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Their desire haunts him…
Will her revelation reunite them?
Billionaire Pascal prides himself on his rigid control. So it infuriates him beyond belief that he can’t forget Cecilia, the sweet and innocent woman who saved his life…or the forbidden passion they shared. This Christmas, he’s determined to forget her—until they suddenly come face-to-face!
Seeing Pascal again blindsides Cecilia. She gave him more than her innocence during their explosive encounter—she gave him a piece of her heart. Their still-searing chemistry is startling! As is Cecilia’s stunning baby secret…
USA TODAY bestselling and RITA® Award–nominated author CAITLIN CREWS loves writing romance. She teaches her favourite romance novels in creative writing classes at places like UCLA Extension’s prestigious Writers’ Programme, where she finally gets to utilise the MA and PhD in English Literature she received from the University of York in England. She currently lives in the Pacific Northwest, with her very own hero and too many pets. Visit her at caitlincrews.com.
Also by Caitlin Crews
Bride by Royal Decree
Undone by the Billionaire Duke
A Baby to Bind His Bride
Imprisoned by the Greek’s Ring
My Bought Virgin Wife
Bound to the Desert King collection
Sheikh’s Secret Love-Child
Scandalous Royal Brides miniseries
The Prince’s Nine-Month Scandal
The Billionaire’s Secret Princess
Stolen Brides collection
The Bride’s Baby of Shame
The Combe Family Scandals miniseries
The Italian’s Twin Consequences
Untamed Billionaire’s Innocent Bride
His Two Royal Secrets
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.
Unwrapping the Innocent’s Secret
Caitlin Crews
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ISBN: 978-1-474-08840-4
UNWRAPPING THE INNOCENT’S SECRET
© 2019 Caitlin Crews
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk
Version: 2020-03-02
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Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
Extract
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
“I BEG YOUR PARDON, sir,” his secretary said in the pointedly diffident way that always managed to convey the full range of his feelings.
Pascal Furlani shared them.
And he was not a man who ordinarilyf accepted the existence of feelings, unless they suited him. Or benefited him in some way.
“I have taken the liberty of compiling yet another slate of candidates,” Guglielmo continued in that same tone, because he was not the sort of secretary who was afraid to share his opinions, feelings, or thoughts, however he might dress them up. “As the last several met with disfavor.”
There was a dig in that, Pascal knew. He stood, not at the window that looked out over one of Rome’s wealthiest neighborhoods, but at the glass partition that separated him from the rest of his sleek, modern office. It was the perfect antidote to the fussiness and great weight of Roman history everywhere else in the city.
Pascal knew too well what the three-thousand-year-old city looked like, from its forgotten streets to its most renowned piazzas. He knew how it felt to grow up rough and ignored in the shadow of the ruins of former great glories. And what life in this city had made him, the cast-off bastard son of a man who acknowledged only his legitimate issue and turned his back entirely on his mistakes.
He had earned every inch of the sweeping views his office commanded, but he was far prouder of what he’d done inside the walls of The Furlani Company.
Pascal had considered it a decent start when his personal wealth exceeded not only that of his father, but of all his father’s legitimate children, too. Combined. He’d achieved that milestone in the first year after the accident.
The accident.
Pascal’s lips thinned in inevitable displeasure as his mind tugged him back to the period of his life he most wanted to forget. The one stretch of his life where he’d lost focus. Where he’d come this close to forgetting himself completely.
He would never forget that his father had thrown him away like so much trash. He refused to forgive it. He did not hunger for revenge, necessarily—he wanted his life to be its own reckoning. Pascal chose to dominate from afar and show his father precisely as much interest as had been shown to him. And he had not wavered in this purpose since he’d been a small boy—save for that one regrettable winter.
It was not every man who could say that his rise from the ashes was not metaphoric, but entirely literal. The way they always did, Pascal’s fingers found the grooves on his jaw that told the tale of the car crash that had left him scarred forever.
He quite liked them. The scars reminded him who he was and where he’d been, and how close he’d come to walking away from his purpose and ambition for what was, in the end, such a small temptation.
Not that his memories of that time were…small, exactly.
Nonetheless, the office reminded him where he was going. What he’d built with his own hands and force of will. It reinforced his goals. All of them sleek, moneyed, and each a pointed jab at the father who had never claimed him and the memory of a lost mother who had left him to his fate with no more than a shrug.
He had no intention of forgetting every last moment of how he’d come to be here.
“If you’ll turn your attention to your tablet, sir,” came his secretary’s voice, excessively placid. Its own pointed jab, as usual. “I have arranged a selection of heiresses for your viewing pleasure, ordered in terms of their social standing.”
Pascal turned away from his offices, all that granite and steel that he found so comforting here in the middle of ancient Rome. The building was filled to bursting with his vision. His money. His people acting to bring his dreams to fruition.
It was time for him to take the next step and find a wife.
Whether Pascal wanted to be married had little to do with it. A wife would make him look more stable, more settled, which some of the more conservative accounts preferred. A wife would conceivably keep him out of the tabloids, which his board would certainly prefer. And a wife would give Pascal legitimate heirs to his fortune and power.
Pascal would die before he consigned a child of his to the things he’d suffered, first and foremost being the lack of his father’s name.
In addition, getting married would put an end to the mutterings of his board. That Pascal, as a single man with healthy appetites, was an embarrassment to his own company. That Pascal was somehow less trustworthy than other CEOs, imbued as they all were with wives and children, all legitimate and legal.
No one ever mentioned the mistresses and unclaimed bastards on the side, of course. No one ever did.
Pascal dropped his hand from his jaw. Something about his scars—which he knew were faded now to white instead of the angry red they’d been at first—was making him maudlin today.
Welcome to December, a voice inside him said. Snidely.
He knew what time of year it was. And why his thoughts kept returning to the crash and the flames that had very nearly been the end of him. But he had no intention of celebrating that anniversary. He never did.
He eyed his secretary, waiting with obvious impatience, instead.
“What makes you think that this collection of desperate, grasping socialites will be more appealing than the last?” he asked.
“Are we looking for appealing, sir? I’m not sure I had that on my list. I was looking more for suitable.”
Pascal was sure he saw the hint of a smirk on his secretary’s face, though the other man knew better than to succumb in full.
“Careful, Guglielmo,” he murmured. “Or I may begin to suspect that you do not take this enterprise as seriously as you should.”
He walked back to his desk, a massive slab of granite that looked like what it was. A throne and a monument to Pascal’s hard-won power and influence. Guglielmo gestured toward the tablet computer that lay in the center, and Pascal checked a sigh as he picked it up and scrolled through the offerings.
Lady this, daughter of Somebody Pedigreed, the toast of this or that finishing school. The daughter of a Chinese philanthropist. Two French girls from separate families that were connected—somewhere back in the deep, dark, tangled roots of their family trees—to ancient kings and queens. An Argentinian heiress, raised on cattle money halfway across the world.
They were all beautiful, in their way. If not classically so, then polished to shine. They were all accomplished, in one way or another. One ran her own charity. One performed the flute with a world-renowned orchestra. Another spent the bulk of her time on humanitarian missions. And not one of them had ever been mentioned in a tabloid newspaper.
Pascal refused to consider anyone with a whiff of paparazzi interest about them or near them, like the California wine heiress who was herself marvelously spotless, but had been best friends since boarding school with a celebrity whose life played out in headlines across the globe. No, thank you. He wanted no scandals. No dark secrets, poised to emerge at the worst possible time. No secrets at all, come to that.
Pascal was a scandal. His whole life had been first a secret, then a shock, trumpeted in headlines of its own. His tawdry, illegitimate birth and his shipping magnate father’s steadfast refusal to acknowledge his existence throughout his life might as well have been another set of scars on the other side of his face. He had always felt marked by the circumstances of his birth, his parents’ poor choices.
He would always be marked by these things.
His wife, accordingly, had to be without stain.
“You do not look pleased, sir,” Guglielmo said drily. “Yet again. I fear I must remind you that an unblemished heiress of reasonable social standing is, in fact, a finite resource. One we may have exhausted.” He inclined his head slightly when Pascal glared at him. “Sir.”
“I’m meeting with the last of the previous selection of possibilities tonight,” Pascal reminded him.
“I made the reservation myself, sir. Moments after you informed me that the meeting you’d had with another woman on that list was, in your words, appalling beyond reason.”
“She did not resemble her photograph,” Pascal said darkly.
“Sadly, that is part and parcel of the digital dating culture we all now—”
“Guglielmo. She was a sweet-looking, conservatively dressed blonde in the pictures you showed me. She showed up with a blue and pink Mohawk and a sleeve of tattoos. I liked her more that way, if I am honest, but I can hardly parade a punk rock princess in front of my board. If I could, I would.”
“The woman you’re meeting tonight has a robust social media presence and absolutely no hint of punk rock about her,” Guglielmo replied blandly. “I checked myself.”
Pascal found his fingers on his scars again. “Perhaps I will be swept away tonight and all of this will prove unnecessary.”
“Hope springs eternal,” Guglielmo murmured.
After Pascal dismissed him, he didn’t launch himself into one of the numerous tasks awaiting his attention. He could see his emails piling up. His message light was blinking. But instead of handling them he found himself sitting at his desk, scowling out at the physical evidence of the empire he’d built. Brick by bloody brick.
Because once again, the only thing in his head was her.
His angel of mercy. His greatest temptation.
The woman who had nearly wrecked him before he’d begun.
It is December, he reminded himself. This is always how it feels in December. Come the New Year she will fade again, the way she always does.
His phone rang, snapping him back to reality and far away from that godforsaken northern village in a forgotten valley in the Dolomites. Where he had crashed and burned—literally.
And she had nursed him back to life.
Then had haunted him ever since, for his sins.
Tonight, he vowed as he turned his attention to the tasks awaiting him, he would leave the past where it belonged, and concentrate on the next bright part of his glorious future.
“I think it’s important to set very clear boundaries from the start,” his date informed him much later that evening. She had arrived late, clearly full of herself in her role as a minor member of the Danish nobility. She had swept into one of the most exclusive restaurants in Rome with her nose in the air, as if Pascal had suggested she meet him at one of those sticky, plastic American fast food restaurants. Her expression had not improved over the course of their initial drinks. “Obviously, the point of any merger is to secure the line.”
“The line?”
“I am prepared to commit to an heir and a spare,” she told him loftily. “To be commenced and completed within a four-year period. And I think it’s best to agree, up front and in writing, that the production of any progeny should be conducted under controlled circumstances.”
Pascal was sure he’d had more romantic conversations on industrial sites.
“Is it a production line?” he asked, his voice dry. “A factory of some kind?”
“I already have an excellent fertility specialist, discreet and capable, who can ensure to everyone’s satisfaction and all legalities that the correct DNA carries on into the next generation.”
Pascal blinked at that. He had had simpering dinners. Overtly sexual ones. Direct, frank approaches. But this was new. It all seemed so…mechanical.
“You are staring at me as if I’ve said something astonishing,” his date said.
“I beg your pardon.” Pascal attempted to smile, though he wasn’t sure when or if he’d ever felt less charming. “Are you suggesting that we concoct offspring in a laboratory? Rather than go about making them in the more time-honored fashion, favored as it has been for a great many eons already?”
“This is a business arrangement,” his chilly date replied, looking, if possible, more severe than before. “I expect you will find your release elsewhere, as will I. Discreetly, of course. I do not hold with scandal.”
“Nothing is less scandalous than a sexless marriage, naturally.”
A faint suggestion of a line appeared between her perfectly shaped brows. “There’s no need to muddy a perfectly functional marriage with that sort of thing, surely.”
“You’ve thought of everything,” he replied.
And later, after he had left his date with a curt nod and an insincere promise to have his people contact her, Pascal waved off his driver and walked instead.
Because Rome was its own reward. The city of his birth and his poverty-stricken childhood. The city where he had become a man, by his own estimation, then joined the military to give himself what his mother couldn’t and his father would never. Discipline. A life. Even a career. It had seemed such an elegant solution.
Until that night six years ago when he’d followed a reckless whim, on a moody December night very much like this one. It had been raining in Rome. He’d hoped that meant it was snowing in the Dolomites, on the edge of the Alps, and had decided he might as well drive himself up north and learn how to ski.
He laughed a bit at that as he moved through Piazza Navona and its annual Christmas Market that made the crowded square even more filled and frenetic. He dodged the usual stream of tourists and his own countrymen, taking in the night air and already surrendering to the pollution of Christmas that would invade everything until the Epiphany, then thankfully disappear into the clarity of the New Year.
The night was cold and leaning toward dampness. It was the perfect sort of weather to ask himself how he’d ended up with the coldest, most clinical woman imaginable tonight. Was that really what he was reduced to? A laboratory experiment masquerading as a marriage?
He knew he needed to marry, but somehow, he had imagined it would be…less cold-blooded. Warmer. Or cordial, at the very least.
And he wanted to make his babies his own damned self. More than that, he had no intention of following in his father’s footsteps in any regard. Once he married, Pascal had no intention of cheating. He was not planning to have “arrangements” on the side. He wasn’t planning on having an on the side, for that matter.
He had no intention of creating another woman like his mother, so fragile and so lost she couldn’t take care of her own son. And he would never, ever risk the possibility that he might create an illegitimate child of his own.
The very idea made him sick.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he knew it was Guglielmo, checking in the way he always did after these excruciating “dates” that were little more than vetting sessions. Because Pascal persisted in imagining that he could cut through all the nonsense, ask for exactly what he wanted and then get it. It had worked in business, why not in marriage?
Pascal didn’t answer the call.
There were a million more things that required his attention, but he couldn’t face them just yet. Instead, he lost himself in the chaotic embrace of the Eternal City. Rome was a monument, yet Rome was ever-changing. Rome was a contradiction. Rome was where Pascal felt alive. It was the place where he had grown to understand that his very existence was an affront to some, and it was where he finally figured out how to claim that existence and make sense of it.
Walking through Rome had always soothed him. And kept him alive, some dark years. Long nights with his feet, his thoughts and the grand Roman sprawl had made him whole, time and time again.
So there was no reason at all that he should be caught up in memories of a tiny, sleepy village with steep mountains all around and very few people, where he had never been anything but broken.
He stopped by a fountain in a forgotten courtyard, steps from the roar of a busy road. The water tumbled from the pursed lips of an old god made stone, and in the dark, he almost believed he could see her reflection there in the water the way he always did in his head.
Sweet Cecilia, half nurse and half angel. A woman so lovely and so innocent that he had nearly betrayed every vow he’d ever made to himself and stayed up there in all that towering silence.
The very notion was absurd. He was Pascal Furlani. Not for him the pastoral delights, such as they were, of a remote mountain village of interest to absolutely no one unless they happened to either have been there for centuries or were a part of the quiet abbey that had also been there, in one form or another, since right about the dawn of time. Not for him a life forgotten and tucked away like that, out of sight.
She would have taken her vows by now, Pascal assumed, and become a full nun like the others in the order. Or perhaps his last, half-dreamt night there had been her fall from grace. Would she have stayed? Taken her place outside the abbey walls? Perhaps she lived in the village proper now, or off in the fields that dotted the hillsides with some or other farmer. She would be settled now, one way or the other. Committed to her Lord or married to some man, and unrecognizable.
Just as he was.
Pascal was not haunted by the specter of his childhood. He had lived through it, transcended it and moved on. He had mourned his mother’s death, then buried her with greater reverence than she had ever shown him. He rarely thought of his father these days, preferring to decimate the old man and his penny-tante shipping concern from afar.
Pascal did not look back. Ever.
Unless it was to her. Cecilia.
His personal ghost.
“Enough,” he muttered. He pulled a coin from his pocket, then flipped it to the air, watching as it tumbled into the water before him. He had made his last reckless decision the night he’d chosen to drive like a maniac up into those mountains in search of one of Italy’s many ski resorts. He had been on leave from the army and the idea—or some demon—had seized him, which in those days was all Pascal needed. That and a bottle of something strong.