by Kim Lawrence
Her jaw fell and her astonished eyes grew as wide as saucers as she registered the small figure standing in the doorway. He looked to be around three or four, was wearing a pair of pyjamas emblazoned with a cartoon character and clutching a stuffed toy that might once have been a rabbit in his hand.
Her accusing glance switched back to the man who called himself Gianni Fitzgerald. ‘He’s yours?’
Gianni nodded.
Miranda’s attention switched back to the child, who stood there rubbing his eyes with a clenched fist. His lower lip stood out as he walked across to his father and repeated his demand.
‘I want a drink—’
‘Please,’ his father inserted automatically.
Dear God, how heavily had she slept? How many other people were asleep in the house?
‘You’re not Aunty Lucy!’ The child directed an accusing look Miranda’s way from eyes that were, she saw immediately, the same unusual piercing blue as Lucy Fitzgerald’s, his hair was as dark as his father’s, the rosy-cheeked, sun-kissed face feature for feature a childish version of the older man’s.
It looked as if Gianni Fitzgerald really was who he said he was and also some things he hadn’t said he was! Things like married and a father.
Admittedly these were not necessarily the first things that someone said when they woke up and found themselves in bed with a stranger. Nevertheless, on behalf of women who might be interested, and she was guessing there might be more than two or three, a man who was spoken for in her opinion should wear a wedding ring.
Her glance flickered towards his long, brown tapering fingers. He had the hands of a musician or an artist; they were ringless.
Despite the fact that she knew she could now relax—this really had been what he claimed, a mistake, and even if it hadn’t been, a man intent on violent crime did not in general bring his child along—Miranda found herself clutching the blanket tighter. She no longer thought she needed to protect her virtue from a dangerous lunatic, but she might still die, only now from sheer embarrassment!
‘No, I’m not, I’m Miranda … Mirrie.’ She forced a smile for the child. ‘And you’re …?’
‘Careful there, champ,’ Gianni said, reaching out a hand to steady his son as he climbed up onto the bed. ‘This is Liam. Miranda …?’ Dark head tilted a little to one side, he studied her as though deciding if the name fitted; after a moment he nodded approval, so presumably it did.
Miranda turned her head away, aware that his scrutiny had brought a bloom of awareness to her cheeks. She had never encountered a man who had the trick of making the most innocent gesture … intimate.
‘Hello, Liam.’ Her smile faded and her green eyes acquired an unfriendly frost as they moved towards his father. ‘You didn’t tell me you weren’t alone.’
Gianni’s ebony brows arched sardonically. ‘Is that your version of, “I’m sorry, Gianni, I can see now that you were telling the truth—it was a genuine mistake”?’
‘Me apologise to you!’ The words were startled from Miranda.
‘Well, you did assume some very unpleasant things and I have provided you with a dinner-party story that will just give and give.’
She tried not to smile at his martyred expression. The only thing that made his arrogance tolerable—almost—was the fact he appeared to have a disarming sense of humour.
‘I think,’ she replied with dignity, ‘that I had some justification … like waking up and finding you in my bed …?’ As for sharing this incident for the amusement of her friends, Miranda could not at that moment conceive of circumstances when she’d feel like sharing this story.
‘I was mildly surprised myself, but I gave you the benefit of the doubt. Innocent until proved guilty is my motto.’
‘Well, don’t worry, you’re quite safe from me,’ she told him with a sniff before adding crossly, ‘Didn’t it occur to you to explain who you were right off and mention that you had your son with you?’
‘I didn’t get much opportunity.’
‘I’m very, very thirsty,’ the child, who was trying to run up and down the bed, complained. ‘And I want to go home. I want Clare—she always leaves me a glass of water by my bed in case I get thirsty in the night.’
Who was this Clare? Miranda wondered. And where was the child’s mother?
‘Clare isn’t here.’ Not the best decision he’d ever made, but then hindsight was a marvellous thing. ‘It’s just you and me.’ Piece of cake, Gianni—those words were really coming back to haunt him.
‘She’s here.’
The child waved a hand towards her, and Miranda took an involuntary step forward in alarm.
‘He’s going to fall,’ she warned, holding her breath as she watched the dark-haired boy sway precariously as he ran up and down the bed, coming close to the edge. His father did nothing. ‘Shouldn’t you …?’ She lifted her eyes to Gianni’s face and as she encountered a distinctly hostile expression her voice faded.
Gianni’s square jaw had tightened several notches in response to an attitude that he had plenty of experience of, an attitude that never failed to get under his skin. He was in a position to know that being female did not necessarily make a person a childcare expert and having a Y chromosome did not make him utterly clueless.
‘He’s not going to fall.’ Gianni’s confident pronouncement coincided with his son landing on his bottom on the polished boards.
With a cry Miranda moved in to help but the boy’s father, who had responded with much quicker instincts and a lot more agility, had dropped to a crouch beside the boy, hiding him from her view.
He might be pretty clueless about long journeys with a child prone to car sickness, Gianni reflected, but at least he did know enough to keep anxiety out of his voice as he asked lightly, ‘Are you all right—hurt anywhere?’
Liam was inclined to laugh off bumps and bruises unless he picked up on an adult’s anxiety—then things could tip over into hysteria.
There were tears in the limpid blue gaze that lifted to his father. Gianni smiled reassuringly and ran his hands lightly down his son’s body to check for any obvious injuries.
The boy blinked several times and bit his wobbling lip before he shook his head and said, ‘I’m fine … Fitzgeralds are tough.’
Gianni patted his son’s shoulder and gave a thumbs-up sign as he rose to his feet. ‘Good man.’
Miranda, who had watched the revealing interchange with a disapproving frown, was forced to swallow to clear the emotional lump in her throat when the boy returned the thumbs-up gesture and beamed with pride as he struggled valiantly to his feet.
This was a very appealing kid who obviously wanted to please his father, who was clearly a paid-up member of the macho ‘boys don’t cry’ school of thought.
She just hoped for this child’s sake that his mother provided a softening influence. If ever I have a son, she thought fiercely, I’ll teach him that a boy is allowed to have feelings. He’s allowed to cry.
‘You haven’t said I told you so yet.’ Gianni turned his head and arched a sardonic brow. Caught unawares, Miranda found herself pinned by a heavy-lidded cynical stare.
‘I haven’t said big boys don’t cry either,’ she fired back, unable to totally shake the illogical feeling that those mocking eyes could see right into her head.
One corner of his mouth lifted in a mocking smile. ‘Are you suggesting I’m not in touch with my feminine side, Miranda?’
Miranda was startled to hear him use her name with such familiarity. The way he said it made it sound … different? ‘N-no …’ On another occasion the suggestion might have made her laugh—feminine? The man who oozed more testosterone than a rugby team!
‘I’m half Italian, half Irish—neither are known for their inhibitions when it comes to expressing emotions.’
Miranda looked at the sensual curve of his mouth and thought, I can believe it.
‘Frequently loudly,’ he admitted with a flash of white teeth.
Miranda
turned her head quickly to break the hold of his mesmeric gleaming stare and, ignoring her violently quivering stomach muscles, directed her attention to the little boy. ‘Are you sure he’s all right?’
It was the child under discussion who responded to the question. ‘No, I’m not all right. The car made me sick … a lot,’ the little boy announced with a hint of pride. He gave her a look resembling a mistreated puppy—it would have melted stone—and said pathetically, ‘The car smells. Daddy was mad.’
‘Was he? I’m sure that helped a lot.’ The smiling comment passed over the child’s head but hit its target.
Reconciled to being considered the monster in this scene, Gianni shrugged and thought, Why fight it? ‘A man and his car—you know how it is.’
Miranda gave a scornful snort, edged a little towards the window and glanced down seeing, not the shiny boy’s toy his comment had brought to mind, but a disreputable-looking four wheel drive parked down below.
You could tell a lot about a man by the car he drove, as her mother had always told her daughters—her theory was not in Miranda’s experience foolproof, but sometimes dead on. Oliver drove a solid estate, which suited him; safe, steady and dependable.
‘Gracious!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m not surprised he was sick in that thing! What possessed you to transport a child who suffers from travel sickness in something that’s one step up from a horse and cart?’
‘You know what they say, Miranda—beggars can’t be choosers,’ he drawled with a languid shrug. ‘And I’m obviously not the expert on all things relating to childcare that you are.’ Jaw clenched, he arched a sarcastic brow. ‘How many children do you have?’
‘That’s not Daddy’s car. Daddy has a big, big car!’ the child boasted as he made a thrumming sound in his throat and began to charge around the room in imitation of a car, proving if nothing else that he hadn’t been injured by the fall.
Miranda’s softly rounded jaw tightened with annoyance. ‘I don’t have children and I never claimed to be an expert.’
‘Just a woman.’
‘What have you got against women?’
His sensually sculpted upper lip curled into an exaggerated leer. ‘I have never been accused of not liking women.’
I just bet they like you right back, she thought, dragging her gaze from his mouth, aware as she did so of the heavy ache low in her abdomen. This man really was sinfully attractive. She felt a spasm of sympathy for Liam’s mother, then as her eyes were drawn back to his mouth that vanished as it occurred to her the woman didn’t need sympathy—she had that mouth.
Rather shocked by her thought, she blinked, then lowered her gaze, balling her fists on the quilt as she resisted the sudden impulse to touch her own lips.
‘I’m sure that makes your wife deliriously happy.’
‘I’m not married.’
‘Oh, I thought …’ Her eyes moved in an unscheduled sweep from him to the playing child and back again. Not married did not mean they were not a couple.
He answered the question she was clearly gagging to ask. ‘No, we are not together.’
‘Oh!’ What was she meant to say to that? After an awkward pause she produced a lame. ‘I … sorry.’
His expression froze. ‘Do not be. Liam does not suffer in any way because his parents are not a couple.’ By the time he was old enough to think about it, few of Liam’s friends would be the products of a conventional family unit.
But how many would have a mother who had declared herself unwilling and unable to adjust her lifestyle to accommodate the needs of a child?
As always Gianni pushed away the thought. It was a question for the future and he would deal with it at the appropriate time.
The same way he’d dealt with Sam’s initial bombshell when she’d told him she was pregnant; the same way he had dealt with her sympathetic but amused response when he had asked when she was going to give up front-line journalism—the days of speaking calmly to a camera while bullets whizzed by her were clearly to his mind over.
His only experience of mothers was his own and she had put her family first, and while he had never expected the mother of his children to turn into some sort of fifties stay-at-home housewife—he had no problem with her having a career, just not one that involved being held hostage by rebel bandits—it had not crossed his mind that she would not be the main carer.
Just as it had not crossed his mind that he would not be married to the mother of his child.
Startled that her reply had elicited such a defensive aggressive reaction, Miranda thought, Wow, did I hit a nerve or what?
‘Liam is—’ Gianni stopped, the groove between his brows deepening as he realised that, for someone who was not in the habit of discussing his personal life with strangers or defending his actions to anyone, he was doing a pretty good impression of someone who needed approval.
Lowering his dark lashes in a lush veil over his eyes, he ran a hand over his jaw where a dark shadow of the stubble that gave him a vaguely piratical air was visible. ‘I don’t enjoy arguing before I shave or have my first coffee, especially with naked women.’
The sly addition caused Miranda’s hand to fly to her mouth. Bad idea because the quilt slipped on one side, almost causing a dramatic wardrobe malfunction—or as dramatic as a B cup could be.
One corner of his mouth tugged upwards as Gianni watched her struggle. ‘It gives them an unfair advantage.’
Unfair! For a moment she was rendered totally speechless—the nerve of the man! Miranda, who had never felt at more of a disadvantage in her life, scowled before arranging her features into an expression of mock consternation.
‘Well, I’m all for a level playing field, and I wouldn’t want to be accused of taking advantage, so in the interests of fair play we can continue this conversation when I’ve got some clothes on.’
His laugh was warm, deep, throaty and totally unexpected. Miranda, aware of a faint responsive quiver low in her stomach, fought the urge to smile back. She knew he was a man who spent his life smiling and having people—women—smile back.
Miranda could think of few things worse than being with a man every woman lusted after, unless of course it was having the man you loved fall for your twin sister!
‘That seems fair,’ he conceded. ‘Come on, champ, I think a bit of soap and water might be appropriate.’ He scooped up his son, his nostrils quivering at the stale acrid smell. ‘I left the bags in the kitchen. How’s about we take the bathroom downstairs and you take the one up here—the one with the big lock.’
At the mocking addition she lifted her chin, pushing away the mental photofit image in her head of a beautiful long-legged blonde hanging on his arm and keeping out a constant eye for the opposition. ‘And don’t think I won’t use it, Mr Fitzgerald.’
He laughed again, but this time just with his eyes. God, but the man had bad boy written all over him—she had never been attracted to bad boys, though that seemed to put her in the minority.
‘My mother warned me about women with smart mouths.’ But they had no discussion on mouths that were made for sin, he thought, his darkening glance lingering a moment too long on the lush curve before he turned and walked towards the door, grinning but not turning back when she yelled after him.
‘And my mother told me that men who are afraid of smart women generally have self-esteem issues.’ The effect that brief heavy-lidded stare had on Miranda’s nervous system had been nothing short of electric. Breathing hard and trying not to hear the rich throaty sound of his amused laughter, she struggled to shake off the weird lingering feeling of anticipation and excitement heavy in the pit of her stomach as she lifted her makeshift robe and walked towards the bathroom.
CHAPTER FOUR
MIRANDA used the lock with an air of defiance, not caring—actually hoping he would hear it slide home. He might be innocent of knowing she was in the bed when he got in—that much she accepted—but she imagined it was one of the few things that Gianni Fitzgerald was innocent o
f!
Father to a cute child or not, he had the air of a man who had no problem crossing lines. Parenthood did not make him harmless—not that she expected for one second that he’d test the lock. Gianni Fitzgerald was not a man who needed to batter down doors if he wanted female attention; all he had to do was smile … or laugh … The echo of that warm sound sent a little shiver down her spine.
She dropped the quilt on the marble floor, warm with the under-floor heating that was a feature of the entire cottage, and turned on the shower. Instead of stepping into the vast double cubicle—Lucy Fitzgerald had spared no cash when it came to the luxurious renovations on this farm cottage—she leaned back against the door, closed her eyes and waited for her heartbeat to return to something approaching normal.
It continued to bang against her ribcage, the echo loud in her ears for a long time. The encounter had left her on a high. She knew it was the effect of adrenalin, but as she struggled to tamp down the weird combination of exhilaration and antagonism circulating through her veins the scene played on a loop in her head.
Finally with a sigh she levered herself upright and walked into the shower, gasping a little as the cool needles of water hit her warm body. Face raised to the jets of water, she reached for her shower gel and began to lather her skin, rubbing until her body tingled, but Gianni Fitzgerald’s voice lingered, along with his slow, sardonic smile, the mixture of insolence and amusement in his attitude and the sensuality that came off him in sonic waves.
When she emerged a few minutes later she felt satisfied she had washed Gianni Fitzgerald out of her hair figuratively speaking, now she had to do it in the practical sense and reclaim the cottage.
After towel-drying her hair she pulled on the clothes she had grabbed from the top of her case. She was short of a bra, but that wasn’t a major problem. She was not exactly over-endowed in that area and the fabric of the denim-coloured cotton shirt she fought her way into was not exactly clingy. Her still-damp skin felt oddly sensitive as she hurriedly buttoned it up.
She was dragging a comb through her thick, damp curls when from below she heard a bang and clatter. The kitchen, to her way of thinking the most impressive room in the cottage, was located directly underneath this room.