Mountain Man's Accidental Baby Daughter (A Mountain Man's Baby Romance)

by Lia Lee

  All that mattered was that she get out and away. She made her way silently through the penthouse, and everything already felt strange and ghostly to her. It was as if she was looking at a scene she had left long ago and far away. She hesitated when she saw a pad of paper on the table by the door.

  If I don't leave a note, he'll think I was taken. He'll come after me.

  She wavered, but it was of course for the best that he knew. At the very least, he would know why she was gone, and that he couldn't treat someone else like he had tried to treat her. Perhaps if they ever met again, he would know he had been wrong.

  She dashed the note off, and as she wrote, tears started rolling down her cheeks. She wiped them angrily from her face, and finally, she was free to turn away.

  The ride down the elevator felt as if all the air was being drawn from her lungs. There was a part of her that couldn't believe she was leaving, that screamed at her to stay.

  I suppose I got more used to the luxury than I would have believed, she thought cynically, but she knew that wasn't it. She was held back by love, and love had hurt her more than she had ever imagined.

  I need to shut that part of me off, she thought. From now on, love is only for my children.

  When she was in the cool autumn air outside, things felt not right, but perhaps a little easier. It still burned like fire to leave Luciano, but she knew she had no choice.

  None at all.

  ***

  Luciano woke with a head full of dreams and an awareness that something was wrong. He decided immediately that if Pearl wasn't one hundred percent better, he would insist on their seeing Dr. Arora that afternoon.

  The apartment was too quiet when he walked out of his room, and by the time he realized Pearl wasn't in her bedroom, his mind was already screaming at him. For a moment he was frozen, and then he reached for his phone, ready to call out every single force that was at his considerable disposal.

  Then he saw the scrawled note on the paper by the door. As he read, he started to shake, and then a deep and painful anguish tore through him.

  After the pain had subsided, however, Luciano stood and reached for his phone again.

  The first priority was finding Pearl. It always would be.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It might have been growing chilly in New York, but in North Carolina, it was still beautiful summer. Despite her heartache, Pearl breathed in the beauty of the forest and the ocean, letting it reach into her soul to heal her.

  The little trailer she had rented was primitive with only a narrow bed and a lock she figured could be taken out of commission by a few blows from an ax, but all that mattered was that it was shelter, and she could pay for it with cash. The old man who had rented it to her had looked dubiously at her belly when she’d offered him payment, but he’d shrugged, not remarking on it.

  Pearl knew living on the coast wasn't a permanent solution, but for now, it was all she could deal with. For three weeks now, she had lived in the forest, paying the campers that came by to bring her food from town and whatever other supplies she needed.

  She walked the trail from the trailer to the sea, and she looked out over the ocean. It felt like she grew heavier and rounder by the day, and she spoke to her children sometimes.

  You will always have me, and you will always have the sea, and oh, I will love you so...

  One morning she woke up, and when she stepped outside, she could feel a chill in the air. Soon enough she would have to move on, but for now, Pearl walked down to the beach.

  There was a man throwing rocks at the waves, and even before he turned, Pearl felt a deep chill run down her spine. It couldn't be, but it was, and just as she turned to run, he spun around and came after her.

  There was no way she was going to outrun him, so she let him catch her, looking up into his eyes with defiance.

  “You look like hell,” she blurted out in surprise.

  Luciano looked gaunt, and there were lavender, dark circles under his eyes, and a nearly wild cast to his features. He looked like a madman who hadn't slept in days.

  “Of course I do,” Luciano said impatiently. “I've run myself ragged looking for you. One of the investigators thought you were in fucking Canada, and I spent nearly a week up there.”

  She started to reply, but he cut her off with a furious gesture.

  “I think you've already had your say,” he said, holding out his hand. When he opened it, she saw a scrap of paper, balled up but familiar in his palm. Her note. Even after all these weeks, Pearl remembered what it said.

  You can't shove me aside. I won't go live in Palermo like some woman you don't care about any longer. I don't need you or your charity. If you don't want us, then we'll make our own way.

  With the hyper focus of the moment, she could still see her tear stains on the paper. Luciano's hand loosened on her arm before he let her go entirely.

  “Palermo wasn't for you, not like that,” he said quietly. “It was...a gift, I suppose. A place that was meant to be for you. A leverage so that you would never feel as if you had nowhere to go. It was meant to be a place that was all yours, so you didn't feel beholden to me, or trapped. I hoped...”

  Luciano's voice tightened like a knot, and he nearly choked. Pearl couldn't stop herself. She reached out for him, touched his shoulder and then his cheek. She thought he would push her away, but instead he nuzzled her hand with longing.

  “What did you hope?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  “I had hoped it might be for the both of us. Little mermaid, I can't tell you how it's been, the time we spent together. It was amazing. Suddenly, I didn't care about what the world thought or being seen or being in all the fashionable places. I never cared much before, but I thought I should, so I did....and when I was with you, I didn't give a damn. All that mattered was being with you. Touching you. Seeing you. Making you happy. I wanted to spend the rest of my life making you happy, and I wondered if we could do it in Palermo.”

  He paused, and then he took her hand again. The grief she saw there stole her voice, and it could break her heart if she let it. It might have already broken her heart, left her with nothing but a few sharp shards.

  “If you don't want that...if you don't... I'll give you what you want, but I will not let you run from me again. Not with our children. I want to know where you are, even if I can't be with you...”

  That was when Pearl broke.

  The tears flowed down her face, and all she could do was wrap her arms around Luciano, hanging on hard. Together they sank to the ground, holding on so tight that Pearl thought they might never let go.

  “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” she whispered. “I was so scared, I thought you were going to send me away...”

  “Never,” Luciano said fiercely. “Never in all my life, and if I made you think that, I am the worst kind of fool.”

  They hung on to each other for some timeless moment, and then Luciano drew back. His face was still gaunt, of course, but there was something healed about it already.

  “I should have told you this long ago, when I first knew it to be true,” he said. “Perhaps it might have calmed your fears and spared us this. I love you. Pearl, little mermaid, I love you so much, and when you were gone, I thought my heart would stop beating... I love you. I love you.”

  “Oh my god, Luciano, please...” she whispered. Hearing about his grief was almost unbearable, but she knew how to start healing it. “I love you, I'll never run again, I love you so much...”

  As the sun rose over the water, Pearl held on to her man, and she knew she would never let him go again.

  Epilogue

  Pearl came out of a hazy drowse, a sense of panic edging her thoughts. In those first few moments, all she was aware of was that she was not in their bedroom at the penthouse, she was in a hospital, and her body felt slow and sluggish.

  “Where—”

  Before her panicked shout could come out, she felt a hand fall on her shoulder. It was strange th
at she could recognize Luciano just from touch, but she could, and she immediately calmed down. She reached for his hand with hers and looked up at him through the haze. The hospital room was dim, and there were four small cradles arranged at the foot of her bed.

  “Shh, shh, calm down, everything's fine,” Luciano said softly. “I'm here, and everyone's safe.”

  “Everyone?”

  He grinned at her, and she could see the weariness of the past day on him as well. She didn't blame him. Even if she had been doing all the work, she had felt him with her every step of the way. The last hour of labor was still a haze to her, but she could remember his face pressed next to hers, calling her name, guiding her through the pain and fear.

  “Yup. Want me to wheel them closer?”

  “Yes, please, let me see our babies...”

  She couldn't get over how small they were. During the last month of pregnancy, Pearl had felt as big as a house. She knew that logically she wasn't much smaller yet, but it seemed impossible that the four tiny lives in front of her now had come out of her just a day ago.

  “So are we going with the names we chose before? Nothing seems too strange when paired with our babies?” he asked.

  Pearl smiled at him. “Luke, Marco, Grazia, and Maria, it all sounds just fine to me.”

  “I still can't believe they're here,” Luciano said, coming to sit next to her. One hand rested comfortingly on her shoulder, but the other floated over their babies, touching a soft cheek, a furrowed brow. “I can't believe I got to hold them as you fed them today...”

  “I can,” Pearl said dryly. “I'm the one who delivered them, after all.”

  Luciano leaned over to give her a gentle kiss on the cheek. She knew that passion would leap up between them again sometime in the months to come. If she concentrated, she could feel a spark of it right now, at least she could before her body's aches reminded her that nothing of that kind was happening anytime soon. Now was the time for them to explore another kind of intimacy, and she found that she couldn't wait.

  “The doctors say that if all goes well, we'll be home within forty-eight hours.”

  “It could be now,” Pearl muttered mutinously. “Dr. Arora said I got through the delivery like a champ and that I'll be back on my feet soon.”

  Luciano's hand closed over hers tightly, and he chuckled a little. “Please. Just for my own peace of mind, can we stay until the doctors give the okay? I already had years taken off of my life when we drove here.”

  Pearl sighed dramatically and dropped her head back against the pillow.

  “I just want to be in our own home with our own babies,” she murmured, and she didn't realize how very pathetic she had sounded until Luciano rose and planted a kiss on her forehead.

  “I know. Soon. We'll be going home soon.”

  “That sounds amazing,” she said, but then she shook her head. “It's not true, though.”

  “What's not?” Luciano frowned. “We agreed on the penthouse for now, but if you're having second thoughts...”

  She laughed a little. Pearl could feel an ancient weight roll off of her, like a burden she had been carrying since she was young.

  “No, I just realized. Home isn't the penthouse or the country house. It's not Palermo or North Carolina. It's here. It's where I am with you and with our children. That's home. That will always be home.”

  Luciano pressed her carefully to his chest, and she could hear his powerful heartbeat. She leaned against him, and in the precious silence on the first night of their children's lives, she knew she had found a home and a love that would never leave her.

  THE END

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  Chapter One

  Nathaniel

  The sultry moodiness of Billie Holiday wafts from the speakers as my eyes drift over the gallery. The bright sunlight filtering through the large front bay windows could make even the most lackluster art shine right about now. It gleams across the glossy wooden floors, and the air smells of autumn and freshly brewed coffee.

  If I were alone in my gallery with the art and Billie, this morning would have been perfect.

  But I’m not.

  This is one of those times when my business feels like work. I try to rein in my irritation as I look down at the printout in my hands—the plans I was emailed this morning.

  “Yeah, this isn’t going to work, Roberto.” The plans are for an upcoming installation we’re planning for the gallery, and they are absolute trash. I shake my head. My curator, Roberto, used to be the best, but for the last few months, he’s been off his game. I know he’s dealing with personal issues, and I sympathize, but this is really unacceptable. Five years ago, I would’ve fired him for such a lack of detail in his work, but… well, I’m not the man I used to be.

  I look over the layout some more. “It’s a fucking mess.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Roberto says, on the defensive. I hold his gaze, and after a moment or two, he looks away. “I just think you’re being overly critical here, boss.”

  “Overly critical. Really?” I point to several places on the print-out. “This looks like some junior in art school put it together. Come on, man. You’re better than this. So, do better.”

  Roberto rolls his eyes. “Vanessa’s art is all over the place. You know that,” he argues. “There’s no theme, no unifying concept, nothing—”

  I glare at Roberto again, and he snaps his mouth shut. “And that’s what we’re going to push here—her work is always fresh. Always surprising. Play that up. Get rid of the straight lines and boring lighting. We’re not hosting a Whistler exhibit, man. Think Pollack. Think beyond the norm. Vanessa’s work might be subjective, but it’ll sell. You know who she is, who she’s married to, and who her friends are. So, get it done.”

  Roberto is usually argumentative, but when he knows he’s wrong, at least he has the sense to shut up. And this is one of those times.

  I look through the catalog of pieces that Vanessa Duchamp will be showing here in a few weeks. They’re good. This show will definitely draw a crowd, and press coverage, which is always welcome.

  I glance around. This place, the gallery I started, the gallery that carries my name on the front window, is my legacy. Every detail—from the dark wood floors to the exposed, glossy black ductwork above and the sleek steel handrail that leads up to the loft and my office—was personally approved by me.

  I expect a lot from those who work with me, and Roberto knows that.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying here?” I ask him. He pulls the catalog of Vanessa's work over to where he’s standing at the other side of the reception desk.

  “I get it,” he says, finally conceding. “I’ll draw up some new ideas and have them to you before I leave today. I was wrong—you’re right. Her work would look ridiculous displayed the way I had it planned. I just—”

  I cut him off because I know what he’s about to say. His wife, Karla, recently found out some test results. The cancer’s back. She’s already undergoing another round of chemo. “No need to explain. I know. Clear heart, clear mind, okay? Just take some deep breaths, sit down, and try to let the inspiration come. It will, man. You’ve never failed me before now, and I know that you’ll come back to me with something brilliant.”

  Roberto goes to say something else just as I reach for my cup to take a much-needed sip of espresso. I am running on about three h
ours’ sleep, and unfortunately, I hadn’t lost any of it the fun way. I’d been awake, my memories haunting me worse than any nightmare ever has. It’s been five years, and I know my grief should be buried by now, but her face is not one to forget so easily.

  I know I’m being a bit of an asshole to Roberto, though, given the situation, and I know my rough night is partly to blame. One of these days, sleep will come easily again. Anytime now would be great. But despite our personal demons, this here is business. My business. And the show must always go on.

  At that moment, the gallery’s glass front door suddenly opens, and a gust of wind sweeps in, bringing a flurry of leaves and the smell of traffic exhaust with it. It’s like watching something in slow motion: Roberto had leaned one of our newly acquired pieces against a nearby wall, and the incoming breeze catches it and sends it crashing to the floor. It hits the wood floor with a loud smack and then slides a little bit, just to add insult to injury.

  “Shit,” I mutter as Roberto rushes over to pick it back up.

  “It’s fine,” Roberto calls out, relief evident in his voice.

  “It better be. Why the hell would you put it there? That’s twenty thousand dollars down the drain if it has even a little bit of damage,” I fume.

  “It’s fine, Nathaniel. Really.” Roberto looks the painting over after propping it up in a more protected area of the gallery. “Not a scratch on it.”

  I’ll check it out later for myself. I give Roberto another scowl and turn to the front door— to the source of the chaos.

  It’s some little blonde. I feel another spike of irritation. College brats are always walking in and asking if they can show their work here, like I just take anyone who walks in off the street. Unfortunately, my irritation is paired with something that feels an awful lot like attraction, and I tamp that emotion down as soon as I recognize it.