Captive At The Sicilian Billionaire’s Command Read online

  It was impossible to even think of touching such exquisite clothes whilst she was still wearing her formula-encrusted jumper—which, of course, would have to be washed and somehow dried in time for her to put it back on before she left the plane.

  In the bathroom, Josh had started to cry. Quickly Julie pulled the jumper over her head. She needed a shower every bit as much as Josh needed a bath, so she might as well remove her skirt and her tights as well.

  If there was one thing Josh did enjoy it was his bath, and with all the splashing around he did she’d be better off bathing him wearing only her bra and knickers.

  It was amazing what wealth could do: nothing that Josh might need had been forgotten—right down to a baby bath and luxury products that smelled deliciously of vanilla.

  Lifting Josh out of the bath, Julie wrapped him in a towel and carried him through into the bedroom, where she finally managed to coax him to take a bit more of his formula.

  He was falling asleep as she put a clean nappy on him and then fastened him into a brand-new, deliciously soft sleep suit patterned with floppy-eared rabbits.

  Kissing him tenderly, she put him in the sky cot, making sure that he was secure and safe before returning to the bathroom, where she washed out her jumper, cleaned up the baby bathtime mess, and then finally—blissfully—stepped into the shower.

  In the main salon, Rocco finished writing the e-mail he was sending his elder brother and then tapped the ‘send’ button, mentally reviewing the events that had led to the search for Antonio’s child.

  Rocco hadn’t planned to spend Christmas with his father and his brothers. He’d intended to fly to Colorado to stay with friends and ski, but then his eldest brother had telephoned him with the news that their father was terminally ill, so Rocco had flown home instead.

  Home. Rocco lifted his arms to link his hands behind his head, exhaling as he did so. He was naturally strongly built, but the hard physical labour he had done during his teenage years, when he had preferred to work on a building site during his summer holidays rather than be financially tethered to his father, had honed and developed his muscles in a way that had left a legacy Rocco’s tailors deplored and his lovers adored. Happily, one of the benefits of being a billionaire was that he could afford to have his shirts hand-made and made to measure, to accommodate the powerful muscles of his chest and upper arms.

  Falcon, aesthete that he was, tended to look down his long, proud nose at what he somewhat derisorily termed Rocco’s ‘prize fighter torso’. Alessandro, his second brother, was less critical.

  ‘Who says that Father is dying?’ Rocco had asked Falcon cynically. ‘Because if it is the old man himself…’

  ‘It isn’t. I’ve spoken to the specialist myself. He gives Father a year at the most. I see no point in any of us pretending that we’re grief stricken,’ Falcon had continued coolly. ‘At least here amongst ourselves we can be open and honest without being judged as uncaring.’

  From the high windows of the ancient fortress that had been their childhood home it was possible—just—to see the summit of Mount Etna. Etna, like their father, breathed bellicosity, fire and danger—and like their father it was a symbol of power. The kind of power that could be cruel and destructive.

  Their father’s power, though, was waning, if Falcon was to be believed, and his eldest brother had never given Rocco reason to do anything other than believe him.

  It had been a solemn moment. Their father—the head of one of Sicily’s greatest, most powerful and rich aristocratic dynasties—was dying.

  At thirty-four, a billionaire in his own right via his own endeavours, and the least loved and favoured of his father’s three living sons, Rocco acknowledged that he should have been the last person to be swayed by the deathbed plea of a man who had spent his entire adult life manipulating others to his own will, and who was responsible for the death of Rocco’s own mother. No more children, their father had been told after the births of Falcon and Alessandro, but he had ignored that warning, and his delicate wife had died within hours of giving birth to her third son.

  Her death had left a bitterness and a canker at the heart of the family, dividing father and sons, and that bitterness had been driven deeper when their father had married his long-term mistress within a year of their mother’s death.

  However, tradition was burned deep into the hearts of the Leopardi family, handed down from generation to generation from the time when the Saracens had been driven from the land by the Normans and the first Leopardi had taken as his wife the daughter of the Saracen lord who had owned the vast, rich tracts of land that had passed with her to her husband. Those traditions involved putting the family and what was best for it first, rather than any individual member. They had held fast and become so tightly woven into the Leopardi culture that they were bred into their blood and souls.

  As Falcon had said after he had spoken with them, despite their lack of love for their dying father they could not simply turn their backs and walk away from the duty he had imposed on them all.

  They had been summoned to their father’s bedchamber—a lofty, feudally styled room, hung with the banners of past battle glories—where their father had been lying almost in state in the vast double bed.

  It had been in this bed that they had all been conceived, including Antonio, their late half-brother—who, if their father was to be believed, had confided to him before he died that he had fathered a child.

  ‘There is a child—born to an Englishwoman. And that child is a Leopardi.’

  Their father’s long thin fingers had curled round the silver head of his cane and he’d rapped it hard on the floor.

  ‘It is Leopardi and Sicilian by its father’s blood. He or she belongs here at Castello Leopardi, with this family.’

  ‘And the mother of this child?’ Alessandro had asked.

  ‘Antonio did not have time to say her name.’

  Rocco remembered thinking that Antonio probably hadn’t even been able to remember it.

  The old Prince’s retort had been typical of his way of thinking and his way of life. ‘This woman, in carrying Antonio’s child and keeping it from us, his family, is guilty of theft. The child must be brought here. It is his birthright and ours. Antonio was my son.’

  And his most beloved son. They had all known that.

  ‘This child belongs here. It was Antonio’s dying wish to me that this should be so.’

  ‘Having no doubt refused flatly to accept any responsibility whatsoever for it during his lifetime, knowing our dear late half- brother as we do,’ Alessandro had murmured dulcetly to Rocco, out of earshot of their father.

  ‘That is all very well, Father, but we do not know the identity of the mother of Antonio’s child,’ Falcon had reminded their father, ‘since Antonio neglected to tell you her name.’

  Their father had refused to listen.

  ‘The child must be found.’

  That had been the Prince’s living will and his dying demand, and in the end they had had no honourable option as Leopardis other than to concede defeat.

  Two weeks later they had all been back in their father’s bedchamber, to hear the results of the investigations Falcon had put in hand.

  ‘We now know that out of the multitude of women Antonio appears to have disported himself with last summer, only one went on to have a child,’ Falcon informed them all. ‘This woman was a British holidaymaker, attending the Cannes Film Festival at the time. Not entirely surprising, since Antonio had a taste for a combination of blonde hair and loose morals. However, there is no guarantee that it is this child to which Antonio was referring. It is true that it was conceived at the right time, but the only way we can be sure that the child is Antonio’s is via a DNA test, and for that we shall need the mother’s co-operation. In my view the simplest thing would be to approach the mother and—’

  ‘The child belongs here.’ Their father had interrupted Falcon angrily. ‘But only the child. The mother is nothing—lit
tle more than a slut who tempted and tormented my poor son until in his craziness his life was stolen from him and he was stolen from me. My beloved and most precious child—your brother. Your youngest brother. Where were you when he needed protecting from this harlot, whoever she is? You, Falcon, were in Florence, presiding over copyists and their fake works of art. You, Alessandro, were buying yet more jets for your airline—and you, Rocco, were too busy overseeing the rebuilding of Rome in the middle of the desert, for tourists to go and gawp at. No doubt flown there by your brother’s airline and decorated by Falcon’s copyists.’

  They had all been aware of his angry contempt. But then they had all been aware of their father’s contempt for them all their lives. They were, after all, the sons of the woman their father had been forced to marry against his will.

  Oh, yes, their father had been passionate in his contempt for them—expending energy he did not have in his determination to inject every bit of passion and persuasion into his voice as he extracted from them their reluctant promise that they would find the Englishwoman who had carried their dead brother’s child and that they would bring that child back to Sicily to be raised as a Leopardi.

  Antonio himself could not be restored to their father since he was dead—killed in a senseless, stupid accident, showing off in his new car. So typical of him and so unacceptable to their father, who had adored the son of his second wife—the woman who had been his mistress during his marriage to their own mother.

  If Falcon was right—and given Antonio’s well-known and well-documented taste in downmarket females, he probably was—the mother of his child would pretty soon recognise the commercial value of her child, and would want to take full advantage of that fact.

  The Leopardi men might not publicly boast about their high social status or their wealth, but that did not alter the fact that both existed.

  As a first step toward ascertaining if the child was Antonio’s, it had been agreed that the mother would have to be persuaded to allow the child to undergo DNA tests, without being allowed access to either the press or a lawyer whilst they were awaiting the results.

  All three brothers had agreed that until such time as the child had either been confirmed as Antonio’s or proved not to be, the mother must be kept secluded from any contact with others—either voluntarily or, more feasibly, given the type of woman she would be, not voluntarily.

  ‘You mean we shall have to bring this woman to Sicily and keep her here until we have ascertained whether or not Antonio was the father of her child?’ Alessandro had asked Falcon, frowning disapprovingly as he did so.

  Falcon had simply shrugged aside his brother’s distaste, stating coolly, ‘Unless you have a better idea?’

  None of them had, but Rocco had had another issue with which he was not happy.

  ‘Our father has stated that it is the child he wants, but not the mother, so that it can be raised as a Leopardi. Apart from the damage it could do to a child to be deprived of any contact with its mother, given the way Antonio turned out—’

  ‘You are worrying unnecessarily, Rocco,’ Falcon had told him. ‘Our father’s life expectancy is limited. It is true that he is not quite as close to death’s door as he would have us think—he could have another year—but ultimately it is us who will decide the future of this child, if it should be Antonio’s. I assure you that I share your feelings with regard to the child’s mother. Whatever decision is made about the child’s future, that future will include its mother. You have my word on that and so will she. No child should grow up without its mother.’

  They had all looked at one another. Rocco knew how badly the death of their mother had affected both his brothers. However, it wasn’t true that he himself had no knowledge of her. She had after all carried him close to her heart for nine months, and he had been born knowing that—knowing too that he had lost her.

  ‘And if this child is not Antonio’s?’ Alessandro had asked.

  ‘Then she will be recompensed for her co-operation—and her future silence regarding this debacle,’ Falcon had answered.

  ‘It is damnable that our father should impose this duty on us,’ Alessandro had said angrily.

  ‘Damnable, indeed. But we shall be damned if we do not accept the duty imposed on us by our father. The duty to accept such a charge—father to son—came to us with our conception. It is encoded in our genes. We cannot change that any more than we can change our inherited bone structure or the blood that runs through our veins. Antonio’s child, if he or she exists, is of those genes and therefore of us. We have a duty and a responsibility towards it that goes beyond any promise we have made our father.’

  Who could argue with that? Not him, Rocco admitted now, although he had argued—and very passionately—with Falcon’s announcement that since he had commitments overseas he could not escape, and because Alessandro was in the middle of negotiating tricky new contracts for his airline business it would fall to Rocco to go to London and persuade this Julie Simmonds to return to Sicily with him, bringing her child with her.

  ‘Now, the first thing we need to do is persuade the woman to come to Sicily with her child, and…’

  Rocco grimaced now, remembering how Falcon had paused and then looked at him.

  ‘Me? Why me?’ Rocco had objected, with a lifetime’s worth of a youngest sibling’s indignation and resentment.

  ‘I have just explained,’ Falcon had pointed out, adding firmly, ‘In performing this task you are carrying a heavy responsibility for all of us, Rocco.’

  Trust Falcon to make it sound as though he had been awarded a prize instead of being dumped on, Rocco thought grimly now. He wasn’t liking the ‘duty’ which, according to Falcon, his genes imposed on him any more than he had expected. Perhaps the streak of rebelliousness within him that pulled against the iron grip of the Leopardi family code was something that had come down to him from his mother? She had, after all, been only part-Sicilian. Her father’s family had come from Florence—the city that Falcon loved so much.

  Rocco glanced at his watch.

  They had been in the air for close on an hour. He was hungry and ready for his dinner. The steward had assured him that he had told Julie Simmonds when he would be serving their meal. If she was one of those women who believed that good time keeping was an unnecessary nuisance that need not apply to her, she needed to have the error of her ways pointed out to her.

  Rocco stood up and strode towards the bedroom door.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE shower area of the bathroom was designed as a wet room, without any protective screen, and the water was blissfully hot and there was plenty of it. Such a treat after the miserable trickle of never more than lukewarm water that came from her own shower.

  Julie acknowledged that she had stayed under its wonderful spray longer than perhaps she should, but even so it was still a shock when the bathroom door—which she hadn’t thought to lock—was suddenly pulled open, and she saw Rocco Leopardi standing there, fully dressed, his gaze travelling slowly and deliberately the full length of her naked body. Such a shock, in fact, that Julie didn’t even think to cover either her sex or her breasts until it was far too late and that gaze had swept all the way back up over her and come to rest on her flushed face.

  ‘Well, well—a natural blonde. Now, that is a surprise,’ Rocco drawled mockingly.

  What was also a surprise, although he had no intention of feeding her vanity by saying so, was just how erotic he found the sight of the naturally neat rather than sleekly waxed tousle of damp blonde curls that clung to the gentle rise of her flesh, just above the sensually shaped and softly closed lips that concealed the inner intimacy of her sex.

  Already, and against his own wishes, he could feel himself responding to what he could see.

  She might be a natural blonde, but she was every bit as thin as he had suspected, he told himself, hoping to channel his thoughts into rejection of her rather than desire. Then, yes—but her breasts were far fuller than
he had imagined, and natural too, perfectly shaped, with a full lower curve and nipples that tilted erotically upwards. A party girl’s breasts, not a nursing mother’s. In focusing on her sexuality she was depriving her child. But then a woman like her would do that, wouldn’t she?

  It had been her total abandonment to the sensual pleasure he had seen in every line of her body as she had stood naked beneath the shower, her face tilted up towards the water, her eyes closed and every inch of her flesh showing its joy, that was responsible for the hardening of his own flesh right now, Rocco acknowledged. Something about that abandonment made him want to walk into the shower and share it with her. It made him want to take her swiftly and hotly, his flesh sinking deep into hers, whilst her muscles closed around him, in a primitive shared physical orgy of greedy pleasure and hedonistic satisfaction. Like rough wine on a hot day after hard physical activity—the base, thoughtless satisfaction of a momentary fierce need.

  If he did feel like that then he was a fool, Rocco told himself cynically. She was a piece of flesh that had no doubt been handed out to any number of other men before his brother, and would be handed out to others. That was her choice, and he certainly wasn’t moralizing, but her type did nothing for him. Right now the only hunger he wanted to recognise was the hunger that was driving him, which came from his stomach and not from his loins, he told himself determinedly.