The Italian's Love-Child: The Italian's Stolen Bride / The Marchese's Love-Child / The Italian's Marriage Demand. Sara Craven
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were a dark ferment in his mind—a ferment he had to contain while he listened and observed, weighing whether he could even keep on being involved with his parents. Certainly, in Skye’s mind, his family was the enemy to any future he might forge with his son. And she had no reason to think otherwise.
He entered the library without giving a courtesy knock on the door. His father sat at a magnificent mahogany antique desk, tapping at a pocketbook computer he carried with him everywhere, probably checking up on any movement in his investments. His agile brain kept track of an incredible array of figures which he could rattle out at any pertinent moment.
Luc had always admired his father—a formidable go-getter who knew what he wanted and went after it, using every resource he could pull into play. Maurizio Peretti had friends in politics, friends in the church, friends in many high places, all of them impressed by what he could do for them, and, of course, the occasional favour was asked and given in return.
But it wasn’t just his accumulated wealth that impressed them. It was his business acumen and a charismatic presence that shouted leadership quality; the tall, powerful physique, the almost mesmerising intelligence in the commanding dark eyes, the thick thatch of wavy iron-grey hair, the hawkish nose, and the mouth that never spoke rubbish.
He looked up from his notebook, surprise and pleasure instantly lightening the air of deeply focused concentration. ‘Luciano! Glad you came by! Have you spoken to your mother?’
Family first… Luc’s mouth curled in black irony. He’d give his father family! He crossed the room in a few quick strides and tossed the large envelope he carried onto the desk. ‘Something requiring your immediate attention, Dad,’ he drawled.
His father frowned at the disrespect implicit in Luc’s manner. ‘What is this?’ he demanded curtly.
‘Photos. Remember the photos you presented to me six years ago?’
The frown deepened. ‘Why would you keep them?’
‘I didn’t. These are new photos, Dad.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You will. Since you seem reluctant to look at them, let me help.’ Luc snatched back the envelope, ripped it open, removed its contents and slapped the photos one by one, face up, across his father’s desk. ‘Skye Sumner with my son,’ he declared in bitter fury. ‘My son who is now a schoolboy. My son whose first five years of life I have missed because I did not know of his existence. Look at him, Dad!’
The passionate outburst drew no more than a shuttered glance at the photos and a stoney-faced defence. ‘How do you know it is your son?’
Luc’s arm flew out in a fiercely dismissive gesture. ‘Don’t come at me with that.’ He drew himself up in towering contempt. ‘Roberto confessed to your indecent conspiracy against Skye on his deathbed. He told me about the pregnancy, told me you’d paid her off. Don’t even start denying it!’
His father’s mouth compressed into a thin line of distaste. He sat back in his antique studded leather chair and viewed Luc through narrowed eyes, eyes that were weighing options for dealing with this crisis. ‘Surely, in hindsight, you realise she was an unsuitable wife for you,’ he stated unequivocally.
‘Don’t go there, Dad,’ Luc warned, hard ruthless steel in his own eyes. ‘You’ve lost one son. You’re very close to losing another.’
‘I did what I thought was best for you, Luciano,’ he said, attempting a tone of appeasement. ‘You were blindly infatuated—’
‘I’m here to give you one chance—’ Luc held up his index finger for pointed emphasis ‘—one chance to answer Skye’s accusation that you paid her off with a thousand dollars to have an abortion.’
‘That’s a lie!’ He exploded up from his chair, hurling his hands out in furious counter-challenge. ‘You see what a scheming little bitch she is, trying to turn you against me? I paid out one hundred thousand dollars, with more to come when it was needed!’
‘Then why doesn’t she have any money?’ Luc bored in. ‘Why is she living in borderline poverty?’
‘She must be hiding it.’
‘No, she’s not. Trust me on this. A thorough investigation has been done. There is…no money! In fact, she has no support whatsoever. Her stepfather did a flit while she was still pregnant. Her mother died of cancer when the baby was only eighteen months old. She was left with nothing but old furniture and she has survived—with my son—by building up a modest massage business.’
‘Massage,’ his father jeered, his eyes flashing a filthy interpretation of that profession.
Luc’s hands clenched. He barely held back the urge to smash his father’s face in. ‘Remedial massage,’ he bit out. ‘A natural offshoot from the physiotherapy course she was doing at university when I knew her—a course she didn’t—couldn’t—complete with neither the money nor support needed to go the distance. So the evidence—the evidence, Dad!—is all against your having paid her off with anything more than the thousand dollars Skye claims.’
His father bristled with offended dignity. ‘You doubt my word?’
‘I have every reason to doubt your word where Skye Sumner is concerned,’ Luc fired at him point-blank, not giving a millimetre.
His father’s chin lifted aggressively. ‘I can prove the money was given. And more to come.’
‘Then start proving it!’
‘The papers are at my solicitor’s office.’
‘Call your solicitor. Get him to bring the papers here. Show them to me…before you have the chance to cook up more lies behind my back.’
For several tense moments the air between them was charged with Maurizio Peretti’s fierce pride and Luc’s explosive mistrust—a mistrust that Maurizio finally realised could destroy everything between them. He reached for the telephone and began dialling.
Needing to put a cooling distance between himself and his father, Luc moved over to one of the tall, narrow, lancet windows which gave a limited view of the east garden. Limited views was not only a problem with the old-fashioned architecture of this house. The limited view his father had of Skye Sumner was deeply offensive to him, especially since she’d been innocent of the damning sins manufactured against her. He wasn’t sure he could ever forgive his father for that. If the solicitor couldn’t bring proof of some caring…
‘John, I’m sorry to break in on your evening but this is an emergency. I need the Skye Sumner file and I need it now.’
Silence while the other man spoke.
‘Yes,’ his father replied tersely. ‘I’m at home. Bring it here as soon as you can.’
End of conversation.
Luc didn’t turn around. He had nothing more to say to his father at this point and the tension inside him needed some calming. Seeing Skye in the flesh today, being in touchable distance of her… it wasn’t only his son he wanted. Had he ever stopped wanting her?
It had driven him mad, seeing her with Roberto in the photos, thinking of her giving his brother what he’d believed was all his, only his, the gift of herself in loving abandonment. Somehow he had to persuade her she could trust him with that gift again. Somehow…
‘A trust fund was set up for the child’s support and education,’ his father stated, the leather of his chair creaking as he resumed his seat behind the desk to wait for the solicitor’s arrival.
If that was true, there could not have been an instruction to abort the child. Not from his father. Yet Luc would not disbelieve Skye. So where had the instruction come from? Had one of his father’s underlings decided that cutting corners would be the best result for his boss?
‘All she had to do was apply in writing