‘Going home to bed,’ she said, suddenly feeling incredibly tired and tearful and wishing Luca would go away so she could curl up in the corner and howl.
She got her wish. His pager went off, and muttering something Italian and no doubt rude, he put a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘Later. I have to go back to the hospital, but you can stay here,’ he said. ‘Go and rest now, I’ll come home as soon as I can. Use my bed.’
‘I can’t. I have to go home.’
‘No, you can’t do that awful journey in this state—or work the hours you’ve been working. It’s ridiculous when you’re sick.’
‘No, Luca,’ she said, turning to face him and meeting his eyes with defiance. ‘I’m not sick. I’m pregnant. There’s a difference, and I have no intention of being treated like an invalid—and before you even think about it, don’t you dare go and tell my colleagues to get them to take my workload off me, or I swear to God, I’ll kill you with my bare hands.’
He felt a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. ‘I’m terrified.’
‘You should be.’
Their eyes locked, and then he gave a little shrug and sighed. ‘OK, I won’t say anything, for now—but only on condition you’re sensible. And that means lying down now and waiting for me to get back, at the very least. Is that clear?’
He could see the struggle in her eyes, but finally she nodded. ‘All right, I’ll wait. But here. I don’t need to go to bed.’
He hesitated, but then his mouth firmed and with a curt nod he turned on his heel and walked back into the hall. She turned back to the window and watched him walking down the street until he disappeared into the night. It was raining now, fat drops hitting the window and streaming down it like rivers of tears, and resting her head against the cool glass, she closed her eyes again and pressed her lips together.
Pregnant. Just like her mother, pregnant, single and alone.
Self-pity washed over her, and she firmed her spine and told herself not to be melodramatic and ridiculous. Her mother had been much younger and she’d had no training, but Isabelle had a good career, in a field where working part time was perfectly possible, her maternity leave would be assured and there was a crèche available to solve her childcare needs.
OK, it wasn’t the future she’d hoped for, but it would be a good future, and at least she had the house. She’d told her mother it wasn’t necessary to put it in her name, but now she was grateful, because in the end it would be the thing that above all else gave her security.
She—they—would be all right. And that was all that mattered.
Pushing herself away from the window, she lay down on the sofa under a lovely snuggly throw and tried to sleep, but her mind was whirling. She sat up again and noticed a newspaper on the coffee table, opened at the puzzle page. He’d started the crossword, filled in a few numbers on the Sudoku, but she could finish them off. It would keep her mind occupied till he got back…
She was asleep, her eyes shadowed, the long, thick lashes dark crescents against her pale cheeks. Her mouth was closed but her jaw was relaxed, and her lips looked soft and full and kissable.
Resisting the urge, he put the bowls down and sat beside her, his hip brushing against her abdomen as the cushion sank under his weight and she rolled towards him. His child was in there, he thought, feeling the warmth of her body against his hip, cradled in the bowl of her pelvis, a tiny baby, slowly growing in the shelter of her body, and it was suddenly real to him. Please, God, let everything be all right. He couldn’t bear it if it wasn’t.
He rested his hand on her hip and stared at her, the woman who was carrying his child, and a fierce wave of protective tenderness washed over him, catching him by surprise, because this was for her, not for the child. His feelings for the child were a given. His feelings for the mother were much less ordered and would take time to sort out. But for now, he had to feed her.
‘Isabella?’ he murmured. ‘Wake up. I’ve cooked for you.’
‘No,’ she moaned, and buried her face in a little cushion.
He took it away from her. ‘Yes. Come on, you need to eat. Sit up—here, it’s just boiled rice and vegetables. Nothing too flavoured, but you must eat. You’ve had nothing all day.’
She struggled upright. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she grumbled, but she shoved the hair out of her eyes and took the bowl and ate, reluctantly at first and then more eagerly as it became obvious it wasn’t going to be instantly rejected by her body.
‘Better?’ he asked, searching her face for clues, and she smiled a little wanly and nodded.
‘Yes. Thank you. I was getting a bit shaky.’
‘You mustn’t let yourself get hungry. That’s the worst thing. Low blood sugar’s a killer. And don’t have coffee, or cola, or strong tea or even dark chocolate. Caffeine can increase the risk of miscarriage significantly—and it’s probably why it and many other potentially harmful or potentially bacteria-laden foods can trigger nausea in early pregnancy—’
He cut himself off, realising he was lecturing her, telling himself not to get over-protective, but she just gave a funny little smile.
‘Luca, I do know this. I’m well aware that we’re programmed to avoid the dangerous things when the foetus is most vulnerable.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t worry, it’s very effective. I won’t be drinking coffee ever again, I don’t think. Just the smell is enough to kill me.’
‘Was it my coffee today?’ he asked, suddenly realising that when she’d run away, he’d been drinking it, and she nodded. He let out a harsh sigh and shook his head.
‘Bella, I’m sorry. You should have said.’
‘I didn’t know until it happened.’
‘Well, it won’t happen again,’ he said with a twisted smile. ‘Come on, you need to go to bed now, you look exhausted. And I will review your rota, whatever you say. These long days are no good for you, and I don’t want you working nights.’
‘The nights are fine, Luca. I like working nights. They’re quiet and peaceful.’
‘But you need a regular routine, so you can eat properly and your body can settle into pregnancy without constant disturbance.’
‘Luca, it’s my body! I’ll decide.’
She had that mulish look about her chin again, and he let it go. For now. There was plenty of time to fight with her. Years and years and years, if he had his way.
‘Come on, let me put you to bed, and then I’ve got to go shopping for things that are good for you, and in the morning we’ll talk.’
‘I’m not staying here,’ she said, looking panicked.
‘Don’t be silly. It’s really late, and I’m on call. I can’t take you home and the Tube’s about to shut. Please, cara. Don’t try and go. I’m only trying to help you.’
She hesitated, reluctant to give up too much independence but too tired in the end to argue, so she nodded. ‘OK, if you insist—but I’m not sleeping with you. I’ll sleep here.’
‘Don’t be silly. I’ve got two spare rooms, the beds are made. Why don’t you have a bath while I’m shopping?’
A bath. That sounded so tempting. She nodded. ‘OK.’
‘Not too hot, though. It’ll make you sick.’
She shut her eyes. ‘Luca,’ she said warningly, and he got up off the sofa so that the warmth of his body was removed from her thigh. And, stupidly, she missed it.
‘I’ll run the bath for you,’ he said, ignoring her warning, and disappeared upstairs. A few minutes later he came back down. ‘It’s ready for you now,’ he said, and then he held out a hand and eased her to her feet.
‘I’ve put you out a T-shirt in the bedroom at the top of the stairs, and the bathroom’s just opposite. I won’t be long,’ he promised, and headed for the door, tossing his keys in the air and leaving her alone with her thoughts.
Or not quite alone.
Her hand slid down until it lay over the baby, curled protectively around her tiny, defenceless child, conceived in an unpremeditated and ill-considered moment of w
ild passion and now destined for the sort of childhood she herself had had.
Oh, well, it hadn’t done her any harm, and she’d always known she was loved, but she felt a flicker of fear for the future of her child. What if something should happen to her? What would happen to her baby then?
Exhausted with emotion, longing for the oblivion of sleep and promising herself that she’d phone her mother in the morning and talk to her, she went upstairs, undressed in the bedroom he’d got ready for her and went into the bathroom.
And stopped dead.
He’d run her a bath, she’d known that, but he’d also lit candles on the side, and put a few drops of lavender oil in it from the bottle on the window sill. She bent and tested the water with her fingers, and sighed. Tepid. Well, not quite, but certainly not a long, hot soak. But it would do—and he was quite right, a hot bath would only make her feel sick. And it smelled lovely.
She eased herself into it, lay back and sighed with relief.
Five minutes, she promised herself. Even Luca couldn’t shop that quickly…
The house was in silence.
He went into the kitchen, put away all the shopping and then crept upstairs to check on her. Her bedroom was empty, her clothes dropped where she’d taken them off, and so he walked across the landing to the bathroom and eased open the door.
She was asleep, lying with her knees rested to one side and her hands curled over her abdomen, and just the sight of her brought a lump to his throat.
Not the surge of lust he’d expected, but another wave of tenderness. He wanted to wake her, to lift her from the water and dry her and put her to bed, but he knew she’d only get mad at him, so he pulled the door to and tapped on it gently.
‘Isabelle? Are you in there?’
There was a little gasp and a splash, and he could picture her sitting up and clutching her arms across her breasts. ‘Um—yes. I’m not decent—hang on.’
‘It’s OK. I’m going back downstairs. I was just letting you know I’m back.’
‘Oh. Thanks, Luca. Goodnight.’
Goodnight?
Stifling a strange disappointment, he went downstairs, made himself a drink and sat in front of the television, trying to focus on the news and failing. He picked up the paper that was lying on the table and finished the Sudoku he’d started. Except there were some numbers that weren’t in his writing, and he realised she’d been doing it. Which was why it was wrong, he thought, and corrected it with a smile. Then he finished the crossword, filling in the last two words just as she appeared in the doorway.
‘Hi,’ she said, tugging at the hem of the T-shirt and triggering the surge of lust he’d expected earlier. He wanted to tug at the hem of it, too, but he’d tug it the other way.
He dragged his eyes up to her face. ‘Kettle’s hot. I bought some herbal teabags—I thought you might like them. There’s a selection on the side. Choose one and I’ll make it for you and bring it up.’
‘I’ll do it. I was going to take the paper up—I wanted to finish the crossword.’
‘Ah.’
Her eyes flew up to his and she snatched it out of his hand. ‘Have you done it? You have, haven’t you? You rat—and the sudoku!’
‘It is my paper—and I’d started it,’ he pointed out fairly, but she wasn’t pacified.
‘That’s not the point—I’d spent ages working out the last clue!’ she retorted, then threw the paper down again with an exasperated sigh and spun on her heel, giving him a flash of thigh and the peep of a warm, pink buttock scantily covered by lavender lace as the hem flicked up and then dropped back into place, and he felt a surge of desire that nearly took his legs out from under him.
‘I think I’ll go to bed,’ she said from the doorway, her chin up in the way he was beginning to find rather endearing.
‘You could sit here and talk for a minute,’ he suggested, but as he’d expected she shook her head.
‘No way,’ she said briskly. ‘I’m going to get my tea and then I’m going to bed. And don’t go getting any ideas. I might be having your baby, but that doesn’t mean we’re together. Nothing’s changed.’
He gave a soft snort. Funny, that. He hadn’t doubted it for a moment. Unfortunately…
She woke to the sound of movement in the kitchen, and a wave of nausea that took her by surprise. She got cautiously out of bed, but just the act of standing had her running to the bathroom, and when she lifted her head it was to see Luca’s legs in view, his hand extended with a handful of tissue for her to blow her nose and wipe her eyes.
Her teeth were chattering with reaction, and he sighed and bent to help her up.
‘I’m sorry, cara,’ he murmured, guiding her back to bed. ‘I meant to come to you in time.’
‘In time?’
‘Si—with breakfast.’
‘Oh, God, don’t,’ she said, feeling her throat close at the very suggestion, but he just tucked her into bed like a child and handed her a glass of fizzy water.
‘Sip it slowly.’
She tasted it, tried a little, then put it down. ‘OK. What’s that?’ she asked, eying the plate on the bedside table suspiciously.
‘Apple. Chilled apple slices. And watermelon. Just nibble them. They’ll give you some sugar and settle you, and the clean flavour is good, according to my sister.’
She sat up abruptly—not wise. ‘You’ve told your sister?’
He gave her a crooked smile and shook his head. ‘No. But because I’m an obstetrician, I discussed it with her when she was pregnant. I have a mental note of things that help and things that definitely don’t.’ His smile twisted. ‘All caffeine products are banned from my life now,’ he said wryly, ‘so forgive me if my temper gets a bit ragged. It’s not personal.’
She wasn’t looking forward to his ragged temper, but it knocked spots off the smell of coffee. She took a proffered apple slice and nibbled it cautiously, and after a moment the rebellious churning in her stomach subsided a little and she tried another bit, then more, the watermelon this time.
‘OK?’
She nodded. ‘Yes—thanks.’
‘I’ll fetch you some dry toast and herbal tea, and then we’ll talk.’
He left her with the plate of apple and watermelon slices and went away, and she lay there and wondered what he wanted to say. A long, almost sleepless night hadn’t helped refine her thoughts, except to reinforce her initial fiercely protective reaction. Would he share it? Or would he try to talk her into—no! Her mind recoiled from the thought, but she realised he hadn’t mentioned the baby again, and she had no idea how he’d feel about her keeping it. How would he see his future involvement in her child’s life—or wouldn’t he?
She had no idea, but there was only one way to find out, and the sooner the better. She threw back the bedclothes and went to wash.
Luca shut the kitchen door, opened the back door and made some toast, then once the smell had gone, he made a cup of ginger and lemon tea, because ginger root was supposed to suppress nausea, and put a scrape of sugarless fruit compote on the toast and took it upstairs, tapping on the bedroom door as he pushed it open.
He should have waited. Clearly he should have waited, because she was naked, in the act of threading her second foot into the pair of ridiculously lacy French knickers he’d glimpsed last night that had sent his blood pressure through the roof, and as she shrieked and straightened up to cover herself, he was treated to the gentle sway and bounce of her breasts, the nipples a glorious dark rose, darker than they had been before and bigger, pebbling in the cold and making his lips ache to suckle them.
She glared at him. ‘You’re supposed to wait when you knock,’ she told him crossly, and he swallowed and tried not to choke on his tongue.
‘You were supposed to stay in the bed until I brought you breakfast,’ he reminded her, his self-control falling apart under the strain of standing there with her all but naked just feet away from him.
‘Well, you can go now,’ she snapped, whirli
ng round and reaching for the bra she’d placed on the bed.
Lace, to match the knickers, in the same pale lavender as her eyes, and he thought, Dio, I’ll never be able to look at her eyes again without thinking of the underwear. Swallowing hard, he turned on his heel and headed back downstairs to wait for her, her breakfast tray still clutched in his hands, forgotten.
And he’d imagined all those weeks that he was over her? Not in his wildest dreams.
She came down a few moments later, looking fragile and wary but with her head held high, and he’d never wanted a woman more in all his life.
She perched on a stool at the breakfast bar and he pushed the tray towards her. ‘Eat. And drink the tea. It’s lemon and ginger. It’ll soothe your stomach.’
She sipped it, pulled a face and nibbled the toast. ‘Did you sleep?’ he asked, and she nodded.
‘Yes—a bit. Not much. I was thinking.’
‘Me, too. I was thinking that I want you out of that awful rented house with the hideously uncomfortable furniture, and into my house where at least I’ll be able to look after you. It’s only sensible—it’s right next to the hospital, and you can’t do that journey while you’re pregnant, it’s much too long and dangerous.’
She was staring at him, her eyes flashing fire, and she set the cup down with a wobbling hand and met his eyes. ‘That awful rented house,’ she said in a measured tone that made him realise he’d overstepped the mark, ‘happens to belong to me. And I will not move out of it. I know the journey’s difficult, but I can get a cab—at least for the end of the day.’
It was her house? He could have kicked himself. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise the house was yours. I just assumed—’
‘Well, don’t,’ she said crisply. ‘I don’t need your assumptions, or your instructions on how to live my life. In fact, I need nothing from you at all, except one thing,’ she went on, her chin lifting. ‘In case you’re worried about it, I’ve decided to keep the baby,’ she told him, throwing up a subject that hadn’t even crossed his mind, ‘and I don’t want anything from you, so don’t even think about getting all macho and insisting we get married, because the answer’s no. I just want your name on the birth certificate.’
The Valtieri Marriage Deal Page 9