Constantino's Pregnant Bride

by Catherine Spencer

  “I might have known you’d take his side. You’ve never been able to resist tall, black-haired men.”

  “I’m not taking anyone’s side,” Trish said, in the sort of reasonable tone an adult might adopt when dealing with a fractious child. “I’m trying to make you see reason. The man obviously cares about you. Since when is that a crime?”

  “Since he resorted to conniving tactics, that’s when! It shows an underhanded side to his character that I don’t care for. And it goes beyond what he did last night, Trish. Don’t forget he also eavesdropped on a conversation between you and me, and made not the slightest attempt to announce himself.”

  “He probably didn’t feel you left him any other choice. If it had been up to you, he’d still be in the dark about the pregnancy. How’s he supposed to know what else you might be keeping from him?” She cast a last envious glance at the arrangement of roses. “And regardless of his sins, imagined or otherwise, there’s no denying he’s earned a few Brownie points with these. Even the container is gorgeous.”

  “It’s ostentatious.” Cassie glared at the huge crystal bowl, easily the size of a medicine ball with the top cut off. “Talk about overkill! Your problem is that you’re a pushover for appearances.”

  “Well, what else do you expect? I’m a chef. Quality and presentation are everything. And whether or not you admit it, that’s one beautiful vase, Cassie.”

  “Vase?” Cassie sniffed disparagingly, and tried not to be swayed by the alluring scent of roses she managed to inhale along with a healthy dose of indignation. “I could practically take a bath in it!”

  “Not for much longer. Pretty soon, you won’t fit through the opening.”

  “You’re not helping matters, Patricia!”

  “Yes, I am,” her friend said. “I’m doing my level best to make you face the facts without blowing everything out of proportion. Benedict didn’t have to offer to marry you. He didn’t even have to take your word for it that he’s the baby’s father. That he did both without hesitation says a lot more about the kind of man he is, than the fact that he took an uninvited look at your day book or listened in on a conversation some people might argue he had a right to hear. He’s a rare specimen in this day and age, and you’d be a fool not to at least consider his proposal.”

  “But we’re not in love!”

  Expression somber, Trish looked away. “Maybe not, but you were in lust enough to get pregnant by him, and that ought to take precedence over all else. It would, if I were in your place.”

  “I know it would,” Cassie said contritely. Trish and her husband Ian had been trying for a baby for over three years, without success. “I’m sorry, Trish. You’re the last person I should be confiding in about this.”

  “That’s what friends are all about—to lend an ear when it’s needed, and dole out advice whether it’s needed or not. Besides, who else can you trust but me to set you straight?”

  Not a soul! She had no siblings, no aunts or uncles or cousins—at least, none that she knew about. Trish was more than just her dearest friend; she was like a sister and, since Cassie’s mother’s death the previous October, the closest thing to family Cassie had. She had other friends, of course, but none as loyal or trustworthy. None who knew her so well, nor any whose opinion she valued more.

  “You really think I’m judging him too harshly?”

  “I think you’re being hasty. It would be different if you couldn’t stand to be around him. But Cassie, you should see your face when you talk about him! You might wish you could hate him, but the simple fact of the matter is, you can’t. You’re very attracted to him. And it’s pretty clear he’s just as taken with you.”

  “He’s interested in our baby. I just happen to be the womb in which it’s planted.”

  “Oh, give me a break! If that’s the case, what was he doing here yesterday, before he even knew you were pregnant?”

  Cassie shrugged. “I neither know nor care.”

  “Well, sooner or later, you’re going to have to come to grips with it, because he’s not going to conveniently disappear. He came back to see you for some unknown reason, and found another, more compelling reason to stick around. So far, he’s made all the concessions, and these…” Trish touched the tip of her finger to one perfect pink rose and sighed. “These are a blatant message that he’s willing to make a few more.”

  “They’re just flowers, for heaven’s sake! A ‘thank you for the dinner’ gesture.”

  “No. If that’s all he was trying to say, a potted plant would have done the job.”

  “So what are you suggesting—that I just cave in to his demands because he bought out a florist’s entire supply of roses?”

  “I’m suggesting that you make the next move and show yourself to be amenable to discussion and compromise.” Trish picked up the phone. “And I’m suggesting you do it now. Because although he might be tall in stature, I suspect our gorgeous Italian is pretty short on tolerance when it comes to being pushed around. If you insist on playing hardball with Benedict Constantino, you’ll be taking on a lot more than you can handle.”

  She was going to throw up again! And the manner in which Trish was waving the phone around in such a way that it looked like a cobra about to strike didn’t help any! “I don’t know where he’s staying.”

  “You know his cell phone number. It’s printed right there on his card.”

  “But he won’t appreciate being disturbed during business hours. I’m not the primary reason he’s in town. He’s here to work, or visit his good friend Nuncio.”

  “He’ll have voice mail.” The coiled phone cord writhed, the handset bobbed menacingly. “You can leave a message.”

  “Saying what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Something complicated and obtuse, such as ‘Hello, Benedict, this is Cassandra. Please give me a call when you have a moment free.’

  “If I do that, will you then leave me to wallow in my own misery?”

  “Absolutely.” Trish thrust the phone at her.

  Wearily, Cassie punched in his number and prepared to deliver her message to some impersonal answering service.

  He picked up on the first ring. Thoroughly unhinged, as much by the deep, sexy timbre of his voice as the fact that she was left suddenly tongue-tied, Cassie held the phone away and stared at it in horror. She’d have hung up on him, if Trish hadn’t muttered in a stage whisper people in the next room probably heard, “Say something, Cass!”

  “Cassandra?” Her name flowed from the ear piece like music, a melodic cascade of sound about two octaves below middle C.

  “Hell…o….” she croaked.

  “Ah,” he said. Just that, followed by a pause as pregnant as she was.

  Desperate to fill it, she babbled, “Thank you for the roses. They’re lovely. Pink is my favorite. You shouldn’t have. It wasn’t necessary.”

  Trish snickered, covered her mouth with her hand, and turned away.

  “It was entirely necessary, Cassandra,” he said smoothly, dark, quiet laughter lacing his answer. “It was also my pleasure.” When she didn’t reply, he let the silence spin out a second or two more, then asked, “Is that the only reason you called?”

  “Um…no.”

  Another, longer pause ensued, teeming with tension. At last, he said gently, “And the other?”

  “I don’t—can’t…I don’t like doing it on the phone.”

  Good grief, that sounded indecent! Obscene! And from the way Trisha turned purple, grabbed a tissue, and choked into it, she obviously thought so, too!

  Drawing in a calming breath, Cassie started over. “What I’m trying to say is, I’d just as soon discuss the matter with you in person. Face-to-face.”

  “Senz’altro—of course! But this time, you won’t cook for me. Instead, I’ll take you to dinner at a favorite ristorante of mine, a quiet, tranquil—”

  “No!” she said hastily, wishing his lilting accent didn’t turn even the simplest remark into a caress. “Not d
inner.”

  “Lunch, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “Today.”

  “Yes.”

  “Eccellente! I’ll pick you up—”

  “No,” she said again, not about to find herself confined in a car with him, or hustled into some dark and intimate restaurant. “There’s a sandwich shop in the lobby of my office building. I’ll see you there at noon.”

  “If you insist,” he said, sounding as if she’d suggested they meet at the city dump.

  “I insist.”

  “You look somewhat discomposed,” Trish tittered, when the call ended.

  “More like decomposed!” Cassie grabbed a binder and used it as a fan to cool her face. “I don’t know what it is about that man that sets me off like this.”

  “Beyond finding him fatally attractive, you mean?”

  “Is that really what it is? I’m drawn to dangerous men?”

  “He’s hardly dangerous, Cass!”

  “Yes, he is,” Cassie said. “There’s something…iron hard underneath that charmingly compliant front he puts on.”

  “That shouldn’t come as any surprise. How else do you suppose he climbed to the top of the tycoon heap? In any case, you’d never have let yourself be seduced by a pantywaist.” Trish’s eyes glimmered with further amusement. “Or did you seduce him, you little devil?”

  “I most certainly did not!”

  “No invitational glances in the moonlight? No locked gazes across a crowded deck?”

  Cassie opened her mouth to refute those suggestions, too, then snapped it shut again, swamped in sudden, guilty memories….

  “Will you dance with me, signorina?”

  “I shouldn’t. I’m here to work.”

  But she’d gone into his arms anyway. Let him hold her close enough to be vibrantly conscious of the lean strength of his torso, his long, powerful legs. Across San Francisco Bay, a premature burst of fireworks littered the sky with sprays of silver and gold, and a little of their sparkle inexplicably landed on her and left her glowing from the inside out.

  “I hadn’t expected you’d be here alone,” he said, smiling down at her.

  “I hadn’t expected to be here at all,” she said, “but our social convener came down with the flu, and finding someone able to take over her job at short notice, especially on the busiest night of the year, was impossible.”

  He tightened his hold, gave her hand a meaningful squeeze. “How unfortunate that your employee fell ill—and what a stroke of good luck for me.”

  Aware of his jaw grazing the crown of her head, of his fingers warmly enfolding hers, and most of all, of the current of untoward excitement coursing through her blood, she said, “I’m very glad that you’re enjoying your evening, Mr. Constantino, but you’ll have to excuse me now. I really must get back to work and make sure Mr. Zanetti’s guests have everything they need.”

  “You’re already working,” he replied. “You’re making sure I have everything I need.”

  A simmering heat had begun to consume her, and with every word, every nuance of meaning, he stoked the flames a little higher. Breathless, she’d tried to extricate herself from a situation she felt powerless to control.

  As if he sensed she was on the brink of flight, he pulled her closer, not enough that anyone else would have noticed and made comment, but close enough for her to understand the specific nature of his “need.”

  But did she rebuff him? Stalk off in a snit? Fell him with a haughty glare?

  Not a bit! She melted against him and when the music stopped, she withdrew from his hold with marked reluctance, an inch at a time, until only the tips of her fingers touched his. Apart from the fire in his dark eyes, he looked entirely collected. Of all the people on the covered, candlelit afterdeck, only she knew how provocatively other, more distant parts of his body had stirred against her. But she was burning all over, from her cheeks to her knees, and half expected to find the silk of her ivory cocktail dress singed everywhere he’d touched it.

  “Thank you for the dance,” she stammered, desperately trying to project a semblance of poise, and failing miserably.

  But he, with his signature elegance of manner, murmured, “Grazie, Cassandra? Per favore, the honor was mine! That it’s been so short-lived is my only regret.”

  Afraid that if she didn’t turn away, she’d fly back into his arms, she’d sped—as much as her high heels would allow—back to her station in the main saloon where Trish’s senior assistant was supervising the final preparations for the buffet supper. For the next hour, she lent a hand where one was needed, but although her fingers were kept otherwise engaged, her thoughts continued to dwell on Benedict Constantino.

  Given his parting remark, perhaps she ought to have been suspicious when, half an hour before midnight, a crew member came to inform her she was urgently needed below deck. But fearing someone had been taken ill, she put Benedict out of her mind and followed the crewman down to the private quarters located in the stern of the boat.

  The entrance to the suite had been unlocked, and although the lamp gleaming softly on the polished mahogany walls of the little foyer no sign of anyone waiting there, a swath of light fell dimly from the sitting room where she sometimes worked. Well, that made sense, she supposed.

  She turned to tell the crewman that she’d take matters from there and he could return to his duties on the bridge, only to find he’d already left and closed the door behind him. More puzzled by the second, she crossed to the sitting room, peeped inside, and gasped audibly.

  A dozen or more candles flickered about the cabin. On a table covered with a snowy linen cloth stood a silver wine cooler containing a bottle of champagne. Two crystal glasses, clouded with frost, and a single red rose in a bud vase completed the setting. And lounging against the bulkhead beside the window, with his jacket unbuttoned and his hands in his pockets, was Benedict Constantino.

  Caught between vexation and amusement, Cassie said, “I hope you have a good explanation for this. I was led to believe there was some sort of emergency down here.”

  “But indeed there is, Cassandra,” he replied, unfazed. “I most urgently need to be alone with you.”

  Repressing the little melting burst of delight brought on by his words, she said, “Very flattering, I’m sure, Signor Constantino, but it’s hardly appropriate for me to single out one guest and neglect the rest.”

  He came to her and caught her hands in his. “Listen!” he commanded, drawing her to him and indicating with a nod of his handsome head the sounds of revelry taking place on the deck above them. “Does that sound to you like a crowd of people suffering from neglect?”

  “That’s hardly the point,” she protested faintly.

  “Indeed not,” he murmured against her mouth. “But this most certainly is.”

  And he kissed her. Very thoroughly.

  And she…she couldn’t help herself. She kissed him back. The instant his lips touched hers, she was consumed with hunger. His to do with as he wished.

  Fortunately, he wasn’t quite as lacking in self-control. “That,” he said hoarsely, putting her from him with hands which shook a little, “was premature, and by no means my primary reason for luring you down here.”

  “Oh,” she whimpered, past caring that she sounded woefully disappointed. “What was the reason, then?”

  “To welcome the new year in seclusion, with you.”

  “But that’s not possible! They’ll be expecting me on deck.”

  “Not for another twenty minutes, cara,” he said, leaving her weak-kneed with all sorts of vague and prohibited longing, while he attended to the business of uncorking the wine. “Admittedly not an ideal length of time, but certainly long enough for us to toast one another in private.”

  The champagne foamed exuberantly in the glasses, in much the same way that her blood sang through her veins as he offered her one of the flutes.

  “I really shouldn’t,” she protested weakly, knowing perfectly well that she
really would.

  “It’s but a little sin,” he said, his voice wrapping her in velvet. “Nothing at all to lose sleep over.” He raised his own glass, clinked it lightly against hers. “Buona fortuna, Cassandra! May the coming year see the fulfillment of all your dreams.”

  “Thank you.” She couldn’t look at him. Dare not. She was too afraid of what he might see in her eyes, and even more terrified of what she might detect in his. “Is this how you always celebrate New Year’s Eve?”

  “Not quite,” he said. “I make it a rule to avoid parties such as the one taking place on deck. I don’t care to be obliged to kiss every woman present, simply as a matter of custom. In this instance, however, a different set of rules apply. I am only too happy to kiss you.”

  And he did. Again. More thoroughly than ever, in a lovely, hot, damp, searching exploration of her mouth that left her yearning against him. That had her parting her lips and letting him taste the champagne she’d sipped.

  Exactly when matters progressed beyond a kiss she couldn’t have said, because she was incapable of rational thought, let alone speech. All she knew was that, for the first time in her life, a man was holding her as if she were the most precious creature on earth, and she never wanted him to let go.

  She didn’t care that she knew next to nothing about him. That was the brain’s department and her brain most definitely was not in charge at that moment. Reason had no place in what was happening, nor had caution or propriety.

  What mattered was that he inspired in her the kind of wild sexual longing and quivering expectation she’d read about but never really believed in. Her skin vibrated with awareness of him, the very pores seeming to reach out to absorb the texture of him. When he slid his hand down her throat and dipped a finger into the valley between her breasts, a reckless greed took hold of her, making itself heard in tiny, inarticulate moans buried somewhere deep in her throat.

  With shocking audacity, she covered his hand with hers. Guided it to her breast. Pressed herself against his palm in brazen offering.

  He responded in kind, pinning her against his hips in such a way that awareness jolted through her. He was hard as a rock. Hot as a fire. Strong and pulsing with contained passion.