Bound by a Sicilian Secret by Lela May Wight

Author:Lela May Wight
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2023-01-19T19:41:43+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

CONTROL.

For the last four days he’d been trying to cling on to it, and every day it miraculously came to him. Because it had to. Because she was here, and she was carrying his baby. She was safe in his palace on the sea. He would feed her, dress her, listen to her. But he would not take her to his bed.

He wouldn’t lose control again in the delicate contours of her skin. Would not kiss the freckles on the bridge of her nose as he counted eyelashes so long he didn’t understand their growth.

He couldn’t keep her safe if he did that, could he? If he allowed himself to get too deep, to feel too much?

But every day her eyes begged. Moved over him at breakfast, at lunch, at dinner. With agonising want in her eyes.

And by God, he wanted too. Pulsed with it as he answered questions about his hotels, his renovations, his ability to strip things apart and put them back together. About how the deconstruction of something whole could reveal its secrets.

The Priato—his hotel in London—had many such secrets. Not only the secret door she’d found, but tunnels and concealed rooms. She’d asked if he would take her back there, to the place they’d met, and reveal them to her. Expose the secrets the previous owner had concealed from all but a select few.

She’d asked for more details about his business, about Russo Renovations’ global allure. And he’d answered. He’d nodded or shaken his head when she’d asked about his family. No, she couldn’t meet them. He had none. No cousins, no aunts—just him.

It had always just been him. On the outside looking in. The generosity of the community had given him a bowl or two of freshly made pasta covered in home-made passata to take home, but no one had ever invited him to sit at their table.

She’d told him stories of her life as she sat beside him on the sofa, a blanket pulled up to her chin. She’d left her feet exposed, dangling her toes over the edge, wiggling them. Cute little digits he’d longed to reach for. To apply pressure to the ball of her foot. Massage the flesh.

He hadn’t touched her feet. He had not touched her. But he had listened. And that was new to him. Because he never listened. Not to the women he took to bed. Not to the women who hung on his arm, adorned in the glittering diamonds and jewels he presented them with before he shooed them away. Bored when his sexual appetite had diminished.

It was not diminished for her.

His hunger for her had intensified.

But he’d made himself pay attention to Flora’s words and not her body. Because he’d wanted to hear them. Her words. Her voice. And she liked to talk...to ask questions.

She’d told him of her life on the farm. Of cousins. Of aunts and uncles. Growing up with a family. Birthdays, Christmases, holidays together as a family.

His family now. Supposedly. Because of the child growing inside her.

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