7: In Which She is a Pawn and the Queen

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"I'll race you."

"What? No, thanks. I've had a glass of wine and I can't –"

"You can't what? Swim?" Carlo propped himself up on the yellow-brick edge of the pool, most of his body immersed in the enticing azure water. "I can't say that I'm surprised."

"Excuse me?" I said, folding my arms across my chest as I glared down at him. "I am a very good swimmer, thank you very much. Co-captain of my secondary school's swim team, in fact."

"Really?" he smirked. "Tell me this, cara. Why have you spent the past three days gazing wistfully at the water if you were co-captain of a swimming team? Most women would have been naked in my pool the minute they got off the plane."

What had I been thinking about after the almost three-hour plane flight?

Oh yes, that's right: This was a huge mistake.

I'd known that Carlo was a ridiculously wealthy man but it hadn't sunk in until I'd asked which airline we'd be flying with and he'd casually replied, "Airline? No, cara mia, we're taking my jet." I'd spent the entire flight pretending to be extraordinarily engrossed in every little thing Mickey was doing while Carlo deliberately ignored me on his laptop.

"Carlo, I'm sorry I can't be like most women who probably just want to have sex in the pool with you," I said snidely, wondering why I'd even come outside when it was almost midnight and I should have been tucked away nicely in the queen-sized bed upstairs.

To watch him, another voice helpfully put in.

Carlo had the habit of doing the oddest things until the early hours. When he said he was an insomniac, he wasn't joking. The fact that I'd been given the bedroom directly beside his meant that I could hear every noise; every sound. He'd watch old Italian movies on his television, play soft music – if rap could be considered soft or music – go out for a swim or a walk, or sit in silence. It was disconcerting. Whenever his door opened, I'd hold my breath and – idiotically – hope against hope that he'd push my door open. It was unthinkable to even contemplate that I wanted his touch; that after Mickey fell into a content slumber in his cot beside me, I could yearn for Carlo to come and relieve my frustration. I'd had a pep talk with myself the minute we'd arrived at his enormous villa: No sex, Danielle. You should be wary of him. Question his intentions. Question every word that comes out his gifted mouth. Transform into a poetically asexual being.

But I didn't listen to myself.

He hadn't touched me in three days. Three fucking difficult days.

We'd talked – oh, we'd talked far too much – and we'd gone out and that was it. Carlo was intent on showing me the sensational side of Naples. The bay was gorgeous and Mickey enjoyed a few licks of Neapolitan ice-cream. After years of hearing about Mount Vesuvius, it was magical to catch a glimpse of it. The San Carlo Theatre was amazing. Carlo had gotten us the best seats to listen to a man who sounded suspiciously like Pavarotti. We'd eaten out at fancy restaurants. Neapolitan pizza was, quite frankly, the most orgasmic I'd ever tasted. I was slowly starting to understand how my taste buds had been deprived of good food and it was shocking.

That was all well and dandy but, much as I tried to fight it, what I really wanted was Carlo. In every way.

"You don't want to have sex in the pool with me?" asked Carlo, feigning astonishment. "My, how shocking. Water has always been such an aphrodisiac. I need to re-evaluate my life."

"Shut up," I muttered, kicking off my flops. "If you want a race, I'll give you a race."

"Grazie mille," he said, pushing away from the edge into a smooth backstroke.

I tugged my dress over my head, flinging it onto a chaise-longue behind me. I'd bought my bikini at Top Shop the year before and it had become a little constricting around my chest. I was acutely aware that my breasts were practically spilling out as I dove in at the deep end. The water was icy cold, which was an incredible surprise as I knew the pool was heated when the temperature dropped.

Carlo popped up beside me, his hair clinging to his skull endearingly. "Dio mio, Danielle! Is that a swimsuit or a wet dream?" His eyes had decidedly settled on my chest.

I reddened. "What?"

"Now I see why you were so adamant about not swimming," he said quietly, pushing me to the corner without using his hands. "You were afraid I wouldn't be able to control myself."

I was shivering from the cold. At least, that's what I told myself. "It's getting late. I know you don't sleep but I do and...and this wine is extremely potent."

He chuckled. "Relax. I'm going to give you a head start." He swam away from me. "Last one there is a drug lord and mass murderer."

"You're being ridiculous," I said, and launched myself forward.

I could feel him easily slide underwater beside me, but he pulled back, letting me win, and I came up for air, throwing him a dirty look.

"I wasn't aware you were going easy on me," I grumbled. Typical. Men were either letting women win, or sore that they could do it on their own. Adam and Charlie had always been accommodating of my gender disability.

"You were co-captain of your high school's swim team," Carlo said sarcastically. "You won fair and square."

"Cheat." I splashed water into his face and he groaned.

"I just don't know how to please a woman," he said. "You're annoyed that you won?"

"Oh, you definitely know how to please a woman," I blurted out before I could stop my tongue.

"Go on," he persuaded.

I averted my eyes. "That's not what I meant."

He tilted my chin upwards with his hand. "Why have you suddenly become so shy? Is it because you're not comfortable with sharing my home? Or are you thinking about Angelo? Which one is it?"

"I don't know what you mean."

Carlo muttered to himself in quiet Italian. "Do you trust me?"

I didn't open my mouth. We both knew the answer to that one.

His brow furrowed. "What do I have to do to earn your trust? Give you my blood? I've opened up to you; told you things I haven't even told my family. I've invited you into my home. Yet you still don't believe me."

The question I'd been aching to ask was burning on my tongue. Before I could lose my chutzpah, I spat it out.

"How did you get so rich? You said you're an entrepreneur but that's so vague it's almost a lie."

He released me as if he'd been burned. "Do you see all this?" he snarled, gesturing at the house. "I worked for it! I was a street kid; a pickpocket. I worked the fúcking skin off my fúcking bones until I made something of myself. No doors were opened for me and I couldn't pick them. I had to wrench them open myself and I will never forget that. So whatever sordid crime story you've made up in your head? Think of a different plot. I don't need to explain a damn thing to you, or to anyone else, for that matter."   

"Are you done?" I asked. "I don't appreciate your raising your voice to me." I reached out for the rail of the steps leading out of the pool.

Carlo snatched my hand in his. "I don't appreciate your questions."

"Wasn't the whole point of this trip for you to convince me that I shouldn't take out a restraining order against you and your psycho family?"

"Mickey is a Donafrio. Don't forget that."

"He's a Clarke. That's what's on his birth certificate and that's how I'm going to raise him."

"Now you're being ridiculous. You know that I want to be a part of his life."

I took a deep breath. "Could you be honest for one second and tell me what you really want with my son? Because I don't buy the doting-father act for all the haggis in Scotland."

His face hardened. "I want to make love to you, for starters. Then I want to make you understand that I'm not the bad guy. But in no particular order."

No sex, Dani Clarke. Asexual...asexual...asex...sex...sex...sex...

"I don't know what's on your agenda for the rest of the night, but I intend to take a shower before slipping into bed for all eternity," I said serenely, turning and going up the steps. "What did you think, that I'd fall into bed with you like some horny teenager?"

"Who said anything about a bed?" he called after me.

***

"God, did you really make this croissant?" I asked, involuntarily squeezing my eyes shut as I took my final bite.

Ana was standing opposite the table when I opened my eyes again, a wry smile on her face. "Not croissant. Cornetto. Sì. I made it this morning. Good?"

"Excellent," I said truthfully. "You'll have to give me the recipe."

"Better with coffee." Ana reached over and poured me a mug of black coffee.

I put in a spoon of sugar before slugging it down and burning my throat. "Amazing."

"Now I can give Mickey his breakfast?"

Mickey?

Dazed, I turned to look at him in his highchair. He was grimacing at me, obviously annoyed that he was being forced to watch me eat.

"Sorry, tiger. Mummy's being a stingy beast, isn't she?" He didn't seem amused. "Yes, Ana, you can take him into the kitchen. Thanks." She was already scooping him up into her arms.
Ana was fifty-seven and her only child had died in a boating accident in his twenties, so she'd never gotten the chance to be a grandmother. It was love at first sight when she laid eyes on Mickey and the feeling was mutual. I wasn't going to deny her the pleasure of feeding him. Out of all Carlo's staff, she was by far the most endearing. The rest – especially the self-righteous security – were highly intimidating and made no attempt to converse in English with me.

"Buongiorno." Carlo's voice came from behind me as he went around the table and took the seat at my right hand. "Sleep well?"

"I slept extremely well, thanks. Did you manage to get any sleep?"

He grimaced. "I can't believe The Cosby Show still shows on TV. There was a marathon."

"And you...watched it?" I asked, unable to envision the sight of him enjoying such a mundane TV show.

"Yes; until I got bored and masturbated," he said sarcastically, reaching for the decanter of coffee. "What do you think?"

"That you got bored and masturbated."

"Very funny. When was the last time you pleasured yourself? I would bet one of my cars that it was last night."

I reddened, suddenly finding my empty plate extraordinarily intriguing. The truth was that I wasn't really in the habit of touching myself. The nuns at the Catholic school my parents had sent me to as a child had instilled in me that touching oneself was akin to slaughtering a nursery of innocent babies. Still, the previous night in the pool – so tantalisingly close to a furious Carlo – had pushed me over the edge of self-restraint. I'd taken that shower – among other things.

God, what if he heard?

"You truly consider yourself hot stuff, don't you?" I asked, reaching for another croissant-or-cornetto. "Like I said, I slept incredibly well."

Carlo's eyes wandered to Mickey's empty chair beside mine. "Where is he?"

"With Ana," I replied, glad for the abrupt change of subject. I watched him drink his coffee. "Don't you think caffeine's a bad idea for a chronic insomniac?"

He arched a brow. "My mother died when I was young. I don't need another one, grazie."

I felt the irritation from the night before come to a boil. "What the hell's your problem?"

"I wasn't aware I had one," he replied coolly, straightening his tie.

"Well, you do, you cúnt!"

"I'm frustrated. Maybe that's my problem, as you put it. You won't let me touch you. You won't let me make you see any kind of sense. What do you want from me?"

"The truth!"

"I'm telling you the goddamn truth!"

"Mr. Entrepreneur? Yeah, right." I rose from my seat. "You can forget about taking me out because I'm certainly not going anywhere with you. In fact, I should be on the next flight home. I have a job, in case you didn't notice, Carlo."

"I'm not keeping you hostage. Feel free to leave whenever the hell you please," he snapped.

"How gracious of you." I marched out the dining room and into the kitchen, where Ana was talking to Mickey in lilting Italian.

"We're leaving," I announced to her, and she quirked a brow.

"Now?"

"Ana, how much do you know about your boss? How much do you really know?"

She reluctantly handed Mickey over. "Is anyone perfect? Dio solo giudicherà – only God will judge," she told me. "Carlo is good to people who need him, even when they do not ask. He creates jobs. Do you know how...generoso that is?"

That was possible. When we were out on the Neapolitan streets, all kinds of people came up to Carlo to greet him, after he'd shooed his bodyguards away, of course. There wasn't a single person terrified of him. In fact, I'd go as far as saying that they worshipped him.

"Ana, questo è sufficiente."

I turned around and found Carlo standing in the doorway. "Funny enough, I actually understood that."

"I go now." Ana slipped past Carlo and left us in the kitchen.

"Don't ever interrogate my staff," Carlo growled, blocking my exit.

"Don't ever tell me what to do. Besides, I wasn't interrogating her." Mickey was squirming in my arms. It took me a second to realise that he was reaching out for Carlo.

"Let me," he said, and I was forced to give my son to him. Mickey was instantly placid, burrowing his nose into Carlo's chest. I swallowed.

"I think I...should go upstairs," I whispered, fighting the urge to burst into uncontrollable tears.

He stepped aside to let me pass and I gratefully slid past him. When I looked back, I caught him nuzzling Mickey's hair. I couldn't deny the fact that he was actually very good with him. Even if he didn't seem like father material, he certainly acted the part.

But it's going to be so difficult to make Mickey forget Carlo when this is all over, I told myself as I blatantly ignored a guard stationed at the foot of the winding staircase and went up to my bedroom.

"What have you gotten yourself into, Dani Clarke?" I asked myself, leaning against the closed door.

 What was the real purpose of this trip? To confide in each other? For Carlo to flash his VISA everywhere we went to make up for endangering my son's life and killing someone in my house? For him to be my tour guide? For him to call Mickey his figlio as he blew raspberries onto his tummy and made him giggle?

"Bullshìt," I said aloud.

Carlo was a wolf and wolves always had a hidden agenda. I just had to figure out what the hell it was.

I probably wouldn't have seen the dress if I hadn't made my way past the bed on my way to the bathroom. No male had ever bought me a piece of clothing before, not that I'd expected it, so it was an incredible shock to think that Carlo had had someone choose a dress for me.

It would have been a grand gesture (I'm human, after all) or peace offering if it hadn't so obviously been a wedding dress.

I tentatively picked it up, afraid of damaging it. Made of the thinnest lace and tulle, it was a long-sleeved, floor-length affair that was cinched at the waist. It was gorgeous – old-fashioned but beautiful.

"It's the same design as my grandmother's."

I was sick and bloody tired of Carlo creeping up on me.

"What's the meaning of this?" I asked, not even bothering to turn around. I was afraid to look at his face and know the answer to my question.

"Did you really think I'd let my son grow up a bastard, or worse – raised by the prick you're sure to marry?"

"This is absurd, Carlo," I fumed, practically causing myself whiplash when I spun around to confront him. He was already so close but I wasn't about to be intimidated. "You promised me that –"

"That I what? That I wouldn't pursue custody? I'm not. I'm pursuing you," he barked, making me jump back. "I would never let a child of mine mill about with no identity."

"He has an identity," I screeched, choosing to ignore his blatant attempt to make me lose my will at the sound of his declaration of lust. "He's my son. What happened with the Healey Group or clinic or whatever wasn't my fault! Sue them and be done with it, but don't you dare... Carlo, stop it."

He was getting on bended knee and I was momentarily astounded, more than ever when he produced a ring.

"Stop!" I hissed, as if someone were watching.

"Danielle Clarke, we might not love each other, but we have a common goal – to protect Mickey," he was saying, his eyes so intense I could almost believe the words spewing out of his mouth. Almost. "I can offer you protection, security – the moon. Perhaps lust can evolve into love, cara mia."

"Lust can evolve? Listen to yourself!"

He frowned. "It took me a while to come up with that one."

"Good job. You're one line away from a modern-day Shakespeare. Now, if you'll excuse me, I should –"

"Merda, Danielle," he cursed. "I stopped begging when I was a boy. You can't possibly want me to start now." He punctuated his sentence by getting to his feet and, with one hand moving to the back of my head, claimed my mouth with his.

There was no way I could lie and say I didn't want to kiss him.

The dress fell to the carpet as I draped my arms around his neck, parting my lips for his tongue to duel with mine. His hands were on my shoulders, pulling down the thin straps of my dress. I shimmied out of it while he shrugged out of his suit jacket. Without warning, he pushed me back onto the bed and positioned himself over me.

"Close your eyes," he whispered into my ear, his lips lightly grazing my earlobe.

I did, and was instantly bombarded by a fleet of questions by my conscience: Aren't you supposed to be telling him to go to hell? That marrying an alleged gangster isn't on your bucket list? Why won't you think about your son? What will people say about you? What about Angelo?

I was about to voice my complete and utter refusal to be his bride for convenience's sake when I felt him raise my arms and cuff my wrists to the bedpost above my head. My eyes flew open.

"What the hell?"

"Relax," Carlo said soothingly from between my legs, his hand lightly caressing my inner thigh. "I knew I'd need to convince you, bella mia." He leaned down and placed a soft kiss so close to my already wet crotch before slipping my knickers off.

I was supposed to fight, wasn't I? To pull away from the iron-wrought bedpost; to kick at him?

But I didn't.

I was intrigued.

Jules was one of those kinky types; the ones that let their boyfriends smack them and call them dirty slags. BDSM just hadn't been my cup of tea, so it was fascinating to wonder what Carlo was going to do to me. He started by reaching under the bed for what turned out to be rope and then producing a blindfold from his pocket and effectively turning the morning into night.

"This is how you plan to convince me to marry you? You must be delusional." I experienced a brief