The Costanzo Baby Secret

by Catherine Spencer

  He shrugged. “You already are. You’re back home with your husband. Can’t you let that be enough for now?”

  “No, because there’s something missing.”

  “If you’re talking about us and our present living arrangement, I can’t imagine you want to engage in marital relations with a man you don’t remember marrying.”

  Actually, that wasn’t quite true. She might have no memory of when she married him, but the more she saw of him, the better she understood why. His smile left her weak at the knees. His voice reverberated throughout her body with the deep, exotic resonance of a jungle drum. As for his touch, whether he intended it to be so or not, it turned her insides to a molten lava that rivaled anything the island volcanoes had ever produced.

  But there was more to him than pure sex appeal. She’d soon seen beyond the striking good looks to the intelligence, the integrity, the decency. A man half as attractive would have been insulted that his wife didn’t remember him. But Dario continued to treat her with the utmost patience and respect, asking nothing more than that she enjoy herself and get well again.

  Misreading her introspection, he said, “Don’t think it’s easy, living in the same house with you, Maeve, and not giving in to my baser instincts. I’m a man, not a saint.”

  Oh, hallelujah! She wasn’t the only one lying alone in bed every night and wishing it were otherwise. But, “There’s more to it than that,” she confessed. “Something I can’t quite put my finger on.” Her voice broke and she pressed a clenched fist to her heart. “I feel a deep emptiness here that nothing, not even you, can fill. I have, ever since I set foot in this house.”

  Quickly setting down his glass, he pulled her into the curve of his arm and stroked her back. “Because you’re pushing yourself too hard and letting frustration get the better of you.”

  “Can you blame me?” She tugged free of his hold, not about to be swayed from her original course by her runaway hormones. “There’s a limit to how much mollycoddling I can take, and I’ve reached it.”

  “You’re not enjoying being taken care of?”

  “Did Napoleon enjoy being exiled on Elba?”

  “You’re not a prisoner, mio dolce.”

  “I might as well be. I can’t blink without someone taking note of the fact, and as for wanting to roam freely about the house the way any other wife would, or discuss menus with the cook, forget it! It’s not my place to do any such thing. I’m essentially confined to barracks unless I’m with you. It’s like living in boot camp!”

  He laughed, so relaxed and charming that she knew if she didn’t keep her wits about her, she was in danger of finding him even more adorable than she already did. “Oh, not quite that bad, surely?”

  Worse, in fact. She was treated like visiting royalty. And therein lay the problem. She wasn’t a visitor, she was the mistress of the house. Or at least she was supposed to be. But the one time she’d ventured as far as the kitchen, the cook had descended on her, clucking like an overwrought hen, and shooed her away.

  “It sometimes feels that way. Take today, for instance. Because I was dressed and ready for lunch early, instead of doing as I usually do and sticking to my own little garden, I decided to wander farther afield and explore the rest of the grounds to see if something—anything—might jog my memory.

  “First, I practically had to wrestle my way past a maid who didn’t think I should be allowed through the front door. Then, once I was outside, no matter which way I turned, I kept running into people—gardeners, maintenance men, you name it—who made it clear I shouldn’t wander off the main paths or go too close to the edge of the cliff. So I went down the drive, thinking I’d take a walk along the road, and got as far as the gates only to find them locked. When I asked one of the workers why, he pretended he didn’t understand me, even though I spoke to him in Italian.”

  “Not surprising.” Turning away, Dario busied himself refilling his glass. “He speaks the local dialect, which is quite different from anything you hear on the mainland. Even native Italians have trouble communicating with the islanders. Another campari and soda?”

  Refusing to let him distract her, she shook her head. “No, thanks. Look, I can see why you’d want to keep strangers from wandering all over your property, but surely those of us living here should be able to get out if we feel like it? Why, even the door in my garden wall is now kept locked.”

  “I know. I ordered it to preserve your privacy after my mother’s unscheduled visit.”

  “The point I’m making,” she went on, doggedly ignoring the interruption, “is that I’ve been here almost a week, and to put it bluntly, I’m suffocating. I step out of my suite, and a maid immediately shows up to escort me to wherever I’m supposed to go next. I try to familiarize myself with my surroundings, and I’m stymied at every turn. I feel like a hamster running endlessly on a wheel, but never getting anywhere.”

  “Then how about this?” he said soothingly. “I’ll take the afternoon off and, after lunch, we’ll tour the island by boat. If you feel up to it, we can even stop in your favorite cove and go snorkeling. Would you like that?”

  She’d like it better if he’d just be straight with her, instead of stalling for time. Before he’d squelched it, she’d seen the brief flash of dismay in his eyes when she’d mentioned the emptiness inside, and guessed he knew exactly what caused it. And if he thought a dip in the sea would be enough to wash it from her thoughts, he was mistaken. Either he gave her the answers she sought, or she’d find someone who would.

  On the other hand, after whining about boredom and lack of freedom, she could hardly turn down his invitation to do something different, and visiting a place that had meant something to her in the past might prove to be the key that would unlock her mind.

  “Yes, I would,” she said, swallowing her frustration and doing her best to sound suitably appeased. “Thank you.”

  Viewing Pantelleria by boat instead of from the air gave her a whole new perspective on the island. In places, giant cliffs swept down to isolated pockets of pebble beach. In others, great outcroppings of purple-black lava rose up from the cobalt Mediterranean to encircle dreamy lagoons.

  Montagna Grande, towering nearly three thousand feet above sea level, stood guard over bright green fertile valleys crisscrossed with ancient stone walls. In other areas, the softer gray-green of low-growing juniper, heather and myrtle that Dario said was called macchia, ran wild over the land. “The scent when the wind blows from the west is enough to knock your head off,” he told her.

  They sailed past isolated farms and a tiny fishing village where water bubbled up from the thermal springs in its harbor. Another village clung to the edge of a sheer cliff, with glorious views across the sea. But awe inspiring though all that was, the spectacle much closer at hand stirred Maeve’s blood more.

  Dario in tailored black trousers and white shirt was a sight that would kick any woman’s heart rate up a notch. But Dario in swimming trunks, with the wind ruffling his hair, was enough to stop a woman’s pulse altogether.

  Seated beside him in the eighteen-foot Donzi runabout, Maeve had to keep reminding herself that this man really was her husband, and of all the women in the world he might have chosen, he’d picked her to be his wife.

  His bronzed torso gleamed in the sun. The only shadows came from the play of muscle in his forearms as he effortlessly navigated Pantelleria’s jagged coastline. The hands loosely gripping the steering wheel were strong and capable. Once, they had touched her intimately. She knew it, even though she couldn’t remember when, because looking at them sent a spasm of awareness shooting through her body.

  And his mouth—had it done the same thing? Or was the sudden damp flood at her core brought on by wishful thinking?

  Catching her inspecting him and quite misunderstanding the reason, he grinned and said, “Relax, Maeve, I know what I’m doing. We’re not going to run aground.”

  “I wasn’t watching you,” she said, rolling truth and fib t
ogether into a seamless whole. “I was admiring the view.”

  “Then you’re facing the wrong way.” Shifting the throttle so that the boat idled in Neutral, he lifted his arm and pointed off the starboard bow. “Look over there.”

  She turned and let out a gasp of delight. No more than twenty yards away, a pod of dolphins frolicked in the turquoise water. “I would give the world to be like them,” she breathed, entranced. “They’re everything I wish I was. Playful, graceful, beautiful.”

  “You’re beautiful, Maeve. I told you so the first night you came home again, and nothing’s changed my mind since then.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I’m not fishing for compliments, I’m talking about their spirit. They embody a joie de vivre I seem to have lost. I’m in limbo—a stranger inside my own skin.”

  “Not to me,” he murmured, for once leaning so close that his breath teased the outer rim of her ear. “You’re the woman I married.”

  She leaned against him, loving his closeness, the heat of his body, the scent of his sun-kissed skin. Loving him. “Tell me about that—about our getting married, I mean. Did we have a big wedding?”

  He hesitated just long enough for a shiver of apprehension to steal over her. “No. It was a very quiet, intimate affair.”

  “Why?”

  Again that ominous pause before he said, “Because we were married in Vancouver. I could spare only a few days before returning to Italy, which made planning an elaborate affair out of the question.”

  “So it was a spur-of-the-moment thing?”

  “More or less. I took you by surprise, and popped the question, to coin the rather odd English way of putting it. You had just enough time to run out and find a dress to wear.”

  “What color?”

  “Blue,” he said. “The same shade as your eyes.”

  “And flowers?”

  “You carried a small bouquet of white lilies and roses.”

  “My favorites!”

  “Yes.”

  “Who else was there?”

  “Two witnesses. A former colleague of yours whose name I don’t recall, and a business associate of mine.”

  “Did we have rings?”

  “Yes. White-gold wedding bands, yours studded with diamonds.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “The clinic administrator gave yours to me for safekeeping.”

  “What about a honeymoon?”

  “Just four short days on the yacht. I couldn’t spare more time.”

  She splayed the fingers of her left hand across her knee. “I think I’d like to wear my ring again. Is it at the house?”

  “No. It’s with mine, in the penthouse safe, in Milan. I’ll get them both the next time I’m in the city.” He slid back behind the wheel and put the engine in gear again. “For now, we have more to do and see out here.”

  Slowly they continued their tour of the island, and finally, with the worst heat of the day past, he guided the Donzi between upthrust spears of basalt rock and dropped anchor in a quiet, secluded cove.

  Donning masks, snorkels and fins, they slipped over the side of the boat and drifted facedown over water teeming with marine life. Schools of black-and-orange-striped fish darted among the coral beds. Red starfish, their color made all the more vivid by contrast, clung to dark volcanic rock. Tiny crustaceans scuttled into the protection of miniature forests of algae the likes of which, as far as she knew, she’d never seen before. Close to the mouth of the cove, she came across the remains of an ancient amphora, relic of a shipwreck that had taken place centuries before.

  When, after more than an hour in the water, they at last climbed aboard the runabout again, the sun had slipped low on the western horizon. Tired, content and wrapped in a huge beach towel, she snuggled close to Dario as he weighed anchor and set the Donzi on its homeward course.

  As usual, that evening they dined on the terrace, or ducchena as Dario had taught her to call it. Maeve dressed with particular care before joining him. Much though she’d enjoyed the afternoon, it hadn’t produced the results she’d hoped for. She had no more recollection of visiting the cove previously than she had of marrying Dario, and she was determined that not another night would pass without her making some sort of progress. If that meant having to seduce him into revealing all he knew, then that’s what she was prepared to do. It was a case of the ends justifying the means, although why justification should be necessary was a moot point. He was her husband, after all, and had more or less admitted he’d grown as weary of celibacy as she had.

  Inspecting the more formal dinner dresses in her closet, none of which she’d yet worn, she rejected the first two, which, though lovely, weren’t as eye-catching as the third, a silk charmeuse in deepest jade-green, with a high empire waistline. In contrast to the modesty of the softly flared long sleeves, the low-cut neckline could be described as nothing short of daring. A huge pearl buckle centered below the bust brought together the artfully draped fabric of the bodice, and released it in a free fall of dramatic, shimmering color almost to her ankles. Simple but sophisticated, it required only a pair of teardrop pearl earrings and high-heeled black sandals to complement it.

  “Lei è una visione, mia bella,” Dario said reverently, when he saw her.

  She cast him a deliberately provocative glance from beneath demurely lowered eyelashes. “Thank you.”

  That she’d achieved the effect she’d been hoping for was immediately apparent. He almost missed the flutes he was filling and came close to splashing vintage champagne all over his shoes.

  Recovering himself, he gestured to the sun chaises and said solicitously, “You must have found this afternoon very tiring. Why don’t you put your feet up while we wait for dinner to be served?”

  The chaises were separated by a low table that allowed for no body contact, but down by the pool was a canopied patio swing built for two. “Why don’t we have our drinks on the lower deck, for a change?” she suggested, running a deliberate fingertip from the top of her plunging neckline to her cleavage. “The pool looks so lovely in the moonlight. It reminds me of a huge cabochon sapphire.”

  Eyeing her suspiciously, he shrugged. “Certo. Whatever pleases you. But take my arm going down the steps. You might trip in those heels otherwise.”

  For a brief, startling second, she forgot her plans to seduce him as another flower-scented night, and a narrow street paved with uneven cobblestones illuminated by streetlamps, flashed before her eyes. And then, as quickly as it appeared, the picture was gone. Imagination? she wondered, her pulse jumping. Or a bone fide memory slipping through the layers clouding her mind?

  There was only one way to find out. “I seem to recall your saying that to me before.”

  He laughed and tucked her hand beneath his elbow. “Only about a hundred times.”

  “Why? I know I made a practice of falling over my own feet when I was a teenager, but I’d hoped I’m not quite as clumsy anymore.”

  “You aren’t,” he assured her. “You’re one of the most graceful women I’ve ever met. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t go out of my way to keep you safe.”

  They’d reached the pool deck by then. Not waiting for him to suggest they occupy any of the several chaises lined up around its perimeter, she slipped her hand free of his arm and wandered ever so casually to the swing, leaving him with little choice but to follow and sit down next to her. “Where were you, then, the day of my accident?” she asked.

  Even though he wasn’t quite touching her, she felt the sudden tension emanating from his body as acutely as if static electricity had leaped between them. “Obviously not doing my job.”

  “I’m not blaming you, Dario,” she amended hurriedly. “No one can be expected to look out for someone else all the time, especially not an adult who should be able to look out for herself.”

  “But I do blame myself,” he said, his voice raw.

  She opened her mouth to refute such a notion, then closed it again as anothe
r thought occurred. “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed softly. “Are you telling me you were driving the car, and hold yourself responsible for my injuries? Is that why you won’t talk to me about it?”

  He swung around to face her with such leashed anger that she flinched. “No. If I’d been at the wheel, you never would have been hurt and…”

  “And what?”

  “And we wouldn’t be sitting here like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Brother and sister,” he exploded. “Good friends. Polite strangers. Take your pick.”

  “You don’t like our status quo?”

  “What do you take me for?” he ground out. “Of course I don’t like our status quo! What red-blooded man would?”

  She inched closer until her thigh touched his, and put her hand on his knee. “Then why don’t you do something about it, Dario?” she said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  HE’D never thought to see the day or night that he would turn down a beautiful, sexy woman’s advances. But when he’d married Maeve, he’d cast aside his role of quintessential playboy and relied on his moral compass to make a success of a union he’d neither anticipated nor wanted. The same inborn sense of decency kicked in now, reining in his response to her.

  “Because I’m not convinced you know what you’re asking for,” he said.

  She cupped his jaw and turned his face to hers. “Will this change your mind?” she whispered, her sweetly fragrant breath feathering over his lips to infiltrate his mouth.

  At once bold and hungry, her kiss inflamed his soul. This was the Maeve he’d married, he thought, his senses swimming; the girl in a woman’s body whom he’d coaxed into shedding the inhibitions that had dogged her most of her life. He had taught her well. She’d blossomed under his expert tutelage; had reveled in her newfound sexuality. And now she was using it to destroy him.

  Still he fought, bolstered by doubts he’d never fully acknowledged before. Who was it she really craved: her husband, or Yves Gauthier, the French-Canadian summer visitor with whom she’d struck up such a close alliance, and in whose rented car she’d been traveling when the accident occurred?