Baby By Accident: International Billionaires III: The Italians

by Caro LaFever

  “Oh, please.” She gaped at him with incredulity. “You think you can convince me that a man like you has morals about marriage? Don’t make me laugh.”

  “Marriage is not a laughing matter,” he gritted the words between his teeth. “I did not take those vows lightly.”

  “Right.” Her one word crackled with skepticism. “I’m supposed to believe that a man who would trick a woman into his bed suddenly finds a moral conscience.”

  “I did not trick you.”

  “You’re not ever tricking me into your bed again and certainly never tricking me into sex.”

  He ignored the claim, keeping himself on track by the merest thread of control. “Do you really think you’ll want to go through your life with no sex?”

  “No sex with you doesn’t mean I won’t have sex.”

  The taunt was too much. Without thinking, his hands rose to snatch her arms in a firm, tight grip. She gasped and tried to push away, but he slammed her against his hot, needy body. A body on fire for her and on fire with hate for her. “You will never,” he snarled, “cheat on me. You’d be well advised to make sure that never, ever happens.”

  Her eyes widened, and then narrowed immediately with instant rebellion. “Or what?” she snapped. “You’ll beat me? Lock me up like the barbarian you are?”

  Vico released her with a snap before his hands moved to her neck and choked away every one of the insults she hurled at him. Sticking his shaking hands in his jean pockets, he paced away from the temptation.

  His temper was off its hinges, out of control. And he couldn’t find the reins to rope it in. The silence pumped between them, filled with the charging electricity of emotion and the sizzle of angry words.

  “You get the couch,” she finally spat at him.

  He twisted around to confront her with a callous snort. “Not a chance.”

  “Fine.” She stomped to her luggage and yanked the rolling suitcase behind her. “Why am I not surprised? You don’t have a gentlemanly bone in your body.”

  Vico watched her as she strode down into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

  “Great,” he muttered to himself. “Great way to start a marriage, cretino.”

  He was a fool to think he’d ever subdue the Princesse.

  He’d tried in so many ways to build a bridge. But a man couldn’t build a bridge when the other side was a maze of womanly quicksand, swimming underneath an obstinate, stubborn wall.

  Could he?

  Here he was. With his wife. And a marriage for life.

  So. He would just have to figure out how to build a bridge in quicksand.

  Chapter 11

  Their last day in Paris.

  A stream of tourists and Parisians strolled past the sun-splattered café Vico had chosen for their lunch. The red-and-white umbrella flapped above them, shedding needed shade on them both. He sat across from her, perusing the menu: his dark lashes on his olive cheeks, his long, curly hair waving lightly in the wind, his big body encased in his usual Paris uniform of T-shirt and jeans. As far removed from the driving, determined Italian who’d taken over her company as the moon was from the sun.

  Her husband.

  Her temptation. Her torment.

  She was pleased with herself for holding the line these past two weeks. Proud that she’d rejected his silly, ridiculous proposal to fall into his bed. Happy that she’d finally, finally won a battle with this man, making her stand and keeping it.

  Really, she was pleased and proud. Really.

  The stand was the only thing she had as a defense. She’d kept her determination during these endless, maddening days of temptation in the city she’d fallen in love with as a romantic teenager. The city with its endless winding streets filled with flowers. The city with its candlelit nights and perfumed air. The city that spoke to her soul with its wistful views and dreamy vistas.

  The city that made her want to fall madly, passionately into bed.

  With him.

  Holding on to the last remnant of her pride had become a full-time occupation over these last weeks. Every day, she felt her grip on it slowly slipping, sliding…

  Lise stared down at the menu, the words and pictures fogging in her vision. As usual, what appeared in her imagination were the endless pictures of him she’d been busily collecting in her head as the days passed.

  His head thrown back as he laughed, his teeth gleaming in the sun.

  His long legs, in old jeans, catching her eye as he sauntered down an alley.

  His hands, blunt and masculine, handing her a morning herbal tea.

  “What are you having?” His deep voice came from across the table, casual and calm.

  He didn’t have a clue what churned inside her.

  Another thing she was pleased about.

  “I’ll have the salmon and the lemonade,” she said to the waiter.

  Her temptation gave his order and then looked at her with a quirky grin. “Salmon?” he inquired. “You are feeling bold enough to try your luck with fish?”

  “Why not?” She shrugged it off as if it were nothing, but it was. It was something. “I haven’t been sick for days.”

  “Weeks.” Her tormentor’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “Paris agrees with you.”

  Unspoken words hung in the air between them. Words he could easily say and be absolutely right.

  Being with me agrees with you.

  Lise grabbed at any distraction, busying herself with the camera he’d bought her the very first day here. She’d been foolish enough to mention how the sunlight glancing off Notre Dame’s stained-glass windows made her itch to take a photograph. She’d made the decision not to bring her own because she’d hadn’t wanted any mementos of this infamous honeymoon.

  That decision had backfired, hadn’t it?

  She loved this camera. She couldn’t help herself.

  A Hasselblad. The newest, the best, with every single accessory available. The camera she’d dreamed of for years. Knew she’d never have. There was no way she could justify to herself buying a camera costing as much as a car.

  Bought with a snap of his fingers because he’d said, you deserve the best.

  You deserve the best.

  The silly woman in her had leapt around in a joyful jig in the center of her soul. She’d told herself it was because of the camera. Still, she knew it was because of his compliment.

  She glanced over from gazing in dazed delight at her camera and met his tawny gaze.

  He smiled, his teeth blindingly white in contrast to the tan of his skin. “You have been taking excellent photos. Every one of them is amazing.”

  He hadn’t seen every one of them. He’d seen the ones of the landmarks they’d toured, the restaurants they’d eaten at, the tourists and Parisians they’d passed. He was never going to see the photos she’d taken of him. Because if he did, he’d see. He’d know. See and know something she wasn’t willing to admit to him or anyone, except her reluctant self.

  Lise cut her gaze from his and pretended to be adjusting the camera lens. But the realization was stark inside of her.

  She was mesmerized by him.

  His beauty and grace. The animal quality of vitality.

  The camera loved him. Loved his olive skin and white smile. Loved the way his hands moved as he talked. Loved—

  “Have you thought of photography as a career?” His tone held the wisp of a tease.

  “So I could conveniently quit HSF?” She peered at him to gauge how he took the hit.

  His mouth pursed, yet he didn’t take the bait. He never took the bait anymore. “I can see that might be a problem for you.”

  “But not for you.”

  His hazel eyes flashed for a moment. However, like all the other times she’d pushed him these last two weeks, he’d resisted any kind of fight. The waiter brought their drinks, cutting off his response. She sipped the cool drink, habit telling her to beware of any nausea, still nothing threatened her equilibrium.

&nbs
p; He was right. He did agree with her.

  The thought didn’t please her.

  Something about his company, his presence, his care during the last two weeks had caused a miracle. She was rested and relaxed and refreshed. If it weren’t for the burning need she constantly felt around him—the need to touch and taste—the need to…

  How could this have happened once again? How could she allow herself to lust over this man who’d forced her hand so many times? How could she find herself actually liking this man?

  Perhaps it had been the first morning in Paris when the seed had been planted.

  The late morning sun had warmed her face and the soft bedding smelled of lemon and orange. For a moment, her mind blanked, not knowing where she was. Then the memories rushed back: the wedding, the arrival in Paris, their inevitable fight.

  She popped her head up to glance around. She was in a bed. A lovely, king-size bed with soft, creamy linens and lacy, plump pillows. A tall oak armoire standing on one side of the wall matched the two bedside tables and the cheval mirror in the corner. White, airy, floor-length curtains floated on the gentle breeze coming from the open window.

  The man had put her to bed once more.

  But this time, he had acted the gentleman. He hadn’t climbed in after her.

  A little hitch in her heart made her flip the covers off and scramble from the bed. Not until she’d walked to her suitcase and pulled out her favorite twill crop pants did she realize—no nausea.

  Lise paused.

  No nausea.

  For months, she’d awakened every morning to the horrible bubbling in her tummy that always ended with a fast dash to the bathroom and some weak tea and crackers serving as breakfast.

  She straightened slowly. Still nothing. Plucking a tailored pink shirt from her luggage, she tested her body by shaking the wrinkled clothing out. Her body blithely took the shaking in and gave her soft rumble back. A rumble of hunger.

  She hadn’t been hungry for months. Only for the baby’s sake had she forced herself to consume the required food her doctor had prescribed.

  Her tummy growled again.

  A cheerful whistle came through the closed bedroom door. The piping tune tripped down the hallway from the main area of the flat, speaking of carefree days and lively nights. The maleness of the tone told her who was happily…cooking.

  The smell of bacon accompanied the whistle.

  Instead of objecting, her stomach grumbled at her.

  Hungry.

  Lise sucked in a breath. Okay. Nothing big, really. Perhaps she’d naturally moved into the next stage of her pregnancy and precisely as her doctor predicted, the nausea was gone. Certainly this had nothing to do with being in Paris or being with Vico Mattare.

  Locking herself in the bathroom, she took a quick shower and dressed. Not once did she feel faint or want to sit down, or any number of other urges she’d been dealing with since the pregnancy.

  “Buongiorno.” Her new husband didn’t even glance her way, his focus on the steaming pan in front of him. He wore an old pair of jeans that hung low on his waist and a plain, red T-shirt with a splashy orange logo for some beer she’d never heard of. The cotton was old, too, and lovingly highlighted his biceps. “Take a seat and I’ll get you some herbal tea.”

  She hesitated in the arch of the kitchen doorway. “How do you know I like herbal tea?”

  He finally looked her way, his eyes clear and alert, as if sleeping on a couch was a daily occurrence. “I asked your friends.”

  The old anger at betrayal surged. “You’ve gotten quite close to my friends.”

  “They are a part of your life,” he said with a simple lift of one shoulder. “So, of course, I made the connection.”

  “They’re the ones who told you about my wedding plans, didn’t they?”

  “Si.” Shifting his attention, he poured hot water into a fat ceramic mug. The smell of mint and orange drifted right into her nose.

  Her stomach embarrassed her by letting out a loud rumble.

  His black eyebrows rose. “Hungry?”

  “Yes.” Before she showed the blush threading up her neck, she turned to the round kitchen table and sat down. “These are odd chairs.”

  “Chinese.” He strode over and placed the mug in front of her. Steam wafted into her face. “I found them when I traveled there two years ago on business.”

  The back of the chair arched in at the small of her own back and then moved out to provide support for her shoulders. “They’re surprisingly comfortable.”

  Vico’s only response was a low grunt, his attention returned to the cooking.

  Lise sipped on the tea, wondering what they were going to talk about for two whole weeks. Business? The baby? Having sex? None of those options appealed. At least she had her laptop…wait.

  She frowned and stood before walking down the hall to the bedroom. Nothing there. Pacing into the living room, she glanced around, her heart suddenly galloping in her chest.

  “Looking for something?” He appeared in the archway, his face bland and innocent.

  “You didn’t.” She looked behind the leather couch and the two armchairs.

  “Didn’t I?”

  Swinging around to confront him, she scowled. “Where is my laptop? And my mobile phone?”

  The conniving slug disappeared into the kitchen without answering.

  She paced to the doorway. “I need both of them. We’ll have to return to London.”

  “No.” He chuckled. “We’re not going back for two weeks.”

  “I have to monitor the finances. You know that.” She wanted to go over and punch him, but something in the way he held himself, as if he’d enjoy the contact, kept her from chancing the encounter.

  “No, you don’t.” He flipped the pan, four eggs flying into the air before landing with a splatter of butter right back in their place. The elegance of the trick distracted her. The way his sinewy forearms twisted, the way his dark hair swished on his broad shoulders as he followed the eggs with his intent gaze, the way his mouth quirked in a grin when the trick was completed.

  Lise took her wandering attention and shook it back into control. “I do. I’m responsible.”

  He slid two empty plates from the warm oven. “Sit down and let’s eat.”

  “Don’t ignore me.”

  “Believe me.” He shot her a look filled with wry amusement. “I never ignore you.”

  Amusement, yes. And also a blast of heated awareness. To avoid the message, she sat down on the black wood chair again. “I’ll eat, but then we’ll return to London.”

  A red ceramic plate, one that matched the mug holding her tea, landed in front of her. The eggs were accompanied by a mound of thick bacon and several slices of fresh tomato. Her gaze moved further down and took in the fact his feet were bare. Bare and beautiful. His toes were long, nails cut short, a lacing of black hair reaching along the arch.

  Ogling his feet? Honestly?

  She jerked her focus back to the food. Her tummy gleefully congratulated her on the new focus by giving out another growl.

  His laugh came from above her. “Eat and then we’ll talk.”

  Why not? She was hungry for the first time in eons and she didn’t want to waste the experience. Nibbling on the bacon, she relished the salty, smoky flavor. The tomatoes were fresh, she could tell by the firm skin and tart taste.

  A smaller plate was placed on the side of her breakfast.

  His hand rested for a moment on the table, giving her enough time to wander into focusing on him once more. His fingers were long, exactly like his toes. The nails were cut short, too, except this time the hair lingered behind his wrist, making the skin of his hand look like oiled leather. A small, white scar on his thumb only accented his maleness.

  “It’s fresh.” He lifted his hand and walked back to the stove, drawing her gaze to the roundness of his butt.

  Yanking her disobedient attention to the food again, she eyed the croissant. The pastry was d
otted with slivers of almond and, two ramekins, one with strawberry jam and the other holding melting butter, lay by its side. “Fresh?”

  “I went out early.” He returned to the table with his own breakfast. “Pastry should be fresh.”

  The recognition that he’d gone out early to buy pastry…she glanced at his plate. “Where’s your croissant?”

  “I don’t eat them.” Flipping a black lock over his shoulder, he dug into his food. “I don’t like sweets in the morning.”

  “But I do?” She did, yet she didn’t want to admit the fact and also confront the realization he’d climbed off the couch early to ensure she’d have fresh pastry.

  “Si.” He bit into a piece of bacon and crunched until it was gone. “Your friends told me this as well.”

  Renewed anger at another betrayal mixed with a tender sort of feeling towards him she didn’t want to contemplate. The mix threatened to drive her appetite away and she didn’t want that to happen. Who knew if this would last? Maybe nausea would reappear at any moment. She ripped the croissant apart and slathered butter and jam into the warm hollow. The taste bloomed in her mouth, a blend of yeast and sweet fruit.

  Closing her eyes, she swam in the delight of enjoying good food after such a long time.

  His chuckle came from across the hardwood table. “Good, huh?”

  Yes, good.

  Somehow he’d convinced her to take one day without her laptop. And then another. Somewhere along the way, she’d lost the need to fight and fuss. In some way, his way, he’d charmed her into letting go, letting everything be good.

  He’d slept on the couch the entire two weeks without complaining or cursing or questioning. Every night, he courteously said good night and left her alone. Naturally, his grin came and his eyes twinkled with wicked intent, yet his actions, his words? She could find nothing to grumble about.

  Poking him only provoked a laugh.

  Prodding him did nothing but gain her a smile.

  She’d thought about punching him, except a lady didn’t descend to that level and to be truthful, she didn’t want to get that close. He might respond in a way she wasn’t able to rebuff anymore.