by Trish Morey
And then she sensed movement and turned and found he’d gone, with just a hint of his tantalising woody masculine scent remaining on the air.
Across the room, Rosa smiled softly at her. ‘It is good you are here,’ she said. ‘For too long he has been alone. And now to have a baby …’ she put her hands over her mouth but Angie had already seen the tremors even as she’d pressed her lips together, had already seen the moisture sheening her eyes ‘… a baby is like a gift from the heavens. You must be a very special woman, to do this thing for Dominic.’
And Angie felt her own tears well up again, shaking her head in a futile effort to make them go away. She wasn’t special or noble or unselfish. Her reasons were far more personal. ‘It had nothing to do with Dominic,’ she insisted. ‘I’m just pleased this baby has found its home. A place where it is wanted.’
The light glinted off Rosa’s tear-laden eyes as she nodded, blinking and blotting her cheeks dry with a handkerchief. ‘And I am forgetting myself. What would you like? Can I get you something to eat, or perhaps I could run you a bath? It will relax you. Or maybe you’d like a swim in the pool?’
So many choices and all of them so inviting! But she wasn’t hungry yet after that huge lunch and she hadn’t packed bathers. She looked longingly in the direction of the bathroom. That marble-tiled, gold-tapped submerged bath looked like temptation itself. So much decadence should be illegal or at the very least immoral, but the concept of submerging herself within its watery depths was like a lure to the senses. ‘The bath sounds wonderful.’
Rosa nodded, pulling a white plush robe from the wardrobe and laying it on the bed. ‘I’ll run it for you and then bring you a cup of tea. We have ginger and green tea, unless you’d prefer something else?’
‘That would be perfect,’ Angie said, thanking her, wondering what guardian angel had deposited her here, into Rosa’s warm and welcoming care. Not Dominic, she knew. He might want to guard her for the next six months, but if he was an angel, he was definitely of the dark variety, complex and—she searched for a word to describe him—dangerous.
It fitted, she thought, trembling just a little as she changed into the robe. Definitely dangerous. Maybe not physically threatening, in spite of his size and presence. More the kind of danger that operated on another level.
For his danger came in dark eyes that could unnerve and unsettle, look at her with undisguised disdain or, in the very next look, send heat spiralling through her. His danger was that dark longing that left her weak and breathless.
And when he touched her …
She shivered. Forget about Dominic and guardian angels and touching, she told herself, the perfumed steam coming from the bathroom beckoning with the scent of rosemary and orange and maybe even a hint of vanilla. Maybe, for just once in her life, something was going right. Maybe these next six months would be the perfect opportunity to work out what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.
After all, she was single now. No ties. She could make a fresh start. Maybe do some study? Make something of herself.
And as for this baby? She curled a hand over her tummy, her heart aching for the mother who would never know her child, and for the child who would never know its mother. She’d so wanted everything to be perfect for this baby! But still she’d made the right choice, she knew. This baby would have a home. The baby was wanted. What more could she really ask?
She put a toe in the bath and sighed, slipping off her robe as she slid into the depths and adjusting the spa jets to a slow pulsing massage that sent tremors under her skin, tremors that triggered her senses and echoed another’s electric touch, a watery assault to her senses that had her almost imagining the touch of his fingers, the slide of his hands …
She snapped her eyes open, hit the button that turned the spa jets off, appalled at where her thoughts were taking her.
No! For he was the biological father of the child she was carrying, the husband of the biological mother who was dead. A man who detested her for who and what she was.
What the hell was wrong with her?
She dunked her head under the water to clear her wayward thoughts. No way would she fantasize about him!
An hour later, wrapped in the fluffy robe, Angie felt blissfully relaxed as she padded through the house, looking for the kitchen, every bone and muscle in her body purring after the scented soaking, so relaxed that not even the cup and saucer rattled in her hand. She’d imagined the kitchen wouldn’t be hard to find but then she’d forgotten the sheer scale of the place. On their way to the suite she’d only encountered passages and hallways and that amazing sweep of ballroom lining the front of the house. But surely the kitchen couldn’t be too far away?
She paused in a wide hallway she was suddenly sure she’d never passed before because of the wide staircase leading upwards to another floor, and turned full circle, wondering where she’d taken a wrong turn. How big was this place that she could get lost within its walls?
And then she glanced upstairs and saw it.
The portrait stretched along the landing wall—a painting of a woman reclining along an ivory chaise longue, her long hair dark and sleek and tumbling over satin-skinned shoulders, her face beautiful, dark exotic eyes enticing, carmine lips turned up in invitation, her body draped in a gown the colour of deepest amethyst.
The face and body of a seductress.
Angie climbed up a step. And then another.
She was beautiful.
And realisation came dressed in a sharp, short stab of envy. This was Carla. This was the real mother of her unborn child.
Was it any surprise Dominic had been so appalled when he’d met her? Was it any surprise he’d been angry? This glamorous creature was the woman supposed to be carrying their child, not some scarecrow from the wrong end of town.
She jumped as a door snicked shut somewhere close and then Dominic appeared on the landing, stopping when he saw her halfway up the stairs, his dark eyes fixing her. ‘Angelina?’
Angie couldn’t move, held captive by those damning eyes. Would he think she’d been snooping? Would he take her for a thief? He already thought the worst of her; it would only be a small jump to make. The cup rattled against the saucer in her hand. She put the other one out to steady it. ‘I’m sorry. I was actually looking for the kitchen to return my cup. I must have taken the wrong turn.’
His eyes flicked down to the cup in her hand and back to her face as if he was measuring her words and weighing them for truth. He started down the stairs towards her, his long legs carrying him down, step by decisive step. He’d changed from his business clothes into dark trousers and a slim-fitting T-shirt, the fabric so fine it seemed to skim over the wall of his chest and accentuate his perfect proportions. He stopped on the step alongside her and she saw the tiny beads of water clinging to his hair, smelt his recently showered masculine freshness. She tugged the edges of her robe together, suddenly conscious of the fabric against her nipples, feeling hopelessly unprepared for another meeting with this man. ‘The kitchen is not upstairs.’
She swallowed. ‘I know. I’m sorry. I saw the portrait. Is that … Is that your wife?’ She looked back at the portrait, feeling a bone-deep ache she didn’t care to analyse too much. The dark beauty was perfect for him. Polished and elegant and unerringly confident with it.
‘That’s Carla, yes.’
‘She was so beautiful.’
Dominic glanced back over his shoulder at the portrait. ‘She was.’ Then he took a deep breath and started down the rest of the steps. ‘Follow me. I’ll show you how to find the kitchen.’
He disappeared after he’d handed her into Rosa’s care in the massive kitchen, his car keys in his hand, telling Rosa he’d be back late. Angie wondered if he had a date as she watched him leave. She would be beautiful, of course. She’d have to be to attract a man like him, a man used to being surrounded by beautiful things …
‘Do you like tortellini?’
Angie blinked, Rosa’s question
grounding her. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never had it.’ And Rosa just smiled as she put the plate in front of her.
Angie discovered she loved it. Especially home-made, as she learned Rosa’s was. ‘Did Mr Pirelli put you up to this?’ she asked, polishing off her second helping as she pushed wet hair she wished she’d dried out of her eyes. ‘Did he tell you I needed filling out? He thinks I’m too skinny.’
Rosa just laughed. ‘I’m Italian too, cara. To me, everyone needs filling out. And you especially must keep up your strength. You are doing a very important job. Some would say the most important job in the world.’
Angie put down her fork and thanked her, feeling deliciously full for the second time today, still thinking about that portrait and the woman who should be carrying this child. ‘I saw Carla’s … Mrs Pirelli’s … portrait on the landing. She was beautiful.’
The older woman gave a sad smile as she took Angie’s plate. ‘That was painted shortly after they were married. She was a beautiful girl. She wanted desperately for a child to give Dominic. In the end … Well, in the end it just didn’t happen.’
Angie’s hand curled over her belly. ‘It’s not fair that she’s not here for this. It’s not fair that I’ve got her baby.’
And Rosa put a reassuring hand to her shoulder. ‘It’s a miracle, that’s what it is.’ She looked down at Angie’s empty plate and smiled though Angie sensed her sadness in the moisture that glossed her eyes. ‘Truly it is a miracle.’ Then she huffed in a breath, gathering herself as she carried it to the sink. ‘Well, what would you like to do now? Do you need anything I can help you with while you settle in?’
Angie shook her head. ‘It’s been a long day. I might turn in early.’ Although, she thought as she pushed her fringe out of her eyes again, there was one thing she could tackle. ‘You don’t have some scissors I could borrow, do you? My hair is driving me crazy.’
Rosa nodded decisively as if she had the perfect solution. ‘I have a better idea. I have a niece who is a hairdresser. She works from home. I will call her, see if she can’t drop by tomorrow morning.’
‘There’s no need—’
But Rosa just held up her hand as she reached for the phone, the matter apparently decided.
That night Angie lay in an unfamilar bed, listening to unfamiliar sounds—the swoosh of waves on the rock-strewn shore below, the call of seabirds, the scamper of tiny marsupials through the tree tops. All so very different. All so very strange. She snuggled deeper into the cloud-soft bed. How would she ever sleep?
She stirred to the soft billow of curtain and a fresh sea breeze, the scent of hot tea and toast coming from the bedside table, blinking into wakefulness when she saw it was after ten. She hadn’t slept that long in for ever. She eased herself up and took a sip of tea, testing her stomach, then cautiously nibbled at some toast. A little queasy but much better than yesterday. She took her time, not rushing herself. Maybe the doctor was right. Maybe she would get past this horrid stage. She could only hope.
An hour later Rosa’s niece arrived. She was on leave now, she explained, while her bambinos were small. Right now, Rosa entertained her bambinos with cheese straws and building blocks in one corner of the kitchen while Antonia studied Angie’s face and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘You have a natural wave, you know,’ she said, nodding as she poked and prodded. ‘But the weight drags it down. I’ve got an idea what we can do. Are you game?’
An hour of snipping, a deep condition and blow-dry later, Angie looked in the mirror and couldn’t believe the transformation. This was her hair? Where once it had hung lank and lifeless around her face, or been pulled back into a tight ponytail, now her hair bounced and flicked in layers around her face.
‘I love it!’ she announced, to the delight of Antonia and Rosa. ‘How can I ever repay you?’
Rosa smiled and hugged her niece. ‘Believe me. You already have.’
She looked—different. He couldn’t quite pinpoint the change as they sat at the dining table that evening. She was still wearing what looked like the same jeans and another of those singlet tops she seemed to have an endless supply of, the same dreary cardigan pulled over the top, but her eyes looked bigger in her face, her mouth somehow wider.
And every now and then he’d catch a hint of something—her perfume? Whatever, it was fresh and fascinating, with a hint of fruit he could almost identify. Almost pin down. And then Rosa would bring in another dish and he would lose sight of it again.
‘How are you settling in?’ he asked, trying to make small talk. He was used to eating alone, usually in his office as he kept an eye on the overseas markets, but tonight he had papers for her that needed signing. Besides, he supposed he should at least be civil. She was, after all, a guest in his house. He reached for the still steaming basket of bread, only to inadvertently touch her hand as she reached for the same slice.
He pulled it back while hers disappeared into her lap. He flexed his fingers and this time claimed his bread, musing. He didn’t know if she was charged with static electricity because her clothes were full of artificial fibres, but every time he touched her she seemed to spark under his skin.
‘Everything’s fine,’ she answered blandly, yet the colour in her cheeks belied her tone, her voice carrying a noticeable quake.
‘I have some paperwork from the lawyers for you to sign after dinner if you’re up to it.’
She perked up immediately. ‘Do you have news about the house?’
He shook his head, saw the hope in her eyes die and wondered if he should share the news. Decided she had a right to know the truth. ‘But the lawyers say he’s entitled to make a claim, even though the property was in your name.’ Why she was so obsessed with the old place was beyond him, though he could understand why she thought it was unfair Shayne should get anything of hers after the way he’d treated her. ‘The lawyers are still looking into it. This is actually about our agreement.’
She looked at him blankly, as if her mind was still worrying about the house she might lose.
‘You don’t have to do it today if you want to check it with another lawyer. There’s no rush.’ And then he sat there wondering why he’d just said that. He wanted everything in writing as soon as possible. He didn’t want any chance of her changing her mind or developing a taste for the high life and demanding more. He wanted this thing nailed down now.
‘It’s okay,’ she said numbly. ‘Best to know where everyone stands from the start.’ She nodded then and he was suddenly transfixed by the movement in her hair. That was what was so different. There were layers of it, he realised, and as she moved her head they shifted, independently and yet together, like a field of wheat rippling in the breeze, with feathery ends flicking playfully in the light.
And then he focused again and she was watching him, wary and unsure. ‘I might actually skip dessert and get an early night,’ she said. ‘Maybe if I could just sign those documents now?’
‘It’s too much!’ she protested ten minutes later in his office. ‘Nobody needs twenty thousand dollars a month for living expenses.’
‘How do you know?’ he argued back, wishing she’d just sign it if she was in such a goddamn hurry to get back to her suite and trying to ignore the way the layers of her hair bobbed around her head as she moved and the scent of raspberries and oranges that seemed to be taking over his office. ‘You’ll need new clothes as the baby grows. Let’s face it, you could do with some new clothes now.’
Her cheeks flamed with heat. ‘But twenty thousand dollars? You clearly don’t know where I shop.’
‘So shop somewhere else. Or save the money! Book a cruise. Give it to charity. I don’t care what you do with it—just sign the agreement.’
If she could tell he sounded tense he didn’t care. He wanted her out of his office. She was too close, that damned scent of fruit wrapping around him, the soft layers of her hair dancing an invitation with even the slightest tilt of her head. And what it did to her eyes! She had the most a
mazing eyes. Not just blue. On a paint chart they’d probably call it ‘cerulean dreaming’.
He backed away, ostensibly to give her more room at the desk but in reality to give himself a chance to get his head together.
What was happening to him? His office had seemed a good choice a few minutes ago. Businesslike and masculine, he’d reasoned, how he liked his office to be. But somehow right now with this woman looking over a document on his desk, he was having trouble remembering what businesslike felt like. He had no such trouble when it came to remembering masculine.
His hormones were clearly dusty if he was feeling attracted to this woman.
‘All right,’ she conceded tightly. ‘It’s your money, after all,’ and he blew out a long breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding as finally she signed her name first on one copy and then the other. ‘Where else did you say to initial?’ she asked, and he was forced to move closer again, flicking a page in the document she was looking at and pointing to where she needed to put her mark. But it was her hair his eyes were drawn to as he leaned over her, and how the ends danced and flirted with his every breath, as if they were alive and oh, so responsive.
She turned her head then, her face perilously close to his, her blue eyes wide with surprise, her lips parted on a question, and right at that moment he thought that whatever her question was, he was the answer.
‘Mr Pirelli?’ she breathed, and he drank her in.
‘Dominic,’ he corrected, his eyes not leaving lips that looked surprisingly like an invitation. Why had he not noticed that before?
‘Dominic …’
He loved the way his name looked on her lips; he liked the neat white line of teeth below and the hint of pink tongue.
And then his mobile phone rang in his pocket and the spell was broken. He wheeled away, appalled, wondering what the hell he’d been thinking.
Angie scrawled her initials on the papers, hopefully somewhere near the place he’d indicated, and made for the door. She needed to get outside and breathe, for there was no air left in the room, no life-sustaining oxygen to be had. Somehow it had all burnt up in one smouldering look from his dark eyes. But they hadn’t just been dark tonight. They’d been black.