Her Sicilian Baby Revelation. Michelle Smart
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has lied to you. You are fun to him. Sì?’
‘I’ve been a bit of fun?’ Orla whispered. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Sì. That why I here. I warn you. Tonino loves me. We are to marry.’
Orla was unaware that tears were leaking down her face, and too numb to care that there was a warning in the Sicilian woman’s tone as well as in her actual words.
This must be what he’d wanted to talk to her about that night.
Fool that she was, she’d believed he wanted to discuss a future for them.
Her hand shook as she picked up the glossy magazine containing a twenty-page spread of their engagement party.
How could an ordinary hotel manager attract such a wealthy, high-maintenance woman like this? And why would an ordinary hotel manager be the recipient of the kind of press attention usually reserved for the rich and famous?
Fearing she could be sick, she groped for her phone and keyed Tonino Valente’s name into the search engine.
Ten minutes later she was still reading and searching but it was as if someone had taken possession of her body and was reading the damning evidence for her.
She felt light-headed. Boneless.
Tonino had lied about more than his marital status.
He wasn’t the manager of the hotel as he’d led her to believe. He was the owner. This hotel was just a small cog in a vast empire.
Tonino Valente was the sole owner of Valente Holdings, a chain of mostly hugely expensive hotels across Europe that catered for the filthy rich. Tonino, who was also an enthusiastic investor in start-up businesses, was filthy rich in his own right.
The man she’d opened her heart for, who she’d dared believe she could have a future with, was a cheat and a liar. The worst kind of liar. A rich, powerful liar. His grandfather was one of Sicily’s top judges. His mother was one of Sicily’s leading criminal lawyers. His father was a leading Sicilian politician.
Her Internet search revealed that the immaculately beautiful woman in the obscenely expensive outfit sitting on Orla’s hotel-room armchair was Sophia Messina. The Messinas were a Sicilian family as wealthy and powerful as the Valentes.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, meeting Sophia’s cold, unflinching eyes. ‘I knew nothing about you.’
‘Now you know…you go?’ It was framed as a question, but the underlying threat hung between them.
Orla didn’t need the threat.
‘Yes.’ Breathing heavily to quell the rising nausea, she stumbled over to the wardrobe. ‘Yes. I go.’
Four years later
‘WILL YOU KEEP still a minute?’ Orla rebuked with a shake of her head. How was she supposed to fasten her sister’s wedding dress if she didn’t stop jigging on the spot?
‘I’m trying,’ Aislin protested.
‘Try harder. These clasps are fiddly. Breathe in.’
Aislin gave a theatrical intake of breath.
Using all her limited strength, Orla hooked the second tiny clasp. Excellent. Only another fifteen of the blasted things to go. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to wear a bra?’
‘It’s a strapless dress.’
‘Then wear a strapless bra. What will you do if the dress falls down and your boobs start wobbling for all of Sicily’s high society to admire?’ If there was one thing Orla was envious of, it was her sister’s magnificent bosom. Orla barely had a handful to waste.
‘It’s a bespoke dress. It’s not going to fall down.’
She hooked the third clasp. ‘I don’t get why you won’t let the designer hoist you into it.’
‘She’s around if we need her.’
‘But she’s used to doing this. Her fingers work. My fingers are useless.’ Fourth hook clasped, Orla blew out a puff of air from the exertion.
‘Untwist your knickers and chill. Anyone would think you were the one getting married.’
‘Aren’t you the slightest bit nervous?’
‘Nope.’ Through the reflection of the full-length mirror, Orla saw the beaming smile spread over her sister’s face. And well she should smile. Not only was Aislin marrying the love of her life, but she’d discovered a month ago that she was pregnant.
That the man Orla’s sister was marrying happened to be Orla’s half-brother—Orla and Aislin had different fathers—was, to her mind, only further cause for celebration.
She just wished they were marrying in Ireland, not here in Sicily. She was certain the deterioration in her coordination was down to the knots of dread in her stomach. Or were they knots of excitement?
All she knew for certain was that the beats of her heart had steadily increased in tempo and density in the weeks leading up to the wedding and now that she was finally in Sicily, there was an anticipation…or dread…that something was going to happen.
It was close to four years since Orla had been in Sicily on her futile mission to meet her father. A serious car accident six months after her return to Ireland had left her with major memory problems. Time had healed most of the holes in her memory but the period from Sicily to the accident itself remained stubbornly locked away.
She knew her wish to meet her father had gone unfulfilled only because Aislin had told her so and because every time Orla thought of Salvatore Moncada she wanted to cry. She’d shed a bucket of tears when she’d learned he’d died a year ago but even during that mammoth crying session was the feeling that she was crying for more than the father she’d never met.
She comforted herself that she’d gained a brother, Salvatore’s son, Dante. He was technically a half-brother, as Aislin was technically her half-sister, but Orla had never been able to see it like that. You didn’t love someone in halves. You either loved them or you didn’t. Aislin was only three years younger than her so she had no memories of life without her. Aislin was her sister and they would fight to the death to protect each other.
Dante, who Aislin had found for Orla and fallen in love with for herself, had only been in their lives for four months but it felt as if he’d been a part of it for ever.
Aislin’s phone buzzed. ‘Can you get that?’
‘Okay, but don’t move. If the clasps pop open I’m not redoing them.’ She still had a dozen of the ruddy things left to hook together.
She strode to the suite’s dressing table, grabbed the phone, handed it to Aislin and then got back to work on the dress.
‘It’s a message from our dear mother.’ Aislin spoke in an unnaturally high voice.
A shiver ran up Orla’s spine and her fingers fumbled on the delicate clasp she’d only just gripped hold of. ‘What does she want?’
‘To wish me luck.’
She snorted. ‘How big of her.’
‘Now, now, don’t be like that. You know it isn’t easy to jump on a plane to be there for your youngest daughter’s wedding.’
‘True. It’s not as if her daughter’s fiancé is a billionaire who’d offered to pay for a private jet to fly her over or anything.’
‘And it’s not as if she hasn’t seen her daughters in, what? Seven years?’
‘Or never met her only grandchild.’ Finn, Orla’s