When Falcone's World Stops Turning - Эбби Грин Mills & Boon Modern

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her with a huge white box. Under what had seemed like acres and acres of silver tissue paper a swathe of material had appeared.

      Sam had lifted it out to reveal a breathtaking evening gown. Rafaele had stripped her himself and dressed her again. One-shouldered and figure-hugging, in black and flesh-coloured stripes, the dress had accentuated her hips, her breasts, and a long slit had revealed her legs. Then he’d taken her out to one of Milan’s most exclusive restaurants. They’d been the last to leave, somewhere around four o’clock in the morning, drunk on sparkling wine and lust, and he’d taken her home to his palazzo...

      ‘Still a tomboy, I see...’

      The memory vanished and the backdrop of Sam’s very suburban street behind Rafaele came back into view.

      Sexy smile. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in? It’s cold out here.’

      Sam’s hand clenched tight around the door. Milo. Panic rushed into her blood. Finally. Rousing her.

      ‘Now isn’t a good time. I don’t know why you’ve come here. I thought I made it clear the other day that I’m not interested.’

      Sam forced herself to look at him. Four years had passed and in that time she’d changed utterly. She felt older, more jaded. Whereas Rafaele only looked even more gorgeous. The unfairness of it galvanised her. He’d known nothing of her life the last few years. Because you didn’t tell him, a voice pointed out.

      ‘Why did you come here, Rafaele? I’m sure you have more important things to do on a Saturday evening.’

      The bitterness in Sam’s voice surprised her.

      Rafaele’s jaw tightened, but he answered smoothly. ‘I thought if I came to see you in person you might be persuaded to listen to my offer.’

      A dull flush accentuated Rafaele’s cheekbones, but Sam was barely aware of it as she heard a high-pitched ‘Mummy!’ which was accompanied by small feet running at full speed behind her.

      She felt Milo land at her legs, clasping his arms around them, and could almost visualise his little round face peeping out to see who was at the door. Like trying in vain to halt an oncoming train, Sam said in a thready voice, ‘Like I said, now really isn’t a good time.’

      She could see awareness dawn on Rafaele’s face as he obviously took in the fact of a child. He started to speak stiltedly. ‘I’m sorry. I should have thought... Of course it’s been years...you must be married by now. Children...’

      Then his eyes slid down and she saw them widen. She didn’t have to look to know that Milo was now standing beside her, one chubby hand clinging onto her leg. Wide green eyes would be staring innocently up into eyes the exact same shade of green. Unusual. Lots of people commented on how unusual they were.

      Rafaele stared at Milo for what seemed like an age. He frowned and then looked as if someone had just hit him in the belly...dazed. He looked up at Sam and she knew exactly what he was seeing as clearly as if she was standing apart, observing the interplay. Her eyes were wide and stricken, set in a face leached of all colour. Pale as parchment. Panicked. Guilty.

      And just like that, something in his eyes turned to ice and she knew that he knew.

      CHAPTER TWO

      ‘MUMMY, CAN WE watch the cars on TV now?’

      Sam put her hand to Milo’s head and said faintly, ‘Why don’t you go on and I’ll be there in a minute, okay?’

      Milo ran off again and the silence grew taut between Sam and Rafaele. He knew. She felt it in her bones. He’d known as soon as he’d looked into his son’s eyes. So identical. She hated that something about his immediate recognition of his own son made something soften inside her.

      He was looking at her so hard she felt it like a physical brand on her skin. Hot.

      ‘Let me in, Samantha. Now.’

      Feeling shaky and clammy all at once, Sam stepped back and opened the door. Rafaele came in, his tall, powerful form dwarfing the hallway. He smelt of light spices and something musky, and through the shock Sam’s blood jumped in recognition.

      She shut the door and walked quickly to the kitchen at the end of the hall, passing where Milo sat cross-legged in front of the TV watching a popular car programme. His favourite.

      She was about to pull the door shut when a curt voice behind her instructed, ‘Leave it.’

      She dropped her hand and tensed. Rafaele was looking at Milo as he sat enraptured by the cars on the screen. He was holding about three of his favourite toy cars in his hands. If his eyes and pale olive skin hadn’t been a fatal giveaway then this might have been the worst kind of ironic joke.

      Sam stepped back and walked into the kitchen. She couldn’t feel her legs. She felt sick, light-headed. She turned around to see Rafaele follow her in and close the door behind him, not shutting it completely.

      Rafaele was white beneath his dark colouring. And he looked murderous.

      He bit out, ‘This is where you tell me that by some extraordinary feat of genetic coincidence that little boy in there isn’t three years and approximately three months old. That he didn’t inherit exactly the same colour eyes that I inherited from my own mother. That he isn’t my son.’

      Sam opened her mouth. ‘He is...’ Even now, at this last second, her brain searched desperately for something to cling onto. Some way this could be justified. He was his father. She couldn’t do it. She didn’t have the right any more. She’d never had the right. ‘He is your son.’

      Silence, stretching taut and stark, and then he repeated, ‘He is my son?’

      Sam just nodded. Nausea was churning in her belly now. The full implications of this were starting to hit home.

      Rafaele emitted a long stream of Italian invective and Sam winced because she recognised some of the cruder words—they were pretty universal. Her belly was so tight she put a hand to it unconsciously. She watched as Rafaele struggled to take this in. The enormity of it.

      ‘No wonder you were so keen to get rid of me the other day.’

      He paced back and forth in the tiny space. She could feel his anger and tension as it lashed out like a live electrical wire, snapping at her feet.

      Suddenly he stopped and looked at her. ‘Are you married?’

      Sam shook her head painfully. ‘No.’

      ‘And what if I hadn’t decided to pay you a visit? Would you have let me remain in blissful ignorance for ever?’

      Stricken, Sam whispered, ‘I don’t...I don’t know.’ Even as she admitted that, though, the knowledge seeped in. She wouldn’t have been able to live with the guilt. She would have told him.

      He pinned her to the spot with that light green gaze which had once devoured her alive and was now colder than the arctic.

      ‘You bitch.’

      Sam flinched. He might as well have slapped her across the face. It had the same effect. The words were so coldly and implacably delivered.

      ‘You didn’t want a baby,’ she whispered, unable to inject more force into her voice.

      ‘So you just lied to me?’

      Sam could feel her cheeks burning now, with shame. ‘I thought it was a miscarriage, as did you. But at the clinic, after the doctor had done his examination, he told me that I wasn’t miscarrying.’

      Rafaele crossed his arms and she could see his hands clenched to fists. She shivered at the threat of violence even though she knew he would never hit her. But she sensed he wanted to hit something.

      ‘You knew then and yet you barefaced lied to me and let me walk away.’

      Clutching at the smallest of straws, Sam said shakily, ‘I didn’t lie...you

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