Italian Baby Shock (Scandalous Heirs #1)

CHAPTER ONE

H ER PHONE VIbrATED yet again but Lark Edwards tried not to look at it. It was nothing. Maya had a little cold, that was all. It wasn’t life-threatening. It didn’t require hospitalisation. The nanny who was looking after her for the night held qualifications in child health and was more than capable of looking after a fifteen-month-old with the sniffles.

If anything was gravely wrong, she’d contact Lark immediately, she’d promised.

Lark’s fingers closed tightly around the phone.

She always tried to look on the bright side of things and stay positive, but perhaps there was something gravely wrong. Perhaps that’s why her phone was vibrating. Perhaps Maya had suddenly become very ill and the nanny was trying to contact her to tell her.

Lark took a breath, calmed her racing heartbeat and gave herself a mental slap.

No. It was fine. She was only wound up because this was the first time she’d been away from Maya longer than a day. Mr Ravenswood, her boss, who owned Ravenswood Antiques, one of London’s most exclusive antique businesses, had taken ill with the flu and hadn’t been able to travel, so he’d asked Lark to go to Italy in his stead.

It was a very important assignment, he’d said, and it was vital someone from Ravenswood go. And since she was the only one who was free, it had to be her. She didn’t have his knowledge of antiques since she was only his personal assistant, not to mention only being in the job a year, but he’d been giving her some basic training in the business for the past six months, and she was at least a little familiar with Italy, having been there once before. Also, all she’d have do, he’d assured her, was to view the pieces that the Donati family were wanting to sell to ascertain they were genuine—he’d told her what to look for—and to take as many pictures as she could.

It would have been easier for someone on the Donati end to send the pictures without the need to travel, but Mr Ravenswood had been adamant that someone had to view the items personally. Also, they were to speak to Signor Donati himself, since Ravenswood Antiques prided themselves on the personal touch. Mr Ravenswood had been very upset about the illness that had prevented him from flying to Rome. Then again, he couldn’t ask such an important and busy man such as Signor Donati to rearrange his schedule purely for the sake of an old antiques dealer.

Also, the Donati pieces were special and could earn the business a lot of money, and Mr Ravenswood didn’t want to do anything that might jeopardise the sale.

Lark had felt sorry for him. Jasper Ravenswood had given her a job just after Maya had been born and she’d been despairing of ever finding someone who’d employ a new mother. But he’d given her a position, and hadn’t complained when she’d had to bring Maya into the office. So it was only the right thing to do to agree to go to Rome, see the pieces and talk to Mr Donati herself.

Jasper had been so effusively thankful, he’d paid for the very expensive nanny to look after Maya, Lark’s daughter, for the night.

Lark took another calming breath.

Yes, it was only a night and Maya wasn’t a little baby any more. The nanny, Emily, had been lovely too. She just had to stay positive.

As if determined to ruffle her calm, her phone vibrated once again and this time Lark couldn’t resist having a quick look. But it was only a text from Mr Ravenswood wishing her good luck.

She smiled, typed in a quick thank you, then put the phone down on the overly gilded table in front of her, and forced herself to relax.

It could be just being in Italy again that was messing with her usually positive outlook, or maybe it was sitting on this beautiful velvet-covered couch—no doubt another antique worth thousands of euros—in this beautiful room, in the beautiful, centuries-old Donati palazzo just outside of Rome that was getting to her.

It wasn’t all that conducive to relaxation.

It definitely wasn’t being in Italy again. That night had been two years ago now, so if not the distant past, then very much not the recent past. It had no bearing on the future and she certainly never thought of that night in particular, not if she could help it.

She always tried to stay positive.

Leaning against the stiff back of the sofa, Lark looked around the salon—or so the member of the Donatis’ house staff had called it, definitely not anything as common as a ‘lounge’—and it was huge. The rust-red silk-panelled walls looked as if they had been hand painted and were hung with huge paintings of battle scenes in gilt frames. There seemed to be a lot of gilt on the ornate plaster cornices too, as well as on the intricately painted ceiling.

The parquet on the floor was ancient and worn and covered with hand-knotted silk rugs, while the armchairs and couch she sat on were velvet covered and as gilded as the old and huge fireplace that Lark sat in front of. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling and above the fireplace hung a massive portrait of two people in modern dress, which looked out of place with the rest of the room’s stately opulence. A handsome man with cold blue eyes stood beside a seated woman with beautiful red-gold curls. Neither of them looked particularly happy and it somehow made the room seem dark and vaguely oppressive. Though that could have been due to the heavy dark blue silk curtains partially concealing the windows.

Not a place to slump on the sofa with a tub of ice cream and a glass of wine while watching movies on one’s laptop, that was for sure. Which was exactly what she was going to do back at her hotel once she’d finished looking at the pieces Mr Ravenswood had wanted her to look at, taken the photos she’d been instructed to take and talked nice to whichever Donati family representative she was supposed to talk to.

Tomorrow she’d fly back to London and her daughter.

It was only a night, not a big deal.

She smoothed the fuchsia-pink skirt she wore and double-checked she hadn’t spilled anything on her blouse. It was new and patterned with roses that matched the fuchsia of her skirt, and she loved it—wearing bright and cheerful colours always made her feel good. Luckily, there were no incriminating stains, which surprised her since being the mother of a young child meant clothing got stained on a regular basis and usually in mysterious circumstances.

It wouldn’t do to appear untidy though, not today, not when she was here on behalf of Ravenswood Antiques. Mr Ravenswood had a certain reputation to uphold and she was determined to uphold it. He’d also been very clear that the Donatis weren’t just any old Italian family. They owned Donati Bank, a private banking company that had been founded around six hundred years earlier, while the family’s legacy went back even further. They were one of the oldest and most important families in Italy, their history and wealth equalling and even surpassing some of Europe’s royal families.

It wasn’t exactly a bright history, however.

Lark had done some research on the plane to Rome and the Donati family had been notorious in the Renaissance for all kinds of poisonings and stabbings. They’d had a thing for assassinations apparently, targeting anyone they viewed as a threat to their family. There wasn’t any of that nowadays, of course, but their reputation in the business world was still as ruthless as it had been back in the day. Mostly courtesy of Cesare Donati, the last Donati heir, who drove the business like a racing car driver on the track. Fast and hard and with an aim to win.

He was an imposing, almost mythical figure, with a head for money and a reach in the finance world that spanned the globe, Donati Bank having offices in all the major financial hubs. He advised governments, held the accounts of many global corporations, as well as the personal accounts of some of the wealthiest people in the world, and had a reputation for being as ruthless as the Donatis of old.

She hoped the assistant she’d dealt with had passed on to him that he’d be meeting her instead of Mr Ravenswood. She hoped he wouldn’t mind too much. He might even be too busy to meet with her, which would be fine since she didn’t relish the thought of having to deal with a man like him. Her own father had been wealthy and powerful, and she and her mother had spent years running from him, so she knew what that type of man could be like.

Then again, she was good with people, and anyway, maybe speaking to Signor Donati would only take a few minutes. Maybe this whole thing would only take an hour or so, and then she might even be able to change her flight and leave Rome tonight. The flights had been full when she’d last checked, but being waitlisted was a possibility. Then she would get back to London and be there for when Maya woke up the next morning.

That was a bolstering thought and she felt much better, until her phone vibrated on the table again. She reached out to grab it, just as the salon’s ornate double doors opened and a man stepped in the room. He closed them with a brisk click then turned to her.

And Lark’s breath caught in her throat.

He was exceedingly tall—almost a foot taller than her modest five foot four—and powerfully muscled, the width and breadth of his shoulders and chest emphasised by the perfectly tailored dark suit he wore.

He was also beautiful, his face a work of art in the sculpted planes and angles of cheekbones, nose and forehead. His hair was black and short, the same colour as his winged eyebrows and sooty lashes, all of which made the deep, piercing blue of his eyes even more astonishing.

The same piercing blue of the man in the painting above the fireplace. Though unlike the painting, this man brought a crackling energy and force into the room, as if a fierce storm had come through the doors after him.

For a second Lark sat there, her phone forgotten, utterly transfixed.

She’d seen his face in many media articles, both online and in print. It was instantly recognisable. But that crackling energy he’d brought with him, the magnetism of his physical presence, made him completely unforgettable. And utterly mesmerising.

It was Cesare Donati, head of Donati Bank.

Her mouth dry, her heart pounding, Lark pushed herself to her feet, trying to resist the urge to wipe her sweaty palms down her skirt. She felt self-conscious all of a sudden, deeply aware that she was here as Mr Ravenswood’s representative and yet not knowing a great deal about antiques. She’d learned a lot in the past six months, but that wasn’t the same as someone who had a lot of experience in the field. And no doubt Signor Donati would expect her to have a lot of experience.

Well, there was nothing to be done about that now. She’d just have to be her normal bright, cheerful self, and hopefully that would be enough. He was a human being like any other and most human beings liked her.

Apparently, according to her mother, her smile could heal the world.

Signor Donati’s attention was on his phone as he stopped near the couch, typing a message out to someone before slipping the phone back into the pocket of his impeccably tailored suit trousers. Then he looked at her and those piercing blue eyes of his widened, a look of shock rippling over his handsome face. He stared at her as if he’d seen a ghost.

Her heart was already beating far too fast and she had no idea why he was looking at her that way—perhaps he hadn’t been informed that Mr Ravenswood wouldn’t be here? Regardless, being friendly always put people at their ease, so she took a step towards him and held out a hand.

‘ Buongiorno , Signor Donati,’ she said in her hastily practised and atrocious Italian. Then, switching to English, she went on, ‘I hope my message was passed on? I know you were expecting Mr Ravenswood, but unfortunately he was unable to come due to illness, and he sent me in his stead. My name is Lark Edwards and it’s a great pleasure to meet you.’

Cesare Donati made no move to take her hand. In fact, he didn’t move at all. He only stared at her, his gaze twin spears of sapphire pinning her in place. ‘You,’ he murmured, his voice deep, rich and full of shock. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

Lark blinked. He’d said it as if he knew her, which was strange, because she’d never met him. She’d remember if she had, very definitely.

‘Uh...me?’ she asked uncertainly. ‘Well, as I said, Mr Ravenswood was sick so I—’

‘I told you there would be no contact between us,’ he interrupted and then took an abrupt step towards her, his gaze sweeping over her as if he was meticulously recording every aspect of her appearance. ‘I told you not to go looking.’

Lark blinked again, her surprise deepening into confusion. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said carefully, not wanting to offend him. ‘Have we...met before? Or perhaps you’ve mistaken me for someone else?’

He said nothing. His fallen angel features were drawn tight to the perfect bone structure of his face, his beautifully carved mouth hard. A muscle leapt in his impressive jaw, his astonishing blue eyes studying her so intently she felt almost consumed by them.

A disturbing heat bloomed inside her, making her skin prickle and her breath catch yet again. It was physical attraction, she knew that, but a worse man to be attracted to she couldn’t imagine, and not only because he’d never be interested in someone like her. He was also the very epitome of all she disliked about the male species: rich, arrogant and entitled, and even if he had been interested in her, she would have avoided him like the plague.

You did like one man, remember?

Yes. Maya’s father. Except the problem was that she didn’t remember.

Oh, she remembered her mother’s death from cancer and then the dreary London winter that had felt as if it would never end. Then that fateful trip to Italy she’d taken to cheer herself up. And she remembered her handbag getting stolen in Rome but...the next thing she knew she’d woken up in hospital. Apparently she’d been hit by a car crossing the street and had banged her head hard, though she had no memory of it. No memory of the night she’d had either.

But she must have spent it with a man, because nine months later, Maya was born.

At first, she’d dismissed that night, because she hadn’t had any long-term injuries and she seemed to be fine. But then, when the fact of her pregnancy had become apparent, she’d been terrified, and no amount of looking on the bright side and being positive had helped.

That her baby was healthy according to the midwife made no difference. She’d always wanted children, but hadn’t expected to have them so soon let alone not have the slightest idea who’d fathered her child. In the end she’d visited a psychologist to talk through her fears, because no matter how her baby had been conceived, there was no doubting Lark would be a mother and she wanted to be the best mother she could be. She wanted to keep her baby and love it when it was born. The psychologist had helped, and after a few sessions, Lark had decided that her pregnancy wasn’t something to fear. It was a last mystical gift from her mother, a blessing even. Because a blessing was exactly what a child was.

But there was no possibility though, that the man she’d spent the night with was this man. None whatsoever. She’d remember if she had, she was positive. He was so memorable in every conceivable way; it was impossible not to remember him.

Lark dropped her outstretched hand and gave him her brightest smile instead. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘If I could just have a look at these pieces your representatives talked to us about and perhaps take a few photos, then I’ll get out of your hair.’

It was her. There was no doubt. No doubt at all.

Cesare stood in the middle of his family’s centuries-old salon, very conscious of the blood pumping hard in his veins and the shock that rippled like an earthquake through him.

It had been nearly two years ago, but he still remembered that night as if it had been yesterday.

The aunt who’d brought him up after his parents had died had just passed away after a heart attack, which meant he was now the last of the Donati line, and even though he’d been determined not to let that bother him in any way, it had. He’d gone out walking the streets, sending his bodyguards away because he’d craved solitude. They hadn’t been happy about it, but since he was the boss and they valued their jobs, they did what they were told.

He’d walked for hours, telling himself he felt nothing, that the toxic combination of grief and fury in his gut didn’t exist, and he’d been on the point of finding a bar to make sure the embers of it were well and truly drowned, when he’d come across a tourist who’d just had her handbag stolen. She hadn’t spoken any Italian and she’d been upset. She hadn’t recognised him, either, and though he didn’t normally go out of his way to help people—he’d inherited his parents’ selfish natures and he knew it—when she’d burst out that she’d just lost her mother, he knew he couldn’t leave her on her own.

So he’d mobilised his staff to help her and while they’d dealt with the police, the banks, and the British embassy for a replacement passport, he’d taken her out to dinner. She’d had no money and was hungry, and he needed the distraction.

And what a distraction she’d proven to be, with her wealth of honey gold hair and beautiful sea-green eyes. He’d always had his pick of beautiful women, and while she wasn’t who he’d normally choose for a partner, he’d found himself drawn to her all the same. She’d been so expressive and open, and even in the midst of her grief, she’d smiled. It had been the most astonishing smile he’d ever seen in his entire life, warm and generous and utterly sincere. No one had ever smiled at him that way and it felt like the most precious gift he’d ever been given.

Lark, she’d said her name was. Like the bird.

She hadn’t had anywhere to go that night, and so he’d offered her a guest room in his villa. They’d sat up till midnight talking in the library and then the chemistry he’d felt all night and yet tried to ignore had sparked and ignited. And she’d been just as warm and expressive and sincere in bed as she had been during their dinner. Passionate too. Giving herself to him with an abandon that had spoken of deep trust. Another precious gift.

She hadn’t known him, yet she’d trusted him with her body implicitly.

He’d never had a night with a woman with whom he’d felt such a connection.

It couldn’t go anywhere, of course. Because by then he’d already decided that the toxicity of the Donati line would end with him. Selfish, his parents would have called it, and yes, it was. Petty and selfish, revenge for a childhood where he hadn’t been a child so much as a possession to be fought over and used. A weapon his parents had aimed at each other.

They’d done their best to leave their scars on him, but he’d refused to be marked. And as for the legacy they’d thought had been so important, well... He could be as petty and selfish as they once had been.

He’d break up the precious Donati legacy, sell it off bit by bit, even Donati bank would go. He’d never marry, never have children. There would be no one else to take the name, no one else to shoulder the weight of that toxic history, no one else to ensure the whole bitter bloodline carried on.

Once he was dead, so were the Donatis.

Anyway, he’d made sure she knew that it would be one night and only one, and the next day, he’d left her sleeping in his bed. By the time he’d got home that evening, she was gone. He’d never heard from her again.

Until today.

Now, here she was, standing in the middle of the salon, dressed in a tight-fitting pink skirt and a blouse with roses on it, outrageously pretty and colourful in his overwrought, overdecorated palazzo. Giving him that beautiful smile he remembered and yet looking at him as if she had no idea who he was. As if she hadn’t spent an entire night, writhing in pleasure in his arms. He didn’t understand. How could she have forgotten?

‘Don’t you know who I am?’ he demanded before he could stop himself. Something he’d never had to ask because people always knew who he was.

Her big green eyes widened and a small crease appeared between her brows. ‘Of course I do. You’re Signor Donati, head of Donati Bank.’

He waited for her to add something more, something along the lines of ‘yes, of course I remember the night we spent together, how could I forget that?’ But she didn’t.

Perhaps she didn’t recognise him as the man she’d spent the night with, though again, surely that was impossible. They’d spent hours in each other’s company, just talking. Then yet more hours not talking at all, only touching, kissing, tasting. Giving pleasure and receiving it. Did she not remember that?

Apart from anything else, he was head of the largest and oldest private bank in Europe, if not the entire world, and everything he did was the stuff of rumour and gossip. He couldn’t go anywhere without being photographed by the paparazzi. Entire governments asked for his financial advice.

He was recognised everywhere and more than one woman who’d spent the night with him had sold their story to different news organisations around the globe.

All those stories were, without exception, glowing.

It was impossible that this particular woman didn’t remember him. Unless, of course, she wasn’t the woman he’d spent the night with... But no, he was certain she was the one. She’d said her name was Lark and it wasn’t that common a name.

Yet, she was looking at him as if he was a total stranger.

Annoyance wound through him and it wasn’t wounded pride, absolutely not. Merely irritation. He’d been expecting Ravenswood, not her, and that she just happened to be a woman he’d slept with a long time ago wasn’t something he’d expected to have to deal with. It wasn’t of note, though. And if she didn’t remember him, he certainly wasn’t going to tell her.

He’d been very clear, after all, that they’d only have a night and that there would be no further contact and she’d been in agreement. And up until this moment she’d been as good as her word.

Perhaps she was here because she’d wanted to see him? And pretending not to recognise him? Then again, why would she bother? And what had she said about Ravenswood?

Annoyed that his shock at her arrival had meant that he hadn’t taken in anything she’d said, Cesare pulled himself together. Emotional control was vital and he couldn’t let her unexpected appearance get to him. He was the head of Donati Bank, for God’s sake, not a teenage boy with his first crush.

He gave her a cool look. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s exactly who I am. And as head of Donati Bank, I expected to see Mr Ravenswood himself not you.’

Her smile didn’t falter. ‘I know, but Mr Ravenswood has had a terrible bout of flu and he wasn’t in any condition to travel. He also didn’t want anyone to rearrange their schedule because of him, so he asked me if I’d be willing to look at your items on his behalf.’

She was still smiling warmly and shock was still bouncing around inside him, and he was aware that a very male part of him was noting how low the neckline of her blouse was, and how it showed off her pretty creamy skin as well as the dips and hollows of her collarbone. Skin he’d spent a long time tasting. Dips and hollows he’d spent a long time tracing with his tongue. In fact, he’d spent a long time following every line of that delectable, curvy body of hers with his hands and his mouth, and he’d relished every cry he’d brought from her. She’d smelled of vanilla, he remembered, like a sweet confection, making his mouth water...

He shoved the erotic memories aside, ignored the sudden increase in his blood pressure. No, he should not be thinking about that night. It was over and done with, and no matter how pretty this woman was, and no matter that she didn’t recognise him, he wasn’t going to let either of those things affect him.

It had only been physical attraction, nothing more, and he’d never let something as banal as lust rule him. He was in complete control of himself as he was in complete control of everything else he did, and while he’d enjoyed that one night, he wasn’t going to pursue another. He’d never needed to chase a woman and he wasn’t about to start.

‘And who exactly are you?’ he asked tightly.

She gave him that bright, sunny smile again. ‘Oh, I’m Mr Ravenswood’s personal assistant.’

‘And do you know anything about antiques?’

‘Not as much as he does, it’s true.’ This time her smile was self-deprecating. ‘But I’ve been training with him for the past six months and he’s told me what to look for. I’ll also be taking some photos if that’s okay.’

His annoyance, already simmering, deepened. He’d given up some of his precious time to oversee this particular matter himself. The pieces were valuable, dating from the Renaissance, and were worth a lot of money.

He was going to sell them—he was going to sell everything in the palazzo—and donate the money to charity, so he wanted to get the best price he could and that meant having them appraised accurately. He’d already had the list of charities he was going to donate to drawn up and all of them his father would have disapproved of. That satisfied him unreasonably.

What did not satisfy him was having his one-night stand turn up at his palazzo and apparently not remember that she slept with him. It shouldn’t matter to him and yet for some reason it did.

‘If all that was required were some pictures, I could have taken them myself,’ he snapped.

Generally, when he took that tone, people leapt to either do his bidding or apologise for whatever transgression they’d made, but Lark merely gave him another of those pretty, sunny smiles, as though she hadn’t heard the annoyance in his voice.

‘Oh, no, that’s not necessary,’ she said soothingly. ‘Mr Ravenswood was very insistent that I view them personally. Again, I’m so sorry you were inconvenienced. All you have to do is show me where the pieces are and I can do the rest.’

She really was very pretty, with a delicate nose and chin, and a perfect little rosebud of a mouth. And her expression radiated warmth and openness, her sea-green eyes sparkling.

It was as if a shaft of summer sunlight had suddenly illuminated the room, making everything feel lighter and brighter. Not so cold and oppressive and...dark.

She made him remember that night, the warmth he’d felt radiating from her, the way she’d opened her arms to him, welcoming him with such passion. And how no matter what he told himself, he had never forgotten her...

He didn’t like it. He didn’t want it.

Just then something vibrated on the small seventeenth-century table in front of the sofa. It was a phone, the screen lighting up.

The smile on Lark’s face faltered, her expression tightening.

So, it was her phone. And clearly she was distracted by it.

His decision, already half made, solidified into certainty. He didn’t want her here; she was distracting and he couldn’t afford to be distracted now, not when he had so much to organise.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he said. ‘There are plenty of other companies I can sell these pieces to. Companies who take this more seriously than—’

The phone vibrated again, interrupting him in midflight, and this time Lark made a sound. Her gaze darted to the phone on the table.

‘Are you listening?’ He knew he sounded demanding and graceless, but he’d come to the end of his patience and once that occurred, he was done. ‘Because if you’re not—’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Lark said quickly as the phone vibrated again. ‘But I really need to get this. It’s my daughter’s nanny. This is the first time I’ve left Maya for longer than a day since she was born and well...’ She broke off as the phone vibrated yet again, her attention on the screen. ‘Sorry, I just have to...’ Before he could protest, she bent to pick the phone up off the table, turning as she looked down at it, presumably to hide whatever text she’d received.

She wasn’t very tall, though, so he could see the screen over her shoulder. On it was a photo of a very young child, a little girl dressed in a pink nightgown and smiling at the camera. She had a cloud of soft rose-gold curls and blue, blue eyes.

It was a singular colour that rose gold, as was the intense blue of her eyes. He’d never met anyone else who’d had hair that hue apart from his mother. And as for that blue...

That was Donati blue. Two hundred years ago the Donatis had been patrons of a painter who’d created a paint colour in their honour. And that’s what he’d called it.

It was famous.

Cesare went very still as everything in him slowed down and stopped. Everything except his brain, which was now working overtime. Going back over dates. Going back over that night. Going over everything.

Because if there was one thing he knew, it was that the little girl in that photo was his daughter.