His vengeance was strictly business...

Until he discovers she’s carrying his heir!

Antonio Herrera’s plan is simple: persuade innocent Amelia diSalvo to sell the shares in his rival’s business. But what the Spanish billionaire didn’t plan on was their intense connection. Now Antonio has only one aim...the ultimate seduction! So he’s stunned to discover their nine-month consequence. To secure his heir, he’ll do the unthinkable—and shockingly pleasurable—and make Amelia his wife!

Enter a world of revenge, romance and shocking consequences...

CLARE CONNELLY was raised in small-town Australia among a family of avid readers. She spent much of her childhood up a tree, Mills & Boon book in hand. Clare is married to her own real-life hero and they live in a bungalow near the sea with their two children. She is frequently found staring into space—a surefire sign she is in the world of her characters. She has a penchant for French food and ice-cold champagne, and Mills & Boon novels continue to be her favourite ever books. Writing for Modern Romance is a long-held dream. Clare can be contacted via clareconnelly.com or at her Facebook page.

Also by Clare Connelly

Bought for the Billionaire’s Revenge

Innocent in the Billionaire’s Bed

Her Wedding Night Surrender

Bound by the Billionaire’s Vows

Christmas Seductions miniseries

Bound by Their Christmas Baby

The Season to Sin

Mills & Boon DARE

Off-Limits

Forbidden

Burn Me Once

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Spaniard’s Baby of Revenge

Clare Connelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08762-9

SPANIARD’S BABY OF REVENGE

© 2019 Clare Connelly

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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Version: 2020-03-02

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To Esther Scott and Hunter Smith—

two of my favourite babies.

May your futures be as bright and sparkly

as all the stars in the night sky.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

BENEATH HIM, MADRID sparkled like a thousand jewels, the night lights twinkling against the inky black of the sky. It was a city of history, a city rich with stories, but in that moment Antonio Herrera was conscious of only his own history.

A history that had been defined by a family feud, a hatred that was as ingrained in his heart and soul as any one man could ever have felt. Some might say that his life had been charmed, but Antonio knew the truth. Hatred for the diSalvo family ran through his Spanish blood, poisoned his mind, and he would stop at nothing to fight this war. No, to end it.

His father had been destroyed by diSalvos’ machinations. A corporate empire, decades in the making, had been systematically pulled apart, and it had needed Antonio to set things to rights. At eighteen, he’d taken over the business, side-lining his father to arrest the financial bleed. He’d triaged their losses, strengthened their assets, and now, at thirty, he was a single man in charge of a billion-euro corporation, known the world over for being a titan of all types of industries.

His eyes drifted to the gleaming oak of his desk, and the file that had arrived that afternoon.

How strange the timing was. Less than a month after his father had died—a man who had been made to suffer at the hands of the diSalvos, a man Antonio would do anything for—and she had been found.

After a year of searching, a year of waiting for his elite investigator to turn over some hint of the elusive woman, and finally he had some answers.

Amelia diSalvo. Or Amelia Clifton, as she was calling herself. But a name changed nothing—she was still undeniably a diSalvo.

The missing piece of the puzzle, the woman in control of the vital shares he needed to take the jewel in the diSalvo empire into his own hands—Prim’Aqua—the shipping company that had, at one time, been owned jointly by the diSalvos and the Herreras, until both patriarchs had fallen in love with the same woman and bitterly broken their business alliance, turning friends into sworn enemies.

And now, this diminutive woman owned the shares Antonio needed, and he’d stop at nothing to convince her to sell them to him.

He stared at the photograph, looking for any resemblance to her half-brother Carlo.

There was none. Where Carlo was cast from a similar Mediterranean mould as himself, with dark hair, honeyed skin and jet-black eyes, Amelia was fair and slight.

Like her mother, he thought, remembering the world-famous supermodel who’d evidently, at one time, been the mistress of Giacomo diSalvo. Only Penny Hamilton had been tall and Amelia was tiny—as diminutive as some kind of fairy, he thought, looking at the way she was walking down the street in this photograph. It must have been a warm day, for she wore a simple cotton dress with thin straps and buttons down the front. It fell to just above her knees and the sun streamed from behind her, showing her tantalising silhouette through the dress’s fine fabric.

A jolt of very masculine awareness splintered through him. Desire? For a diSalvo? How could that be, when she was part of the family that had set out to destroy his?

Regardless of his determination, his body tightened and his eyes lingered a little longer than was necessary on the photograph, taking in the details of her pale peaches-and-cream complexion, a smile that was wide on a petite angular face, hair that was long and blonde—whether it fell naturally in those loose Botticelli curls or had been styled that morning, he would only be able to say after he’d met her in person.

And that would be soon.

In a small English village near Salisbury there was a billion-pound heiress, the daughter of a world-famous British supermodel and an Italian tycoon, a woman who’d been born into wealth and a blood rivalry. And she would be the key in winning this ancient family war.

His eyes dropped to the photograph once more. She was beautiful, but beauty was not uncommon. She was also a diSalvo, and for that he would always hate her. For one night, though, he would appeal to her sense of decency, he would implore her to return to him what should always have been his. And if she didn’t, he’d find another way to secure the shares.

One way or another, he would succeed. Because he was Antonio Herrera, and failure simply wasn’t an option.

CHAPTER ONE

IT HAD BEEN a perfect day. Warm and cloudless, so that the late afternoon sun filtered through the windows of her home, bathing it in a timeless golden light. But as the evening had drawn around her, the sky had clouded over and the air had begun to smell different, a portent of summer rain.

The first day of school holidays had been everything Amelia could have hoped. She’d slept late, read a book from start to finish, walked into the village for a cider at the local pub, and now she was home, making a fish pie with episodes of The Crown playing in the background. She’d seen the whole show already, but she loved to have the television on for company—and who better to keep company with than the Queen?

She scooped some flour from the canister in her fingertips and added it to the roux she was stirring, thickening it and breathing in the aroma gratefully—she always made a roux with garlic and saffron, and the fragrance caused her stomach to give a little groan.

Yes, the first day of school holidays had been deliciously perfect, Amelia told herself, ignoring the little pang of emptiness that pushed into her mind. It was only that a month and a half was a very long time to have off work, particularly when work was the purpose for one’s life.

Teaching wasn’t necessarily a calling for everyone, but it was for Amelia, and the idea of having seven whole weeks out of the classroom wasn’t a prospect she entirely relished.

She’d been invited to Egypt with some of the faculty, but she’d declined. She’d done enough travelling to last a lifetime—a childhood that had seen her dragged from pillar to post depending on where her mother’s latest assignment or lover had taken them, Amelia preferred to stay right where she was, in this charming village in the middle of England.

Her bluebell-shaded eyes drifted around the cottage, and a rueful half-smile touched her pink lips. It was pretty safe to say that Bumblebee Cottage was as far from the life she’d experienced as a child as possible. Her first twelve years had been spent mostly in five-star hotels, sometimes for months at a time. School had been a luxury her mother hadn’t seen the necessity of, and it was only Amelia’s keen desire for knowledge and the never-ending string of questions which Penny had no patience for that had led to the hiring of a tutor for Amelia.

But then Penny had died, and twelve-year-old Amelia, already so like her supermodel mother, had been shunted into another life completely. As rarefied and glamorous, but so much more public. In the wake of the supermodel’s drugs-related death, Amelia had been followed everywhere she went, and her father—a man she hadn’t even known about—simply hadn’t been able to comprehend what life had been like for the young Amelia.

Talk about going from the frying pan and into the fire! If being the daughter of a woman like Penny Hamilton made Amelia a magnet for paparazzi, then becoming a diSalvo made her even more so.

And she’d been raised, from that moment, as a diSalvo. Loved, adored, cherished, but she couldn’t outgrow the feeling that she didn’t really belong.

She hadn’t belonged anywhere until she’d moved to this tiny village and taken up a teaching position at Hedgecliff Academy. Unbidden, her eyes drifted to the fridge and the artwork that covered it. ‘Thank you’ pictures from the students she’d taught, colourful drawings with their childish swirls and squiggles—happy pictures that almost always made Amelia smile.

Fish pie finished, Amelia slipped the dish into the old Aga—it had come with the cottage and she couldn’t bear to modernise the thing when it worked perfectly—and then stared around the room for a few moments. It was ridiculous to feel so lonely already.

The summer holidays had just begun. Only the day before she’d been surrounded by twenty-seven happy, curious eight-year-olds. Besides, she was the one who’d turned down invitations for the summer break. She had elected to stay at home.

So what good was it to dwell on the gaping void of people and company in her solitary existence? She’d chosen this life.

She’d turned her back on her father, her half-brother and the world they inhabited.

And she wouldn’t have it any other way. Would she?

* * *

The cottage could not have been quainter if it had been brought to life from between the pages of a Beatrix Potter storybook. Stone, painted a pale cream, roses in the front garden, wisteria scrambling over an arch that led to the front steps and a thatched roof that showed the house to be two-storey, with little dormer windows shaped into the roof. Lights were on inside, making the cottage glow with a warmth that did something strange to Antonio’s chest.

He studied it for a moment, a frown on his face as, for a brief and uncharacteristic moment, he rethought the necessity of this.

He had already bought his way into—through shell companies and entities—many of Carlo diSalvo’s businesses, giving him if not a controlling interest in their operation, enough of a stake to be difficult and a nuisance to the man he had been raised to hate.

But this was different. He would gladly let the rest go if he could only get this one company under his control. And if Amelia diSalvo proved difficult, if appealing to her sense of decency didn’t win her over, then he’d show her what he’d been doing and how close he was to ruining her brother.

He crossed his arms over his chest as the first drop of rain began to fall, quickly followed by another. It was a summer storm that brought with it the smell of sun-warmed grass and the threat of lightning. Inside the cottage a shape moved and he narrowed his gaze, homing in on its location.

Amelia.

He held his breath unconsciously as, with blonde hair scraped into a bun, she moved into his vision. Her face was pale; at this distance it was hard to tell, but he would say she wore no make-up. She stared out of the window for several moments and then turned away.

Certainty fired in his gut.

She was a diSalvo.

That made her fair game.

It had been less than a month since he’d buried his father and in that moment Antonio’s only regret was that Javier had not lived to see this final, deeply personal revenge be enacted.

With renewed determination, his stride long and confident, he walked up the winding path. Gravel crunched underfoot and the moon peeked out from behind a storm cloud for a moment, casting him in an eerie sort of silver light. Foreboding, some might have called it, but not Antonio.

Bumblebee Cottage, a brass sign near the door proclaimed, and he ignored the image it created—of sweetness and tranquillity. Amelia diSalvo might be playing at this life, but she was the daughter of a supermodel and the most ruthless bastard on earth. And she was also the piece of the puzzle he needed—victory was within reach.

* * *

As if her loneliness had conjured a companion, the doorbell rang. Olivia wasn’t so maudlin and self-indulgent to forget all common sense. It was almost nine o’clock at night—who could be calling at this hour?

She’d bought Bumblebee Cottage because of its isolation. No prying neighbours, no passing motorists—it sat nestled into a cul-de-sac of little interest to anyone but her and the farm that bordered the cottage on one side. It was a perfect, secluded bolthole. Just what she’d needed when she’d run from the life she’d found herself living.

She adored it for its seclusion but a frisson of something like alarm spread goosebumps over her flesh. She grabbed a meat cleaver, of all things, from the kitchen bench then moved to the door.

‘Who is it?’

A man’s voice answered, deep and gravelled, tinged with a European accent. ‘Can you open up?’

‘I can, but I’m not going to,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Who are you?’ she called more loudly. ‘What do you want?’

‘Something that is easier to discuss in person.’ He was hard to hear over the falling rain.

‘What is it?’

‘I just said—’ He released a soft curse in Spanish. When she was eight, she’d mastered curse words in French, Italian, German, Spanish, Greek, Mandarin and Polish. She’d been bored on a yacht and the staff—one from each of these nationalities—had spent one late night teaching her. ‘It’s important, Amelia,’ Antonio said.

The fact he knew her name got her attention. With a frown on her face, she unlocked the door, keeping the chain lock firmly in place so that it only cracked open a wedge.

It was dark on the porch, but enough light filtered out to show his face and it was strong and interesting.

‘How do you know my name?’

There was a beat of silence and then, ‘I’m a business acquaintance of your brother’s. I need to speak to you.’

‘Why? What about? Is it Carlo? Is he okay?’

The man’s eyes flickered with something and for a moment Amelia was worried, but then he smiled. ‘So far as I know, Carlo is fine. This is a proposition just for you.’

At that, Amelia frowned. ‘What kind of proposition?’

His look was mysterious. ‘One that is too confidential to discuss through the door.’

‘It’s late at night. This couldn’t have waited until tomorrow?’

‘I just flew in.’ He shrugged, his eyes narrowing. ‘Is it a bad time?’

She wanted to tell him to go away, because something about him was making her pulse fire and her heart race. Fear, surely?

‘It will not take long,’ he said once more, appeasing, and her eyes lifted to his.

When had she become so suspicious? True, she’d had a baptism of fire when she’d gone to live with her father and half-brother. She’d learned that there were many people out there who would hurt you—not physically, necessarily, but with any means it took. His so-called friends had proved to be wolves in couture clothing. But she’d fled those people, that world. She’d moved across the earth, to the sweetness of a tiny village, and the homeliness of Bumblebee, and she’d become not Amelia Hamilton, nor Amelia diSalvo, but Amelia Clifton—her mother’s real surname. A normal name. An unrecognisable name. A name that didn’t attract attention or interest, a name that was all her own.

Intrusions from her other life weren’t welcome.

‘Fine,’ she said crisply, pushing the door shut so she could unchain it and then opening it wide.

She did a double-take. Through the one inch of open door it hadn’t been possible to see exactly how handsome he was. But now? His dark hair sat straight and spiky, enhancing the sharpness of his bone structure and, rather than looking as though it had been styled that way, it was more like he’d dragged his fingers through it enough times to make the hair stand on end. His was a face that was all angles and planes, symmetrical and pleasing, with a square jaw and a chin that looked as though it had been carved from stone. Only there was a divot in its centre, as if his creator had enjoyed pressing a thumb into it, a perfect little indent that drew her curious gaze.

His lips were broad and his jaw covered in stubble. His nose was long, straight and autocratic, but it was his eyes that robbed her lungs, momentarily, of the ability to pump air out of her body. They were eyes shaped like almonds, a dark grey in colour, rimmed in thick black lashes that curled in a way Amelia was both dumbfounded by and jealous of. They were eyes that seemed to tell stories, flickering with emotions and thoughts she couldn’t decode.

‘Well?’ he asked again, gruff, but a smile on his lips softened the word. ‘May I enter?’

‘Yeah.’ The word was breathy. She cleared her throat. ‘Of course.’

He shrugged out of his jacket, revealing a shirt that had suffered several drops of rainwater. It was a simple gesture—showing the breadth of his chest and the sculptured perfection of his torso.

She swept her eyes shut for a moment and then collected herself, offering an apologetic grimace before moving in a little. ‘I’m sorry; I don’t get many visitors.’

‘Apparently,’ he drawled. And then his smile deepened to reveal even white teeth. Her stomach flipped in on itself. ‘And so a meat cleaver is how you choose to defend yourself?’

She found herself nodding with mock gravity. ‘I feel it’s only fair to warn you: I have a black belt in kitchen instruments.’

‘Do you?’

‘Oh, you should see me wield a potato peeler.’

His laugh was a low rumble from deep in his belly and his eyes were assessing. She wanted to look away but found her gaze held by his, as though trapped. ‘Another time,’ he said.

‘You can unarm yourself,’ he added. ‘I assure you I don’t mean you any harm.’

‘I’m sure you don’t but I feel I have to point out that very few murderers announce their intentions, do they?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘So it’s quite possible you’re just planning the best way to kill me without making a fuss.’

‘Except that I’ve already explained why I’m here,’ he responded with a grin that seemed to breathe butterflies into her belly. He looked around her cottage with lazy curiosity.

Amelia didn’t have guests often—a few of the teachers from school had come around for her birthday earlier in the year, and once she’d had a student after school, as a favour for the parents, but generally Amelia kept to herself.

What was the point of country solitude if you chose to surrender it?

She tried to see the house as an outsider might—the quaint decorations, the homely simplicity of her furnishings, the absence of any photographs, the abundance of paperback novels and fresh flowers.

‘Ah, yes, your proposition,’ she murmured. ‘Please—’ She gestured towards the lounge.

He moved ahead of her and she realised she was staring at his rear, distracted by the way his trousers framed his tight, muscular bottom. Distracted by the way just looking at him was making her nerves buzz into overdrive.

She had practically no experience with men, besides a few casual lunch dates with Rick Steed, the deputy headmaster. And those had ended with chaste kisses to the cheek, nothing particularly distracting or tempting.

As a teenager, she’d railed against the life she’d been sucked into, hating the expectation that because her mother had been renowned both for her beauty and sexually free attitude Amelia must be exactly the same.

She’d begun to suspect she was, in fact, frigid. Completely devoid of any normal sexual impulse or desire. That had suited her fine. What did she need a man for when she had all the men the books in her life afforded?

What indeed? she thought to herself as he turned to face her.

‘Nice place.’

‘Thank you.’

He was quiet, watching her, and ingrained manners and a need to fill the silence had her offering, ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Thank you.’ He nodded.

‘What would you like? Tea? Coffee?’

He arched a brow. ‘At this hour?’

Heat suffused her cheeks at her own naivety. ‘Wine?’

‘Wine would be fine.’

‘Have a seat. I won’t be a minute.’

CHAPTER TWO

HER LOUNGE WAS even cosier—if that was possible—than the exterior of this country cottage had promised.

Delicate and pretty, and oh, so feminine, with soft cushions and blankets everywhere and pictures of flowers on the walls. It was cosy, homely and warm, but his mind was only half-focused on his surroundings. He was mulling over the proposition he’d come here to offer—and what he’d do if she refused.

Already he could see that Amelia diSalvo was different to what he’d expected.

Did that matter? Did it fundamentally change what he needed from her? And what she’d agree to?

His research showed that she’d been inactive in the business, not attending meetings of any kind. She was on the board but didn’t contribute; it was clear she had no interest in the day-to-day operations of diSalvo Industries.

But would she be easily convinced to sell her shares to him?

Would she recognise his name and recall the bitter rivalry that had engulfed their families? Would he then have to launch straight into his backup plan? The idea of revealing his machinations to this woman hadn’t bothered him an hour earlier but, standing in her living room, suddenly he wasn’t in a rush to reveal his reasons for coming to Bumblebee Cottage late in the evening.

Which was absurd given that he’d had an investigator searching for her for over a year. Absurd given that he’d jumped on a flight as soon as she’d been located, with scant regard for the timing of things. If he’d been patient, he could have spent the night in London and driven into the countryside first thing the following morning, catching her in the daytime rather than on a rainy summer evening.

But he was here, and he wouldn’t let himself get distracted by the fact that she wasn’t the hard and cynical heiress he’d imagined. Nor by the fact she seemed kind of sweet and funny, and lived in a house that was like a tribute to quaint history.

He had spent his adult life setting things right, avenging this feud, and now he was within striking distance. All that stood between himself and success was this one tiny woman.

She was different to what he’d expected, but she was still a diSalvo and she still held the key to his ultimate revenge.

He had to remember that.

* * *

It was impossible to say why she felt as if she needed a moment to steady herself in the kitchen, but Amelia took several, sucking in a deep breath and then another and another as she reached for a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. All the wines she’d been given as gifts had actual corks.

She lifted it out easily enough and poured a measure into two glasses—her plans for a cup of tea falling by the wayside as she thought it would give her some fortifying courage.

Wine glasses in hand, she moved back into the lounge. And froze.

He was simply standing, staring at one of the pictures of hydrangeas she’d painted in watercolours, and it was that image of him that did something completely unexpected to her insides.

He was so utterly masculine in the midst of her living space and yet there was something strangely perfect about seeing him there. She stared at him, at the harshness of his face in profile, the strength of his body, broad shoulders and a narrow waist, legs that looked strong and athletic, and her pulse began to speed and her heart was trembling.

Oh, God, what was happening to her? Her mouth was dry and when she lifted her reluctant gaze back to his face she saw he’d turned and a hint of sardonic amusement danced in the depths of his eyes, bringing another flush of pink to her cheeks.

‘Here,’ she muttered, pushing the wine glass towards him.

He held her gaze as he took it, a smile playing about his lips. ‘Gracias.’

‘You’re Spanish?’ she heard herself say and then winced. Why was she making small talk with him?

‘Sí.’ The word resonated with something spicy and mysterious and, despite the fact it was now raining, she was reminded of the day’s sunshine and warmth.

She needed to focus. Why was he here?

‘What’s your name?’

‘Antonio Herrera,’ he said, and Amelia frowned, her eyes sweeping shut for a moment.

She felt his gaze, heavy and intent on her face, and her skin goosebumped once more. There was something in her mind, a memory, but it was distant and when she tried to grab it, to focus on it, the thing slipped away from her, like trying to catch a piece of soap that had been dropped into the bath.

‘I know that name.’

‘Do you?’ he murmured, the words throaty.

He held his wine glass to hers, a salute, and she completed it on autopilot. Only their fingertips brushed together and it was as though Amelia had been thrown from an aeroplane. Her stomach twisted in a billion knots and she was in freefall, everything shifting and pulling and nothing making sense. The world was over-bright and her senses jangling. His eyes were merciless, pinning her to the spot, and from grey to black they went once more. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.

‘Why do I know your name?’ she asked when the answer hadn’t come to her. Then, like a bolt of lightning, she remembered. ‘Oh! Of course!’

Did his shoulders tighten? Or was she imagining it? ‘Yes?’

Hadn’t she realised he was a man used to being in command? A figure of dominance and assertiveness?

‘You’re that guy,’ she said, clicking her fingers together. ‘I read about you a while ago. You bought that airline and saved all those people from getting fired.’

‘Being made redundant,’ he clarified. ‘And that’s not why I bought the airline.’

‘No?’

‘It was going for a song.’ He shrugged.

‘I see,’ she said thoughtfully, wondering why he was downplaying the altruism of the purchase. He didn’t really care about twenty thousand people poised to be out of work if the airline went bust? Or did he want her to think he didn’t care?

Her eyes narrowed speculatively. ‘And you invest in schools in eastern Europe. And hospitals.’

He arched a brow. ‘You seem to know quite a bit about me.’

‘It was a long opinion piece,’ she explained, her cheeks heating. ‘And I like to read the paper. From cover to cover.’ She was babbling a little. When she’d moved to her father’s home, she’d been surrounded by men like this. Well, not precisely like this; he was somewhat unique. But men who were just a little too much of everything. Too handsome, too sharp, too rich.

And she’d never felt overawed by those qualities before. Having seen her mother fall under their spell time and time again, she’d always been determined to remain immune to those charms.

Then again, she supposed it was a little like the aquarium effect.

‘The aquarium effect?’ he prompted, and Amelia was mortified to realise she’d been speaking out loud.

She turned away from him, walking unsteadily towards an armchair and sitting in it, then immediately wishing she hadn’t when their height disadvantage became even more apparent.

‘Please, take a seat.’ She gestured towards the sofa.

‘Sure. If you’ll elaborate,’ he drawled. ‘I should like to see if you are comparing me to a shark or a seal.’

Her laugh was spontaneous. She watched covertly as he sat—not on the sofa but in the armchair across from hers, his long legs stretched out and dangerously close to her own legs.

‘I didn’t mean that,’ she promised, sipping her wine. ‘It’s only that when you go to an aquarium you’re expecting to see myriad fish, so that even the most beautiful tropical fish or the fluffiest penguin fail to have much of an impact. But if I were walking along the Thames and a beautiful penguin happened to cross my path I’d be basically breathless.’

‘Speechless too, I should think, at finding a penguin in central London.’

She nodded, glad he hadn’t taken her metaphor the vital step further. Because he was that spectacular piece of wildlife which, when surrounded by men of his ilk, might have left her cold. But here, like this, in her tiny cottage on the outskirts of a small village, smiling at her as though he found her fascinating and unique, how could Amelia fail to be breathless, speechless and hopelessly attracted?

‘Have you lived here long?’ he asked and she relaxed further as the conversation moved onto far safer ground.

She looked around the lounge, her heart warming at the comfort and beauty of this little room.

‘I moved here straight out of University,’ she said with a small nod. ‘I thought I’d stay only a year or so, but then the cottage came on the market and, what can I say, it was love at first sight,’ she said, looking fondly around the small lounge, with its low ceiling and unevenly rendered walls.

‘I can see why,’ he drawled cynically and she laughed.

‘You sound just like my brother!’

Carlo had been just as scathing about the ‘relic’. ‘Why don’t you buy some land and build something bigger? You’re a diSalvo, cara, and this place isn’t fit for a mangy dog.’

‘In what way?’

‘Oh, only in so much as he didn’t really like Bumblebee Cottage. He’s far more into luxury and glamour.’

‘And you’re not?’ Antonio enquired.

‘What do you think?’ she asked with a lifted brow and a half-smile, gesturing around the room.

‘I think the house is charming,’ he supplied, leaning forward a little, and his ankle brushed hers, probably by accident, but the effect was the same as if it had been intentional. She sat up straighter, her eyes finding his, a plea and a question in them. ‘And so is the occupant,’ he added, and now the charge of electricity that flared between them was unmistakably mutual.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat, her eyes round like saucers. His foot brushed hers and now she knew it wasn’t an accident she told herself she should pull away. Remove her legs from his reach. Do something, anything, to show him she didn’t welcome his presumptuous advances.

But oh, how she welcomed them. How she welcomed him.

‘Thank you.’

It was hard to think straight in that moment. Her body was charged, her senses in complete disarray, and she was left wondering at the bizarre circumstances that had brought this billionaire tycoon to her door right at the moment when she’d been at risk of sinking into thoughts of loneliness and the pervasive emptiness that came with being alone.

‘Well, Antonio—’ his name made husky by her too-dry throat ‘—perhaps you should tell me why you’re here?’

* * *

He had come to Bumblebee Cottage expecting to hate her. She was a diSalvo; it was written in the stars that he would hate her. Only he didn’t.

And not only did he not hate her; he was actually enjoying himself. He was finding it hard to keep his mind to himself, to concentrate on business when she was smiling at him and joking with him, and when her huge blue eyes kept dropping to his chest, roaming over his breadth as though she were starving and he the only meal around for miles.

And what would she say when he told her the truth of their relationship? What would she say when he explained what he needed from her?

Would she understand? Or would she tell him to get the hell out? Then he’d have to enact plan B, and her smiles would disappear when she realised how close he’d brought her brother to breaking point. And how much he was enjoying that knowledge.

How long had it been since he’d been with a woman? Months. Many months. His father’s illness had been sudden and, between the company and Javier’s demise, Antonio had barely had time for the distraction of women.

Did that explain the undercurrent of desire that was swirling around them? Was that the reason he was reluctant to tell her why he’d come?

It was the last thing he’d planned for, but now that he sat opposite Amelia diSalvo he wanted to shelve business and his drive for revenge. Just for a moment. Just for a night.

A temporary delay, that was all, while he enjoyed her company. What was the harm in that?

‘Antonio?’ she prompted.

He sipped his wine thoughtfully. ‘Our grandfathers were friends,’ he said slowly, testing her, interested to see what she knew of the feud.

‘Were they?’ Her nose wrinkled, and his gut kicked. Damn it, she was distracting.

‘A long time ago.’

‘And that’s why you’re here?’ she prompted.

‘In part.’

Her look was teasing. ‘Are we playing a guessing game?’

‘We can do,’ he murmured. ‘Let me guess what you’re doing in a village like this,’ he murmured.

‘You don’t like it here?’

‘It’s a far cry from the life you must have lived in Rome.’

‘Why do you say that?’

His eyes glittered and with effort he kept the disdain from his voice. ‘You’re a diSalvo,’ he said with the appearance of calm. ‘And this cottage is...not.’

She laughed again, a genuine sound of pleasure. ‘True.’

Then her eyes fixed on his and he let the silence surround them, aware it was affecting her as much as it was him.

‘I feel like I know you,’ she said finally, simply, with a sense of surrender that made his body tighten. ‘That’s crazy, isn’t it?’

Yes. It was. Everything about this was. She was a part of something he wanted, with all his being, to destroy, and yet in that moment all he could think about was her soft pillowy lips and how they’d feel beneath his. About the fact she was staring at him with huge eyes and her chest was heaving with the force of her breathing.

‘I must be losing my mind,’ she said, blinking her eyes as if waking from a dream. And then she sipped her wine before offering him a smile that was part self-deprecating and part the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. What the hell was he thinking, letting himself be so distracted by her, and the way the air around them seemed to crackle and hum? He’d come here with a purpose—a plan he’d set in motion long ago, and nothing was going to derail that.

‘My grandfather’s name was Enrique Herrera. Has your father ever mentioned him?’

She blinked, her huge blue eyes showing obvious confusion. Outside, the rain was falling heavier now but he was barely conscious of it. ‘No.’

That was strange. How could Amelia know nothing of a feud that had dominated both his and Carlo’s lives?

‘We weren’t big on tête-à-tête,’ she explained with a shrug of her slender shoulders that drew his attention to the fine, soft curve of her neck and the hint of cleavage revealed by her simple shirt. Then her eyes lifted to his and his body tightened, his arousal straining against his trousers.

Antonio had spent his adult life moving the pieces into place to destroy Carlo diSalvo, and this woman was a vital part of that. Only through her would he gain control of the one company he desperately wanted and finally avenge the feud that had destroyed his father. Only through appealing to her and then, if it came to it, blackmailing her, would he achieve his goal.

So why was he finding it impossible to sharpen his focus? Because he’d been celibate for months, he told himself. Because he’d been focused on easing his father’s last few months of life, and then mourning him appropriately. And now, on acquiring the company that would set all of this to rights.

‘My brother might know more about your grandfather,’ she said softly, her lips parted. They were beautiful lips—works of art. Pink and generous, and quick to smile. ‘Have you ever spoken to him about Enrique?’

Twice. But conversations with Carlo never ended well. Their hatred was mutual. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He frowned.

‘It must,’ she countered, leaning forward a little, and beneath the small coffee table her legs brushed his and his body throbbed with all the awareness that was taking over his mind and soul in that moment. ‘For you to have flown all the way here to ask me about him. Or was there something else you wanted to talk to me about?’

Madre de Dios. Antonio had built his company back from dust, he had single-handedly returned Herrera Incorporated to its position as a global powerhouse, and now this one woman was somehow threatening to bring him to his knees?

He stood abruptly and felt her gaze slide up his body. Hungrily. Needily. With the same kind of sensual curiosity that was powering the blood in his own veins.

He’d come to this quaint cottage in the middle of the countryside with one purpose in mind, but now that goal was at war with his body’s more immediate needs.

Desire rushed through him as he imagined, for a moment, what it would be like to possess her. Where he was tall and dark, she was fair, all peaches and cream and soft and gentle. Their contrasts fascinated him. What would it be like to lay claim to her body, to drive her wild with desire?

She was a diSalvo! How could he even be thinking like this?

He heard the rustle of clothes as she stood, and then her hand was on his shoulder, turning him to face her. ‘Antonio? Is something the matter?’

Everything was the matter! He was so close to bringing her family down, to destroying them as they’d sought to destroy his father, and this one woman was threatening his resolve.

‘What is it?’ she asked solicitously, her eyes running over his face.

Beautiful eyes in a face that was truly captivating, with long blonde hair he wanted to run his fingers through. He swallowed and then, finally, surrendered to this madness. She was so close, so enticing, and his body was screaming at him to act on his impulses—screw the consequences.

There would be time for revenge later. Afterwards.

With a fatalistic grimace, he lifted a hand and caught her cheek, holding her face steady beneath his. She gasped, her lips parting, a gentle sound of surrender.

And he took her surrender, and he surrendered alongside her.

Slowly, his voice husky, in his native Spanish tongue he murmured, ‘You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’

CHAPTER THREE

HIS WORDS WERE heavy in the air, mesmerising, and she could only stare at him, and his beautiful body. She could only stare at him, lost to this and him and whatever was happening.

‘I...’ She frowned, unable to form anything more intelligible. And then her hand was lifting slowly, almost as though it were dragging upwards, pulled by the sheer magnetic force of his body.

She pressed her fingers to his chest, swallowing at the instant bolt of recognition that juddered through her system. Her eyes jerked to his, uncertainty laced with desire, and her fingertips moved across his chest then up to his shoulder.

He made a throaty, groaning sound and then his head dropped forward, or perhaps she pushed up onto the tips of her toes. Whatever it was, on autopilot their lips were meshing, bodies fused together, his broad and hard, his strength emanating from him. His lips moved over hers and she made a gasp of surrender, opening her mouth so that he could deepen the kiss. His hand lifted to the back of her head, his fingers curving around her, holding her where she was so that he could explore her until she was incandescent with pleasure.

‘Antonio...’ She kissed his name into his mouth, deep into his soul, and felt him answer. Her world was being blasted apart by a simple kiss.

No, there was nothing simple about this—it was crazy and mad and she knew nothing about him, only his name and that their grandfathers had once been friends. And yet she was his for a song in that moment.

She didn’t care what had brought him to her door; she cared only that he was there, and that he wanted her as she did him. Desire—something she had never known nor understood, was rampant in her system now.

As if the heavens were ratifying her surrender to something as elemental as passion, a loud clap of thunder rumbled around the small cottage and a moment later a blade of lightning sliced the sky apart and the house was plunged into darkness. Not complete darkness—Amelia had strung fairy lights generously throughout and, powered by batteries, they offered a golden glow, faint but enough to see by.

He didn’t react to the power outage. But his hands roamed her body, running over her sides, finding the hem of her shirt and pushing it, so achingly slowly, up her body so that her skin was covered in goosebumps, her nipples tight against the simple cotton of her bra. He broke the kiss, pulling away from her just long enough to rip her shirt over her head and she pushed her arms skywards at the same time, as fevered as he. In that brief moment of separation their eyes met and something passed between them—an understanding, a commitment to this, come what may—and then he was kissing her again, this time dragging his mouth from her lips to her throat, flicking her with his tongue so that she whimpered with the strength of sensations he was stirring.

He pushed at his own shirt as his mouth claimed hers, dispensing with the fabric confines so his chest was bare.

Her fingers ran over his body without meaning or intent, certainly without forethought, and then her hands found his trousers and, of their own accord, her fingers were loosening his belt buckle then moving to the button and zip, pushing at them while his kiss held her body utterly captive. He stood out of his trousers as she pushed at them, and then her hands were curving around his naked buttocks, feeling his warmth in a way that was elemental and ancient.

He made a growling noise of awareness and dropped his hands to her back, pulling her hard against him so she could feel the strength of his arousal for herself. Surprise made her eyes flare wide and she swallowed, but then he was kissing her again, and now he lifted her as though she weighed nothing and she wrapped her legs around his waist and he rolled his hips so that his erection found her feminine heart, the pressure through the fabric of her jeans enough to make her cry out at what was to come.

He whispered words in Spanish and then he eased her to the ground, just for a moment, so he could retrieve his wallet from his trousers. He pulled out a condom. No, condoms, she corrected with pink cheeks, and she opened her mouth, knowing she needed to say something, to tell him that she was a virgin, because she was sure he wouldn’t enjoy discovering that fact for himself. But then his hands came to her jeans and he was unfastening them, pushing them down her legs, and he crouched in front of her and brought his mouth to her inner thigh and she was lost again. She tangled her fingers in his hair, throwing her head back as he kissed her legs.

And then he dragged her simple cotton briefs down her body and she was complicit, stepping out of them. In the back of her mind, in the small part of her brain that was still capable of rational thought, she was surprised by how unselfconscious she was. She was almost naked in front of him and she didn’t care.

He brought his mouth to the apex of her thighs and flicked his tongue against her womanhood and now Amelia cried out louder, harder, as pleasure licked through her like wild flames. She said his name over and over again, and her fingers ran faster through his hair before dropping to his shoulders and holding on tight. Pleasure was a rollercoaster and she was buckled in, riding it harder and faster, unable to stop the rush of momentum—not wanting to either.

His mouth drove her over the edge and she cried out as an explosion of delight, unlike anything she’d ever imagined, much less known, blew away the last vestiges of any idea that she might not be a sexual being. If this was sex, she could easily become an addict.

But there was no time to recover. He was straightening, lifting himself up, and in one movement he snaked a hand behind her back and unclasped her bra, and she pushed out of it at the same time. His head came crashing down to her breasts, his lips moving from one nipple to the next, circling her sensitive flesh, and desire was rampant in her bloodstream, running like a pack of leopards through her system.

She heard the opening of the condom and felt his hands move against her stomach and something, some thought, was pushing at her brain, but she couldn’t catch it. Pleasure was her all—nothing mattered beyond the feelings he was invoking. She was a wildling, abandoned completely to this, and only this.

His hands on her hips were strong and commanding; he lifted her easily and, in her tiny kitchen, he pressed her against the wall and she cried his name, ‘Please, please, please,’ begging him for a release she couldn’t articulate beyond knowing that it was a necessity.

His eyes, glowing in the soft light, burned into hers for several beats. ‘You want this.’ It was a statement but it dragged her out of the drugging haze of desire, if only for a second. He needed an answer.

An answer beyond her constant begging?

‘Yes,’ she groaned. ‘Oh, God, yes, please, Antonio. I need this.’

And his dark eyes sparked with something new, something like relief and determination, and he moved his body forward and brought her down on his length in one swift, possessive movement.

She froze as the invisible barrier of her innocence was taken by him, and stiffened as an unwelcome and sharp pain pushed all pleasure aside.

He swore in Spanish, sensing what had happened, and she winced, and then his eyes held hers and he whispered softer words, Spanish words, and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her from the wall, holding her tight, keeping himself inside her and holding her close to him as the pain subsided.

Pleasure returned and it was different and more demanding than before, because he was inside her and muscles she hadn’t known she possessed were being stretched and taunted and desire was being stirred that demanded an answer.

‘Please,’ she said again and he lifted a hand to her cheek, curving it in his palm.

‘You are sure, querida?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded.

And, with a look she couldn’t interpret, he began to move again, softly this time, gently, and he pressed her against the wall, and he kissed her as his body stirred her back to fever pitch, and he watched her as she blew apart for a second time, this time in his arms and with his erection deep inside her.

And then he eased her back to the ground, her feet on the floor, but only for a second. He scooped down and lifted her, cradling her to his chest as he carried her upstairs, along the hallway. The lighting here was dimmer than downstairs; she had only a few strings of lights on the landing. He looked in one room first—her study—and the next was her bedroom, and apparently there was sufficient light for him to make out at least the shape of the bed. He strode in, laying her down on the mattress gently, then standing. She could just make out the silhouette of his body in the darkness of the house.

Her breath was rushed and she was grateful there was no lighting, glad he wouldn’t be able to see the tangle of emotions swirling in her eyes.

‘You should have told me,’ he said simply, but there was no recrimination in the words, only regret. And then he brought his body over hers and his lips caught hers, and he kissed her as his arousal found its way to her core once more. She wrapped her legs around his waist and he pushed inside her and she groaned as pleasure already began to build anew.

‘Your first time should not be with a man you hardly know,’ he said, but she barely heard. The words were hoarse and she was way beyond logical, rational thought. When he kissed her his tongue duelled with hers in time with his body’s possession of hers and this time, when she found release, he came with her, holding her tight, kissing her, passion saturating them both.

He stayed where he was, inside her, straddling her, but sat straighter; it was impossible to discern anything in his features owing to the blackness of her room.

But his hands found hers and his fingers weaved through hers, holding her, reassuring her.

‘I had no idea,’ he said.

‘I know that.’ Now that the bright burst of passion had receded, she had room to feel self-conscious. Not regret, not remorse, only a desire that she’d been better able to meet him on a level of experience closer to his. ‘I probably should have told you.’

She was glad it was dark and that he couldn’t see her blush and that she couldn’t see his face—and the irritation she was sure would be there.

‘Yes,’ he agreed simply. ‘If only so I could have made it perfect for you.’

She lifted her hands to his chest, running her fingers over his muscles thoughtfully. ‘That was perfect,’ she promised. ‘I had no idea...’

His laugh was soft and, inside her, he jerked with the movement and she let out a soft moan as embers of pleasure began to stir anew.

‘I mean it,’ she repeated huskily. ‘I never really got the whole sex thing.’

At that he sobered and when he spoke his voice was husky. ‘I’m surprised to hear it.’

He might have meant it as a general throwaway comment, but that was unlikely. He came to her that night knowing who she was, knowing her name, because their grandfathers had been friends. He knew more about her than she did him, and that certainly included knowledge of her mother and her behaviour. ‘I think lots of people expect me to be just like her,’ she said with a small shrug. ‘And I’m not.’

‘You didn’t want to be,’ he clarified gently, and he pulled away from her and rolled them at the same time, so she made a squawking sound of surprise. He held her close to his body, tucked in one arm, and she relaxed against him. His fingers stroked down her back and she sighed softly. New pleasures were vibrating inside her.

‘No,’ Amelia agreed, hating that it still felt like a betrayal to admit that.

‘You haven’t dated?’

‘Of course I have,’ she was compelled to declare, hating what a novice she was! His fingers paused in their stroking for a moment before resuming their leisurely trail along her back. ‘But never seriously, never for long.’ She shrugged against his side. ‘Whereas you, I imagine, have a long list of ex-girlfriends.’

‘Not really,’ he said, surprising her. ‘I don’t really date.’

Of course. How gauche of her. ‘Lovers, then.’

He laughed. ‘Enough,’ he agreed after a moment.

She bit down on her lip. ‘But I bet it’s been a long time since you were with a virgin.’

‘I’ve never been with a virgin,’ he said simply. ‘Not even my first time.’

She blinked at that confession. ‘Seriously?’

‘Yeah.’

So she was his first? She couldn’t explain it, but she liked that. It was as though they’d both shared a new experience together, and it meant more to her than it should.

‘How do you feel?’ The gravelled question sent her pulse firing anew.

‘Relaxed and satisfied,’ she purred and he laughed, a throaty sound of wry amusement.

‘I’m pleased to hear it. Stay here.’ And he pulled away from her, standing and moving out of her room.

‘What are you doing?’ she called after him, but the words were soft, consumed by a yawn. And, instead of asking again, she collapsed back against the bed, closed her eyes and remembered. Remembered the madness in the kitchen that had brought his lips to hers, or was it the other way around? Remembered the way they’d exploded at that first touch and everything had seemed predestined in some way.

A moment later she had her answer, anyway. The sound of the bath running, then the bathroom cabinets being open and shut. She lay there, a smile on her face, listening, and a little while later he returned.

‘Are you asleep?’

She squinted one eye open and then realised he couldn’t see her. ‘No,’ she said, sitting up. ‘Are you taking a bath?’

He laughed. ‘No. You are.’

He reached for her hand and she wriggled off the bed, standing on legs that had suddenly turned to jelly. He understood and he lifted her once more, so she joked, ‘I could get used to this. Like some kind of Rajah.’

He stepped over the threshold, into the bathroom, and her breath caught in her throat. He must have found every candle in the house and the bathroom was glowing and warm, like something out of a fairy tale.

Don’t! she alerted her subconscious.

Don’t even think like that.

Fairy tales. Don’t. Exist.

How many times had she seen her mother go down the rabbit hole of thinking a man was her Prince Charming and that their ‘happily ever after’ was at the end of the next party or vacation or new home or fresh start? Only to wake up alone, miserable, depressed and looking for consolation in the bottle or vial of whatever drug she was into at the time.

Amelia was not Penny—and that meant knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that fairy tales didn’t exist.

Still, fairy tale or not, the bathroom was beautiful in this lighting. The tub was half-filled and an extravagant layer of bubbles sat on top of the water’s surface. There was an aroma of lavender in the air—so he’d found her bath oils.

He placed her over the edge of the tub, easing her feet into the water, and she smiled as the perfect warmth wrapped around her legs. She sank into it slowly, lying back against the edge and letting the water enfold her.

‘Heaven,’ she said softly and then blinked her eyes open to find him staring at her.

‘Enjoy it.’ His eyes sparked with something like promise and her heart turned over in her chest. ‘I’ll be waiting.’ He retrieved a towel and placed it within easy reach of the bath, then moved to the door. ‘Don’t fall asleep,’ he warned as he left and she smiled.

Fat chance.

She wasn’t going to fall asleep all night. Not when she had Antonio Herrera as her own personal pleasure centre. Having discovered what her body was capable of feeling, she wanted more. She wanted everything.

And she wanted him to show her.

* * *

He collected his scattered clothes from the kitchen floor, and he dressed with true regret. He didn’t want to put barriers up to more pleasure. He wanted to take her to bed and make love to her slowly, to seduce her all night long, like he would any other lover.

But there was danger in that—danger in forgetting why he’d come to her, why he’d spent a year trying to locate her. Why he needed her signature on the documents he’d brought with him, her agreement to sell her shares to him.

He had buried his father a month earlier and there was no way he was going to let his desire for a woman cloud his judgement.

He was so close to achieving his goal, and Amelia diSalvo was the key to that.

Sex with her had been a mistake. A stupid, careless mistake—because it had the power to confuse things between them. Because it muddied the water of what he needed from her.

With a grim expression on his face, he let himself quietly out of the house, walking towards his car with a growing sense of determination. The rain had stopped but the clouds were still overhead, covering the moon and the stars so everything was in pitch darkness.

The documents were on the front seat. He grabbed them out, tucking them under his arm before making his way back to the house. Silence came from upstairs.

He fought a desire to go and check on her, to see if she needed anything. A passionate encounter didn’t a relationship make—there was no need for him to play the part of the solicitous boyfriend. It was better for both of them if he focused on his reason for being in the cottage.

Revenge was close—so close he could feel it. And it would be better than anything he’d ever known—even the pleasure he’d just felt in the bed of his arch-enemy.

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