The Italian's Runaway Bride

by Jacqueline Baird

  Kelly shook her head and stared straight ahead. So he looked a bit haggard—not surprising, the way he worked—and played. The last two nights they had made love with a desperation on Kelly’s part she was not proud of. Still, they did not have the kind of relationship that allowed her to show concern for him. Anyway, she had enough problems of her own. The biggest one having arisen two days ago—when she had collected Annalou’s dress from Verona she had also visited Dr Credo, and discovered she was pregnant again. At first she had been delighted, until she’d remembered Gianfranco’s telling Olivia he wanted no more children.

  The bride was beautiful, the service, the photos, the reception…everything was perfect, but Kelly went through the whole thing worried sick.

  ‘It was the bestest wedding ever,’ Annalou said later that evening, standing in the nursery, washed and ready for bed, having finally been persuaded to take off her bridesmaid’s dress. ‘Anna was beautiful; my wedding will be like that. Was yours, Mummy?’

  Kelly chuckled. ‘Something like that,’ and, glancing across at Gianfranco, she was surprised to see what looked like a flicker of pain in his dark eyes. He had just been laughing and telling Annalou she was a little princess.

  ‘Into bed.’ Kelly watched as Annalou climbed on the bed, and then, bending over her, she tucked her in and kissed her.

  ‘You looked lovely as well, Mummy,’ Annalou murmured sleepily. Kelly swallowed the lump in her throat, touched by her child’s words.

  ‘Thank you, sweetheart. Now go to sleep.’ Straightening up, she smoothed her hands down her hips, straightening the skirt of her dress. It was a designer gown in heavy silk, French navy trimmed with cream, with a low-cut square neck that revealed the slight curve of her breasts, and short sleeves. It followed the line of her shapely body to perfection. But not for much longer, she thought wryly.

  ‘I don’t think I told you how beautiful you looked today.’ Gianfranco’s husky drawl impinged on her musings, and suddenly he was beside her, his hand on her arm. ‘My daughter reminded me.’

  ‘You don’t look so bad yourself,’ Kelly murmured, her gaze resting lightly on his large, lithe body as he led her from the room.

  ‘Thank you.’ Gianfranco grinned. ‘But I think our little princess took the prize, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Of course,’ Kelly agreed and glanced speculatively up at him as they entered the sitting room of their suite. The wedding and Annalou seemed to have put him in a good mood, but then he usually was relaxed around Annalou. Maybe this was her chance to do some fishing and find out how he really felt about another child.

  ‘She is growing up fast,’ Kelly ventured, sinking down onto the sofa and kicking off her shoes; her heart was racing but she battled to remain cool.

  ‘Yes, she is a darling child, and she looked a picture in that dress,’ Gianfranco responded, walking across to the bar and pouring a good measure of whisky into a crystal glass. ‘Want one?’ He raised his glass.

  Kelly shook her head. ‘No,’ and for a second wondered what he would say if she just came out with it. Sorry, I can’t—I’m pregnant. But she wasn’t prepared to take the chance. Instead she continued, ‘But I sometimes wonder if maybe Annalou is a bit lonely with only adults for company,’ she suggested. ‘Maybe we should consider having another child—a brother or a sister for her.’ She waited with bated breath for his response.

  Gianfranco almost choked on the whisky and, draining the glass, he put it down, his dark brows drawing together in a frown. Had she taken leave of her senses? He crossed to where she sat, looking perfectly relaxed, and stared down at her. A tentative smile played around her luscious mouth, but her gorgeous eyes were oddly serious. He knew what she was like for leaping into things. Her latest idea had to be nipped in the bud immediately.

  ‘No. Annalou is perfectly happy, and she has friends at pre-school. Another child is out of the question,’ he told her bluntly. A nerve ticked in Gianfranco’s temple, and he laid his hand on her shoulder, kneading her collarbone to emphasise the point. ‘Forget it, Kelly. I don’t want any more children.’

  She trembled at the warmth of his hand on her flesh, but her blue eyes locked onto the implacable darkness of Gianfranco’s and she had her answer. He was deadly serious and it hurt like hell. Deep down inside she had nursed the hope that perhaps her Italian had not been so good three years ago, that she had misinterpreted what Gianfranco had said. Now that hope was gone.

  ‘Tough,’ she said, shrugging off his hand and rising to her feet. ‘Because I’m already pregnant.’ She didn’t wait to hear his response, but headed for the door.

  ‘No—no.’ Gianfranco grabbed her arm and whirled her around to face him. ‘Tell me it isn’t true,’ he demanded through clenched teeth.

  His fingers bit into the flesh of her arm and a surge of anger coloured Kelly’s cheeks, but she forced herself to remain calm; this was their unborn child they were discussing and anger would get them nowhere. ‘It’s true; get used to it,’ she snapped, and watched as he closed his eyes for a moment. Perhaps now it was a fait accompli he might like the idea. But any hopes in that direction were squashed once and for all when he opened his eyes.

  His face hardened into an impenetrable mask. ‘Has the pregnancy been confirmed by a doctor?’ he demanded, and his cold, clipped voice chilled her to the bone.

  ‘Dr Credo. Two days ago.’

  ‘Is it mine?’

  A harsh, humourless laugh escaped her. That was the one question she had not expected, but she should have done, given he thought she had slept with Tom and was too dodgy to touch without a condom. ‘Oh, yes. I am nine weeks pregnant—work it out for yourself. History repeating itself,’ she drawled with bitter sarcasm. ‘The tumble on the floor in Cornwall.’

  His black eyes narrowed to mere slits in the harshness of his face. ‘You were on the Pill.’

  ‘No. You said I was on the Pill, because you told me to take it three years ago and Dr Credo told you I had done so,’ Kelly said sweetly, but inside she was raging. Her husband, Count Gianfranco Maldini, was a very wealthy, very powerful man, one of an almost extinct breed of dinosaurs that believed once they had demanded a course of action it would be pursued ad infinitum. The conceit was colossal.

  Gianfranco’s dark eyes grazed over her slender but voluptuous body, and fear such as he had never imagined possible was staring him in the face. He frowned down at her. ‘No matter, Kelly. Much as it goes against my belief, in this case it is not too late. A termination is in order.’

  She shivered, closing her eyes against the pain. He had it all cut and dried.

  ‘I will have a word with Dr Credo.’ He was still talking, and Kelly saw red.

  Her fingers curled into fists and her free hand swung though the air. She punched him straight on the nose. ‘Take that, you no-good scum of the earth,’ she yelled; it had hurt her hand but it was worth it, as Gianfranco reeled back, letting go of her arm in the process.

  ‘I have had enough of you to last me a bloody lifetime.’

  They hadn’t spent as much as a year together as man and wife, and in that time Kelly had suffered every emotion known to man and then some, all because of Gianfranco. But his latest betrayal was the worst, the absolute pits. She glared at him with wild eyes; he had straightened up and was holding his nose, blood seeping through his elegant fingers. Serves the bastard right, she thought furiously. And all the hurt, the anger she had kept in check for so long, came spewing out.

  ‘All you ever wanted from me was sex, from the first time we met. I was never good enough to be your wife or the mother of your child. You would never have married me, except you found out I was pregnant and your precious flaming Olivia wanted a baby. The pair of you decided to have mine. Olivia told me herself: the civil marriage in England meant nothing, but was just a means to get my baby. You could still marry her in church.’

  She didn’t hear Gianfranco’s horrified, ‘Dio, no.’ Her fury, unleashed, flowed like vitriol over his proud head.