by Robyn Grady
He shoveled a hand through his hair. Hard to admit, but he said, “Yes.”
“And what about the way he looked after Marc?”
The name—the defection it implied—grated more than usual. His voice lowered to a growl. “His name was Marco.”
Her expression was pained. “You don’t have a right to decide that for him.”
Waving a dismissive hand, he spun away, giving her his back. “Don’t bother getting defensive with me about him. I offered him a stake in the company, which he refused.”
“A wild guess, but maybe because his father disowned him and Marc didn’t want any part of it.”
“Dante believed Marco was another man’s child.”
He heard her gasp. “That’s rubbish and you know it!”
“Perhaps. But it was what Dante believed.” The man had his pride, a company to build, a certain level to maintain. Turning back, Armand slapped his thighs. “What, in God’s name, was he supposed to do?”
But Armand knew, even if he kept it locked away: love and nurture the poor kid anyway.
She huffed, an incredulous sound. “If that’s your interpretation, you must think you’re being pretty darn generous giving this child anything at all.” Her slim nostrils flared. “Then again he has served a purpose.”
His insides began to churn. Sweat erupted down his spine. “I admit it started out that way. But I did want him to have two parents. I still want him to have every advantage.”
“Because of guilt?” she jeered. “Because you had everything and Marc had nothing?”
Armand cursed aloud. “He had our mother.”
Blood beginning to boil, he averted his gaze. No. He would not go there.
He gathered his wits and any remaining patience. “I want to look after this child. This baby is my blood.”
Mistrust and confusion swam in her eyes. “You said you wanted to be his father.”
“I do.”
“And what kind of father is that? I have a father, too. Rich, apparently, and quite well-known. He might as well be the man on the moon.”
He shook his head. “I can’t do anything about that.”
“Believe me…I don’t want or need you to.”
He understood that sentiment well enough. When a parent walked away without good reason, at some point, it’s too late to redeem what was lost.
Tamara seemed to read his thoughts. “Angela wanted to take you, you know that, don’t you? But Dante wouldn’t let her.”
He held up a hand to cut her off. “She made a choice.”
“He made it for her.”
“The right choice. She should have listened.”
“You’re suggesting she should have allowed him to blackmail her into giving up her career in exchange for her family?”
His tolerance evaporated. Time to bring that other issue to a head. “What choice would you have made?”
“I shouldn’t have to choose. Angela shouldn’t have, either.”
“Sometimes there is only one right choice, no matter the sacrifice.”
“As long as people like you and your father aren’t the ones missing out.”
“For God’s sake, I just want a family. A happy, structured, traditional family.”
“That’s what you want?”
His chin kicked up. “More than anything.”
She slowly shook her head. “I’ll tell you something, Armand. You want control more than anything. After this conversation, I don’t know if you’re even capable of love.”
He knew the perfect line. The phrase that could help close this ridiculous widening rift. It would serve his purpose, salve her hurt, yet those three little words stuck in his neck like a bone.
Her expression changed, became almost pitying. “My God, you can’t even say it now when it could mean everything. You planned it so carefully. Orchestrated it all so well.” A wry smile ticked at the edge of her mouth. “Best laid plans, hey, Armand?”
Her pace picked up as she headed for the door. Adrenaline flooded his system and he lurched forward. “Where are you going?”
“To my former room,” she said, still walking, “to do some planning of my own.”
She was threatening him?
Voice pitched low, he locked his arms over his chest. “Don’t forget, Tamara…we’re married and nothing will ever change that.” As long as he had breath left in his lungs.
Stopping by the train set, she looked at him hard over one shoulder. “You were hurt growing up and my heart goes out to that child. I get you want to create that happy family you missed out on, but the closer you come to something you don’t understand the more you push it away. You’re more like your father than you’ll ever realize, and I won’t hang around to be your trophy wife or incubator. I certainly can’t allow my child to be used and hurt to help fulfill your egocentric dynastic dreams.”
Eyes bright with unshed tears, she screwed the ruby and wedding rings off her finger and dropped them into the train’s coal car. “What goes around, comes around.” She flicked a switch.
As the train tooted and chugged out on its loop, Armand prepared to follow her. He wouldn’t let her walk away. He must make her see!
But his feet seemed stuck in quicksand while that train zipped around and around and Tamara’s parting words echoed through his mind.
Armand slowly crouched and, resting his chin on forearms crossed on the table, stared blankly at the track.
What the hell was he going to do?
Twelve
Armand stood like a zombie at his office window, staring at busy Sydney ferries churning white trails across the harbor’s brilliant blue bite far below. They reminded him of Tamara’s veil and how she’d looked that day. Then came an image of how she’d looked several days ago when she’d threatened to leave, and that sick, desperate feeling welled up inside him again.
This morning, with Ruth making herself scarce hiding behind the pantry door, he’d questioned Tamara while she’d calmly munched her jam toast. She’d lifted her gaze from the notes she studied for this afternoon’s exam, and had confirmed she would indeed be gone tonight. She had the means, which included a stubborn streak, enough money and a mother who wanted to make up for past mistakes. He’d thought Elaine would be on his side. Guess he could think again.
His fist slammed against the windowpane and the thwack echoed like a guillotine drop through the room. He’d tried placating her and seducing her, and he’d come close several times to yelling at her, but he knew from experience how well that worked. Still, something would keep her there and, dammit, he had to work out what that something was. He needed Tamara, and that need had nothing to do with inheritance. Desire, passion? Yes, but more than that, too.
His gaze fell away from the flocks of seagulls wheeling conflicting circles over the water. He trod to his desk, his legs feeling jet-lagged and brain fuzzy from no sleep.
At first he gazed, uncaring, at the midsized mustard-colored envelope his secretary had brought in a half hour ago to set upon his desk. But now the address seemed to jump out at him—home details, rather than DLE’s. His head cocked. The label was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. De Luca. Obviously sent here by mistake.
He snatched up the envelope and flipped it over. Every muscle tensed. “Sender, Dr. Marion Fielding.”
He swiped any hint of guilt away. Whatever the envelope contained, it was addressed to them both. He had every right to open it.
He ripped the envelope wide open and, impatient, shook the contents out. After scooping up the yellow DVD case, he read the slip attached. “De Luca ultrasound” and today’s date.
The disc contained images of the baby he and Tamara had talked about and imagined so often.
A wave of prickling heat infused the base of his skull. He scrubbed the back of his hand over his beading brow and steadied himself against the desk.
He needed to view this, and he needed to do it now.
Clicking open the case, he extracted the silver disc and s
trode across the room to the media corner. The DVD compartment was entirely too slow whirring out from its console. After pressing the appropriate button, he twirled his wedding band, waiting an eternity for the picture to appear on the widescreen plasma TV.
He’d known Tamara had an appointment this morning. He’d half expected her to say he could shove his expensive medical support. But full credit to her, she hadn’t. Despite her anger and disappointment, she still wanted the best for her child. Dammit, he wanted that, too. He wanted that child to have everything, but events had spiraled out of control. He couldn’t deliver and the realization was killing him.
The main page flickered up. Armand flexed his hand then pressed Play All.
He zeroed in on the grainy image—a baby…a real baby with toes and eyes and a heart beating like a little frog’s. Its legs moved like a spaceman’s. He seemed to wave in slow motion. Gaze riveted, Armand sat on the coffee table behind him.
Via the audio, he heard the doctor speaking with Tamara. He expected his wife to sound sad or lost. But her voice was clear, calm and…excited. Maybe a trifle choked up. But he heard little gasps, and when the baby turned as if to face them, a snatch of joyful laughter. When he brought his tiny fist to his mouth, Armand laughed along with them. A little leg kicked out and his mind’s eye drew a football sailing through the air. As it arced down, Armand saw himself catching it.
Stinging emotion pressed in behind his nose and eyes. He cleared his throat, but his jaw dropped a little when a paint-box pen wrote letters across the bottom of the screen. In pink: hello, mummy. In blue: hello, daddy. A circle drew around the blue.
A boy?
Joints turned to jelly, Armand caught himself when he fell to one side. As the baby kept kicking and Tamara kept laughing and talking, he pushed up and came slowly nearer. At last truly understanding, he gazed at the amazing image—alive and calling to him—then reached out to touch the flickering screen.
Standing in the late-afternoon light bleeding in through her bedroom’s arch window, Tamara forced herself to gaze down at the selection of beautiful clothes strewn across her bed. Setting her jaw, she sniffed, then knocked aside an escaped tear with her fist.
Nothing prevented her from what she must do. She’d completed her exam and knew she’d done well enough to go on to complete her degree this coming semester; she might not be the smartest cookie in the jar, but she was one of the most determined.
Darling Ruth had given her a suitcase for packing and the cab had been ordered. Her mother awaited her flight’s arrival in Melbourne. All that remained was to…
All she needed to do was…
Go.
On her way to dig out her jeans from a drawer, she had to stop and bite her quivering lip. Her husband, her hopes for the future, the shining light that held all the promise that dawning love could bring…all over.
She dragged herself back to the suitcase. Lying at her feet, Master gave a troubled jowl-jostling growl then nudged her ankle with his wet nose. She stooped to ruffle his soft warm ears, then, annoyed at her trembling, but helpless to stop, laid a few items in the open suitcase. Underwear, two day outfits, one pair of mules, classic black trousers, a weensy baby-blue playsuit…
She expelled a sharp breath as an avalanche of insufferable anguish rained upon her. Her quaking knees buckled and she withered onto the lavender quilt, feeling to her very core the sobs about to break.
Her head dropped into her hands. All that trust, wasted. All that love and nowhere to put it.
A familiar flutter in her belly called her attention. She found a soft smile and cupped the mound barely evident beneath her white linen skirt suit. Despite her pain, she had to give thanks for this miracle. How could she forget, even for one second? She had the perfect place to funnel her affection. Here, beneath her palm, lay the reason she must leave this huge empty house. A unique and deserving little person needed to preserve his identity and sense of self-worth. Those lessons couldn’t be learned well with Armand De Luca presiding over all, calling her child “son” when what he meant was “pawn.”
Gritting her teeth, she pushed to her feet. Be damned if she’d let that happen.
Tossing her cosmetic case in on top of a nightdress, she thought again of her upcoming exit from the De Luca mansion. Armand had come home early. Tamara hoped, despite her warning, he wouldn’t try to make her stay. This morning, she’d made it clear that if he interfered, she would contact Matthew and suggest a paternity test, which would throw a huge spanner in Armand’s works. She’d made a decision. In exchange for her uncomplicated departure, she would let Armand claim the baby was his legitimate heir, but only for as long as was needed to secure control of DLE.
But no mistake—the twelve-month separation period, which needed to expire before divorce papers were lodged, would begin this very day. When he was old enough, she would explain everything to her child. She prayed he’d understand.
She swung the suitcase off the bed, glancing around one last time as the weight took her arm. She’d already said a teary goodbye to Ruth earlier. Now all that was left was to walk out the door.
She’d crossed to her happy plant to say goodbye when through the window she saw a late-model silver Mercedes swerve up the wide tree-lined drive. Dropping the leaf she held, she moved to gain a better view. The car stopped abruptly and directly below. Matthew Mohill got out, barely allowing time to shut the driver’s door before he loped toward the entrance. She couldn’t quite make out if he was upset or excited.
Still wondering, she inspected the diamond wristwatch Armand had given as a first-week anniversary gift, then released the catch to set it on top of the figurines’ glass cabinet. Her taxi was due soon. In ten minutes she’d be gone.
As she made her way down the sweeping staircase, elevated tones of conversation caught her ear. Matthew’s cultured voice drifted up first.
“An interesting game of cat and mouse, Armand, but all good things must come to an end.”
Armand’s voice rumbled up. “There’s only one reason I allowed you into my house and that’s to have the pleasure of telling you to go straight to hell.”
Still descending, Tamara’s steps slowed. She couldn’t help but eavesdrop.
“You’ve played some clever moves,” Matthew announced. “I’m not the least surprised. Your father chose the right one.”
“Be careful, Matthew. You have no right to use that superior tone when you’ve cast aside loyalties in order to steal from me.”
Matthew spoke as if reciting from a script. “By securing indefinite control of the balance of interest, awarded to my care by the legal and sacred wish of the great Dante De Luca.”
Armand’s tone was edged with jagged ice. “I’ll see someone dead first.”
Eyes wide and heart galloping, Tamara drew closer to the main room’s entrance, close enough to see Matthew, in a dark pin-striped suit, standing by a large potted palm.
“I remember saying something very similar decades ago,” Matthew said, “but to myself. I was fresh out of law school when I helped Dante structure contracts and develop relationships, both private and political, which would help grease palms and win contracts for years to come. Lucrative contracts that held the promise, and eventually did deliver millions.”
Long strong legs braced in dark trousers, Armand deliberately crossed his arms and cocked one brow. “You’re boring me.”
Matthew helped himself to the contents of a crystal scotch decanter, which sat on a drinks trolley near one of two embroidered fabric couches. “We were a partnership, Dante and I. Nobody cares to recall that now. I had the legal expertise, your father had the initial funds.” He chuckled as he poured. “We were going to own the world.”
Armand’s hands went into his pockets. “Your point?”
Matthew set down the decanter and waved his tumbler. “All in good time, my boy.” He tasted from the inch of liquor, then tilted his head as if giving it a pass. He eased down in the couch. “After the contract
s were in order, Dante decided he didn’t need me. He approached the men at the top and cut me out. Oh, he was generous enough to make a place for me within his company. Even gifted me a generous amount of shares when he went public.”
Armand’s eyes narrowed to slits. “If that’s true, why did you stay at DLE?”
Matthew shrugged. “Revenge. One day, I planned to get my own back. Over the years, as I acquired more wealth and prestige within my profession, I lost my thirst for blood. And I genuinely cared for you, my boy. You’re everything Dante was, but more.”
Matthew wedged back in the cushions and crossed his legs. “Dante had a sturdy heart for business but, sadly, a rather unbalanced one for family. It was wrong to cut Marco off like that, but I never understood quite so well as I do now that I, myself, am to be a father.”
Tamara pressed in against the wall, holding her breath as Matthew’s pale eyes grew strangely dark. “Dante and I were partners, but it’s much too late to discuss a fifty-fifty split. My child deserves, and will eventually control, the majority share of that company, whether you like it not.”
While Matthew calmly sipped his scotch, Armand’s black expression shifted. “If all this is true, why did my father put the trust in your name?”
“I played possum for so many decades, I’m sure he thought I no longer carried a dagger. And I’m certain he believed you would act promptly to ensure an heir. You always did as you were told.”
Matthew suddenly stilled, frowned and turned his head. Tamara ducked, but he’d already seen her. He waved her in. “Come out, dear girl. Heaven knows, you play a starring role in this charade.”
Armand’s hands came of his pockets as he drew up to his full intimidating height. “Leave her out of this.”
Matthew seemed amused. “Because you care? About her, or the bastard she carries?”
Face a study in blind rage, Armand half scrambled over one couch to get to the other. Tamara ran to block his path, but he growled and almost knocked her flying. “Get out of my way.”
She held him. “What’s that going to accomplish?”