A Hunger for the Forbidden. Maisey Yates
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released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“When is the baby due?”
“Are you certain he’s the father?”
“When did you discover you were pregnant?”
The questions were coming rapid-fire now, but she didn’t need to answer them because this was never about the press. This was about getting his attention. This was about forcing a confrontation that he seemed content to avoid.
“I’ll answer more questions when Matteo comes to make his statement.”
“Did the two of you leave the wedding together, or are you estranged? Has he denied paternity?” one of the reporters asked.
“I …”
“What the hell is going on?”
Alessia turned and her heart caught in her throat, making it impossible to breathe. Matteo. It felt like an eternity since she’d seen him, since he’d kissed her, put his hands on her skin. An eternity.
She ached with the need to run to him, to hold on to him, use him as an anchor. In her fantasies, he had long been her knight in shining armor, a simplistic vision of a man who had saved her from a hideous fate.
But in the years since, things had changed. Become more complex, more real. He was her lover now. The father of her child. The man she had lied to. The man who had left her sitting alone in an airport, crying and clutching a positive pregnancy test.
For a moment, the longing for those simple, sun-drenched days in Sicily, when he had been nothing more than an idealized savior, was so sharp and sweet she ached.
“Mr. Corretti, is this why you broke up the wedding?”
“I didn’t break up anyone’s wedding,” he said, his tone dark.
“No, I ran out of the wedding,” she said.
“And is what why I broke up the wedding?” he asked, addressing the reporter, stormy eyes never once looking at her.
“The baby,” the reporter said.
Matteo froze, his face turning to stone. “The baby.” Color drained from his face, but he remained stoic, only the change in his complexion a clue as to the shock that he felt.
He didn’t know. She felt the impact of that reality like a physical blow. He hadn’t even listened to a single message. Hadn’t opened any emails, even before she’d started tagging them to let her know when he opened them.
“Is there more than one?” This from another reporter.
“Of course not,” Matteo said, his words smooth, his eyes cold like granite. “Only this one.”
He came to stand beside her, his gaze still avoiding hers. He put his arm around her waist, the sudden contact like touching an open flame, heat streaking through her veins. How did he manage to affect her this way still? After all he’d done to her? After the way he’d treated her?
“Do you have a statement?”
“Not at this point,” he bit out. “But when the details for the wedding are finalized, we will be in touch.”
He tightened his hold on her waist and turned them both around, away from the reporters, leading her up the steps and into the hotel. She felt very much like she was being led into the lion’s den.
“What are you doing?” she asked, wishing he would move away from her, wishing he would stop touching her.
“Taking you away from the circus you created. I have no desire to discuss this with an audience.”
If he wasn’t so angry with her, she might think it was a good idea. But Matteo Corretti’s rage was like ice-cold water in a black sea. Fathomless, with the great threat of pulling her beneath the waves.
His hold tightened with each step they took toward the hotel, and her stomach started to feel more and more unsettled until, when they passed through the revolving door and into the hotel lobby, she was afraid she might vomit on the high-gloss marble floors.
A charming photo to go with the headlines.
He released her the moment they were fully inside. “What the hell is the meaning of this?” he asked, rounding on her as his staff milled around very carefully not watching.
“Should we go somewhere more private?” she asked. Suddenly she felt like she’d rather brave his rage than put on a show. She was too tired for that. Too vulnerable. Bringing the press in was never about drawing attention to herself, it was about getting information to Matteo that he couldn’t ignore. Giving the man no excuse to say he didn’t know.
“Says the woman who called a bloody press conference?”
“You didn’t answer my calls. Or return my messages. And I’m pretty sure now that you didn’t even listen to any of them.”
“I have been away,” he said.
“Well, that’s hardly my fault that you chose this moment to go on sabbatical. And I had no way of knowing.”
He was looking at her like she’d grown an extra head. “Take me to your suite,” she said.
“I’m not in the mood, Alessia.”
“Neither am I!” she shot back. “I want to talk.”
“It’s just that last time we were in this hotel, talking was very much not on the agenda.”
Her face heated, searing prickles dotting her skin. “No. That’s very true. Which is how we find ourselves in this current situation.”
“Communication seems to be something we don’t do well with,” he said. “Our lack of talking last time we were here together certainly caused some issues.”
“But I want to talk now,” she said, crossing her arms beneath her breasts.
He cocked his head to the side, dark eyes trained on her now with a focus he’d withheld until that moment. “You aren’t afraid of me.”
“No.”
“A mistake, some might say, cara mia.”
“Is that so?”
“You won’t like me when I’m angry.”
“You turn green and split your pants?”
“Perhaps taking this somewhere private is the best idea,” he said, wrapping his fingers around her arm, just above her elbow, and directing her toward the elevator.
He pushed the up button and they both waited. She felt like she was hovering in a dream, but she dug her fingernails into her palms, and her surroundings didn’t melt away. It was real. All of this.
The elevator doors slid open and they both stepped inside. And as soon as they were closed into the lift, he rounded on her.
“You’re pregnant?” His words were flat in the quiet of the elevator.
“Yes. I tried to tell you in a less public way, but it’s been two months and you’ve been very hard to get ahold of.”
“Not an accident.”
“Oh, no, I know. It was far too purposeful to be accidental. You never even opened my emails.”
“I blocked your address after you sent the first few.”
“Uh,” she said, unable to make a more eloquent sound.
“I see it offends you.”
“Yes. It does offend me. Didn’t it occur to you that I might have something important to tell you?”
“I didn’t care,” he said.
The elevator stopped at the top floor and the doors slid open.