The Shock Cassano Baby (One Night With Consequences)

by Andie Brock

  Pregnant.

  The reality of what he had done hit him like a ton of rock, the shock firing through his veins. Isobel—a young woman he hardly knew—was pregnant with his baby. And if that wasn’t bad enough she had been a virgin before he had come along and ruined her life. What sort of a brute did that make him? One just like his father, that was what—a man who had swept his teenage mother off her feet, taken what he wanted, then discarded her.

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, Orlando forced himself to think. Why hadn’t he known that Isobel was a virgin? Would it have made any difference if he had? Their brief relationship had been so sudden, so wildly all-consuming, it had knocked all the normal rules out of the park. The attraction between them had been powerful and overwhelming and impossible to resist. And it had been the same for both of them. Or so he’d thought.

  Screwing up his eyes, Orlando let the image of those sultry nights play over in his mind. Yes, Isobel had wanted him—he was sure about that. He remembered them tearing each other’s clothes off, remembered the look of pure sexual longing in Isobel’s eyes as she had reached out to him that first time, arching her naked body against his. But now he also remembered the sharp intake of breath when he had entered her...the fat tears that had leaked from the corners of her eyes when they had finally fallen back against the pillows, gasping for breath.

  At the time he had thought nothing of it—or, worse still, had maybe revelled in his potent masculinity, his ability to stir such passion in a beautiful young woman.

  Now the thought of what he’d done made him feel sick. But the deed was done—and with the most dramatic of consequences.

  Somehow he had to get his head around this. He was going to be a father. The one thing he had always sworn would never, ever happen. Because Orlando had seen first-hand the brutal destruction that came with so-called family life. His own childhood was a chilling testament to that—completely chaotic from the start.

  As a young boy he had been shunted from one foster family to the next, whenever his mother’s fragile mental health had left her unable to cope or plunged her into a depression so black that Orlando had been deemed at risk of neglect. He had been twelve years old when she had died, unable to care for herself any better than she had her precious, skinny, vulnerable son.

  Too old to be adopted, and too difficult, challenging and downright angry with the world to be suitable for short-term fostering any more, Orlando had been placed in a children’s home. And that forbidding, prison-like building had been his home for more than four years.

  It had been during his last few months there that he had made the disastrous decision to track down his father—the man who had had a brief affair with his mother, then abandoned her before he was born. The man who had triggered the mental health issues that had eventually led to his mother’s death. The man who had very nearly destroyed Orlando too.

  But all that had been a long time ago—almost half a lifetime, in fact. At just seventeen years old Orlando had bought a one-way ticket to New York and left his wretched past firmly behind him. And the years since then had been good—remarkable, even—with determination, dedication and sheer hard work seeing Orlando rise rapidly from absolutely nothing to be one of the world’s most successful businessmen. A massive achievement in anyone’s book.

  Yes, Orlando Cassano was at the top of his game. He’d got his life exactly where he wanted it.

  Or so he’d thought.

  Now not only had his past come back to haunt him, but his future was being catapulted into the unknown. He was going to have a child. He had no idea exactly what that would mean, but he did know that he would be there for his son or daughter—come what may, whatever it took. No way would he replicate the despicable behaviour of his own father.

  And that meant the course of his life was about to change for ever.

  * * *

  ‘I’ll be right down.’

  Replacing the intercom receiver, Isobel reached for her coat and slung it over her arm. After checking her reflection in the mirror she hurried out, locking the door behind her before running down the several flights of stairs. She didn’t want to give Orlando the chance to invite himself up.

  Not that she was ashamed of her flat—far from it. It might be tiny, but the rent was reasonable and it was nice and central—only a few stops on the underground to the headquarters of Spicer Shoes. However, it was hardly on a par with the sort of grandeur that Orlando Cassano was accustomed to.

  He was studying the view when Isobel joined him, taking in the car park, the bike racks and the group of youths sitting on the wall that housed the dustbins. Her dash down the stairs had left her out of breath, and Orlando turned to look at her, coolly objective.

  Isobel fought to suppress the familiar lurch in her stomach at the sight of him. He looked ridiculously out of place, standing there in his dark grey cashmere coat, the collar pulled up against the chilly breeze. All urbane, confident authority, he seemed the very antithesis of the crudely graffitied walls of this inner-city tower block.

  ‘How long have you lived here?’

  Having performed a perfunctory kiss on both cheeks, Orlando took a couple of steps back and craned his head to look up, scanning the soulless concrete facade, the uniform rows of windows. Isobel watched his Adam’s apple move beneath the smooth olive skin.

  ‘A couple of years.’ She focussed on buttoning up her coat. ‘And, before you start, there is nothing wrong with it. We can’t all live on Caribbean islands or in Long Island mansions.’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘Well, no, but...’

  ‘In that case I’ll thank you not to make accusatory assumptions.’ His mouth flattened into a tight line, his eyes narrowing with warning.

  Isobel scowled back—this was not a good start. She knew she was being horribly prickly, but her nerves were shot to pieces, her head all over the place. Being in Orlando’s company again was pure torture, and not just because of the pregnancy, nor the fact that he obviously had no intention of letting her raise the child alone, although that was bad enough. Far worse was the realisation that for these past few weeks she had been fooling herself.

  Somehow, while they had been apart, Isobel had managed to convince herself that what had happened on Jacamar—the way she had fallen head over heels for Orlando—had been the result of some sort of Caribbean magic...a spell that would be easily broken when she returned to the UK.

  But that theory had vanished like an icicle in a furnace the second their eyes had met in the boardroom this morning, when the attraction Isobel had felt for him had been so powerful, so immediate, it had slammed right into her chest. And that wretched kiss hadn’t helped, opening her up to all sorts of forbidden desires. She could feel them now, stubbornly pumping through her body under the grey skies of London, without a coconut or a palm tree in sight.

  ‘My car is over here.’

  He hardly needed to point it out. If Orlando seemed out of place then his gleaming car looked as if it had been dropped down from another planet. Sleek, black and low, it had certainly caught the eye of the local residents, several of whom had sauntered over to inspect it, peering in through the windows and running their hands over the immaculate paintwork.

  Isobel felt familiar panic creep through her veins. Not because of the circling hooded youngsters—she’d lived here long enough to know that they wouldn’t bother her—but because cars, fast cars in particular, terrified her.

  She had been seventeen when a horrific car crash had all but decimated her family, killing her father and leaving her mother in a wheelchair. Isobel had received only minor injuries, but the course of her life had changed for ever.

  Giving up any idea of going to university, she had determined there and then that she would honour her father by taking on the family business and dedicating herself to making Spicer Shoes a success. She’d hoped the hard work would be cathartic and that a thriving business would mean security for the loyal Spicer employees and for
her mother, whose continuing care in a residential home was eye-wateringly expensive.

  More than that, she’d hoped to be able to make her mother see that the world hadn’t stopped the day of the accident. That she still had her daughter—alive and well and desperate to have a loving relationship with her, desperate to make amends.

  But in the seven years that had passed, even though the business was now poised on the brink of massive success, Isobel’s relationship with her mother had become more strained than ever—something that weighed more heavily on her shoulders than she would even admit to herself.

  And then there were the panic attacks. The crippling anxiety that Isobel still battled against whenever she sat in a car. But time and some intensive therapy had helped—plus the determination that she was going to overcome her fear. Now, dragging in a deep breath, she released it slowly, the way she had been shown, and strode with great determination to meet her nemesis.

  Opening the door for her, Orlando waited as she slid in. Distracted by the car’s admiring audience, he hadn’t seemed to notice Isobel’s fear, which was just the way she wanted it. She waited as he went round to the driver’s side, her nails digging into the palms of her hands.

  ‘What can she do?’

  Outside, she could hear a conversation starting up.

  ‘Over two hundred, technically.’

  Oh, dear God. Orlando had opened his door and was standing outside it, just the lower half of his body visible to Isobel, one foot resting on the car’s sill.

  ‘Cool. You ever done that?’

  ‘I’ve taken her up to one-fifty on the autobahn in Germany and she still seemed to have plenty left.’

  ‘Wow. That’s cool, man.’

  The way Isobel’s anxiety levels were racing, she suspected they would give it a run for its money. Reaching across, she pressed the car horn, meaning to grab Orlando’s attention so that they could get going—get this ordeal over with before she lost her nerve completely. But the jarring sound made her shrink back into her seat, and as Orlando peered in she caught his puzzled look.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Fine.’ She whispered the word under her breath as she double-checked the clasp of her seat belt. ‘Can we just get out of here, please?’

  Swinging himself inside with cat-like agility, Orlando turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared into life. As he pressed his foot on the accelerator it growled throatily. Through the windscreen Isobel could see the look of respect on the young men’s faces.

  ‘You seem very impatient.’ He glanced at her, his hands gripping the steering wheel. ‘I can’t see that it hurts for me to spend a bit of time with those guys.’

  ‘You won’t say that when your car is found burnt out on a piece of wasteland.’

  ‘And you accuse me of prejudice?’ He gave a dismissive snort.

  Isobel glared at him. ‘Look, I’m not saying they are bad kids, but a flashy car like this is bound to be a target for joyriders. It’s like asking for trouble.’

  ‘Ah, so it’s my fault.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘It’s important not to write people off because of their backgrounds, Isobel. I was young once. I remember what it was like.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting we wrote them off.’ How had she dug herself into this hole? ‘I happen to get on fine with my neighbours. But I doubt very much that you have anything in common with them.’

  Orlando raised his eyebrows, as if he were about to say something, then clearly changed his mind, turning his eyes back to the front. ‘I’m just saying there’s no harm in treating young people with respect—giving them something to aspire to rather than assuming that the trappings of success will provoke jealousy or criminality.’

  Well, that was her told. His sanctimonious conceit was almost enough to goad Isobel out of her terror. Almost. But as the car took off with a sudden burst of speed, its tyres screeching on the tarmac as Orlando spun it around in the opposite direction, Isobel could only shriek.

  ‘For God’s sake!’

  Gripping the sides of her seat, she twisted round to look out of the rear window, convinced she’d see the bodies of her neighbours scattered in their wake. Instead she could just make out grinning faces, arms raised in gestures of respect.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘It’s what they expect of a car like this.’

  They had slowed right down now, edging into the traffic of the main road. Isobel stared at his handsome, composed profile.

  ‘If you dangle a dream in front of someone you don’t want to disappoint them.’

  Sinking down into the low leather seat, she willed her racing heart to steady. This was no dream...it was a nightmare.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘PLEASE, SIT DOWN.’

  Up on his feet, Orlando was gesturing to the chair opposite him, his impatient gaze following Isobel’s every move as she joined him at their table.

  Having just about survived the car journey to the restaurant, she had made straight for the restroom to repair her make-up and give her churning stomach some time to calm down. Mercifully, the clogged London traffic had given Orlando no chance to exceed the speed limit, and when his first attempts at conversation had failed he’d accepted her silence and left her to endure the journey in peace.

  She’d probably been away no more than five or six minutes, but judging by the scowl on Orlando’s face it was five or six minutes too long.

  ‘I’ve ordered for you.’

  Leaning forward with the wine bottle in his hand, Orlando went to fill Isobel’s glass but she shook her head and reached for the carafe of water.

  ‘I know the chef here. His recommendations are always excellent.’

  ‘Right. Thank you.’ It wasn’t the food Isobel was worried about. It was the way Orlando was insidiously taking control.

  Taking in a breath, she looked around. They were tucked in a discreet corner of a well-known and very exclusive restaurant—the sort that took bookings for twelve months in advance...or twelve minutes if you were Orlando Cassano. She’d recognised several celebrities seated at the subtly lit, polished wood tables, and ordinarily she would have loved a discreet gawp around to see who was dining with whom. But tonight her attention was on only one person—the darkly handsome man who sat opposite her now.

  ‘So, obviously we have a lot to discuss.’ Picking up his glass, Orlando swirled the dark red wine around, already coldly businesslike. ‘When exactly is the baby due?’

  ‘The beginning of December.’

  ‘So that gives us—what? Seven months?’

  Us? Since when had they become an us?

  Isobel took a gulp of water. ‘Yes. If my calculations are right, the due date is December the second.’ Just saying it out loud made it somehow seem all the more bewilderingly real.

  ‘Well, obviously we will need to get that date confirmed by a doctor.’

  ‘This is a baby, Orlando, not a business deal.’ Isobel heard her own acerbic reply. ‘You can’t threaten it with a penalty clause if it doesn’t deliver on time.’

  A warning gleam shone in Orlando’s eyes, but he chose not to challenge her. Clearing his throat, he continued. ‘I’ll make enquiries about the best obstetrician in London.’

  ‘There’s no need. I can make my own appointments, thank you.’

  ‘Very well.’ He sighed pointedly. ‘In that case, let’s move on to where we are going to live.’

  ‘Live?’ Isobel carefully placed her glass down on the table. ‘As in together?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking maybe New York would be the most practical. I have a large apartment there, and—’

  ‘Wait a minute, Orlando. I can’t move to New York!’ Isobel gasped with panic. ‘My home, my business—everything is here in London.’

  ‘Spicer Shoes is a global company now, Isobel. Isn’t that what you’ve been striving for? With the new flagship store on Fifth Avenue opening soon it wouldn’t hur
t for you to be seen to be spending some time in the US—charity galas, opening nights...that sort of thing. All good for business.’ He paused, meeting her heated gaze with measured calmness. ‘As for your home—what are you suggesting? That I move into your apartment? I suspect it would be a little crowded for the three of us.’

  Isobel scowled. The idea of him moving into her flat was farcical, as well he knew.

  She squared her shoulders. ‘I don’t remember agreeing to us living together at all.’

  ‘We are both going to have to make sacrifices, Isobel.’ Orlando pinned her with his gaze. ‘That’s the fact of the matter.’

  Sacrifices. Was that how he saw this? Was that how he viewed their baby?

  Because that wasn’t how Isobel felt. She already loved this growing life inside her—already knew that she would do anything to protect it, to provide for it, to keep it safe. That wasn’t sacrifice—that was love. But it wasn’t the same for Orlando—how could it be? He had no emotional attachment to this baby. To him it was just a millstone around his neck, a huge encumbrance that he felt compelled to deal with.

  With a spark of hope, Isobel decided to give it one more try—to make him realise that he could walk away if he wanted to, leave her to it. She could cope. In fact she would trade the tumult of living with him for the hollow calmness of raising the child alone a thousand times over.

  ‘I meant what I said earlier, Orlando,’ she started. ‘I am prepared to raise the child alone, to take full responsibility. There is no need for you to make any sacrifices for this baby.’

  ‘Let me make something clear, Isobel.’ Orlando’s voice dipped dangerously low. ‘I intend to meet my responsibilities, and that will inevitably involve sacrifices. But I will make them willingly and wholeheartedly. It’s the only way. I assume you feel the same?’

  ‘Well, yes, obviously.’ It was all very well, him coming over all noble, but he expected her to give up her life in London and fly halfway across the world to share a life with him that he freely admitted would only be for the sake of their child.