CHAPTER ONE
A FIERCE SUMMER storm was raging off the Atlantic coast, pummeling his sprawling oceanfront mansion. Nico Ferraro stared out the open window, his mood as dark as the crashing surf below.
Rain blew inside his study, running down the inside wall to the hardwood floor as bright lightning crackled across the sky. He took another sip of Scotch. Thunder shook the house, rattling the windows. Nico remained unmoving, staring broodingly into the night.
He’d lost the thing that mattered most. All the billions he’d accumulated, his fame, his romantic conquests, meant nothing. He’d lost his chance at vengeance, had it ripped from his grasp at the very moment of his triumph.
Nico heard a loud bang from the other side of the house. Not thunder this time. Someone was banging at his front door.
“Please,” a woman’s voice screamed into the storm. “Please, Mr. Ferraro, you have to let me in.”
Nico took another sip of the forty-year-old Scotch. His butler would handle the intruder, assisted by his security team if necessary. He was in no mood to see anyone tonight.
“If you don’t, someone will die,” she cried.
Now that piqued his curiosity. He suddenly wanted to at least hear the woman’s story before he tossed her back into the rain. He started to turn from the open window, hesitated, then closed the glass window behind him. He didn’t give a damn about this place—just another anonymous fifty-million-dollar Hamptons beach house—but he’d be putting it on the market tomorrow. This estate was useless to him now it could no longer be the scene of his revenge.
Going down the wide hallway to the foyer, he saw three men gathered in a semicircle around the front door. Behind them, Nico saw the smaller shape of a young woman, soaking wet, with her hair plastered to her skin and her clothes stuck to her body...
Nico sucked in his breath as he realized two things.
First, the young woman, beautiful and dark-haired, was pregnant. Beneath the light on the front porch, her white sundress revealed every luscious outline of her body, her full breasts and heavily pregnant belly.
Second, he knew her.
“Stop,” Nico said, coming forward. “Let her come inside.”
His head of security frowned back at him. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, boss. She’s been talking wild—”
“Let her in,” he cut him off, and his henchman reluctantly stepped aside.
“Thank you, oh, thank you,” the young woman cried, though it was hard to tell if those were tears streaming down her cheeks or rain. She grabbed at Nico’s hand urgently. “I was so scared you wouldn’t...when I have to tell you—”
“It’s all right.” Nico tried to remember how to be polite. His skills were a little rusty. “You’re safe now, Miss—” Then he realized that he’d forgotten her name, which of course was embarrassing and damnable, since her grandfather was the longtime gardener at his Manhattan penthouse. To cover, he said sharply, “Your hands are like ice.” He turned to a bodyguard. “Get her a blanket.”
“Of course, Mr. Ferraro.”
Her teeth were chattering with cold. “But I have—have to tell you—”
“Whatever it is, it can wait until you’re not freezing to death.” He started to offer her the half-empty glass of Scotch still in his hand, but then stopped as he remembered pregnant women generally avoided such things. “Perhaps a warm drink?”
“No, really,” she croaked, “if you’ll just listen—”
Nico turned to his butler. “Find her some hot cocoa.”
Sebastian looked rather doubtful. “Cocoa, sir? I’m not sure—”
“Wake the cook,” he bit out, and the man scurried off.
It occurred to Nico that his staff had gone to seed. Once, it would have been unnecessary for him to repeat any order—ever. All of his houses, like his international real estate conglomerate, had run like well-oiled machines. Though of course, that was before. How long ago had that been, when Nico had still cared so desperately to make his life appear perfect?
Christmas. It had been Christmas Day. And now it was—
“What day is it?” he barked at his security chief. The man looked at him like he was mad.
“It’s the first of July, Mr. Ferraro.”
Six months. And he could barely recall any of it, though he’d obviously continued to buy properties and run his company from Rome. He clawed his hand through his dark hair. Was he losing his mind?
“Nico. Please.”
Hearing his gardener’s granddaughter call him by his first name drew Nico’s attention as nothing else had. He looked at her.
The young woman gripped
his hand, looking up at him pleadingly, and he had a strange stirring of memory. But of what?
He barely knew her. He’d seen her occasionally over the years, of course, as she’d grown up amid the rooftop gardens of Nico’s Manhattan penthouse, a few hours from here. She had to be in her midtwenties now. Perhaps he’d said hello once or twice, or wished her happy holidays, that sort of thing, but nothing more. Nothing to warrant her suddenly calling him Nico, as if they were friends. As if they were lovers.
He withdrew his hand, folding his arms. “Why are you here? Why have you made such a scene?”
As a bodyguard wrapped a warm blanket over her slender shoulders, she nearly sobbed, “Just listen.”
“I’m listening,” he said. “Tell me.”
Her eyes were an uncanny green in her pale complexion, beneath striking dark eyebrows that matched her wild, dark hair. She took a deep breath. “My grandfather is coming here to shoot you.”
Nico frowned. “Your grandfather? Why?” He could think of no complaint the gardener might have against him. To his best memory, he hadn’t even spoken to the man since before Christmas, when he’d given him exact instructions about the holiday lighting for the pergola and trees on the penthouse terrace. Back when Nico had cared about such things. Back before—
He pushed the thought away. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Why would I joke about that!”
He saw the terror in her eyes. However ridiculous it sounded, clearly the woman believed her story. So it was either true, or she was having some kind of psychotic breakdown. He could hardly judge her for that, after his six months of near-fugue state as CEO of Ferraro Developments Inc. He knew he’d made multimillion-dollar deals, but he could hardly remember a single one. “Why would he want to kill me, Miss...uh...?”
Damn it. Too late, he remembered again that he didn’t know. Glaring at the Scotch, which he held entirely to blame, he set the half-empty crystal glass on the hallway table.
The woman’s expression changed as she stared up at him with big eyes. She said slowly, “You don’t remember my name?”
There was no point in pretending.
“No. I’m sorry. I mean no disrespect to you or your grandfather. Even if he’s trying to kill me.” He smiled grimly, and when she didn’t return the smile, he sobered and said, “Tell me your name.”