What A Sicilian Husband Wants. Michelle Smart
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he’d paid someone from the network to keep a watch on the number in case a miracle occurred.
It seemed miracles did happen.
‘Does Cara know what you did?’
‘I don’t know.’ He didn’t care. What he did care about was the way Grace’s hands were shaking. Shaking hands and guns were not a good combination. ‘Give me the gun or put it down.’
‘No.’ She raised it higher, her eyes widening. ‘I’m not putting this down until you leave. Get out of my house.’
‘I’m not going anywhere, so you might as well put it down.’ He kept his tone calm and took a step towards her.
‘Get away from me,’ she said, stepping back, her voice rising. ‘Don’t come any closer.’
‘We both know you won’t shoot me.’ He lowered one of his raised hands and extended it towards her, the tips of his fingers closing in on the barrel of the gun.
‘I said get away from me!’ Her words came out as a screech and were immediately followed by the loud tone of his phone ringing out in his pocket.
Like a tightly coiled spring suddenly released, Grace jumped at the sound.
In the confines of the small cottage, the noise of the gun was deafening, loud enough to distract him from the bee sting on his right shoulder.
They stood in frozen silence until Grace’s chest shuddered and she dropped the gun to the stone floor. It landed with a loud clang, the only noise apart from the ringing in his ears.
He had only a snapshot of time to register her white-faced shock before the wet warmth on his shoulder demanded his attention. Pulling the top of his jacket aside, he winced as a burn of pain went through him. His disbelief at the red fluid seeping through his white shirt was nothing compared to his shock when he finally comprehended that the distant ringing in his ears was not an echo from the gunshot but the wails of a baby.
* * *
She had shot him.
Dear God, she had shot him.
Through her ringing ears she could hear Lily’s distant wails, a noise that seemed as far away as the moon.
She had shot him.
Her hand flew to her mouth and Grace could do nothing but stare at the blood seeping out of Luca’s right shoulder.
He stared back at her with a look that could only be described as stunned.
On legs that didn’t belong to her, she hurried to him. Her cold blood chilled further. Up close, the wound looked even worse. She reached out a hand, pausing before she could touch him.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said dumbly, trying to clear her head of the drum banging loudly in it. ‘I’ll get something for the bleeding.’ Her stomach churning, Grace rushed to the tall cupboard. She pulled out the same basket in which she had stored that monstrous gun and grabbed some tea towels.
Lily’s cries became more distressed, the piercing sound penetrating the thick walls of the cottage and striking through Grace’s heart.
Dear God, what was she going to do?
Could Luca even hear the cries? Or had the shock of being shot deafened him just as it had temporarily dulled her own senses?
He had sat down at the table. His olive skin had paled considerably, the dark stubble across his jawline pronounced.
This was the closest to vulnerable she had ever seen him.
She leaned over to place a clean towel against the wound. His uninjured hand shot up and grabbed her wrist. ‘What do you think you are doing?’
‘Trying to stem the blood flow.’
He ground his teeth together and leaned forward so their faces were just inches apart. ‘I am quite capable of tending to my own injury. Leave it with me and tend to the baby you are hiding upstairs.’
CHAPTER TWO
AT LUCA’S MENACINGLY delivered words, all the blood running through Grace’s veins plunged to her feet.
White light flickered behind her eyes before she caught a waft of warm, minty breath and an enormous shudder ran through her.
‘Are you in immediate danger?’ She managed to drag the question out, jerking her wrist against his grip.
‘No.’ If anything, his hold tightened.
‘Then let go of me.’
Those midnight eyes flashed before he sprang his fingers open like a remote-controlled robot.
In a murky daze, she climbed the stairs and walked into the bedroom she shared with her twelve-week-old daughter.
Lily lay flat on her back in her cot. Her thin arms were struck out like a starfish, her little legs kicking in all directions, her cute face scrunched up and bright red. Grace had no doubt that if her tear ducts had developed, Lily’s cheeks would be soaked.
Scooping her out of the cot, she brought her to her chest and breathed in her daughter’s sweet, innocent scent. ‘Oh, Lily, I’m so sorry,’ she choked out, swaying gently as she tried to soothe her. ‘Your mummy has done a terrible, terrible thing.’
The implications hit her with the force of a tsunami. As she patted Lily’s bottom and murmured words of comfort, her mind raced.
She had shot Luca. She had actually shot someone; a living person. She had caused physical harm to the man she had once loved, the same man who now knew of the existence of her child.
Inhaling Lily’s scent brought some control to her careering thoughts, and the fogginess clouding her brain began to abate.
Under no circumstances could she let the shock of all that had just occurred control her actions. She needed to take control, now, before it was too late.
Too late?
Who was she trying to fool? Of course it was too late.
What did she expect? That Luca would take her shooting him and hiding the existence of their child on the chin and walk away?
And she’d so nearly got away with it.
She’d managed to get hold of the gun only a couple of months ago, when she had been unable to sleep for fear of Luca’s men finding them and tearing Lily away from her. She had seen the evidence of what her husband was capable of, evidence that burned her retinas and flourished in her nightmares.
The threat of prison if she were caught with an illegal firearm had not deterred her from purchasing it. She’d got it from the son of the farmer she rented the cottage from, a young man with a few unsavoury acquaintances. She hadn’t cared where it came from; she was safer with it. Lily was safer with it. Knowing it was in the house allowed her to sleep. Sometimes.
Luca’s men were always armed. And they were dangerous. Prison had seemed preferable to falling into their clutches.
They were also stupid. She had outwitted them before when she made her escape. She could outwit them again.
Except Luca had come for her personally, something she had not anticipated. She had imagined him like a king in his castle, waiting for his soldiers to bring his erring queen home, so she could be locked in the tower for the rest of her days.
Luca was not stupid. Luca was the sharpest person she had ever known, which made him infinitely more dangerous than his lackeys, and much harder to outwit.
Some sixth sense had been nagging at her for weeks that it was time to move on. Why, oh, why had she not acted on it sooner?
Prison did now loom dark. Not a traditional cell of iron bars and a tiny slot for a window, but a towering pink sandstone nightmare.
Lily finally stopped whimpering. Soothed and snug, she fixed her trusting,