The lust was followed by a fury, bright and hot.
“What the hell are you thinking?” he yelled. “Don’t open the door without looking to see who it is. Are you crazy?”
The dazed look she’d had at first, changed in a flash to horror and then into an answering rage. “Go away.”
The door began to swing shut, but his reaction was swift. Naples’ streets had taught him to move with instinct and speed.
“Get out of my house,” she cried as she stumbled back from his entrance.
“No.” He slammed the door behind him. So what if he barged into her place? He was merely fulfilling the role she’d assigned him.
A savage. A philistine. A brute.
Her breath rasped in her throat. The hollows under her eyes were nearly black. She clutched the front of her nightgown like an urchin.
He stared at her, glared at her. Fury mixed with lust and worry and something else. Something he couldn’t define. “We have to talk.”
“We can talk at work if we need to.” She lifted her chin and pursed her lips in derision. “There is absolutely no reason you have for being here. I want you to leave.”
Leaning back on the door, he crossed his arms in front of him. “We can either do this civilly or we can do it the hard way. Up to you.”
She followed his movement and folded her arms in front of her too. Was it his imagination or did it appear she had a bit more voluptuousness in her breasts?
The lust simmered in his blood.
“You are so predictable.”
He glanced up at her words. Answered her narrowed gaze and tightened mouth with a wicked grin. “I am a man. I look.”
Making a disgusted noise, she turned and marched down the hall. He followed her, looking around. This was a high-class mausoleum if ever he’d seen one. The walls were painted a cool grey. The plush carpet was the exact same color. White trim echoed the hideous paint on the outside. Lise Helton stomped to the center of the living room, a room decorated in shades of taupe and ash. The furniture appeared as if it had been designed with torture in mind.
Sterile, cold. Exactly like the woman.
No child of his would be raised in this place. Of that, he was sure.
“All right.” She spun around to face him. “Say what you have to say.”
“I want a DNA test.”
Her spine stiffened, her body went taut and her eyes widened, filling with stark terror.
The twist in his gut coiled around his heart and clutched tight.
He knew. Immediately.
He didn’t even need the test, though he would require it.
But he knew.
The bambino was his.
* * *
Why had she answered the door?
He was right, damn him. She should have looked before opening. Because if she had, she wouldn’t be standing here dealing with this right now. She wouldn’t be standing in her living room looking like death, facing the inflexible gaze of this man.
A man who wore jeans and a T-shirt.
This was the first time she’d ever seen Vico Mattare in clothing other than a sleek Italian business suit designed to his specifications. This was the first time she’d ever been able to clearly trace his form beneath his clothes. The broadness of his shoulders, the bunch of muscles in his arms and chest. The dark hair on his bare forearms. The jeans clinging to his narrow hips and lean line of his thighs.
A magnificent male. While she surely appeared like warmed-over porridge.
Which didn’t matter. What did she care?
She cared.
“A DNA test, Lise.” He repeated his demand, the accent of his voice deepening.
His words jerked her from the contemplation of his beauty versus her wretched ugliness. Terror flooded back through her bones and muscles, constricting around her panicked brain. “No.”
He laughed, a harsh sound. “Why am I not surprised at your response?”
“Then you shouldn’t have even come here if you knew what I would say.”
Ignoring her limp attempt at waving him toward the front door, he sauntered to the couch and sat. His arms rose to lie on the top of the seat. His long legs splayed out, accenting the hips, the thighs. The man looked at her with scary intent while his body projected casual confidence. “I have a right to know if it’s mine.”
“I told you it wasn’t.”
“You also told me you only had a case of the flu.”
She stared at him.
“Which was a lie.” His eyes went pure gold, heating with annoyance and disgust. “Why should I believe a woman who has proven she lies?”
I never lie, she wanted to yell. Yet it was no longer true. Because of him.
“Therefore,” he continued, “I will require proof it isn’t mine before I believe you.”
“You don’t have the right.” She wrapped her arms around her waist, protecting the baby. Her baby. “You don’t.”