Page 5 of The Convenient Cosentino Wife

Clare walked away from Rocco, through the open French door to the cool interior of the villa even as Gio stepped out to deal with the guest.

Roberto shut the door behind her, standing in front of it, another sentry on guard, all here to protect Adriano, a child vulnerable to those with malicious intentions. She didn’t yet know Rocco’s intentions but her guard was up, and her temper was high.

Clare walked swiftly down the marble entry into one of the elegant salons she’d turned into the music room with the high frescoed ceiling with the gleaming pink and gold marble floor. She paced the room, past the grand piano, oblivious to the priceless oil paintings on the wall, and the beauty and history of a home hundreds of years old. Her heart pounded and emotion surged through her—confusion, frustration and anger. Anger that Rocco had finally appeared, but so many months after she’d expected him, more than a year after thinking he’d care. But now he was here and instead of arriving with warmth or genuine feeling, he was infuriating her all over again.

He’d always infuriated her.

She had wanted so badly to have a happy family, and share Marius’s love of his brother, but Clare never could be comfortable when Rocco was around. He was hard and ruthless, like the walls of the ruined medieval fortress just down the beach from her villa. Tourists lined up to visit the ruined fortress, but she had no interest in ruins, not when she was working so hard to create a safe world for her son, giving him the stability and love she’d never known, but this focus wasn’t about the past, but the future. Adriano’s future. Her future. A future with hope and happiness.

“Mi scusi,”the housemaid said from the doorway.

Clare turned at the far end of the room, pausing in front of the ornate marble fireplace surround. “Yes?”

“Ava wanted you to know that your son is awake.”

Clare pictured Rocco outside, aware that he was probably still on the terrace, aware that he was thinking she would return, because really, how was the conversation over? How had they settled anything?

“Have Ava bring him downstairs to me after he’s had a snack. I will be on the terrace with our guest.” Clare’s voice firmed. “I’d like Ava to remain close, in the event that Adriano isn’t comfortable.”

The maid nodded and disappeared. Clare drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders preparing for battle, because that’s exactly what this was with Rocco Cosentino. He wasn’t her friend. He was a foe and they both knew it.

CHAPTER TWO

ROCCOEXHALEDASClare disappeared into the villa. He hadn’t anticipated a warm welcome, and he hadn’t helped things by asking about a DNA test, but he needed to ask. He needed to know, but he wasn’t going to pursue that conversation further especially as there were other ways to verify Adriano’s ancestry. He just needed time to get the verification. He needed time, period. Now that he was here, it was hard to imagine just walking away from her. To be honest, he’d never walked away from her. She’d been the one to leave the Cosentino villa in Rome after the funeral. She’d called for a car, and yes, he’d put her into it, but it was the right thing to do.

Seeing her again was painful, though. Just looking into her eyes stirred up intensely conflicted feelings. Their last visit had been the day of the funeral. It had been such a dark, dark day, the grief numbing. He’d been numb for months after.

But Rocco was determined to block out the memories, and just as determined to keep a tight rein on his emotions. He couldn’t allow himself to feel anything. He couldn’t allow himself to be drawn into the past, with all its guilt and regret. Rocco had hated himself the day of the funeral. He’d hated himself so much that he just wanted to be buried with his brother, be over it, be done with it once and for all. Too many funerals, too much death, too much remorse, too much grief. Unfortunately, in typical Rocco Cosentino fashion, he survived the day, and said his goodbyes to Clare, and moved forward with this life, managing both his estates and his brother’s, in Spain, Italy and Argentina, the Argentina property left to him by his mother.

He still remembered the moment he found the file with the birth announcement tucked inside of it.

Marius had fathered a child? There was an heir? Another generation of Cosentinos?

Could he trust Clare to tell the truth?

But why would she lie? She was an heiress herself. The two families had billions between them, a shocking amount of wealth, but that wealth hadn’t protected them from loss or loneliness. The birth of a child, a Cosentino, was huge, but the fact that it was Clare’s child...that was incredibly problematic.

So first Rocco needed facts. The truth. And then, if Adriano was a Cosentino, Rocco needed to remain close.

Rocco glanced now at the bodyguard who had remained on the terrace with him. The man’s head was shaved smooth, his gaze shielded by a pair of dark sunglasses.

Rocco knew that the moment Clare decided Rocco was to be shown off the property he would be, but so far that hadn’t happened, which gave Rocco hope that he and Clare could still have a conversation, a civil conversation.

That would require Rocco keeping his temper in check. His temper wasn’t usually an issue, but from the beginning, from that very first meet, Clare had brought out the worst in him.

She made him feel, and he hated that.

She made him think—not of business, not of family, not of loyalty—but of lives not lived, emotions not experienced.

The only way he’d ever known how to function around Clare was to hide who he was, containing himself so that she didn’t know him. Couldn’t know him.

But that hard exterior was a sham, the walls erected to keep Clare away, distant, so that he could be detached and keep his head.

She was that much of a temptation. Still.

The French doors opened and Clare appeared on the threshold.

“Still here?” she asked, perfectly framed by the pale stone walls covered with the lush bloom of late summer roses. The pink roses perfumed the air, creating a softness around Clare that was at odds with her fierceness. She hadn’t been fierce when Marius was alive. She’d been anything but fierce, leaning on Marius for his love, drinking in his devotion as if a flower deprived of sunlight.

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