‘I gathered from that comment you made about ringing me that you have decided to heed my request and come back with me. Or am I being naïve in presuming that you’ve even allowed it any headroom with so much else going on in your life?’
An angry retort sprang to her lips, but wisely she bit it back. It would have been futile anyway, she told herself on a frustrated little sigh.
Wearily she said, ‘Yes, I’m coming.’
‘Good.’ He strode away from her, turning in the doorway to assess her; her bright, dishevelled hair, the dark half-moons under her emotion-strained eyes and her cheeks, which she knew were flushed from more than just a pounding headache. ‘Get a couple of good nights’ sleep. I wouldn’t want my nephew to see any remaining traces of the good-time girl in his mother.’
Tight-lipped, Libby swung away from him, her arms clutched tensely around herself to stem the urge to hit him rather than take any more of his jibes.
‘And cara…’ the endearment was so out of character at that moment and so sexily soft, she thought she was imagining it as she turned round with her arms still locked around her and met the cruel mockery on his lips. ‘…turn off that tap.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘WHAT have you got in here?’ Romano grimaced a couple of days later at the airport when he was hauling her suitcase out of the boot of the large chauffeur-driven saloon. ‘Next spring’s whole fashion collection?’
Libby dragged in a breath. Naturally he would think that, she thought waspishly, her tone brittle as she answered in the only way she knew he would expect her to. ‘Bang on the nail!’
He sliced her a glance as he slammed the boot closed, hitting it twice to indicate to their driver that he could pull away. ‘Thinking of partying while you’re staying out there with us in Italy?’
‘I could be,’ she responded, keeping pace with his stride as he guided her towards the busy terminal. Nothing was further from her mind, however, and, deciding that she was carrying this charade a little too far, she added in defence of herself, ‘Well, I wasn’t quite sure what to bring or…how long I’d be staying.’ A ton weight seemed to press down on her chest as she said that. ‘I’ve also brought a few things for Giorgio.’
Like what? Romano thought. Things to soften him up to make up for the years she hadn’t been around? What was she hoping to do? Buy her way into the kid’s affections?
With features cast of stone he considered how easily she had given him up—as women like her could—without a backward glance, without a second thought as to how he would feel all the time he was growing up. Whether he was well. Being kindly treated. Happy.
As he held back for her to precede him through the automatic door into the terminal, he wondered if perhaps he was being too hard on his brother’s widow. After all, she had agreed to come, which was more than he had expected, he conceded with a grim compression of his mouth, and she would naturally want to try to win Giorgio’s trust in the only way she probably knew how.
The journey in the private jet was a far from relaxed one for Libby, sitting there uncomfortably aware of Luca’s darkly brooding older brother in the seat opposite.
He had made small talk with her at first about inconsequential things, controlling the conversation, taking the lead. Then he spent the rest of the time working on his laptop on the narrow table in front of him, his ebony head bent, his mind anywhere but with Libby, who sat gazing at the rain streaming down the small round window beside her, listening to those deft, dark fingers moving with surprisingly alacrity over the keys.
‘Do you want anything?’ he asked when a pretty stewardess came and enquired if she could bring them some refreshment, glancing up at Libby in a way that made her stomach flip.
Only for these nerves to stop plaguing me! she prayed silently, shaking her head. She couldn’t eat or drink. Not now. Not when she was only a couple of hours away from seeing her baby again.
‘It might be some time before you get another chance.’ Romano’s expression held a surprising degree of concern. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ Libby replied tightly, but couldn’t tell him that she was too knotted up inside to swallow a thing.
What would Giorgi look like? she wondered, fearful of being rejected. He wouldn’t remember her, but would there be a bond there? A tug of something he’d recognise? Would he take to her? Or would she just be a total stranger walking into his life?
A cold, sick fear trickled through her as she considered the alternative. It would be his birthday in less than three weeks. Was he old enough yet to have begun to despise her for what she had done? And if he was, would he ever forgive her? Judge her less harshly if he knew how much she had wanted to see him? How hard she had tried—and how many times—only to be denied access on every occasion?
Once when she had been in Italy, modelling a new fashion collection, she’d read somewhere that the Vincenzos were there in Milan. She’d found out where they were staying and lingered outside the palatial hotel until she’d caught a glimpse of Luca’s mother coming out of the main entrance, tugging the reluctant little two-year-old after her. She’d caught snatches of his baby chatter but had scarcely understood a word of it. He was a totally Italian child, lost to her even before the waiting limousine had swallowed him up and the vehicle sped away. It had taken her months to get over it. It had been like giving him up all over again.
‘Here.’ A plate of delicately prepared sandwiches was being thrust in front of her. In a half-daze, Libby took it, looking down at them. Smoked salmon and soft cheese, garnished with a twist of lemon and tomato. Tempting in other circumstances.
‘I didn’t…’
‘I know.’ A firm masculine hand insisted when she made to pass the unwanted meal back to him. It will make you feel better, his eyes, dark and sagacious, conveyed.
Had he guessed how she was feeling? Libby wondered. Was he aware of the turmoil going on inside of her? Of her fear and apprehension—her overriding guilt? If he was, then he was probably thinking that it was no more than she deserved, she thought chillingly, biting into one of the soft white sandwiches, if he really believed that she’d handed over her baby just because the price was right.
She was glad when the flight was over, though her nervousness only increased when another luxury saloon that had been waiting for them when they touched down brought them finally to the small hilltop castle where she had been so unhappy during her brief marriage. It was late in the afternoon and the sun struck gold from its crenellated roof, from its ancient ochre stone walls.
Memories crowded in around her as Romano ushered her through its familiar shaded courtyard with its lichen-clad fountain—surrounded now by tubs of bright geraniums—and into its imposing interior, their footsteps resounding intrusively across the great hall.
‘I’m scared,’ Libby admitted before she had realised it. Scared of those memories. Of the reception she might receive from a woman who had never failed to show her dislike of her. But most of all, of Giorgio’s reaction to meeting her.
‘Don’t be,’ Romano advised succinctly, and then, failing to understand entirely, ‘He’s just a kid who’s trying to make sense of why his mother hasn’t been around for the past six years. Now, let Angelica show you to your rooms,’ he recommended as the elderly housekeeper, whom Libby remembered as the only friendly face other than Luca’s, appeared to greet them. ‘You’ll find me in the drawing room when you’re ready.’
Which didn’t help, Libby thought, but said nothing. After all, there was no excuse for what she had done—as far as he was concerned. She was glad to leave him and take a few minutes to gather her composure as she followed the stooped and chatty little figure of Angelica up the stairs. She was even more relieved to discover that her suite of rooms—decorated in warm, natural hues against richly pattered soft furnishings—was in the opposite wing from the one she had occupied with Luca.
In fact, the place had had a considerable face-lift since she had walked out of here—a
lone and devastated after the loss of her husband and then the handing over of her baby—and quite recently if the smell of fresh paint, which she’d noticed as soon as she’d entered the house, was anything to go by. The place was generally brighter all round and less oppressive than it had been when both Romano’s parents were alive. The odd extension had been added too, she noted, glancing out across the beautiful Italianate walled garden, which now boasted a pergola on the other side of the glittering blue oval of the pool. She had always loved the grounds, an oasis above the wooded valley. She remembered them being slightly more unkempt, but from the extent of new planting, abundant sculptures and unfamiliar, already established trees, she guessed that Romano had probably had a free hand for some time.
The only thing that looked the same was the drawing room. Or perhaps she failed to notice any changes, she would consider later, because all she was aware of when she entered was Romano Vincenzo, jacket and tie discarded, standing there alone beside the huge fireplace, looking every bit the lord of the manor amongst the familiar backdrop of original paintings, priceless antiques and rich tapestries.
Looking at a folded newspaper, he tossed it down on a side-table when he saw her come in.
Libby sent an anxious glance around her.
‘Where is he?’ Nerves, coupled with the effect he was having on her, made it sound almost like an accusation because she was trying not to fill her eyes with the whipcord power of his body, or that black hair, which fell tantalisingly over the back of his collar, mirroring that virile sprinkling of hair in the open ‘V’ of his shirt beneath the dark corded strength of his throat. ‘Where’s my son?’
An elevated eyebrow seemed to question her right even to use the term, but all he said in those deep calm tones of his was, ‘Patience, mia cara. I have told them that you’re here.’
Them? Of course, Libby reasoned, her head swimming with apprehension. Sophia Vincenzo was still very much in residence here.
Her stomach muscles tightened, making her feel almost sick, and suddenly, as her gaze strayed reluctantly over Romano’s long, lean body, all the years fell away and she was that overawed eighteen-year-old bride again, afraid of making a bad impression, hoping against hope for the acceptance that had never come.
Then she had had Luca’s protection, she remembered, and instantly ridiculed herself for using such a dramatic word. What did she need protection from? She was here only because of Giorgio—because her little boy needed her. Yet her mind refused to discard the memory of that kiss in her apartment two nights ago, the sensations that had shamed her still leaping into life in the tingling of her breasts and the deep throb in her lower body whenever she thought about them.
‘What are you thinking?’ Romano asked, and there was menace in his slow stride as he approached her with that same intimidating aura of self-assured arrogance, that pulsing sexuality that brought goosepimples out on her flesh. ‘Are you thinking what I am? That in all this there’s a remarkable sense of déjà vu?’
Libby’s tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth. ‘No,’ she lied, because even the way he was looking at her was making her feel as stripped and exposed as it had done seven years ago. ‘Things are different now, Romano,’ she reminded him, drawing herself up to her full, remarkable height in her staunch determination that they would be.
‘Indeed they are,’ he whispered, those glittering eyes appraising her figure beneath the white sleeveless T-shirt and soft blue trousers she had worn on the plane with a mocking sensuality that made her senses quiver. His voice, though, held only contempt, each word cruelly barbed as he tagged on, ‘Now you no longer have the…inconvenience of a wedding ring.’
Eyes darting to his, Libby made to deliver an angry retort, her heart pounding from the speculation of exactly what he had meant by that. But the door opened at that moment and Sophia Vincenzo came in, older and yet as graceful still as Libby remembered her with her elegant clothes and her beautifully coiffured greying hair, but it was to the little boy with the impish black eyes—Luca’s eyes—under a mop of unruly brown hair that Libby’s urgent gaze flew.
Giorgi!
‘Zio!’ Those eyes lighting up, the boy would have run towards his uncle if Sophia hadn’t stopped him. A restraining hand on his young shoulder, she was stooping to issue a low instruction in her own language.
‘How do you do?’ Giorgio said to Libby in a small, stilted voice, his formality—his accent—so much a part of these people that something seemed to wrench the connective tissues of her heart.
Dropping down to his level, she wanted to reach out and clasp him to her. Bury her lips in the soft sable of his hair and sob out how much she had missed him—loved him! How every minute that she had been parted from him had been a private hell. But she didn’t want to do anything that would make Giorgio withdraw from her; alienate him before she had even stepped onto the first rung on this very fragile ladder. Besides, Sophia Vincenzo’s gnarled fingers were planted possessively on each little shoulder. Like an eagle’s talons, Libby thought distractedly. An eagle refusing to relinquish a prized and coveted little lamb.
‘I’m very well,’ she restrained herself by saying in a voice she couldn’t keep from trembling as, uncomfortably aware of Romano standing above her now, she took the small hand that was being offered. ‘And you?’
The little boy stared at her for a moment before tilting his head right back to glance up at his grandmother.
‘Nonna told me to say that,’ he confessed somewhat sheepishly, before sending a rather troubled look towards his uncle.
Libby saw a surprisingly gentle smile touch Romano’s mouth. He said something softly to the boy in Italian, which she roughly interpreted from the classes she had forced herself to take in the eternal hope of seeing her son again one day as encouragement for Giorgio to say whatever he felt comfortable saying.
The little boy’s forehead puckered as he turned to Libby again and asked after a few moments, ‘Are you really my mamma?’ At Romano’s prompting he was much more relaxed, all formality and artifice gone.
‘Yes, Georgio.’ Achingly dry-mouthed, Libby held her breath, wondering where that admission on her part was going to lead.
Surveying her with a far more sombre expression, his young head tilted to one side, seriously he enquired, ‘Are you going to be here for my birthday?’
Libby gave a tremulous little laugh—not expecting that at all—and heard Romano chuckle; his mother’s terse response, correcting her grandson.
Of course, she thought, smiling through the tears she was fighting to keep under control. Such things were vastly important to a child.
‘You bet!’ she breathed, her hand softly shaping his face, not caring what Romano or his mother thought. She wasn’t going to miss another of his birthdays if they tried to drag her out of this house screaming.
Giorgio gave her a semi-toothless smile where already his second teeth were pushing through, little pointers that even now were marking the road towards manhood. Reality chilled her, causing every cell to ache with the knowledge of just how much of his little life she had already missed.
‘Oh, buono! Zio Romano says he’s going to buy me a new bicycle. I wanted a bigger one, but Zio says I can’t have one of those until I’m a year older. Zio says he will teach me to ride it when the time comes!’
And clearly Zio Romano was the be-all and end-all! Libby decided resentfully. ‘You speak very good English,’ she uttered to Giorgio, nevertheless amazed.
‘My son has always insisted his nephew acknowledge both sides of his heritage,’ Sophia supplied in that same chilling tone for which Libby had always remembered her, although as those familiar golden eyes raked over her Libby suspected that Sophia Vincenzo wasn’t entirely in agreement with Romano’s decision.
‘I speak Italian as well!’ Suddenly a little hand was reaching out to touch the fiery swathe that fell like burnished silk across Libby’s shoulder. Rather more coyly the little boy said, ‘I like your hair.’<
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Something clutched at Libby’s heart, squeezing it until she thought the blood was being sapped from her veins, while behind them a deep voice drawled, ‘Beware of such things. They’ll be your downfall, Georgio.’
The little boy frowned again, not understanding, but the censure behind Romano’s remark didn’t fail to connect with Libby.
He thought she was a gold-digger, only marrying his brother for what she could get out of him—just as his parents had, she reminded herself bitterly. So naturally he would want to warn his nephew against women like her!
‘I like yours too,’ she breathed, ruffling its soft brown mass and noticing how the light from the long windows picked out the red highlights, a legacy she had passed on to him—part of her own genes—no matter how many years had separated them, how many miles.
‘Would you like to see my bedroom?’ Giorgio invited with a little conspiratorial smile.
Five years old! Libby thought, and already he had coquetry off to a fine art! Yet he reminded her so much of Luca trying to placate her for coming in later than promised after a night out with friends—and he’d had so many friends because he’d been so easy-going—that a poignant emotion stabbed her, bitter-sweet, cuttingly deep.
‘I’d like that very much,’ she breathed, her mouth trembling.
As the little boy took her hand to lead her off, out of the corner of her eye she caught the swift gesture Romano made, restraining his mother.
So he realised she needed time alone with her child, Libby recognised, begrudging him the small dart of gratitude she owed him for that.
The suite of rooms that was obviously the nursery contained everything she would expect to find in a child’s personal play area. Posters of famous fictional characters. A computer. Games and puzzles. And, sitting on a chest, propped up against the far wall of this typical little boy’s room, a golden teddy with one ear missing, its mock fur worn away from nearly six years of being loved to death.
Blackmailed For Her Baby (Bought For Her Baby Series Book 4) Page 5