flare of heat deep inside her the moment his gaze had met hers, or the ache that had gripped her, an ache she’d tried all these years to forget in an attempt to put it behind her.

      A futile attempt, as it turned out.

      She put Simon back into his bed and tucked him in, singing him one of the lullabies he used to like as a baby. Then she stroked his back until he drifted off.

      After making sure he was definitely asleep this time, Matilda moved out of his room and shut the door gently. Then she leaned her back against the wall in the hallway outside, put her shaking hands over her face and quietly allowed herself to freak out.

      She’d seen the guest list, obviously, had noticed his name, and she’d idly asked Henry why he’d invited some Italian billionaire to the party. Because the man wanted to buy some island that Henry owned, or something to that effect. Matilda hadn’t really been listening.

      She’d still been struggling with her shock at seeing his name on the list.

      Enzo Cardinali. Billionaire property developer and heir to a kingdom that no longer existed. A cold, ruthless, driven businessman who, along with his brother Dante, had taken Cardinal Construction, a small construction start-up, and turned it into Cardinal Enterprises, a huge multi-national that had expanded beyond building houses and into property development as well as various other industries. Hotels. Real estate. Manufacturing. Technology.

      He was well known in the kind of Fortune 500 circles Henry also moved in, and had a reputation for being an icy force of nature, both feared and respected for the ruthless way he did business. He was a shark, a cold-blooded predator through and through—or at least, that was what the articles she’d read about him all said.

      Not that she’d read a lot of articles. But she did like to keep up with what he was doing every now and then. It always paid to know the direction from which any potential threats might come.

      Except he hadn’t been a threat four years ago on that island. And he’d been neither cold-blooded or ruthless.

      He’d burned like the sun and she, utterly defenceless against a man like him, had burned along with him.

      She gave a little moan, the wall pressing hard against her back, the urge simply to slide down it and sit on the expensive Turkish runner that covered the floor almost overwhelming.

      Why had she thought it wouldn’t be a problem? Why had she believed that she could easily avoid him? Why hadn’t she taken Simon and gone away to visit her aunt and uncle for the weekend? Or gone to London, or basically gone anywhere else?

      But there wasn’t any point thinking about the whys and what ifs. She hadn’t gone anywhere. She’d stayed and he’d seen her. And, worse, he’d seen Simon.

       He knows.

      Of course he did. There was no disguising the colour of her son’s eyes. So different. So unique. So beautiful.

      A family trait, or so Enzo had told her one night as they’d lain curled up on the beach in each other’s arms looking at the stars, and he’d told her about the island kingdom to which he’d once been heir.

      There had been a warmth to him that, after living with her emotionally distant aunt and uncle, had felt like walking into summer after long years of winter. It had been irresistible to her, so intensely attractive, she’d given herself to him without thought.

      She’d been on that island for one last holiday before her official engagement, a gift from Henry, who’d known all along that she hadn’t wanted to marry him but who’d been trying to make it easier for her. Not that she’d known it at the time. All she’d understood was that, if she didn’t marry Henry, her aunt and uncle would lose their beautiful stately home deep in the Devonshire countryside.

      It had been a very English, almost mediaeval arrangement.

      After the death of her parents when she’d been seven, she’d been taken in by her childless uncle and aunt, and although they’d distantly been kind to her she’d never managed to get rid of the feeling that she was only there on sufferance. That they’d been forced to take her.

      So she’d tried to make herself useful. Tried to be no bother. Her uncle didn’t like fusses or distractions, so she’d kept herself quiet and tried to behave herself, not put a foot out of line. She hadn’t wanted them to get rid of her or regret giving her a home.

      And it had all worked very well.

      So well that, when her aunt and uncle had been refused more money by the bank for the upkeep of their house and their family friend Henry St George had stepped in, offering money in return for marriage to Matilda, they’d naturally