by Jennie Lucas
“I lived in Rome till I was eight,” he said. “Then my mother married an American and moved us to Chicago.”
“Does your family still live there?”
He blinked at the word family. Was that what they’d been? “My mother died when I was seventeen. My stepfather last year.”
“I’m sorry.” Honora put her hand over his on the wooden table. Her hand was soft, comforting, warm. “Were you close?”
Close. His throat closed. He still couldn’t bear to remember his mother’s death, the silent cancer that had showed no symptoms until it was too late. There had been an experimental treatment that might have saved her, if they’d had three hundred thousand dollars to pay for it. Desperate, Nico had buried his pride and phoned Prince Arnaldo. It was the first and only time he’d ever spoken directly to his father. “Please,” he’d choked out in Italian, “help her. And I’ll never ask you for anything again.”
“Why would I give you so much money?” the man had replied coldly. “I’m not some fool to throw away my fortune on quack treatments with no chance of success.”
“But you owe her. You owe us.”
“Maria is nothing to me, and neither are you.” And he’d hung up.
Arnaldo had been right about one thing—the experimental treatment had turned out to be a mirage. But it might have saved her, Nico told himself stubbornly. His mother might have been the exception. After her death, Nico had taken his hurt and rage and thrown himself into working around the clock. Starting at eighteen, he’d bought his first Chicago property with credit, using his beat-up Mustang as collateral. He’d gotten lucky when a car wash chain had offered to buy the land from him at nearly double the price. He’d taken that profit and moved to New York, determined to make himself so rich and powerful that he could never be hurt again.
But after he’d become rich, he’d found he still felt an overwhelming restlessness inside.
That was when he’d decided to make Prince Arnaldo Caracciola pay—for everything.
“No,” Nico said in a low voice. “We weren’t close. But she was still my mother.”
Honora didn’t move her hand from his. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “Like I said. I know how it feels.”
She couldn’t possibly know how he felt. But as she pulled her hand away, he thought how pretty she was, how enticing, with her pink lips and warm green eyes, as alive as a sunlit forest.
Nico changed the conversation to lighter things, to a project he was building in London that he knew would interest her, because it was surrounded by five acres of green space. It seemed like mere minutes before their dinners were served, chicken potpie for her, and his usual steak in peppercorn sauce. As they ate, he enjoyed listening to her talk, her brightness, her cheerful optimism, her kindness—all so different from the entitled world-weariness and humblebragging he was accustomed to hearing from mistresses. Honora Callahan was honest and enthusiastic and lovely. She was a breath of fresh air. Any man would be lucky to have her in his life, he thought suddenly.
“This potpie was amazing.” Setting her fork down on her empty plate, she sighed in pleasure. Her full breasts and baby bump pressed against the small table as she leaned forward. “By the way, thanks for being with me at Granddad’s today. I’m not sure I would have survived otherwise...”
He forced himself to lift his gaze from her curves. “I’m glad I could help.”
Honora shook her head wryly. “He actually said he loved her. Aloud. I can hardly believe it.” She gave a wistful smile. “He’s never said that to me, not once.”
Her tone was cheerful, but he could feel an ocean of sadness beneath it. He recognized that ocean. Everything he’d done as a man had been in order to leave that sad, lonely boy behind and become powerful, and impervious to hurt. He shrugged.
“My mother used to say it to me all the time.” He took a drink of the sparkling water. “She never meant it.”
“I’m sure she loved you.” But her voice was uncertain.
He gave a small smile. “It’s hard to love the person who blows up your life and forces you to give up your dreams and live in poverty.”
“Your father didn’t help?”
He shook his head. “He was a married aristocrat. She was a maid in his palace. The last thing he was going to do was recognize me as his own.”
The words hung in the air like a toxic cloud. He’d never said them to anyone before.
“Oh, Nico, how could he?” she said softly. “He didn’t even pay child support?”
He realized his hand was clenching the edge of the oak table so tightly that it hurt. Strange. One might think he was still angry about it. But he felt nothing. “My mother tried, but she was young, without family, and no one to give her advice. And he was powerful, untouchable, behind guarded palace walls.” He took a deep breath. “She worked three jobs to support us. Then she met my stepfather, who worked in the American base. He told her loved her and swore he’d take care of her.”
“What happened?”
“She married him and we moved to the States. She thought her life would be easier, but it wasn’t. She never felt at home in Chicago. Then Joe started complaining that she wasn’t the same girl he’d fallen in love with.” He gave a hard smile. “He complained about me, too.”
“Why? What did you do?”
“I loved reminding him he wasn’t my father, and had no right to tell me what to do. Even at age eight, I hated him. I felt like an outsider in my own home. Then he told my mother he’d fallen in love with someone else, and I hated him even more for making her cry. They didn’t have any assets. After the divorce, we were even poorer than before.”
Twilight was falling outside the lead glass windows, leaving a trail of violet across her bare shoulders. “I’m sorry...”
“He told her he loved her all the time, at the beginning. My father apparently said it to her, too, during their affair. They both told her they felt true love that would last forever.”
Honora looked at him in the flickering candlelit restaurant. “No wonder you think so little of love.”
Nico shrugged. “It’s a momentary emotion at best. At worst, it’s manipulation. A way to trick people into surrendering their lives.”
“My grandfather used to say feelings didn’t matter,” she said in a small voice. “What was important was family, duty, being true to one’s word.”
“He’s right.” But she looked sad, so he changed the subject. “I’m getting some coffee. Would you like dessert? Chocolate cake with raspberries? Strawberry tart?”
She took a deep breath, then tried to smile. “The tart, please.”
Turning away, he gave a small gesture to a waiter.
When they finally left the restaurant, Nico realized they were the last guests there, and had been talking for hours. To make amends to the waiters for keeping the table, he quietly left a five-thousand-dollar tip.
“Thank you for a lovely evening.” Honora took his arm as they walked out into the moonlight. “And the food! I’m afraid it’s spoiled me for all other chicken potpie. And strawberry tarts.”
His glance lingered on her as the valet collected the Lamborghini. The summer night was warm as city lights sparkled in the skyscrapers looming above the slender lane.
“But now it’s over.” Honora looked wistful again. “Is there an affordable hotel nearby?”
“There’s no reason to stay in a hotel.”
“I told you I couldn’t possibly go back home tonight, with Granddad and Phyllis there.”
“Stay with me.”
“With you?” She swallowed, then shook her head. “Thank you, but I couldn’t possibly.”
“No strings. You can stay in the guest room. I promise I won’t touch you, Honora, for as long as you’re staying with me. Not unless you ask.” His gaze fell to her lips as he added huskily, “No matter
how much I want to.”
* * *
Staying with Nico would be a big mistake. Honora knew it before the valet even pulled the Lamborghini up in front of the restaurant.
“Guest room?” she repeated, then shook her head. “I couldn’t impose.”
“You keep using words like burden and imposition—words that make no sense to me. How much clearer can I be that I want you?”
She bit her lip. “But—”
His eyes gleamed. “It’s just a night in my guest room, Honora. Not marriage vows.”
She hesitated. What was she afraid of? That she’d fall into bed with him? No. Of course she wouldn’t. She told herself she’d learned that lesson. And as he said, it was just crashing at his place for a night, not marriage vows. She exhaled. “All right. Thank you.”
Nico gave her a small smile as he opened her car door, helping her inside.
They drove north to midtown. Pulling into his residential building’s parking garage, he punched in his code, which lifted the gate into his exclusive parking area. He parked near his Mercedes G-Wagen, Tesla and the Bentley.
Lifting her overnight bag onto his shoulder, he helped her out of the low-slung car. He didn’t drop her hand as they took the elevator to Nico’s penthouse on the skyscraper’s top two floors.
Nico’s hand felt so good in her own. She shivered. He was so powerful, so broad-shouldered, towering over her. She wondered what the penthouse staff, who’d all watched Honora grow up, would think if they saw their billionaire boss holding her hand like this.
But by now they already knew about her pregnancy. Her grandfather hadn’t exactly been discreet, and Benny knew too, as well as the staff at the Hamptons house. There’d likely be general gossip about Nico’s pregnant date at Au Poivre, too. Soon, everyone would know she was Nico Ferraro’s unwed baby mama.
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He’d wanted to marry her, and she’d refused him. No one would ever believe that.
The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse with its wide, sparsely decorated spaces and hard, modern furniture that seemed designed to impress, rather than be comfortable. But she’d always loved the big windows with the views of Manhattan, and the rooftop garden on the terrace was filled with flowers for nine months of the year.
Nico followed her gaze to the hard-edged furniture. “It doesn’t look very baby-friendly, does it?”
“No,” she agreed.
“You can help me figure out how to change it. And turn the guest room into a warm, cozy nursery.” He grimaced. “Obviously my usual interior designer doesn’t do warm and cozy.”
“You want a nursery?”
“Sure. If we’re sharing custody, sometimes the baby will be here. She’ll need a place to stay.”
Honora stared at him in dismay. Her mind hadn’t gotten that far—imagining what would happen as they raised the baby separately. But of course Nico was right. Sometimes he and their daughter would have joys and make memories that Honora wouldn’t share, because she wouldn’t be with them.
And someday, when Nico got married, he’d have a family. And if Honora was very lucky, she would someday do the same. But their daughter would always go back and forth between them, never really at home anywhere.
“I wish this all could be different,” she whispered.
Nico looked at her. “Why did you sleep with me at Christmas, Honora?” he said suddenly. “You weren’t drunk.”
She looked down at her sandals. “I told you.” She spoke quietly. “I thought I was in love with you.”
“And now?”
“Now...” She looked away. “I hate the thought of you raising our baby here without me. Each of us someday marrying someone else, starting a new family.”
His voice was low. “You said that was what you wanted.”
“None of this is what I wanted,” she choked out, then turned away. Grabbing her overnight bag, she fled for the guest room before he could see the tears in her eyes. “I’m going to bed...”
Climbing into the big, empty bed of the penthouse guest room, Honora looked out the windows. Stretching up into the inky black sky, skyscrapers glittered like stars.
Why had she slept with Nico?
Why had she taken the subway to his penthouse on Christmas Day, telling her grandfather she urgently had to pick up a book she’d left there—for a homework assignment that wasn’t even due till January? And why, when she’d found Nico brooding and alone, had she decided to stay?
Closing her eyes, she remembered that darkening afternoon, when she’d found him sitting alone on the hard furniture, staring at the flickering fire, beneath the wan lights of the Christmas tree. She’d hoped for a glimpse of him, that was all. Nico Ferraro was always surrounded by beautiful women, or friends as ruthless and powerful as himself.
She’d been shocked to find him alone. He’d looked at her, and the expression on his handsome face had starkly mirrored her own loneliness.
Her whole life, she’d felt like she had to earn her right to exist. By being cheerful. By being helpful. No one liked a girl who was selfish. Selfish girls caused parents to die in car crashes. If her grandfather hadn’t taken her in, Honora would have gone to foster care. In the back of her mind, she’d always feared that if she were ever too much trouble, then perhaps he might send her away.
So seeing her same loneliness reflected in Nico’s dark eyes, Honora had felt so drawn to him that she forgot to be afraid. She’d sat beside him on the sofa.
“I know how you feel,” she’d whispered, as the firelight flickered in the room.
“How can you?” His expression had been blank as he took another sip of the drink in his hand. She saw a half-empty bottle of Scotch on the end table. But his words weren’t slurred. He seemed in perfect command of his senses, only sad.
With a deep breath, she’d said quietly, “For most of my life, I’ve felt alone, too.”
Nico had turned to her. His dark eyes seemed to devour her whole, as if he were truly seeing her for the first time. And then, leaning forward, he’d suddenly taken her in his arms and kissed her.
Their passion had been a revelation. The happiest night of her life—cut short because she’d had to slip away at midnight, while Nico was still sleeping, to take the subway back home, so her old-fashioned grandfather wouldn’t worry, or know what she’d been up to.
But the next morning, Honora had been tired but shyly happy as she accompanied Patrick to work at the penthouse. She’d wondered how Nico would greet her, if he’d take her in his arms and immediately make his claim. She dreamed about him telling her grandfather straight out that they were in love, about him asking for her grandfather’s permission to court her. It had been a delicious fantasy.
But Nico hadn’t been there. The housekeeper, Janet, had crisply informed them that their boss had already left for Rome, with no immediate plans to return.
Honora had felt like a fool. How could she have ever dared hope that she’d meant anything to him at all?
But yesterday, Nico had asked her to marry him. He wanted her. And she’d refused him. Her brain, her heart couldn’t quite believe it.
She slept hard, in a dreamless sleep, and even when she woke, she felt like she was in a strange dream all day. She showered and put on sandals and a knit purple sundress with spaghetti straps. She went to the courthouse with Nico, who was wearing a white shirt and dark trousers. He drove the Bentley himself, since Benny Rossini had been suddenly and inexplicably transferred to another job.
She watched her grandfather, grinning and obviously beside himself with joy in his coat and tie, speaking marriage vows in front of a judge, before he kissed his new bride, who was wearing a simple white dress. Nico insisted on taking them all out for a late lunch, and then drove them to the docks to board their cruise ship.
Her grandfather seemed to shi
ne with some brilliant inner light. Was that what love was? Should Honora hold out for the thing that everyone said made life worthwhile?
Or was it all just an illusion, as Nico had said? She thought of his mother and love that promised to last forever but swiftly died. Even her own parents, hadn’t they both believed, at least when they were dating, that they were in love?
“Do you want me to take you home?” Nico asked quietly as he drove her away from the docks.
She thought of the small Queens apartment. Somehow it no longer felt like home. Even with it empty, she would feel like an interloper in a space that now belonged to the married couple.
“No,” she said in a low voice. She looked at him. “Can I stay with you tonight?”
Nico’s dark eyes widened but he didn’t ask questions, only stepped on the gas.
When they arrived back at the penthouse, it was just past sunset. Honora went straight out to the terrace garden.
Outside, the rising moon traced lines of silver over the ivy climbing the walls of the garden, and lights dangled from every trellis, making it look like a fairyland.
She took a deep breath of the cooling air, breathing in the scent of honeysuckle, rose, gardenia. After so many hours spent here, this garden had always felt like home, even more than the tiny Queens walk-up apartment. It was her home. Her heart.
Which suddenly felt like it was breaking.
“Honora.” Nico’s voice was husky behind her. “What is it?”
She turned to face him, fighting back tears. “I don’t want you to have your own nursery.”
Nico came closer, towering over her, making her feel petite and feminine by comparison. He started to reach for her, then stopped himself, dropping his hands. “This pregnancy wasn’t planned, by either of us,” he said quietly. “But maybe it’s fate. The start of something wonderful, for both of us. You know I want to be our baby’s father, Honora. I want to be your husband.” Looking down at her without touching, he whispered, “Whatever your dreams are, let me try to make them come true.”