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was something he had lacked growing up, and he didn’t want his child to lack in the same ways.
It was part of his growing obsession.
Ever since that night, the night after she had come to tell him about the baby, he had been plagued by the same nightmare over and over again. The empty house, the searching child. The child that eventually became his.
And he had known then what he had to do.
He had grown into an entirely selfish man over the years. He knew that. He had not connected with a single person since the death of his mother. The homes he had bounced between offered him nothing—no comfort, no love. And when he had gone into the workforce, he had approached things with a single-minded ruthlessness. Life on the street had taught him early on that you had to look out for yourself, because no one else would.
His mother’s fate had taught him that you had to be the most dangerous person in the alley, or you would become a victim.
Rocco Amari refused to become a victim.
And yet, he felt connected to this child. The child in his dream. He had no way of knowing if it was a vision of some kind. In fact, he was certain it wasn’t, because he didn’t believe in such things. But he didn’t feel he could ignore it, either.
His sleeplessness had driven him here. To confirm the pregnancy, to confirm what he must do. The moment the sound of the baby’s heartbeat had filled the room, he had known. No matter the cost, he would create a family. A stable environment.
He was determined.
“Are you insane?” she asked, taking a step back.
“No.”
“You say that with a lot of confidence, for someone I’m pretty certain is insane,” she said, shaking her head, a curtain of glossy curls swirling around her. She truly was beautiful. It was a shame she was a criminal.
“You don’t need to answer that now. But you will come back to the island with me now.”
“Or prison?”
He smiled. “Or prison. Yet again, I feel it’s a fairly easy choice.”
“I should have run.”
“Before or after the con?”
She paled, an ashen tone running beneath her cream-and-coffee skin. “I don’t want to talk anymore,” she said.
“Too close to the bone?”
“I don’t have a choice, do I?”
He advanced on her, closing the space between them. And as the air shrank, his chest tightened, his blood running harder, faster. There was something about her, something that called to him. Something elemental. He could not fathom it.
“Did we ever?” They were not the words he meant to speak, and yet he found it was an honest question.
He wondered if there had ever been a choice where she was concerned. If, rather than being the woman he was certain had been a part of stealing his money, he had spotted her in a crowded bar, they would have ended up in bed together.
If, no matter the circumstances, their connection would have been forged.
“I didn’t,” she said.
“You made your choice when you agreed to help your father steal my money. And now I am the one making the choices. You will come with me. Now. I do not make empty threats, and I think you know that.”
“Well then,” she said, her voice strangled. “Perhaps you should show me to your private jet.”
“I will. Make no mistake, cara, you are mine now. And by the end of next week, I will decide what exactly I am going to do with you.”
* * *
For the second time Charity found herself looking at a set of written instructions, and a garment bag.
She still felt as if she was dreaming. Only, it wasn’t a particularly good dream. They had left the doctor’s appointment, only to get on a plane and fly overnight to Italy. Rocco had spent the entire flight ignoring her, which suited her just fine. She’d slept most of the way, and she assumed he had been working, or whatever it was he was doing on his computer. Possibly looking at pictures of women in bikinis. She didn’t really care.
He’d continued his silence on the car ride through the city and up a winding mountain road. Charity had tried to appear blasé about the whole experience. From the moment they had boarded his private plane, until they had touched down in a country she had never even dreamed of visiting. But she’d found it was impossible. Especially when faced with the beauty of Italy.
The narrow streets, tall buildings, cluttered balconies and brightly colored flowers on climbing vines were too beautiful for her to ignore. She’d pressed her nose to the glass of the limo they were riding in and watched as the road widened, the buildings became more sparse, stared in awe at the intense jade ocean down at the bottom of the rocky cliffs.
And once the expansive villa had come into view, she’d had to fight to keep her mouth from dropping open.
Now she was inside, installed in her bedroom, which was larger than the New York hotel suite Rocco had seduced her in. It was expensive, light and airy, with white curtains and flowing white linens cascading over the wrought-iron frame of the bed.
And yet, there was a heaviness in her chest that she could not shake.
And now the note.
You will join me for dinner. You will wear the dress that I have provided. We have much to discuss.
—R
This scenario felt far too familiar for her liking. And the worst part was, much like the first time, she was in no position to refuse him.
She blinked, her eyes feeling gritty. The time change and restless sleep on the airplane was starting to catch up with her. She took her shirt off, and her skirt, then unzipped the garment bag to find a bright yellow dress made of a light fabric that looked as if it would be comfortable in the heat.
She had expected a corset and garter belt, so it was a pleasant surprise.
She slipped the dress on over her head and turned to look at herself in the mirror. Unfortunately, she looked as tired as she felt. Deep purple circles marked the skin beneath her eyes, and she was certain that there was a permanent line etched in her forehead that had not been there BR.
Before Rocco.
She sighed and took her hair out of its clip, running her fingers through the glossy dark curls that she had always imagined were a gift from her mother. A thick, unruly gift that made getting ready a chore. A fitting present from a woman who had never once bothered to check on the child she had given birth to.
She reached down and picked up her purse, taking out her bright pink lipstick and smearing a bit over her lips. The effect brightened her face some, made her look less tired. Made her look less worn down. She needed that. That little bit of armor in place so that he didn’t just think he had won. So that he didn’t assume he had the upper hand.
She arched one dark brow at her own reflection. “You are in his villa, in a foreign country. A country where you don’t speak the language. He’s a billionaire. And you are not even a thousandaire. There is no question who has the upper hand.”
She sighed and turned away from the mirror.
She didn’t know how she was going to get out of this, but she would be damned if she betrayed herself to him.
She opened the door to the bedroom, running a countdown in her mind as she walked slowly down the hallway that led to the sweeping curved staircase. She put her hand on the polished wooden banister and let her fingers glide across the smooth, cool surface as she made her way down to the opulent entryway.
Ten. Nine. Eight.
She was strong. She would hold her