His eyes narrowed, and she felt his curiosity emanating off him in waves; she felt his desire to know more. He restrained the impulse to ask however. “Six years with one family is impressive.”
She tilted her head forward in silent consent. “Why don’t you tell me about your… child?”
His lips twisted in a response she couldn’t interpret. “He’s not my child.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “I’m sorry. I just presumed--,”
He waved his hand in a gesture that was part impatience, part dismissal. “Non ce di che. He’s three years old.”
Silence. She waited for him to elaborate, for Benedetto was caught in his own thoughts, lifting a hand and rubbing it over his stubbled chin. Finally, he went on.
“His parents died six months ago. They were my… closest friends.” A frown. A flicker of emotion in the depths of his dark eyes. “I didn’t realise they’d appointed me to act as his guardian.” He stood then, pushing his chair back, his body stiff as he moved to the window that overlooked the exclusive, tree-lined Via di Viola. “I don’t know what they were thinking. I’m the last person on earth who should be raising a child.”
Cleopatra’s eyes noted the broad spread of his shoulders, the straightness of his spine, and broadly muscled back, and leaned forward a little in her chair. “Why?”
He turned to face her. “I’m not father material. I have no interest in being a parent.” The words were said matter-of-factly. “And he – Alfredo – is a nightmare.”
At this, a small laugh escaped Cleopatra’s lips, without her intention.
“You think I’m exaggerating?”
“No,” she shook her head and wrinkled her nose. “Not exactly.”
“I have gone through seven nannies in six months.”
The smile slipped from Cleopatra’s face. “Oh, no.” Sympathy squashed her heart. The poor little boy! “That’s the last thing he needs after losing his parents.”
“It has been extremely inconvenient.”
She rejected her first impulse – to scold him for sounding selfish in the midst of a child’s suffering.
“Why so many?”
“Did you not hear me? He is a nightmare. He cannot be reasoned with.”
If it weren’t such a dire situation, she might have laughed. They were, after all, talking about a three year old boy, not generally known for being micro-paradigms of reason and sense.
When Cleopatra spoke, her voice was soft. “He lost his mother and father; he’s completely alone. All the walls of his world have shifted. Nothing is the same for him as it was before. He’s got a different home, a different bed, neither of the two people he wants to see most in the world are here anymore.”
Benedetto was deathly still, his face drained of colour. “I am aware of this.”
Sympathy flashed inside her, but she refused to be intimidated, nor to shy away from what she wanted to say. “Children act out when they’re upset,” she murmured. “When they’re scared, when they’re sad. He’s only a little boy. He needs to feel safe. He needs stability.”
There was speculation in his face. “Si.”
“I think you should be careful about introducing a new nanny too soon.”
He stared at her without speaking for so long that the air in her lungs began to burn and she realised she was holding her breath.
“Why did you become a nanny?”
It was an unorthodox interview, but Cleopatra was intrigued enough to stay where she was and answer honestly. “I love kids. And I’m good with them.”
“You like them?”
“Kids?” She laughed, a sweet sound, tilting her head back so she didn’t notice the way his expression shifted, a speculative gleam in his obsidian eyes. “I mean, they’re not a whole different species. They’re just us – shrunk down.”
“Without any kind of ability to think rationally.”
“Three year olds can be tricky,” she soothed, suppressing her smile with difficulty. “Why don’t you tell me how you’re struggling with him and I’ll see if I can help?”
But before he could respond, the door flung open and a hurricane of noise and speed hurtled towards them.
“Alfredo,” Benedetto’s voice was firm. It had little effect on the child. Cleopatra sat in her chair, watching as the little bundle of swarthy adorableness swept across the room and threw himself at Benedetto’s feet, erupting from high-pitched squealing to wailing in a matter of seconds.
“Get up, this minute.” Benedetto addressed the child as though he were disciplining an under-performing accountant and a frown creased his forehead in a way that was disastrously distracting. “Alfredo.” His voice lowered, but he didn’t move, and Cleopatra was struck by his obvious difficulty in communicating with this child. True, the boy was in the throes of a complete meltdown, but he was still a person, with eyes and a mouth and the ability to listen.
Benedetto switched to Italian, speaking in his native tongue, but his tone remained the same – intermittently ice-like and then bewildered, and finally, impatient.
“See?” He glared at Cleopatra, as though she’d somehow had a hand in this. “He will not listen to me.”
Cleopatra nodded sagely, just as another person entered the study. A quick inspection over Cleopatra’s shoulder showed an older woman, wiry thin with a lined face and short fingernails, shoulders that were narrow and squared, dressed in a simple black suit. Her grey hair was tied into a bun that sat low on her nape.
The woman spoke in Italian, rapid-fire and even though Cleopatra spoke the language fluently, she had to concentrate to keep up. I’m sorry but he would not stay still. I turned my back for only a second…
“A second,” Benedetto intoned flatly, “is all he requires.”
He said the words as though the boy was a con-man of the highest order.
Cleopatra felt compelled to intervene. “Goodness me,” she spoke in English. “Careful, terremoto, or you are going to bang this whole house down.” She swept across the room and crouched beside him, and when he paid her no attention, she placed a hand on his back, gentle yet firm. And while he tantrumed and cried, she stayed where she was, unaware of the pair of wolfish black eyes watching her every move.
Cleopatra was too engrossed in the task before her. She soothed the boy quietly, murmuring in her native language, softly and calmly, words that were different for him, words that perhaps reminded him of the parents he’d lost. Because after several long, tear-racked moments that filled Cleopatra’s heart with pain and sorrow for what he’d lost, Alfredo pushed up just high enough to stare at her with obvious curiosity.
His full lower lip trembled and his cheeks were red and splotchy, his eyes rimmed with thick, wet clumps of lash.
His stare was part-belligerent, part broken-hearted baby.
“Would you like me to give you a hug?” she asked gently, knowing that she couldn’t thrust that connection on him, that he needed to choose how to be comforted.
His lower lip trembled harder and a wracking sob exploded from his chest as he pushed up. She held her breath, wondering if he would run, or stay. Wondering if he would trust her.
He lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers, a look in them that was so much wiser than his years, so full of a pain that would have been impossible for many to understand, but not Cleopatra – for she too had known devastating loss and hurt, and it had scored her heart in a way she was unlikely to recover from.
“It’s okay, piccolino,” she murmured, her smile just a flick of her lips, encouraging and promising, all at once. “I will help you.”
The little boy continued to stare at her, his eyes sweeping over her pale blonde hair, then her face, then falling to the floor, and a second later words were flying from his lips, almost intelligible because of his small toddler voice and the tears that were still clogging his throat. He rushed to explain and all she could deduce was that there’d been a tousle about an iPad and then a glass had broken, loudly, and Signora was cross, and t
hen paused and sobbed and threw himself into Cleopatra’s arms.
It was all it took.
She’d often heard people talk about love at first sight, and for her part, she’d thought it a fanciful notion, a construct of Hans Christian Andersen fairy stories with very little basis in reality.
But Alfredo threw himself into her arms and dropped his head into the crook of her shoulder and she wrapped her arms around him as though it were the most natural thing in the world, standing with a little difficulty but keeping his chubby body melded to hers. She ran her hand over his back, holding him close to her, and she whispered to him in her language – nothing important, just stories of her day, and the cars she’d seen on her way to this mansion in the middle of Rome, overlooking the Tiber in all its stately glory, il Vatican fascinating and ancient in the distance. By the window, she pointed out some birds as they flew past, white against a stark blue sky.
His breathing became more regular, and the hand that was clutching her back tightly relaxed, and after several minutes she lifted her head to look at him and saw what she suspected – that he’d fallen asleep.
“Where is his bedroom?” She asked, quietly, turning towards Benedetto di Fiori. If she hadn’t been holding an over-tired toddler, she might have startled, because he was looking at her with such intensity that it was impossible not to feel an extra pulse beat within her veins.
“This way.” His expression was like a mask again, impossible to read, but somehow cold and imposing.
He strode out of the office, through the black and white tiled corridor, with its impossibly tall ceilings, towards the central hallway of this ancient and imposing home. Without pausing to be sure she was following, he moved up the stairs. She went with him, along a landing lined with windows that framed magnificent views of the river and the city, so she wanted to stop and take it in. Despite having lived here for several years, Rome never failed to fill her soul with a sense of warmth she’d often thought she’d never know.
The bedroom he took her to had Cleopatra compressing her lips with silent disapproval. This place wasn’t fit for a child. Dark blue wallpaper, gold damask curtains, and a cold, hard, wooden floor. There were some toys in boxes in the corner, and a cot had been wheeled in, but the room lacked any warmth whatsoever.
Unable to keep a small frown from her face, she placed the little boy into bed carefully, keeping her hand on his stomach as he looked – for a moment- like he might stir back to wakefulness.
When she lifted her head, she found Benedetto watching her again, with that same look of speculation.
Her heart skipped a beat.
“This way,” he murmured, the words soft so as not to wake the child, yet still loud enough to rattle through her.
She followed after him, pausing to cast one last look at Alfredo where he slept. Now, with her hands free, she kept up with the handsome tycoon, conscious as she walked of his long stride, and the strength that every step conveyed.
At the bottom of the steps he turned left, away from his office, leading her instead to what could best be described as a gentleman’s parlour. All oak panelling, leather seats, books on one wall, a bar on the other, with a billiard’s table in the centre.
“Drink?” He murmured, gesturing for her to take a seat.
Cleopatra demurred, preferring to stay standing. She walked towards the large glass windows and looked out over Rome. And she thought of the little boy upstairs, and how alone he was, so her heart twisted with memories of her own pain and despair. A lump formed in her throat; she pushed it away with difficulty.
Benedetto watched her, his expression blanked of emotion, his mind working overtime. She was a beautiful woman – it was impossible not to notice. Younger than he’d have liked, but obviously experienced and excellent with children. That was everything he required. The fact she was attractive was beside the point. Looks didn’t matter.
All he needed was the ability to offer his godson some permanence – and to get a moment’s reprieve from being responsible for a child. His work required his utmost attention and this was not possible with a small person in his midst.
He needed help.
“What do you think of my charge, Miss Ash-Compton?”
Her eyes, large and almond-shaped, and a shimmering blue in colour, shifted to his. He probed her thoughtfully. She didn’t wear a wedding ring.
“I think he’s a three year old,” she said with a smile that could best be described as indulgent. “And that three year olds are exceptionally talented at driving you a little batty.” Then, with a husky tone to her voice,” I think he’s probably a very good little boy who’s had his world rocked and shaken and just wants someone to keep promising him everything’s going to be okay.”
Benedetto had made his fortune by reading people and he could read, very clearly, that Cleopatra was speaking from personal experience. Fascinated, he filed that information for later exploitation.
Knowing people’s weaknesses was often essential in order to draw out their true strengths. Though he’d had a file put together on her, it was light on detail. He knew she had no criminal record, that she’d been in the foster care system from a young age, adopted at some point to a large family in Wisconsin, and that she left home at sixteen to take up her first job.
Sympathy and a soft heart were obvious weaknesses Cleopatra Ash-Compton possessed in spades. She dipped her head forward to hide it, but he saw every flush of emotion on her dainty, symmetrical face.
This was going to be easier than he anticipated.
“I don’t have the skills to raise a child.” He spoke calmly, turning towards the bar and pouring a scotch for himself. He drew a bottle of mineral water from the fridge and carried it towards Cleopatra. When she turned to face him, there was a divot between her brows, as though she were lost in thought.
“No one is born knowing how to be a parent.” Her words were considered and measured.
“I disagree. You seem to possess an innate skill.”
“It’s my job,” she pushed aside the compliment.
“And the seven nannies who have been here in the last six months? Was it not also their job?”
“I can’t speak for them,” she said, diplomatically, though he felt the criticism in her voice. So there was fire beneath the sweetness?
“You are wrong,” he brought the conversation back to his original premise. “Not everyone can learn to be a good parent. And not everyone wants to be. I never intended for children to be a part of my life.”
She drew in a soft breath and there was a glow of something in her eyes he couldn’t understand. “Well, that’s tough, sir,” she added the respectful title as an afterthought. “Because that little boy has lost his mom and dad and you’re the only family he has left.”
“A situation I intend to rectify.”
She gasped. “You can’t mean you plan to give him up for adoption?”
Adoption? Benedetto stared at her for several beats, the possibility one that, strangely, hadn’t occurred to him. As much as he resented having the child put at his feet, he knew that he would do whatever he could for his best friends.
Still, her obvious despair at the idea gave him further ammunition, as well as questions about her own experience with that institution.
She would be a terrible poker player.
“I haven’t decided yet,” he lied convincingly.
“Oh, Mr di Fiori, you can’t. It would be awful for him. He’s already been through so much, with losing his parents and then having so many nannies come and go, his heart would be so burdened with trauma and uncertainty. You’re the only constant in his life. You can’t give him away. You can’t.”
She spoke with an intense passion and Benedetto was fiercely glad then that he’d made this decision. Perhaps this was why Veronica and Jack had chosen him – because he was good at finding the right people for a job and bending them to his requirements.
“What my godson needs is permanence.” He studied h
er face for every minute flicker of response.
“Exactly.” Relief crossed her brow.
“Unfortunately, I’m not in a position to provide that.”
“What are you talking about?”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I travel often for work. It wouldn’t be right to drag him along with me, and without a nanny here to leave him with – my hands are somewhat tied.”
She opened her mouth. “Then hire a nanny.” A pause, as she frowned, uncertainty on her pretty face. “Hire me.”
He curved his fingers more tightly around his scotch tumbler, holding back a wolfish smile at her quick acquiescence. He was halfway to where he wanted to be; not far to go now.
“But what if you leave too?”
“That’s not likely,” she promised, tilting her chin in a gesture of pure certainty.
But Benedetto had learned his lesson. His last three nannies had made similar promises. He’d already let this situation get way too out of hand; it was time to lay his cards on the table. He pushed aside how much he personally hated this idea, how he swore he’d never enter into this kind of arrangement, but this wasn’t about what he wanted: this was for Alfredo. For Jack, and Veronica.
“I do not think his interests are best served by the presence of a nanny.”
“But you just said you travel, and you can’t take him with you.”
“Yes,” he agreed, taking a drink of his scotch.
“So? That leaves only one choice.”
The drink burned all the way to his gut. It fortified his intent, strengthened his resolve. “By my count, it leaves two.”
“Oh?”
“A nanny can come and go, and I don’t have any interest in the disruption that entails. I’m looking for a more permanent fix.”
“Like what?”
“Agree to marry me and become a mother to Alfredo. I will retain full custody, obviously, and you, in exchange, will become one of the wealthiest women in Europe.”
Chapter 2
CLEOPATRA HAD NEVER HIT anyone in her whole life, but her fingertips itched now to slap his arrogant, handsome, intriguing, insulting face.
Bartered to the Sheikh & Rakanti's Indecent Proposition (Clare Connelly Pairs Book 8) Page 34