Nicolo Santo Domenico’s marriage to heiress Chiara is purely for convenience...until their explosively passionate wedding night! But when Chiara realizes that Nico’s reasons for seducing her are as cold as his heart, she flees their fledgling marriage. Months later, Nico tracks down his errant wife, only to find she’s expecting! To claim his baby, Nico must make Chiara his—for real!

An emotionally charged marriage of convenience romance

Irish author ABBY GREEN threw in a very glamorous career in film and TV—which really consisted of a lot of standing in the rain outside actors’ trailers—to pursue her love of romance. After she’d bombarded Mills & Boon with manuscripts they kindly accepted one, and an author was born. She lives in Dublin, Ireland, and loves any excuse for distraction. Visit abby-green.com or e-mail abbygreenauthor@gmail.com.

Also by Abby Green

An Heir to Make a Marriage

Awakened by Her Desert Captor

An Heir to Make a Marriage

Married for the Tycoon’s Empire

Claimed for the De Carrillo Twins

The Virgin’s Debt to Pay

Rulers of the Desert miniseries

A Diamond for the Sheikh’s Mistress

A Christmas Bride for the King

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Claiming His Wedding Night Consequence

Abby Green

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07247-2

CLAIMING HIS WEDDING NIGHT CONSEQUENCE

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This is for Franca Poli,

for all of her wonderful support

and very generous help.

Grazie! X

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

‘I AM VERY sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, Signorina Caruso, but the fact is that your father had borrowed for years to keep the castello afloat and the bank is threatening to take possession of it now, unless you can buy it back at market value—which I’m afraid is impossible, considering the lack of funds in your family bank account...’

Chiara stood at the huge window of the drawing room where she’d had a meeting with the family solicitor after her parents’ double funeral just a couple of days before. Her arms were wrapped around herself as if that might offer some comfort.

For the last two days and sleepless nights the words had swirled in her head in a confusing painful jumble: bank, take possession, lack of funds. And she was no nearer to seeing a way out of this mess that didn’t end up with her losing everything.

The family castello was an imposing centuries-old castle, set dramatically on the southern coastline of Sicily. Prime real estate that had once functioned and thrived as a farm, growing and exporting lemons and olives. Staples of Italian agriculture.

But once the recession had hit, and the market had taken a nosedive, their crops had all but dried up and died due to lack of demand. They couldn’t afford to keep staff on and, while her father had done his best, clearly it hadn’t been enough. Chiara had offered help time and time again, but her father—old-fashioned and conservative—hadn’t deemed it ‘appropriate work’ for a girl. And she hadn’t realised just how much he’d been borrowing to keep their heads above water.

She castigated herself now. She should have known. But her mother had been ill with cancer, and Chiara had been preoccupied with caring for her. The only reason Chiara was alive today and her father wasn’t was because he’d decided to take his wife to her weekly chemotherapy appointment at the hospital in Calabria.

That morning a week ago he had said to Chiara, ‘You need to go down to the village and see if you can get a job. It’s not enough to just care for your mother any more.’

His tone had been sharp. He’d never made any secret of the fact that he was disappointed Chiara hadn’t been a boy, and that after suffering complications with Chiara’s birth her mother hadn’t been able to have any more children.

So Chiara had gone down to the village—to find that there were no jobs available. She’d never been more aware of her lack of qualifications, and the looks she’d received from the locals had made her feel paranoid.

As a child she’d been sickly, so her mother had home-schooled her. But even when she’d recovered and become strong they’d kept her at the castello. Her father had always had a paranoia about privacy and security, forbidding Chiara to bring anyone back to the castello—not that she’d had any friends! And then her mother had fallen ill, and Chiara had become her carer.

After humiliating herself in the village, looking for work, Chiara had returned home to find her parents still not returned from the hospital. So she’d gone down to her secret place—a small beach tucked out of sight of the castello—and indulged in her favourite pastime, daydreaming, unaware that her parents were breathing their last in a tangle of metal after a catastrophic car crash.

What had made her feel even guiltier afterwards was the dream she’d indulged in—the same one she’d always had: leaving the castello and travelling the world. Meeting a handsome man and finding love and excitement. Yearning for...more.

Now Chiara’s guilty sense of entrapment mocked her. She was finally free, but at such a cost that it left her breathless. She’d lost both her parents, and now it would appear she was about to lose the only home she’d ever known.

It was at a time like this that she felt her isolation even more keenly. Chiara had always lamented her lack of siblings, and had promised herself from an early age that she would have a large family one day. She never wanted any child of hers to feel as alone as she had, in spite of her mother’s love and affection which had never quite made up for her father’s disappointment.

Except now, if the bank took possession of the castello, the least of her worries would be a sense of isolation. She’d have much bigger concerns. Where would she go? What would she do? Her fruitless search for a job in the village was surely the tip of the iceberg when it came to finding work.

The truth was that she wasn’t prepared for life beyond the castello walls at all. In spite of her dreams, she’d always counted on the castello being the anchor of her life, so that no matter where she went or what she did it would always be there to come back to. And eventually—some day—she’d hoped to fill it with a loving family.

The thought of having to leave her home now was agonising...and more than terrifying.

She felt a nudge at her leg and looked down to see their ancient family dog, Spiro, a Sicilian Shepherd. Shaggy and big. He looked up at her with mournful eyes and whined. He’d melted Chiara’s heart when he was a pup, almost fifteen years ago, the runt of the litter and almost blind.

Chiara stroked his head and murmured soft words, wondering what on earth she would do with Spiro when she had to leave.

Just then she heard a noise coming from outside, and Spiro tensed and let out a feeble-sounding bark. Chiara looked out of the window to see a very sleek silver sports car prowling its way up the drive. The automatic main gates had stopped functioning years ago, in spite of her father’s attempts to fix them.

Belatedly she recalled the solicitor saying something the other day about a businessman who had a proposition to put to her. She’d barely taken it in at the time, too overwhelmed with all the other news. But this could be the man he’d been talking about.

The car drew to a halt in the main courtyard, which suddenly looked very shabby and rundown next to such gleaming perfection. Feeling a spurt of irritation that a complete stranger thought it would be okay to discuss anything just days after a funeral, Chiara made reassuring noises to Spiro and then turned from the window and went through the castello to the main door, fully intending to tell whoever it was to come back on a more suitable day.

She doused the feeling of panic that there might not be a more suitable day. She had no idea how fast banks acted in this scenario when taking possession. She could be tossed out by the end of the week.

Feeling more vulnerable and raw than she’d ever felt in her life, Chiara pulled open the massive oak door. For a second she was blinded by sunlight, so all she had was an impression of a very tall dark shape climbing the steps.

She was about to put her hand over her eyes to shade them when the visitor stepped into her eyeline, blocking the sun with his height. Chiara blinked, and blinked again, her hand dropping to her side ineffectually as she took in the sight before her.

It was a man. But such a man as she’d never seen before. The kind of man she’d only seen in her fantasies or read about in stories.

Thick black hair, slightly messy, framed the most savagely beautiful face Chiara had ever seen. High cheekbones and an aquiline nose lent it more than a hint of regality, and his tall, proud bearing reinforced the impression. His mouth was as sculpted as the rest of him—firm and strong.

An intriguing air of decadent sensuality and steeliness made a quiver of something very feminine go through Chiara, all the way to the centre of her being.

She struggled to rouse herself out of the strange lethargy that seemed to have taken hold of her, hindering her ability to function. ‘I’m sorry...can I help you?’

The man’s eyes narrowed on her and Chiara saw they were a very dark brown—and totally unreadable. Something cool slid down her spine and she unconsciously felt for Spiro’s reassuring presence behind her, even though he was so old and blind he was totally ineffectual as a guard dog.

The man looked emotionless, but Chiara sensed something almost volcanic under the surface and it was very intimidating. Strangely, though, she didn’t fear for her safety. It was a much more ambiguous fear. A fear for something deep within her that was coming to life...desire.

‘I am here to see Chiara Caruso. Maybe you would be so kind as to fetch your mistress for me.’

His voice was deep and gravelly, tugging on Chiara’s senses. He hadn’t posed it as a question. She realised that he must think she was the housekeeper. They’d let the housekeeper go a long time ago. Hence the general air of decay and dishevelment in and around the castello. But, effectively, she was now the housekeeper, so it was silly to feel something shrivel up inside her that he might assume her to be menial staff.

She was very aware of her plain black mourning dress, make-up free face, and long unruly hair. She knew she was no great beauty, with her unfashionably full figure and average height.

She tipped up her chin. ‘I am Chiara Caruso.’

His eyes narrowed even more and a look of sheer incredulity crossed his face. ‘You?’

Tension and self-consciousness stiffened Chiara’s whole body. ‘I’m not sure exactly what you were expecting but, yes, I can assure you that I’m Chiara Caruso. Who, may I ask, are you?’

Those eyes seemed to get even colder, if that was possible. ‘I am Nicolo Santo Domenico.’

He seemed to be waiting for some kind of response—as if his name should mean something. But it didn’t.

Chiara prompted, ‘And...? How can I help you?’

Confirming her suspicion, he said, ‘You don’t know who I am?’

Chiara felt bewildered now. ‘Should I?’

The man emitted a sound like an incredulous laugh. ‘You’re seriously expecting me to believe you don’t know who I am?’

The man’s arrogance was astounding!

Chiara took her hand off the door and folded her arms across her chest. ‘No, I don’t know who you are. Now, if you have nothing better to do than interrogate me on my own doorstep then I’ll ask you to leave. We had a funeral here this week—it is not an appropriate time.’

His eyes gleamed. ‘To the contrary...now is the most appropriate time for this conversation. May I?’

He sidestepped her neatly and was walking into the vast stone hallway before she could stop him.

Spiro whined and Chiara whirled around. ‘Excuse me, what on earth do you think you’re doing? This is my property!’

Except it’s not really, reminded a little voice.

The man turned around to face her and Chiara got the full impact of him. It was almost too much. He made the majestic reception area seem small. He had to be well over six feet, and broad with it. He wore a dark suit that could only be custom-made as it clung to his well-honed physique like a second skin. His air of intense physicality made Chiara think of bare-knuckle fighters she’d seen in a documentary once. It was as if his suit was just a flimsy concession to urbanity.

His gaze slid down to beside Chiara and his lip curled. ‘What is that?’

Chiara glanced down to see Spiro, looking in the general direction of the man and emitting a low growl. She put her hand on his head and looked at her uninvited guest. ‘He’s my dog and you’re upsetting him. This is my home and I’d like you to leave.’

His gaze came back to rest on her and Chiara fought not to fidget under that exacting expression.

‘This is precisely what I’ve come here to discuss—the fact that this home is not actually yours at all.’

Chiara’s insides seized. Was this man from the bank? She forced herself to ask, ‘What are you talking about?’

He didn’t answer right away. Instead he put his hands in his pockets, drawing Chiara’s eye to his mid-section. Heat climbed up her neck and face and she diverted her gaze before he might notice. But he didn’t notice. He was looking up at the walls and turning around in a small circle.

He said, as if to himself, ‘I’ve waited a long time to be here...’

Then he started walking towards the reception room Chiara had just vacated. She went after him. ‘Excuse me, Signor Domenico...’

He turned to face her from the middle of the room and Chiara had the strangest sensation that she was the guest—and not a very welcome one.

‘It’s Santo Domenico.’

Chiara bit out the name. ‘Signor Santo Domenico. I insist you tell me what on earth this is all about or I will call the police.’

Now she was beginning to panic. He must be from the bank. But were they allowed to show up like this? Why had the solicitor not warned her this might happen so soon?

Chiara’s head was starting to hurt again.

He looked around. ‘Where are the staff?’

Chiara felt defensive and wasn’t sure why. ‘There are no staff—not that it’s any business of yours.’

He looked at her, incredulous again. ‘How have you kept this place?’

Chiara knew that was also none of his business, but this whole meeting had taken a surreal turn and she found herself saying, ‘We closed up the rooms we weren’t using and just maintained the few we needed.’

‘You and your parents?’

‘Yes. They were buried in a double funeral two days ago, in case you weren’t aware.’ She was hoping to shock him into some kind of realisation that he was here at a very inappropriate time.

He nodded his head. ‘I am aware, and I’m sorry for your loss.’

He couldn’t have sounded less sorry.

Before Chiara could formulate another word he said, ‘You had a meeting with your solicitor the other day?’

‘Yes,’ Chiara said faintly. ‘How did you know?’

‘It’s customary to have the reading of the will and such after the funeral.’

‘Of course.’

She cursed herself for feeling paranoid. She had no reason to feel paranoid. If he wasn’t from the bank then he had to be the businessman her solicitor had mentioned. She forced herself to calm down. There would have to be due process before anyone evicted her from her own home.

‘So you will now be aware that this castello is in danger of being possessed by the bank unless you can drum up the necessary funds.’ Here he stopped, and looked around again before saying, ‘Forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, but I don’t think that’s likely.’

Chiara wanted to point out that he’d been speaking out of turn since the moment he’d materialised on the doorstep, but that wasn’t the issue here. ‘Are you from the bank?’

He shook his head and a small smile played around that disturbing mouth, as if her question was amusing for some unknown reason. It made her want to slap him when she’d never before felt violent towards anyone in her life.

‘So how do you know that information, then?’

He shrugged minutely and looked back at her. ‘I have my sources and I’ve had a...a keen interest in the castello for some time now.’

‘A keen interest...?’ Chiara struggled to make sense of his cryptic response.

He faced her squarely then, and she had the uncomfortable sensation that he was about to be a lot less cryptic.

‘Yes, a keen interest. For my whole life, in fact. Because, you see, the truth of the matter is that this castello actually belongs to me. To my family, specifically—the Santo Domenicos.’

* * *

Nico looked at the woman standing just a few feet away. She couldn’t be more nondescript, in a black shapeless dress, with long light brown hair and not a scrap of make-up. His first impression of her had been that she had to be the housekeeper, but now he noticed the proud bearing of her form. Spine straight, shoulders back...

His conscience pricked—her parents had just died. But he quashed the spark of compassion. This day had been coming for decades and now it was finally here.

His father had died a bitterly disappointed man, and countless other members of his family had suffered as a result of this woman’s family’s actions. He’d suffered too, enduring jeers and taunts his whole life.

‘You’re not one of the powerful now, Santo Domenico—you’re nothing...’

But he wasn’t nothing any more. He had singlehandedly pulled himself out of the streets of Naples and achieved stunning success, and now he was finally ready to reclaim his family’s heritage from the people who had stolen it so many years ago.

His one regret was that his father hadn’t lived to see the castello returned. That he hadn’t lived to see where his ancestors were buried and pay his respects. His father had come here once, with his own father’s ashes, and asked if he could scatter them in the family plot, but he’d been turned away like a beggar.

Nico would never forget the humiliation etched into his father’s face and the rage burning in his eyes.

He’d said to Nico that day, ‘Promise me you’ll walk through those gates one day and reclaim our legacy...promise me.’

And here he was, finally on the verge of fulfilling that promise—except much to Nico’s frustration he wasn’t feeling exactly satisfied. He was distracted by the realisation that Chiara Caruso’s eyes were a very light green. And that she wasn’t perhaps as plain as he’d first thought. She was...intriguingly fresh-faced. Untouched. He was used to women covered in so many layers of artifice, or filled with so many chemicals, it was hard to know what they looked like underneath it all.

She shook her head now, frowning. ‘What are you talking about? This castello can’t belong to you. It’s belonged to my family for hundreds of years.’

Anger made Nico’s voice tight. ‘Are you sure about that?’

Suddenly she seemed hesitant. ‘Well, of course...’

‘Perhaps you’re an expert denier of history, like your father was. Are you really expecting me to believe that you aren’t aware of what happened?’

She went pale. ‘Leave my father out of this. How dare you appear on my doorstep with some fantastical tale?’ She stood back and extended her arm towards the door. ‘I’d like you to leave now. You are not welcome here.’

For a moment Nico’s conscience pricked again, he thought that perhaps he should leave and at least allow her a period of private mourning before returning in a couple of days. But then he registered her words: you are not welcome here. Exactly the same words her father had said to his father when he’d tried to gain access to the family burial plot.

Nico planted his legs wide. He wasn’t going anywhere.

The dog standing beside her emitted another pathetic growl.

He said, ‘I’m afraid that it’s you who is not welcome here. Not for much longer anyway. It’s merely a matter of time before the bank moves to take possession.’

* * *

Chiara stared at this man who looked as immovable as a stone statue. Against every instinct, her curiosity was aroused. Maybe he wasn’t mad—maybe he believed what he was saying.

‘What gives you the right to say such things...that the castello belongs to you?’

‘Because it’s true. My family built it in the seventeenth century.’

Chiara wanted to shake her head, as if that might make order out of what he was saying. She’d known the castello was old—especially some parts of it—but not that old.

He went on. ‘At that time the Santo Domenicos owned this estate and all the land and villages from here to Syracuse.’

What he was talking about was a huge swathe of land, and if it were true—Chiara shook her head. It couldn’t be. ‘My family have been the sole owners of this castello for as long as I know—our name is above the door, etched in stone.’

He dismissed that with a curl of his lip. ‘Anyone can carve words into a slab of stone. Your family took ownership of this castello before the Second World War. The Carusos were the Santo Domenico family’s accountants. When we were in financial difficulty they agreed to bail us out, using the castello as collateral, the agreement being that as soon as we had the money again we would buy the castello back at an agreed price. Then came the war.

‘After the war, your family made the most of the chaos at that time. They claimed to have no knowledge of the agreement and destroyed all the paperwork, saying our claims were bogus. So many people were trying to reclaim ownership of land and possessions after the war that the authorities chose to believe that we were being opportunistic. We were a powerful family, and some were only too happy to see us brought down and destroyed.’

He continued.

‘The war decimated our savings—we lost everything. We became destitute. Your family refused to negotiate or to give us a chance to regain our property. Our very proud Sicilian family was scattered. Most emigrated to the United States. We ended up in Naples. My grandfather refused to leave Italy, always hoping he’d see our lands returned before he died. As did my father. Both were thwarted.’

Chiara struggled to take this in. ‘You can’t have proof of this. I’ve never heard mention of the Santo Domenicos in my life.’

He cast her a jaundiced look. ‘I don’t believe that. Our story is part of local legend around here.’

Chiara flushed when she thought of her very sheltered upbringing. Their housekeeper—before she’d been let go in recent years—had done all the shopping, and her father had gone into the village for supplies since then. Whenever Chiara had ventured out she had noticed the way people looked at her, and she’d burned with self-consciousness because she’d assumed they were judging her less than fashionable clothes and figure.

However, if there was any grain of truth to this man’s claims, perhaps they’d been judging more than her appearance.

Feeling very exposed, and more vulnerable than ever, she repeated, ‘You have no proof of this.’

He arched a brow. ‘Come with me.’

He strode out of the room, and Chiara just looked after him stupidly before she kicked into gear. The sensation that he somehow belonged here struck her again and it wasn’t welcome.

He walked out of the main door and Chiara had the urge to slam and lock it behind him. But something told her that this man wouldn’t be so easily locked out.

He stopped in the main courtyard of the castello and looked left and right, as if trying to figure something out, and then strode confidently to the left, towards where the family church and graveyard were situated. The graveyard she’d only walked away from a couple of days ago, after seeing her parents interred.

When she realised where he was headed she hurried to catch up and called out, ‘This is ridiculous—you must stop this!’

But he didn’t stop. It was as if he couldn’t hear her. He got closer and closer to the graveyard, but at the last moment veered away from it and walked to another gate nearby, overgrown with foliage.

She arrived behind him, slightly out of breath. ‘What are you looking for? That is the old family plot.’

A place she’d never been into herself, because the housekeeper had used to tell her that it was haunted. A shiver went down Chiara’s spine now. Had the housekeeper known something of this man’s fantastic claims?

He thrust aside the foliage and located the latch on the gate. At this moment he barely resembled a civilised man. She could see his muscles moving under the material of his suit and felt another disconcerting pulse of awareness in her lower body. Totally inappropriate and unwelcome.

He pushed open the gate and said in a grim tone, ‘Come on.’

Chiara had no choice but to follow him into the shadowed and dormant graveyard. Sunlight barely penetrated through the gnarled branches of the trees overhead and it was very still. She picked her way gingerly over the uneven ground, not even sure what she was walking on, hoping it wasn’t graves.

He had reached the far corner and was pulling leaves and branches away from something. When she got closer she saw that it was a headstone. He turned to face her with an intense look on his face, and for a moment she was almost blinded by his sheer raw beauty.

Then he took her arm and said impatiently, ‘Look.’

Chiara stood beside him, very aware of his hand on her arm and the disparity in their sizes. It took her eyes a moment to adjust, but when they did she could make out faint writing, her heart stuttered and stopped as a dawning dread moved through her.

There, etched in the stone, was the following:

Tomasso Santo Domenico, born and died at Castello Santo Domenico, 1830-1897

She couldn’t believe it. Castello Santo Domenico. Not Castello Caruso.

‘He was my great-great-grandfather.’

Chiara looked around, and now she could see the unmistakable shapes of headstones underneath foliage all around her. They seemed to loom at her accusingly in the gloom. The space closed in on her and claustrophobia rose swiftly. She pulled free of Nicolo Santo Domenico’s grip and turned and made her way out, her skin clammy with panic.

She almost tripped over a mound, and a small sob came out of her mouth, but then finally reached the gate and stepped into bright comforting sunshine, her head reeling.

* * *

Nico stood in the overgrown graveyard, only vaguely aware that Chiara had all but run out of the graveyard. This proof of his family’s legacy was almost too much to take in.

Standing in that grand room just a few moments ago, facing a stricken-looking Chiara Caruso, he’d actually felt a sliver of doubt. Could this grand, crumbling estate really have belonged to his family? Had they truly once been the most powerful family in southern Sicily? It had seemed almost too much to believe when all he could think of was his grandfather’s bitter countenance and then his father’s. Maybe they’d dreamed it up, frustrated by the struggles they’d faced. Their fall from grace.

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