The Italian's Pregnant Cinderella (Passion In Paradise Book 8)

by Caitlin Crews

  “That’s the point,” she threw back at him, defiant to the end, which made him feel...something almost like helpless, in the face of all her beauty and resolve. “It never will end, Cristiano. If all goes according to plan, a father dies before his son. And you have to ask yourself a question, right now. Do you want your son to talk about you the way you talk about your own father? Or do you want something better for both of you?”

  “I told you, no more. No more, Julienne.”

  He didn’t raise his voice so much as he leaned into the way he said the words, staining them both with all that intensity inside of him.

  Julienne didn’t flinch. She didn’t so much as bat an eye. He watched her breathe, watched those extra full breasts move, and her belly with it. And it occurred to him that he was most furious with her not because she was wrong.

  But because he had the terrible suspicion that she was right.

  Cristiano couldn’t face it. So he bent down instead, took her defiant chin in his hand, and kissed her.

  And he could not have said the things that battled inside him, then. He wouldn’t have known where to begin.

  The losses he had suffered, one after the next. His enduring shame and guilt, first because there was something about him that had made his own father hate him as a child. And then later, that he had hated his father enough in return to let him stumble out of that bar and toward the certain death he should have anticipated would steal away his mother, too.

  He had let it happen. Or he hadn’t cared enough to stop it.

  His hands were stained with the blood of two deaths that he could have prevented.

  If only he had been a different man.

  He wanted to forget. He wanted her shine, her light, that glow instead.

  Cristiano kissed her and he kissed her.

  He kissed her for the baby she carried, the son he’d never wanted. He kissed her for the challenges she’d thrown at him, her refusal to quietly disappear the way he’d wanted, and because she still haunted him. Here, now, while he touched her, she haunted him.

  Something in him rang, deep and hard, and he had the uncomfortable notion she always would.

  And then, somehow, he was sinking down to his knees before her, to worship her properly.

  Again.

  “Cristiano...” she breathed, but he didn’t want her words.

  He wanted her passion. He wanted her taste in his mouth and the molten hot clench of her body on his. He wanted—and he was done restraining himself.

  Julienne liked to dress for dinner, in what he was certain was—like that bikini of hers—a calculated campaign to make him lose his mind. It obviously worked all too well. Tonight’s selection was a formfitting, stretchy sort of dress that covered her modestly enough and yet was deeply, spectacularly immodest at the same time because it welded itself to her curves. It emphasized those full, heavy breasts, all but making love to her enormous bump.

  Cristiano did the same.

  He found her breasts with his hands and teased her nipples in his palms. Slowly, carefully, not sure what kind of sensation she would like now, he moved his hands in circles.

  And watched her come apart.

  Her head fell back. She let out a moan he was fairly certain he’d last heard when he was deep inside of her, and he felt the spike of it like her mouth along the length of him.

  He kept going, playing with one nipple, then the other. He watched in fascination as her cheeks went red, goose bumps rose along her skin, and then, unmistakably, she convulsed.

  She bucked in the chair and he moved closer, wedging his body between her legs. Then he hissed out a breath when he felt the molten center of her against his thigh.

  “You have said a great deal tonight, cara,” he told her, murmuring the words into the side of her neck. “But as always, I’m only interested in one word. My name. I think we both know how easily it falls off your tongue.”

  And then he moved down her body, helping himself to every last voluptuous inch of this new body of hers. Her glorious breasts, that swollen belly. And when he got to her thighs, he pushed the stretchy material of her dress out of his way, then up further, until he bared her to his view. He made short work of the panties she wore, tossing them aside, and then settling down to get a taste of her. Rich, sweet.

  Ripe and entirely his.

  He hadn’t allowed himself to think too closely about all the various things she’d said to him since she’d reappeared in his life, but suddenly, all he could think about was the fact of her innocence that night in Monte Carlo.

  Only mine, a dark voice in him intoned. Only and ever mine.

  He took a deep, lush taste, and kept going until she was squirming against him, panting out his name the way he liked. Only then did he pull away.

  He lifted her up, enjoying the extra heft her roundness gave her. He moved her onto the gleaming, polished table, then spread her out beneath the sparkling chandelier that dated back to the time of kings and royal guests at Villa Cassara.

  Then, finally, he pulled that dress from her body, and made short work of her bra. And then she was there before him in all her glory. His very own goddess, her eyes glazed with heat and need.

  He pulled himself out from his trousers, already huge and ready. And he watched her face change, going hungry.

  It was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

  Cristiano braced himself on the tabletop, moved his hips to hers, and slowly, deliberately, sheathed himself in the molten grasp of her core with a single, relentless thrust.

  Julienne shattered at once. Her back arched, offering all her deliciously full curves to him.

  But he waited. He gritted his teeth as her pleasure washed over him, through him, and nearly sent him spiraling off into his own.

  Once her initial storm passed, he began to move.

  He went carefully at first, but when her response was nothing but enthusiastic, he thrust a little harder. A little deeper.

  Until the two of them were moving as one, fighting together to get to that same great height that had stalked him since Monaco. That sweet rush that haunted him, night and day.

  And she said his name the way he’d told her to. She sang it, over and over, until he could not tell the difference between the melody and the name itself.

  Between his name and her and this magic they made between the two of them.

  And when it all broke apart, sending them both shattering, he was the one who cried out. He was the one who called her name like a summoning, a reckoning.

  Like a new song.

  And he didn’t know how long they stayed like that, there on that antique table where his grandfather had entertained Europe’s finest, in his time.

  He didn’t care, either. Minutes, hours, years. As long as she was with him, curled around him, a part of him—

  But he didn’t allow himself to finish that thought.

  He pulled himself away from her with more reluctance than was healthy or wise. He tucked himself into his trousers, and then, without thinking it through, lifted her up into his arms.

  She dropped her head to his shoulder, and he felt a surge of feeling he couldn’t begin to identify wash over him. Something he might have called tender, if he was that kind of man. If there was anything soft inside him.

  If there was, it was only hers.

  A thought that should have disturbed him, but he shoved it aside.

  And he carried her from the grand dining room, through the villa, until he found the master bedroom. Once there, he settled her in his bed.

  He did not question himself. He did not analyze what he was doing. He simply did it.

  Cristiano busied himself removing his own clothes. He was crawling back into the bed beside her when she opened her eyes again, fixed them on him and smiled.

  Light. Heat.

 
Joy, even.

  And he didn’t know what to do with the things in him that rose to meet that smile. Something like wonder, God help him. And a strange tenderness that would likely appall him, come morning.

  But it was still night. And more than anything else, there was still that driving greed that made him reach for her all over again.

  “Am I allowed to talk yet?” she asked softly, her smile firming into a solemn line, though her eyes still laughed at him, toffee-colored and sweet.

  “Of course,” he said, rolling her into him. “You have one word, as always. Use it well.”

  Cristiano did not need words. He didn’t know the right ones—or worse, he did, but could not bring himself to say them. Because he had always known who he was. He had always known that he did not have the same capacities in him that others did, or his own father would not have despised him. And he, in turn, would not have let him leave that bar in Monaco while so impaired.

  Love was for other people. Tenderness was a dream.

  He had always prided himself on his directness instead.

  So he used his mouth on her in other ways, his hands and the hardest part of him too, while she sang that song of hers.

  That beautiful song that was in him now. The song he knew he would never escape, as long as he lived.

  He used what he had and he told her all those things he could never say out loud, never in words. He told her over and over again, until dawn.

  When the sun rose over the Tuscan hills and Cristiano was still himself.

  Always and ever himself, and destined therefore to remain alone.

  CHAPTER NINE

  CRISTIANO WAS NOT in the bed when she woke.

  “That’s quite all right,” Julienne muttered to herself, running her hand over her belly to say her usual hello to the baby. “It would be far more surprising if he was here, really.”

  And the baby was still sleeping, or unwilling to give her even a little kick, so she heaved herself up and over to the side of the bed. After hesitating a moment, she stole a silk robe from his vast dressing room, then padded her way down the hall to her own suite.

  Where, if she wanted to have an emotion or two in her shower or while fixing her hair, that was no one’s business but hers.

  She expected to see him at breakfast out on one of the patios these warm, bright mornings, while Tuscany outdid itself with its spring splendor in all directions. But when she made it to the patio in question, Cristiano was nowhere to be found.

  That’s just as well, too, she told herself stoutly.

  Maybe if she kept telling herself that she’d believe it.

  The gardeners had outdone themselves with the rose bushes, and it was strange how little she fancied cut roses, as ubiquitous as they were. And yet here, where they grew exultantly around the villa, seemingly on the verge of going wild at any moment, she couldn’t seem to get enough of them.

  And there was a lesson there, likely having to do with the thorns.

  But then, all things involving the Cassara family were bad for her in one way or another. And here she still was. With the next Cassara currently inside her, pressing hard on her solar plexus when he was in a mood.

  And she knew she was a goner when the image of a tiny little Cassara deliberately kicking at her made her laugh.

  “I’ll be mounting a rescue operation,” Fleurette announced later that morning, her voice tense over the phone. “I don’t think I’ve ever gone this long without seeing you. It’s not okay. You know that, I hope. None of this is okay. If I have to storm Tuscany to make it clear to that man, I will.”

  Julienne laughed. She had spent some more time with Piero Cassara’s letters after breakfast, but somehow hadn’t been able to bring herself to make any further calls to her contacts. Fleurette’s number flashing on her phone had been a relief—because anything was better than facing her own weaknesses, surely. Even sharp conversations with her sister.

  “One does not storm Tuscany, Fleurette,” she said, still laughing. “One flies into Florence, becomes operatic at the sight of the Arno, and loses oneself for days between the Ponte Vecchio and Neptune’s marble penis.”

  “I’ve waited in line for the Uffizi, thank you, and it wasn’t worth it. This isn’t a joke that you can tell about penises on Florentine statues, Julienne. We’re talking about Cristiano Cassara locking you away forever. I’m not going to let him do that. And while we’re on the topic, he’s certainly not barring me from my nephew’s birth, either. I don’t care what he did for us ten years ago.”

  “Fleurette.” Julienne kept her voice as mild as possible, because she knew her sister well. And she knew where Fleurette’s vehemence came from. “You know I love you. And I know that there are very good reasons that you want to rescue me this time. But I don’t need rescuing. I’m not Maman.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Her sister asked, her voice thick with those memories she usually pretended not to have. “Because an addict is an addict as far as I can see.”

  And then rang off before Julienne could counter, which might have been childish, but was also effective.

  Maybe too effective, because she left Julienne stewing.

  So much, in fact, that Julienne was late to her own doctor’s appointment, even if it was conveniently located right there in the villa. She’d been too busy thinking about addictions. About all the different ways a person could give herself over to something more powerful than she was, particularly when it was bad for her.

  She’d seen what it had done to Annette. But she’d never given any thought to the fact that before her mother’s many crushes, there was first the exultation.

  And she wasn’t sure how she felt about the fact that she understood that now.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said as she walked into the study that had been made into a remarkably well-furnished doctor’s office, just for her. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

  The doctor gave her a slight bow, which struck her as strange. He thinks you’re the new lady of the manor, a voice inside piped up, and now that Cristiano is here, he thinks he needs to treat you with more respect.

  Julienne really should have made it clear that she and Cristiano weren’t...anything. Not really, or she wouldn’t be here alone, would she? But she was late this morning. And slightly off balance for any number of reasons, from last night to her sister to her own inability to be as ruthless as she knew she should have been, so she...said nothing. The doctor could think what he liked.

  She answered the usual questions, then got up on the exam table and waited while he and his nurse hooked her up to all the state-of-the-art machines Cristiano’s people had installed in here.

  Because Cristiano might claim he wanted nothing to do with his baby, but he still made sure that both Julienne and that baby were well cared for. No matter what.

  At the very least, that made him better than methamphetamines. Or heroin. Or any of the other things she either knew or suspected her mother had tried in her day. But even as she thought that, she could hear her sister’s voice as if Fleurette was standing there beside her.

  Are you really sure that “better than meth” is a decent recommendation?

  Shut up, Fleurette, Julienne thought ferociously.

  And then startled, there on the table, when the door to the room opened again. And Cristiano walked in.

  His gaze met hers, and she hardly recognized what she saw there.

  Beneath the glacial arrogance that was all Cristiano, there was something else. Something that made her hold her breath as he ventured near, nodding coldly at the doctor to continue.

  Together they stared at the screen before them, and the unearthly picture that didn’t seem to make sense—until it did.

  Cristiano stood next to where she lay, and she stared up at him as his throat convulsed. Once, then again.

 
The doctor pointed out the baby’s features, and Julienne looked from the screen to Cristiano’s stricken expression. And at the hand that flexed slightly at his side. Then, following an urge that came straight from the swell of emotion in her heart that made it beat too hard and too loud, she dared to reach over and slide her hand into his.

  She made a great show of looking at the screen, not at him while she did it.

  Cristiano stiffened. Julienne expected him to shake her hand off.

  But then, a breath later, his hand wrapped around hers. And held her fast.

  * * *

  That evening, Julienne dressed for dinner the way she always did. She smoothed her way into another stretchy dress, this one with a longer skirt that brushed the floor as she moved. It made her feel prettier somehow. Especially since the baby had been particularly active all day, kicking and punching like he had a score to settle.

  “Or,” she murmured, rubbing her belly as she walked out of her room and into the atrium, “like a little baby boy whose papa saw his face at last.”

  She could hardly put into words how that made her feel. It hadn’t mattered to her that Cristiano had walked out with the doctor, and had not returned. Or it hadn’t mattered much. Not when she could still feel the sensation of his hand on hers. The way he clenched so tight, and kept holding on to her even after they finished with the picture part of the examination.

  Her fingers flexed of their own accord. And she could still feel the heat of his grip. The strength.

  It was a beautiful spring evening and against her will, Julienne took a deep, almost happy sort of breath. She loved this villa more every day, though she tried so hard not to let it charm her. The graceful colonnade that formed the border of the atrium, wound with flowering vines. The atrium itself, a beautiful central garden that made every room in the house feel a part of the wild, surrounded by so much Tuscan beauty on both sides. She made her way down the path that cut from the guest suite to the formal part of the villa, with its many reception rooms. The stones beneath her feet were still warm from the day. The trees that stretched above her head provided a canopy of shade and birdsong. The small pond had a little fountain on one end, so the sound of water spilling and falling filled the whole of the villa like a happy song.