November Harlequin Presents 2(118)
‘You don’t feel like putty to me,’ she murmured innocently and then gasped with delight when he flipped her onto her back and demonstrated just who was the master of El Castillo de Leon.
EPILOGUE
ON THE first anniversary of their marriage, Javier picked roses for Grace from the gardens of the castillo, but the thorns cut his hands and she insisted that he spend the rest of the day in bed with her to recover.
On their second anniversary he picked roses again, and carefully removed the thorns before laying the bouquet on the bed where she was nursing their month-old son.
‘Rico’s cheeks are as soft as rose petals,’ she murmured when she handed Javier his son and buried her face in the blooms. ‘He’s so adorable, isn’t he? I hope we have lots more like him.’
‘Are you kidding? I couldn’t go through another birth like that,’ Javier muttered with a shudder as he recalled the agonising sixteen hours that he’d watched Grace suffer before Ricardo Herrera had finally made his entry into the world. He brushed his lips over Rico’s cheek and felt his heart clench with love that was mirrored in his eyes when he smiled at Grace. ‘We’ll love him with all our hearts, but I’m afraid he’s going to be an only child, querida.’ He placed the baby gently in his crib and moved towards the bed where his wife was waiting with open arms.
‘Nonsense. I want at least two more, and you know I always get my own way,’ Grace said cheerfully.
And eighteen months later she did just that when she gave birth to twin girls, Rosa and Susannah. The castillo rang with the sound of children’s laughter, and el Leon de Herrera never walked alone again.
The Italian’s Pregnant Mistress
By Cathy Williams
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ONE
ANGELO FALCONE lay sprawled on the massive bed. Hectic, prolonged love-making had left the sheets half trailing to the floor and the rich burgundy damask quilt lay in inelegant disarray at the bottom of the bed. They had not bothered to shut the curtains and moonlight flooded the room, streaking across the heavy furniture in the room and lovingly illuminating the highly polished patina of wood.
He had properties in New York and Paris, but this apartment in Venice was by far his favourite. In every way it soothed his senses, with its unashamedly decadent opulence. It was the very opposite of the soulless minimalism that New York did so well.
And, of course, this was where he usually met her. Francesca Hayley.
Right now she was squinting down at the floor, trying to identify something she could put on amid the tangle of discarded linen and clothing that had been tossed in a pile in their mutual haste to touch one another.
He smiled at her thwarted efforts.
‘You do this every time, Francesca,’ he said with amusement in his voice.
‘Do what?’ She looked briefly at him and her whole body went hot under the lazy caress of his gaze. Crazy. She had met him thirteen months ago, had written him off as just the sort of wealthy playboy Italian she should steer clear of, and had continued to put up a determined fight until his charm, his wit, his perseverance had succeeded in crashing through her defences. It hadn’t taken long. A little over a month.
‘Insist on getting dressed as soon as you climb out of my bed. I like to see you naked. Why the need to cover up perfection?’
‘I hate it when you say stuff like that, Angelo. I’m not perfect. No one is. Perfection doesn’t exist.’ She looked at him, stupidly shy in the face of his lingering appraisal. Perfection did exist. At least, physical perfection. Angelo Falcone embodied it. He was six foot two of dark, well honed, powerful male and what made him even more impressive was that his physical beauty was allied to a keen, restless intelligence. Together they formed a dangerously irresistible mix. She told herself this at regular intervals. It stopped her from harbouring unreasonable expectations.
‘I beg to differ.’ He folded his arms behind his head and continued to watch her. She was every red-blooded man’s dream. A model without the shape of a stick insect and with a brain that often made him wonder what the hell she was doing in the superficial, fickle world of fashion.
‘I still need to find some clothes.’ She poked around the pile on the floor with one slender foot and gave up. ‘I’m going to get something to eat. Do you want anything?’
‘Come back to bed, Francesca.’ He patted a spot next to him. ‘You are quite capable of catering for my every appetite without getting me something from the kitchen to eat.’