Manacled in Monaco Read Free

mother wouldn’t let me in the house.”
    “You,” she said, and both eyebrows lifted. “You tried to see me after we, um, you know…”
    Cheeks coloring a dark pink, her voice trailed off, she ducked her head and studied the tiled floor with an intensity most people reserved for lottery tickets while the winning numbers were called.
    His stomach listed. Surely, she hadn’t thought…no, she had thought it was a one-night stand. He could tell from the slumping of her shoulders, the way air seemed to deflate that defiant body posture.
    Jesus.
    “Of course I tried to see you, Sarita. I’d received my draft notice that morning. I knew you’d be excited for me and I wanted to share the news with you. I went to your house even before I told my parents.”
    “You did?” Pupils dilated, eyes rimmed with amber, she stared at him.
    “I wanted to let you know that I had to leave the next day, but that I’d call and I would be back in six weeks.”
    “Why?”
    Rolan itched to smooth the lines between her auburn eyebrows, stop the slight quivering of her lower lip with his. She hadn’t believed him that night when he’d kissed and told her, “I’m falling for you, honey.”
    It didn’t matter now.
    Tony mattered.
    “Jesus H. Christ,” he said, and slumped back onto the barstool. “I have a son.”
    “He’s mine. I raised him. He’s mine. You were only there for the conception. He’s not your son.”
    “He’s mine,” he roared and shot to his feet. “And if I have to blast it on the cover of every newspaper, every gossip rag, I will. You hid him from me for ten years, and get this straight Sarita, it stops right now. I’m his goddamned father and that’s it. You owe me. Big time.”
    With that pronouncement, too perplexed, too overflowing with emotion, he stalked out of the tiny room, only managing to resist shaking her by plunging his hands into his pants pockets. He caught up with his son seconds later. Apparently, the boy didn’t take orders to heart.
    “My dad’s dead.” The flat statement didn’t go with the boy’s wavering voice. “You leave my mom alone. If you hurt her, I’ll hurt you.”
    His fury trickled away, replaced by a peculiar pride at his son’s protective words. “Go above deck, son. Your mom will come and get you when we’ve finished our discussion. She’ll be okay, I promise. Tell the captain we’ll be staying a few days here in Monte Carlo. Ask him to have my Lamborghini brought around.”
    Those emerald eyes sparked and eyebrows the color of wheat almost met the boy’s hairline, yet he didn’t move, just chewed his lower lip.
    “I look like you,” Tony said and he crossed his arms. “Why do I look like you? And why is your name the opposite of mine?”
    Damn. Rolan tunneled both hands through his hair.
    “I don’t want you to be my dad. I don’t like you. You yell at Mom and she looks like she wants to cry.” Tony jammed two clean hands into his jeans’ back pockets, lips sneering down. “And I’m not doing anything you say. You can’t make me. I’m going to get Captain Terry to make you go away. You don’t own this boat, Geoff and Captain Terry do. And Geoff wants to marry Mom. So does Harry, and he’s from Texas. He’s a cowboy.”
    With that pronouncement, the boy glared at Rolan, spun around, and raced down the hallway.
    His Sarita?
    Geoff and Harry?
    He saw red.
    Damn, damn and blast it. He stalked back to the kitchen to stake his claim. Sarita was his, and if either Geoff or Harry had so much as touched her, they’d pay. He knuckled his throbbing temple and took deep breaths determined to regain his famous control. He never lost his cool, not once in ten years on the football field, but he’d never had to fight so hard to regain his composure. His feet plodded forward as if mired in a bog.
    Leaning one shoulder into the kitchen’s doorframe, he studied Sarita once more. Perched on a bar stool, slender back facing him, she slashed a wicked carving