Heiress's Pregnancy Scandal

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#u135ff870-a958-545f-ad22-bd8eaf9bed1f)

NIC FALCONE STEPPED through the service door into the casino, glancing around with a deeply satisfied sweep. Yes, this had been a good idea, acquiring and restoring this fading hacienda-style hotel deep in the western desert, yet still within reach of both Las Vegas and the West Coast. Another prestigious money-spinner for the global Falcone chain of luxury hotels. More glittering proof of just how far he’d come in his thirty-odd years—from the backstreets of Rome to being one of the richest men in Italy.

The fatherless slum kid who’d started his first job at barely sixteen in the basement—literally—of the fabled Viscari Roma hotel had, by his own gruelling efforts, climbed as high as that dilettante playboy Vito Viscari, who’d had a legendary hotel chain handed to him on a plate by his family.

Nic’s expression shadowed as he remembered. Through dogged hard work he’d worked his way up through the ranks at the Viscari Roma, every promotion striven for, until he had finally been in line for the big move into management that he had known he was totally qualified for.

But Vito’s uncle, the chairman of the company, had instead preferred that his inexperienced nephew—fresh out of university, with none of the hard-earned, hands-on track record that Nic had under his belt—should get a taste of his future inheritance.

Nic had been passed over—and from that moment he’d known that from now on he would work only for himself. The seeds of the Falcone hotel chain had been sown. Falconewould be the rival that would outsoar Viscari once and for all.

And through a level of hard work that had absorbed his whole life Nic had succeeded—fantastically. So much so that last year he had been able to swoop, like his namesake the predatory falcon, to take ruthless advantage of an internal power struggle within the divided Viscari family and snap up an entire half of the Viscari portfolio of hotels in a blatantly hostile acquisition.

It had proved, though, to be a triumph that had turned to ashes. Yet again Nic had felt the pampering hand of nepotism thwarting him. This time it had been, of all things, Vito’s mother-in-law, persuading Nic’s own investors, who’d funded his acquisition, to sell the hotels back to her so she could hand them over to her son-in-law, Vito.

Yet again Vito had prospered without lifting a finger for himself—thanks to help from his family.

But the determination that had lifted Nic from the backstreets had kicked in again, and in the months since losing his grip on the Viscari portfolio he had reacted by lining up a string of potential new Falcone properties, including this, the newly opened Falcone Nevada, with its oh-so-lucrative on-site casino.

His keen eyes swept the crowded gaming floor as he strolled forward, noting that a good few of the gamblers had likely come over from the conference wing of the hotel, where a gathering of astrophysics academics were holding their annual shindig. Including the cluster of young hopefuls now quitting the bar area to head to the gaming floor. Leaving behind a woman who was now raising a hand to them in a casual goodnight.

A woman who halted him in his tracks. Tall, graceful and dazzlingly blonde.

Every sense went on high alert. In his time he’d seen—and sampled—many, many beautiful women. But none like this. He felt his stomach muscles clench, held his breath. His eyes fastened on her. And desire—hot, intense and instant—quickened...

* * *

Fran watched the post-grad students go off to buy their chips and hoped they wouldn’t lose their shirts at the tables. They were clearly in demob happy mood and making the most of this, the final night of the conference. As for herself, she should head off, for she still had a poster session to give the following morning, before the plenary session, and it wouldn’t hurt to run through her presentation again.

But as she turned back towards the barman to call for her bill a voice behind her spoke.

‘No temptation to try your luck at the tables?’

It was a deep voice, with an American accent that did not sound western, and it held a gravelled timbre that made her turn.

And as she did so her eyes widened.

Oh, wow...

The silent exclamation, as instinctive as it was unstoppable, resonated in her consciousness.

The man who stood there, his pose deceptively relaxed, was tall—easily topping her own willowy figure—with broad shoulders, lean hips and a muscled chest that looked as if it could take a punch without even noticing.

In fact, she registered, in her subliminal sweep of his features, it looked as if his nose, set in a face that was hard-planed and strong-jawed, had been on the receiving end of a slug at some stage.

The slight bump was a flaw that only added to his powerful appeal. The man might be in a tux, but everything about him said tough.

Part of the security team here? she wondered, a mind still reeling from the visceral impact he’d made on her. It had been like walking into a wall—a wall she’d never seen coming.

For a second—a sub-second—she was frozen, taking him in, reacting to him on a level at which she never, just never, reacted to men. Not even the formidably good-looking Cesare, the man she had so nearly married, had had the overpowering instantaneous impact the man standing here now was having on her.

He’s nothing like the men I usually find attractive!

With the exception of Cesare, with his hawkish, aristocratic demeanour, she’d always only gone for men with studious looks—not the muscled type that she’d always regarded as...well, brutish.

But there was nothing brutish about this man. Not with eyes like that. Glinting with sharp intelligence.

And blue—piercing blue—which is really weird, because the tan of his skin tone and the sable of his hair indicates Hispanic, probably...

Yet even as she made that reasonable assumption she realised she needed to do something other than just gaze dumbstruck at him. Should she acknowledge his remark? Without vanity, she knew from experience that her blonde looks drew male eyes—and more—and if she was chatted up she normally kept her reaction vague to the point of evasive until she could get away or the man gave up. If absolutely necessary she froze them out.

For the moment, though, she went for option one, and gave a brief, impersonal flicker of a smile and a demurring shake of her head.

‘Not my thing...gambling,’ she replied, glad to accept the leather-bound drinks bill, and jot her room number on it.

‘You’re part of the conference?’

Again, the deep, slightly gravelled voice made her glance up as she pushed the folder back to the barman.

‘Yes,’ she acknowledged.

She moved to slip off the high stool, and immediately the man’s hand was there, guiding her. She glanced at him, murmuring her thanks, but wished that she could retain the air of impersonal indifference that she knew she should be displaying at this time.

Only it was impossible to do so. Impossible to do anything but feel the extraordinary visceral impact on her that he was having.

An impact that suddenly increased exponentially.

He was smiling—and the smile was like the smile of a desert wolf.

Fran felt her lungs squeeze, her breath catch. The smile was swift—a sudden indentation of the firm mouth, a brief flash of teeth, a lightening of his tough features as if the sun had just come out and then disappeared again.

‘Forgive me for sounding clichéd, but you don’t look the least like an astrophysicist!’

Amusement played around his firm mouth, as if he knew perfectly well that it was, indeed, a clichéd observation, but didn’t give a damn. Because the light in those blue, blue eyes of his was telling her just why he’d said what he had.