‘That sounds a little strange coming from a woman who married your father while carrying another man’s child,’ Sevastiano murmured grimly.
‘Oh, don’t let my stupid mess take you back downthatroad,’ Annabel urged unhappily. ‘This is a completely different situation...’
And so it was, Sevastiano acknowledged after his sister had gone to bed. His Italian mother, Francesca, had been on the very brink of marrying Sevastiano’s Greek father, Hallas Sarantos, when she had met Sir Charles Aiken on a pre-wedding shopping trip to London. In Annabel’s version of the story, Francesca and Sir Charles had fallen hopelessly in love, even though Sevastiano’s mother had only recently realised that she had conceived by Hallas. In Sevastiano’s version of the story, Francesca had fallen hopelessly in love with Sir Charles’s title and social standing and his stepfather had fallen equally deeply in love with Francesca’s wealth. Two very ambitious, ruthless and shallow personalities had come together to create a social power alliance. Sevastiano would have long since forgiven both his mother and his stepfather for their choices, had they not denied him the right to get to know his birth father, who had strained bone and sinew to gain access to him, only to be denied for the sake of appearances.
What had happened to Annabel, however,wasunforgivable in Sevastiano’s estimation. A much older married man had taken advantage of his half-sister and had then tried to intimidate her into having a termination against her will, a termination that would have neatly disposed of the evidence of their affair. And Oliver Lawson wouldpayfor his sins, Sevastiano promised himself angrily as he contacted a top-flight private investigator to request a no-holds-barred examination of the other man’s life, because everyone had secrets, secrets they wanted to keep from the light of day. Sevastiano would dig deep to find Oliver’s secrets and work out where he was most vulnerable. He was pretty certain that Lawson had not the smallest suspicion that Annabel was Sevastiano’s half-sister, because he was a connection that the Aiken family never acknowledged.
The man, however, had seriously miscalculated when he chose to deceive and hurt the younger woman. At some stage of his existence, such a self-indulgent man would have made a mistake with someone else and Sevastiano would uncover that mistake and use it against his target in revenge. Sevastiano cared for very few people but he cared very deeply for his only sister, who had been the one bright spot of loving consolation in his miserable childhood. As long as he was alive neither she nor her child would ever want for anything but, first and foremost, Oliver Lawson had to bepunished...
Humming under her breath, Amy rearranged the small shelf of Christmas gifts in the tiny shop area of the animal rescue charity/veterinary surgery where she worked. The display made her smile because she loved the festive season, from the crunch of autumn leaves and the chill in the air that warned of winter’s approach to the glorious sparkle and cheer of the department-store windows she sometimes browsed in central London.
She had a child’s love of Christmas because she had never got to enjoy the event while she was growing up. There had been no cards, no gifts, no fancy foods or even festive television allowed in her home because her mother had hated the season and had refused to celebrate it in even the smallest way. It had been at Christmas that the love of Lorraine Taylor’s life had walked out on her, abandoning her to the life of a single parent, and she had never got over that disillusionment. She had always refused to tell her daughter who her father was, and the devastating row that Amy had caused when she was thirteen by demanding to know her father’s identity and refusing to back down had traumatised both mother and daughter.
‘He didn’t want you! He didn’t want to know!’ Lorraine had finally screamed at her. ‘In fact, he wanted me to get rid of you and when I refused he left me. It’s allyourfault. If you hadn’t been born, he’d never have left me...or even if you’d been a boy, ason, he might have been more interested. As it was, inhiseyes, we were just a burden he didn’t need!’
After that confrontation, Amy’s already strained relationship with her mother had grown steadily worse. She had started hanging out with the wrong crowd at school. She had stopped studying and had got into trouble, failing her exams and ultimately wrecking her educational prospects. She had hung out with the kids who despised swots, had begun staying out late, playing truant, skipping her assignments and lying about her whereabouts. It had been childish stuff, nothing cruel or criminal, but her mother had been so enraged when the school had demanded she come in to discuss her wayward daughter’s behaviour that she had washed her hands of her child. Amy had ended up in foster care until a kindly neighbour and friend had offered her a home if she was willing to follow rules again.
It had taken several years for Amy to recover from that unhappy period when she had gone off the rails and she had never lived with her mother again. Lorraine Taylor had died suddenly when her daughter was eighteen and only afterwards had Amy discovered that the father who had abandoned them both had been supporting them all along. Although they had never lived anywhere expensive and her mother had never worked, Lorraine had still contrived to go on cruises every year and, while she had resented spending anything at all on her daughter, she had always had sufficient funds to provide herself with an extensive wardrobe. In fact, Amy had been stunned by the amount of money her mother had had to live on throughout the years of her childhood but none of that cash had been spent on her. That financial support had ended with Lorraine’s death and the solicitor concerned had reiterated that Amy’s birth father wanted no contact with his child and wished to remain anonymous.
Aimee, she had been named at birth...Beloved, Amy recalled with rueful amusement, but, in truth, she had not been wanted by either parent. Perhaps her mother had thought the name was romantic; perhaps when she had named her daughter she had still harboured the hope that her child’s father might return to her.
Even so, it wasn’t in Amy’s nature to dwell on those negatives. Cordy, the kindly neighbour who had taken her in and soothed her hurts, had taught her that she had to move on from her misfortunes and mistakes and work hard if she wanted a decent future. At a young age, Amy had wandered into the animal shelter next door to the block of flats where she and her mother lived and had stayed on to see the inmates, soon becoming a regular visitor. Cordelia Anderson had been the veterinary surgeon who ran the surgery/rescue charity, a straight-talking, single older woman, who had devoted her life to taking care of injured animals and those who were surplus to requirements. She had nursed the animals back to health, rehoming them where she could.
She had taken in Amy when she was at her lowest ebb, persuading the unhappy girl to pick up her studies again, and had even tried to mend the broken relationship between Amy and her mother but, sadly, Lorraine Taylor had been quite content not to have the burden of a teenager in her life. When Amy had finally attained the exams she had once failed, Cordy had taken her on as a veterinary nurse apprentice at the surgery. Tragically, Cordy had died the year before and Amy had been devastated by the suddenness of her demise. Amy was still doing vocational training as an apprentice for Cordy’s veterinary surgeon partner, Harold, and praying that she could complete her course before Harold retired.
Since Cordy’s death Amy’s home had become a converted storeroom above the surgery because Cordy’s house had had to be sold, the proceeds going to her nephew. Amy used the shower facility in the surgery downstairs and cooked on a mini oven in her room, while acting as caretaker for the shelter at night. But making ends meet had become an increasing problem for her because she was on a low salary and was now responsible for covering her own living expenses. To supplement her income, she had taken a job as a waitress in a café nearby and worked shifts there when she wasn’t required at the surgery.
The café, decorated in the style of an American diner, enjoyed a clientele from the office buildings that surrounded it and was often busy, but the following day when Amy turned up for her shift it was almost deserted because the rain was bouncing off the pavements outside.
‘If this weather keeps up, either you or Gemma can go home,’ the owner, Denise, told her with brisk practicality. ‘I don’t need two waitresses here with no customers.’
Amy tried not to wince and just nodded, knowing that Gemma, a single parent, was as in need of her pay as she was. Days off didn’t settle the bills or the cost of travelling on the bus and home again without earnings to cover the expense. But that was the fatal flaw in casual labour, she acknowledged ruefully—it didn’t promise either regular shifts or a steady income. A job dependent on the vagaries of the weather or the number of customers was, at the very least, unreliable. Still, she reminded herself doggedly, it wouldn’t be the first or last time that she spent a week eating instant noodles because paying her electric bill or buying new scrubs to work in was more important.
‘Gemma’s not due in until the lunch shift so maybe business will have picked up by then,’ Denise told her consolingly.
As she spoke the door flew open and a man appeared, a very tall and broad-shouldered dark-haired guy with raindrops spattering the pale raincoat he wore over a business suit. He took a seat in the corner and Amy got her first good look at him and fell still. She didn’t usually stare at men but he was so drop-dead, utterly beautiful that she allowed herself a second glance, expecting to pick up a flaw, a too large nose, a heavy jawline, something,anythingto make him less than perfect because nobody, absolutely nobody aside of airbrushed magazine models and movie stars, could possibly be that perfect in real life.
Buthewas, from his high sculpted cheekbones to his classic nose and wide, sensually full mouth. A trace of dark stubble shadowed his carved jaw, emphasising his perfect mouth and eyes as dark and golden as melted molasses. Luxuriant blue-black hair, worn a little longer than was conservative, framed his lean, darkly handsome features and then Amy unfroze as she felt the visual assault of those brilliant dark eyes locking to her and he signalled her with a graceful brown hand.
Of coursehe was signalling her. He was in a café and she was a flipping waitress! The scarlet heat of intense embarrassment invaded what felt like her entire body, burning her up inside and out with the most overpowering awareness she had felt since she was an ungainly teenager. Almost clumsily she moved forward, horribly conscious of her stupid frilly uniform for the first time ever, and asked how she could help him.
‘A black coffee, please,’ he murmured, the faint fluid edge of a liquid foreign accent curling round the syllables in his dark deep voice.
‘Anything else?’ Amy settled the menu down in front of him with a hand that trembled slightly.
‘I’m not hungry enough for a meal.’
‘Something sweet?’ Amy proffered shakily, indicating the cake cabinet behind her.
‘I think you might be all the sweet I could handle right now. But,sì, something sweet... You choose for me,’ he urged sibilantly.
Amy wheeled away, her face still burning, wondering what he had meant about her being sweet. She probablylookedlike a sweet in the pink frilly collared dress and apron she had to wear to work at the café. Denise made the coffee and watched her choose a cake from the cabinet.
‘A case of insta-love or whatever you young ones call it these days?’ her employer teased.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you stopped dead to look athimand he hasn’t taken his eyes offyouonce since he came in. Go ahead and flirt. It’ll give me something to watch.’