Page 1 of Back to Claim His Italian Heir
CHAPTER ONE
‘IDO.’
The words ringing out through the church were not the ones Emma Dunnett expected. They weren’t the onesanyoneexpected, because this was the part of the wedding ceremony where everybody was meant to stay deliberately, determinedly silent, without so much as a sneeze or a sigh. Someone, it seemed, hadn’t got the memo.
Emma stared at her husband-to-be in alarmed confusion as an electric, expectant silence tautened the near-empty sanctuary and people in the congregation started turning their heads, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the mystery speaker. Her groom was looking just as surprised as she was, his forehead crinkled as his uncertain gaze swept the church for the unknown speaker, lost in the shadows in the back.
‘You...do?’ This from the priest who was marrying them, who also looked confused—there was way too much confusion going on, clearly—peering through the shadowy sanctuary at whoever had spoken with such ringing certainty.
I dowas not the answer anyone wanted to the question that had just been given:‘Does anyone have any objections to this marriage? Speak now or for ever hold your peace.’
No, no one ever wanted to hear someone so much as clear their throat when it came to that particular question. Nobody was supposed to actuallyanswerthat, Emma thought with a blaze of panic, her mind a blur as she searched the darkened church for the speaker of those damning words. Asking the question was just a matter of form, a relic from a bygone age, even. A second’s silence, a silent sigh of relief, a shaky smile, and then they moved on. They said their vows, they left the church, they were married, and everything could go on happily.
‘Yes,’ the voice from the back of the church called, his tone strident and certain, faintly tinged with an indefinable accent, tickling Emma’s consciousness, making her stomach dip.
That voice...
‘I most definitely do have objections. One in particular, as it happens.’
The priest was still peering among the pews, where only a handful of guests had gathered—mainly Will’s family and a few friends, all of whom had been rather bemused—to put it mildly—at his willingness to marry a woman he’d met only a little over a month ago. They were all looking much more than bemused now, Emma realised as she caught sight of their faces—Will’s mother was doing her best impression of a gorgon, stony-faced and sour. She’d never wanted her only son to marry someone she considered a shameless gold-digger, having said so to Emma’s face, more than once. Well, so what? There were worse things to be called. Worse things tobe.
Not that that was what she was. At least, notexactly. She was marrying Will for security, it was true, but he knew that and they’d become friends. It would be, she hoped, a good basis for marriage. For a family.
She glanced again at Will’s mother and saw her lips twitch in something like satisfaction. Had she arranged this, a way to extricate her son from the so-called siren’s seductive claws? Considering Emma had never even kissed Will, who wasn’t interested in her that way anyway, being cast in the role of scheming seductress was a little ridiculous. Not that his mother would believe just how chaste their relationship was, especially considering Emma was fourteen weeks pregnant...with another man’s child.
A sudden bubble of laughter rose in her throat, and she managed to swallow it down. Bursting into giggles at a moment such as this was definitely not something she wanted to do; the situation was clearly dire enough. She didn’t want to make it worse, even if laughing had always been her deliberate, defiant default, her own brand of courage throughout a tumultuous childhood. Laugh instead of cry, show your sense of humour along with your spirit. It had served her well enough in the past, but now...when her life looked about to be derailed,again?
‘Who are you?’ Will called out, uncertain ire flashing in his pale blue eyes. Emma tried to give him an encouraging smile, although the truth was nothing about this situation felt remotely encouraging. Already she could feel her safe and certain future slipping from her fingertips, as it always seemed to.
Just when she’d settled into the latest foster home, got a decent job, managed to save a little bit...every time, something seemed to go wrong. And for someone who had always had to rely on her own wits and not much else, something going wrong could be disastrous. Hopefully that wasn’t the case this time, because now she had someone else to consider. Someone tiny and precious and very, very vulnerable.
She straightened, one hand resting on her slight bump as she heard footsteps down the nave of the church, swift and solid.
‘Sir?’ the priest called, squinting as he tried to catch sight of the figure striding down the nave, each footfall more purposeful than the last, thuds that reverberated through Emma, echoed in her heart. ‘What objections can you possibly have to this marriage?’
‘What objections?’ A shudder ran through her, like an icy finger down her spine, straight through her soul. Sheknewthat voice. It was the voice that had haunted her dreams, when she’d woken up in tangled sheets, gasping with a potent mix of desire, hope and grief—a roughened thrum, shot through with a velvety softness, a hint of laughter lurking somewhere deep within the assured rumble, a voice that conjured so many memories, and too many regrets. A voice that had made her smile, even when she hadn’t wanted it to.
Hold onto your senses, Emma. Head over heels is definitely not for you, even if you want it to be.
It was a voice she’d never, ever expected to hear again, because its owner was dead.
‘My objection,’ the owner of that silky, powerful voice continued, coming to the front of the church, a shaft of sunlight from the stained glass above gilding his dark hair in gold, ‘is that the bride is already married. To me.’
Nico Santini turned blazing green eyes towards Emma, who felt as if she’d turned to stone. Or maybe ice, because, looking at the freezing fury in her husband’s eyes, she suddenly felt very, very cold. Another shiver went through her, and she dropped her bouquet, white rose petals scattering across the stone floor of the church, releasing their heavy scent, making nausea rise up in her in a tidal wave of realisation as her head swam and her body continued to tremble.
‘Nico...’ His name came out in a croak. ‘How...?’ She found her mouth was too dry, her heart pounding too hard, for her to finish that improbable question.Howcould he be here? He wasdead. Dead! He’d died nearly four months ago, just one week after they’d had a whirlwind romance and wedding, all within the space of a single month. And here she was about to have another one, and...No.He couldn’t be here. He couldn’t be alive. She’d seen the death certificate. They’d had afuneral. Or at least a memorial service, as his body had never been found. And then she’d been basically bundled out of the door and onto a plane before she’d barely got out of her mourning dress, as per, apparently, Nico’s wishes.
So why was he here, in Los Angeles, looking so thunderous? She’d last seen him in Rome, about to travel to the Maldives, where she’d been so sure he’d been killed in a terrible accident, the engine failing on the small plane he’d hired to take him to one of Santini’s world-famous luxury resorts.
A shudder went through her. She couldn’t cope with the mix of emotions she felt: surprise, a wary, absurd joy, but most of all a creeping sense of dread. She’d never known this man, she understood that now, never mind that she’d married him in a haze of hope and happiness. She didn’t want him here, back from the dead, looking absolutely furious, and understandably so, considering the nature of the situation.
Emma was suddenly, painfully conscious of her pale yellow wedding dress, the bouquet she’d just dropped on the ground, the short veil hiding her hair, and, most of all, the groom next to her, the man she’d been about to marry until her husband had walked through the door. Beyond all that, though, she was tinglingly aware of Nico’s thunderous expression as he willed her to look at him, which she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Not yet, anyway. What on earth was she meant to do?
‘Sir?’ the minister demanded, his tone turning slightly querulous.
She had no idea how to handle this situation besides running away, not that she’d get very far in this dress and heels. Nico,here. Nico, herhusband. Except they’d barely known each other and, despite the blaze of happiness she’d felt when he’d taken her in his arms, she’d started to fear he’d been tiring of her anyway, the way everyone else had in her life. Every foster family, every friend, every person who took a kindly interest and then walked away. Her own mother, even. Why should Nico have been any different? His family had certainly seemed to think he hadn’t been.
‘Emma?’ Will’s voice was soft, hurt, and she turned to him, saw the wounded look on his face. What could she possibly say to him?