The Italian's Baby of Passion: The Italian's Secret Baby / One-Night Baby / The Italian's Secret Child

In June 2010 Mills & Boon bring you

two classic collections, each

featuring three favourite romances

by our bestselling authors

THE ITALIAN’S BABYOF PASSION

The Italian’s Secret Baby by Kim Lawrence One-Night Baby by Susan Stephens The Italian’s Secret Child by Catherine Spencer

THE RIGHT BRIDE?

Bride of Desire by Sara Craven The English Aristocrat’s Bride by Sandra Field Vacancy: Wife of Convenience by Jessica Steele

The Italian’s Baby

of Passion

Kim Lawrence

Susan Stephens

Catherine Spencer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Kim Lawrence lives on a farm in rural Anglesey. She runs two miles daily and finds this an excellent opportunity to unwind and seek inspiration for her writing! It also helps her keep up with her husband, two active sons and the various stray animals which have adopted them. Always a fanatical consumer of fiction, she is now equally enthusiastic about writing. She loves a happy ending!

Don’t miss Kim Lawrence’s exciting new novel,Under the Spaniard’s Lock and Key, available thismonth from Mills & Boon® Modern™.

CHAPTER ONE

‘I THOUGHT you were going to be late,’ his PA said as Roman O’Hagan walked into the empty conference room.

‘I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this, Alice, but you have a very uptight attitude to timekeeping,’ Roman observed, shrugging off his jacket and laying it across the back of a chair. ‘And in case it’s slipped your mind, I’m the boss so I’m allowed to be late.’

Alice, who had worked for him for four years and had no recollection of him ever being late during that time, planted a cup of coffee in front of him on the long polished table.

‘Well, boss, I managed to get us on the four-thirty Dublin flight.’

‘Excellent.’ Swivelling his chair around, Roman stretched his long legs out comfortably in front of him and added with a pained grimace, ‘Which is more than I can say for this coffee! And I use the word in the loosest possible sense.’ He stared down suspiciously at the pale brown liquid in his cup.

‘It’s decaff, and in case it’s slipped your mind making coffee is not part of my job description. I do it simply because I have a nice nature.’

‘I’m a lucky man,’ Roman returned, deadpan.

‘Yes, you are.’ She paused by the door. ‘By the way, your brother rang.’

‘Did he leave a message?’

‘Not for you.’

Roman’s darkly defined brows lifted at the cryptic response. He was as sure as he could be without written proof that his brother, Luca, had a lot to do with the fact his assistant had gone down a dress size during the past couple of months.

It was getting hard to maintain a tactful silence on the subject of his brother not being the marrying kind—Alice was.

‘He said he’d call back.’

The conference call started off really well, but went rapidly downhill once the second speaker came on the line.

How is it possible for anyone to talk for so long and say absolutely nothing?

Roman interrupted the interminable flow. The response was if anything even more rambling. It also cleared up the question of whether this well-paid individual had grasped the problem or done the necessary research—he hadn’t!

Roman listened with a half-smile as the man’s junior managed to bail out his boss without making it obvious that was what he was doing; he also predicted and responded to the two further questions Roman had planned to ask.

Roman wouldn’t forget his name.

‘So you think the European market is ready for a project of this—’ Before he got to complete his question a female voice, a low, husky, very attractive female voice interrupted him.

‘Excuse me, but am I speaking to Mr O’Hagan?’

‘Who is that?’

‘A Mr Roman O’Hagan?’

‘How on earth…? I’m afraid this is a private…’

‘I’m trying to contact a Mr O’Hagan. Could you tell me who I’m speaking to?’

That combination of selective deafness and persistence, even if she did have an extraordinarily sexy voice, was going to get wearing very quickly, Roman decided.

F. O’Hagan and Sons had recently been held up as a shining example of firms that employed a higher number than average of females in top-management-level jobs, but none of them was taking part in this conference call today.

Roman didn’t have the faintest idea who this woman was or how she had turned up smack bang in the middle of a highly sensitive discussion. He doubted if it was worth the bother of finding out.

Who did people blame for cock-ups before the advent of computers?

‘I don’t know how you got on this line…’ Roman stopped. The lazy smile that formed on his wide sensual mouth held more than a hint of self-derision. Could it be, he wondered, that his display of uncharacteristic tolerance might not be totally unconnected with the fact the gatecrasher had a very attractive voice? In his head those smoky, sultry tones were inextricably linked with long legs, seductive lips and long blonde hair.

‘Well, don’t ask me! Perhaps it was your turn to fob me off?’ came the bitter speculation. ‘I’ve been put through to every other blessed person in the building!’

Goodbye sultry seductress, hello schoolteacher. Oh, well, the harmless fantasy had been nice while it lasted.

‘I’ve been fobbed off and made to wait—’

‘Do you mind hanging up? This is a private and confidential discussion.’ Some men might like their women bossy—each to his own, that was his motto—only his own taste didn’t run in that direction.

Unlike his top management people from across Europe who were hanging on every word of this conversation, the woman on the other end of the line didn’t appear to realise that when the head of O’Hagan Construction used this tone the conversation was at an end.

‘I’ve not the slightest interest in your discussion,’ the owner of the husky voice promised him with considerable feeling.

Roman expelled his breath in a hiss of frustrated irritation. He flicked his wrist, exposing the metal banded watch. ‘That’s what all the industrial spies say, however—’

‘Is that meant to be a joke?’ the voice demanded, dropping several degrees below freezing. ‘Because I have to tell you I’m really not in the mood. And I warn you if I have to listen to “The Blue Danube” one more time I shall not be responsible for the consequences,’ she warned darkly. ‘Do you want a gibbering female running naked through town on your conscience—?’

‘It would depend on the female—’

‘I’m so glad you find this amusing.’

‘Do you ever let anyone finish what they’re attempting to say?’

‘For heaven’s sake, I’m not asking for a personal audience with the Pope, I just want to speak to Mr O’Hagan.’

Roman leaned his head into his hands. ‘Obviously she doesn’t—’

‘I think it’s extremely bad manners to speak about someone in the third person when they…me…I can hear every word you’re saying! As I’ve already explained to umpteen people, this really is important.’

Roman’s lips twisted in a cynical grimace. Hands clasped behind his head, he leaned back into his upholstered leather chair.

‘I’d be surprised if it wasn’t,’ he observed drily.

The people who wanted to speak to him inevitably considered what they had to say was important. Ninety per cent of them wanted to make him a fortune; all they needed was just a bit of his own money to get their schemes up and running. Very few of these cranks got to tell him about their projects in person because as a rule his calls were screened.

This was one of the concessions he’d been forced to make to security after he’d badly misjudged a situation. He’d turned up at the office one morning to find his stalker—a mild middle-aged woman whom he, in his wisdom, had considered sad, not dangerous—had already been there complete with kitchen knife delusions and a hostage in the shape of his terrified PA.

Alice still had the scar. Unconsciously his hand went to his face. Fortunately you couldn’t see hers, but his own reminded him of his poor judgement every time he looked in the mirror.

‘Alice,’ he yelled, swivelling his chair around and positioning it to face the open door, ‘I’ve got a damned crank on this line, can you do something about it?’

‘I’m not a crank!’ The disembodied voice filled the room with husky outrage.

‘Fair enough,’ he drawled. ‘However, you are on a private line so hang up! If you have a message there are channels you can go through.’

‘Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve said? I don’t have time for channels. Has anyone ever told you that you’re an extremely rude man?’

‘This has been said, but rarely to my face.’

‘Very ironic,’ came the blighting response. ‘But I’m not talking to your face. If I was I might be able…listen, are you Mr O’Hagan?’

‘I am Roman O’Hagan. If you’re not going to hang up, do you think you might get round some time in the next hour to telling me who the hell you are? If only so that I can make sure you never have an opportunity to harangue me in the future.’

This threat produced an audible sigh at the other end. ‘Well, I do think you might have said so straight away instead of wasting my time.’

‘Wasting your time…?’ Roman hoped his silent and invisible executives would stay quiet.

‘My name is Scarlet Smith.’

Scarlet…Roman found he was thinking long legs again and, definitely, blonde hair. Not that any amount of hair or legs would make the woman who had this runaway mouth someone he’d ask for a second date…or even a first!

‘I manage the crèche at the university.’

So he’d been halfway right with schoolteacher.

‘Your mother is officially opening it today.’

‘My mother is in Rome.’ Roman stopped, having a vague recollection, now that he thought about it, of his mother having mentioned she was interrupting her holiday with her family to fly back and fulfil some commitment…it could well have been this one.

‘No, she’s in my office, and I’m afraid she isn’t very well.’

Roman levered his long-limbed frame into an upright position, his languid air vanishing. ‘What’s happened?’

‘I don’t mean to alarm you—’

‘Well, you are, so get to the point,’ he advised tersely.

‘Your mother fainted a little while ago. She seems better now.’

His mother didn’t faint. ‘What does the doctor say?’ Roman asked, settling his loose Italian-designed jacket smoothly across his broad shoulders.

‘She hasn’t seen a doctor.’

Roman picked up on the defensive note that had entered the attractive voice and his brows drew together in a disapproving straight line.

‘Why the hell not?’ he demanded. ‘I need the car,’ he added seamlessly as he turned to his attentively hovering PA, who, like all good assistants, knew when to say nothing. ‘And cancel all my appointments for the rest of the morning, then tell Phil to meet me at the university.’

‘Our flight…?’

‘Cancel.’

‘What if Dr O’Connor is busy—?’

Roman turned his head and looked at her; Alice took the hint.

‘Right, I’ll tell him to drop everything, though that might be hard if he’s in the middle of heart surgery.’

‘He’s a medical man; he doesn’t operate,’ Roman retorted. ‘Just explain to him what’s happened, Alice, and tell him to bring his bag.’

‘Your mother wouldn’t let me call a doctor or an ambulance.’

Roman turned around as if to face the bleating voice. ‘Let you? She was unconscious,’ he derided scornfully.

‘For less than a minute.’

Roman knew when he heard someone covering their back; there was nothing he despised more. He came down hard on people who preferred to shift the blame because they lacked the guts to carry the can for their own mistakes.

‘Let me tell you, Miss Smith, if my mother suffers a broken fingernail that could have been avoided if you had called for medical assistance I’ll sue the pants off you and your university!’ he promised darkly before cutting her off.

His PA was unable to remain silent. ‘Really, you can be so mean!’

‘What is this? Sisterly solidarity?’

‘I don’t think you realise how much you terrify people,’ she reproved, shaking her head.

‘No, Alice, I know exactly how much I terrify people.’ He gave a white wolfish smile. ‘It’s the secret behind my success.’

‘Nonsense,’ returned Alice. ‘The secret of your success is you live for your work and don’t have a life,’ she observed disapprovingly. ‘You lack balance.’

‘A little more terror, Alice, and a little less lip would be appreciated,’ Roman drawled.

‘That poor girl is probably crying her eyes out.’

‘Pardon me but I don’t empathise with incompetence, especially when that incompetence puts my family in danger,’ he explained grimly.

Contrary to Alice’s prediction, the ‘poor girl’ in question was neither terrified nor crying. She was walking down a university corridor where people who would normally have called out a cheery greeting took one look at her usually sunny face and changed their minds.

Others stared curiously when she walked past practising out loud—the acoustics were excellent—one of the cutting home truths she would like to deliver personally to Mr Roman O’Hagan.

‘Get to the point,’ he’d said. What did he think she’d been trying to do while he’d been cracking jokes at her expense?

Of course she should have called for an ambulance, she knew that—did he think she didn’t know that?

David Anderson, the university’s vice-chancellor, looked incredibly relieved as she walked through the door.

‘I thought you were only going to be a second, Scarlet?’ he said, drawing her a little to one side and out of earshot of the pale-faced woman sitting in the chair.

‘How is she?’ Scarlet asked, responding to his hand signals to keep her voice low.

‘Better than she was, I think. She wants me to ask her driver to bring her car around.’

‘I wouldn’t bother, David; her son is on his way over,’ she revealed casually.

On the whole, and considering how stressed David was already, Scarlet didn’t see much point explaining that the millionaire property developer in question was in a very vengeful and litigious mood.

Obviously threats were part and parcel of Roman O’Hagan’s modus operandi. Scarlet knew the type; she had suffered in silence at the hands of bullies during a lot of her school years. Years of unhappiness that she could have been spared if she had realised earlier that all you had to do with a bully was show them you weren’t scared—even if you were!

It hadn’t been bravery in her last year at school that had made her turn around and tell her gang of tormentors exactly what she thought of them, it had been simply a matter of reaching the end of her tether.

The experience had left Scarlet with a loathing of bullies and a determination to never again put herself in the role of victim. Every time she replayed the phone conversation in her head she felt her anger rising. How dared he threaten her? It wasn’t just what he had said, it was the way he had said it.

And that voice; she recalled the inexplicable reaction she had had to the low drawl. Incredibly it had actually produced a physical response. She had reacted to it like a cat whose fur had been stroked the wrong way, her skin literally prickling in an uncomfortable way.

He had the sort of voice that could make an eviction notice sound sexy.

The vice-chancellor shot her a look of annoyed disbelief, which she pretended not to notice.

‘You called Roman O’Hagan after she specifically asked you not to?’ He groaned.

‘Did she?’

‘I know she did, Scarlet, because I was there at the time and I heard what she said, not once, but twice.’

‘So maybe she did,’ Scarlet conceded. ‘But she also specifically asked us not to call a medic or ambulance,’ she reminded him. ‘And I thought that was wrong too.’

‘She’s a very important woman; we can’t go around ignoring her wishes.’

‘You didn’t; I did.’

David looked somewhat mollified by this reminder. ‘That’s true.’

‘Just call me Scarlet the scapegoat,’ she suggested cheerfully.

David shot her a reproachful look from under his halfmoon specs. ‘I’ll just go and organise someone to meet Mr O’Hagan.’

A three-man job at least, Scarlet mused scornfully: one person to grovel, another to sprinkle rose petals in his path and, last but not least, one to stroke the guy’s massive ego. She for one didn’t envy anyone the task of being nice to him. Even allowing for his concern over his mother, the mega-rich playboy had come across as a nasty bully of a man. Being rich, in her view, did not give anyone carte blanche to be rude.

‘Where’s a spare red carpet when you need one?’

David shot her a wary look. ‘I hope you weren’t rude to him.’

Scarlet adopted a puzzled expression, her eyes wide and innocent.

‘Don’t look at me like that, Scarlet, it worries me. I’ve known you since you were six years old,’ he reminded her drily.

‘Why would I be rude to the man? I rang to tell him his mother wasn’t well.’

‘Hummph.’ David left her with a firm admonition not to take any further unilateral decisions if she wanted to keep her job.

‘Are you feeling any better?’ Scarlet asked, approaching the slim, elegant figure who was dressed in a soft apricot suit that hinted tastefully at a good cleavage.

‘Much better, thank you,’ Natalia O’Hagan replied in her soft, attractive Italian accent.

She didn’t look nearly old enough to have a son the age of Roman O’Hagan.

Unless he had begun his infamous playboy lifestyle when he was still at school he had to be in his early thirties at least to have fitted in all the beautiful women who had reputedly enjoyed his admiration. As aloof and arrogant as he was widely reported to be, he was rarely photographed without some lush beauty gazing adoringly up into his face.

Scarlet smiled at Natalia. She had taken to the older woman immediately. Unlike her son she came across as a warm, genuine woman with no airs and graces. Just thinking about the vile son with his hateful, sarcastic drawl sent a shudder of antipathy down Scarlet’s spine.

Maybe Roman O’Hagan had inherited his arrogance from the paternal side of the equation. It was quite a combination of genes, Italian and Irish, Scarlet reflected, and on the evidence so far she’d say the result of that fusion had produced a person who lacked the charm of the Irish and the charisma of the Italians.

Despite her reassurance as she lifted the glass of water, there was a visible tremor in the older woman’s hand.

‘Let me,’ Scarlet said, taking the glass from her and placing it back on her own desk.

On closer inspection she could see that the scary bluish tinge had receded from around the older woman’s lips. This was good news, but despite these small signs of improvement the woman still looked far from well.

‘Can I get you anything else?’

Natalia O’Hagan lifted her head, her lips formed a weak smile, but she didn’t appear able to respond to the question.

Scarlet’s anxiety increased. She privately called herself every sort of weak idiot for not having stood her ground in the first place and rung for a doctor straight off as she’d wanted.

In that at least her wretched son had been right.

She could have insisted, but when the university bigwigs, who had tagged along with David for the official opening ceremony of the crèche, had overruled her, what had she done? She’d meekly rolled over.

As far as the powers that be were concerned they weren’t going to risk upsetting the woman whose generous donation had been responsible for the refurbishment and extension of the crèche facilities, not to mention the new state-of-the art IT building. And Natalia O’Hagan had managed to make it quite clear despite her weak condition, that she did not want a doctor.

That was fine and their call to make, but where were they now, those men and women in suits who knew better? Their absence from the vicinity was pretty conspicuous.

Scarlet had only been half joking when she’d called herself a scapegoat. If anything went wrong it wasn’t difficult to figure out who would be left to carry the can, especially if Roman O’Hagan had anything to do with it. She couldn’t see the men and women in suits leaping up to take responsibility.

‘Won’t you let me get someone down from Occupational Health, at least—?’ Scarlet began, only to be cut off by an impatient, slightly imperious nod of the smooth dark head.

‘You sound just like my sons.’

Scarlet had no control over the expression of horror that spread across her face. ‘Me?’

‘You know, I consider myself a lucky woman,’ Natalia revealed. ‘Two sons who I love dearly, and they are so good to me. But,’ she explained with a shake of her head, ‘they are both ridiculously overprotective. Roman is possibly the worst.

‘He has a terrible habit of thinking he knows what is best,’ Natalia continued ruefully. ‘If I’d let him he’d run my life, I swear he would.’

‘You have to stand up to him!’

Natalia’s delicate brow lifted at the heat of Scarlet’s stern declaration.

Scarlet coloured self-consciously and forced her expression to relax. ‘I suppose it’s a son’s job to be protective of his mother. I expect mine will one day,’ she added lightly.

‘You have a son?’ Liquid dark eyes scanned Scarlet’s slim figure. She was wearing her usual work garb, jeans and one of the bright child-friendly tee shirts all the helpers in the crèche wore. It had been suggested that, as the manager of the centre, she ought to wear something more in fitting with her management role, but Scarlet, a hands-on sort of manager, had stuck to her guns and her tee shirt.

‘Goodness, you look so young, or maybe that’s just me getting old.’

‘You’re not old.’

‘When I look at those little ones I feel…’ She suddenly went very still as she looked through the plate-glass partition to the room beyond. It should have been empty; the children were enjoying the party on the lawn. ‘That child—what is his name?’

It was a casual enough question, but casual in Scarlet’s experience didn’t equate with the lines of tension bracketing the older woman’s soft mouth or the tortured twisting of the hands clasped in her lap.

‘Which one? We’ve got quite a few here. Should you lie down, perhaps…?’ she suggested tentatively. ‘If you’re not feeling well?’

‘I’m feeling fine.’ The strained smile she produced to prove the point did nothing to soothe Scarlet’s fears. ‘The little boy I’m talking about is the one who gave me the flowers? The one sitting there.’