Happy Mother's Day!

by Sharon Kendrick

  ‘On the hook,’ she gasped as he plucked them off and pocketed them and proceeded to carry her towards the car. Her face was pressed against his chest, the scent of him invading her—as if one invasion of her wasn’t enough. Moving her head away, she half-heartedly tried to pummel against him, but his chest was as solid as a brick wall. ‘Put me down!’

  ‘Save your energy, Aisling,’ he urged, his face and his voice becoming suddenly serious. ‘I demand that you conserve your strength—because you are going to need it!’

  To the chauffeur’s credit he said nothing when Gianluca emerged from the villa with a heavily pregnant woman in his arms—just leapt out of the driver’s seat and pulled the door open.

  Gianluca settled Aisling in the back seat and gave the driver the address. ‘Drive!'he commanded. ‘Quickly—but lievemente—gently.’ He saw the man shoot them an anxious glance and who could blame him? Because Aisling was now moaning every few minutes, her face tightening with tension as she gripped onto him.

  ‘Is it the contraction?’ he demanded.

  ‘Of course it’s the wretched contraction!’ she half sobbed. ‘What else do you think it is?’

  ‘Do you want me to call anyone for you?’ He realised how little he knew about her—this woman who carried his child. ‘Your mother?’

  ‘My mother is dead.’

  He winced. ‘You have any other family?’

  As the fierce wave of pain receded Aisling briefly opened her eyes. ‘No. Just me.’

  Somehow, that smote at his conscience—that she had done this all on her own, with no one to protect her—until he reminded himself that it had been her choice to do it that way.

  At least the rush-hour traffic had now died away and the baking city streets were relatively quiet, but he didn’t breathe easily until the car bumped its way round the back of the hospital.

  ‘We’re here.’

  Aisling’s eyes flickered open as she read the sign. ‘Accident and Emergency. How apt,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘The baby was an accident—and this is an emergency!’

  Gianluca nearly smiled but for once in his life, he didn’t dare—if they didn’t get amove on then his son or daughter was going to be born in a car park. But a wheelchair and a doctor and midwife had miraculously materialised out of nowhere and Aisling was being taken at breakneck speed to the maternity unit—and then chaos broke out. Or, at least, that was how it seemed to him.

  There were lights and people dressed in green, battering him with questions, most of which he was unable to answer—because she had kept him in the dark, he thought, and once again that sense of dark fury washed over him.

  ‘Are you the father?’ a midwife asked.

  At least he knew the answer to that one—though he found himself telling them in his native tongue. ‘Sì, io sono il padre!’

  ‘So you’ll be staying?’

  Aisling’s head jerked up. ‘No!’

  ‘Sì,’ he contradicted with silky emphasis as he stared down into her ice-blue eyes. ‘I will be staying.’

  She didn’t want him there. Didn’t want him seeing her in such a vulnerable and sorry state. Now they were putting her legs up in some kind of stirrups—how could she ever look at him again after this? She bit her lip with embarrassment and turned away as the contractions began to get stronger, and more frequent.

  And by then she was past caring about anything, other than following what they were telling her to do—or, rather, telling her not to do. Like push. Or bearing down. And she, who hated control being taken from her, found that she wanted so badly to relieve these tightening bands of pain that she almost welcomed the bossy orders they were hurling at her. She might have laughed at the irony of it all if she hadn’t been so exhausted.

  The room was crowded for it seemed that the royal obstetrician had been rushed in from his nearby private clinic, following a directive from Gianluca’s doctor in Rome.

  ‘Please!'Aisling begged. ‘I just want to have this baby!’

  Gianluca shot an anxious glance at the doctor, but for once in his life he was forced to relinquish control. He wanted to help Aisling, but he could do nothing for her physically—or emotionally—because when he went to grip her hand, she pulled it away, refusing to look at him.

  It was only when he sensed that the labour was close to the end, when her desperate cries echoed on the air, that she reached for him, biting her lip with pain as her fingernails pierced his skin.

  ‘Help me,’ she whispered. ‘Gianluca—please help me.’

  Never in his life had he felt so completely powerless. ‘It’s going to be all right, cara,’ he soothed, but his voice sounded harsh.

  She turned her sweat-sheened face away. He lied. For how could it ever be right?

  ‘Gianluca, do you want to see your baby being born?’

  He turned to Aisling and the moment their eyes met she knew that she could not deny him this. And as she nodded her head with mute permission, she so wished that it could have all been different. Normal. That they could have been like other couples in this situation. But you aren’t a couple, came the painful reminder, before another, vastly superior pain eclipsed it.

  Gianluca was dazed as he watched the physical process of childbirth, which seemed light years away from the desire which had brought them all to this point. One last cry from Aisling split the air. He saw a shock of jet-dark hair emerging and heard a lusty squawk and he shook his head, as if denying the evidence of his own eyes. This miracle.

  But when a slimy and wriggling bundle was swathed and placed in his arms, Gianluca looked down, and his heart turned over with love.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘YOUR partner is waiting to collect you, Aisling.’

  ‘Thanks.’ With hands which were trembling slightly, Aisling picked up the baby.

  It was pointless correcting the midwife. Let her believe that she and Gianluca were cosy partners if it fitted the happy-ever-after version. The sad truth was that they said very little of any consequence to each other. His soft, murmured words were for his son alone—and his brilliant, charismatic smiles for the nursing and medical staff to whom he was so grateful.

  ‘Fancy him trying to keep that donation to the special care baby unit quiet!’ cooed the midwife. ‘And theatre tickets for the entire department, too! You’re one lucky woman, Aisling.’

  Lucky? Aisling’s face didn’t betray a thing as she adjusted her son’s cashmere blanket for the eighth time since she’d draped it around him—wondering where the self-possession on which she prided herself had fled to.

  Did other new mothers feel like this? Scared witless that they were going to do something wrong. Worried about dropping the baby—or making him too hot, or too cold. This beautiful little baby who so resembled his father and was so far unnamed, because neither of them could agree on anything they liked.

  She felt all over the place—as if the ground had turned into slippery ice since she gave birth a little over twentyfour hours ago—and everyone knew how to skate on it except her. The midwives had told her that it was early days and part of Aisling had wanted to ask to stay longer—knowing that at least while she was in hospital she didn’t have to make any big and troublesome decisions.

  But that was not the way that childbirth was conducted any more. New mothers were encouraged to take their babies home as soon as the baby was feeding well so that the family could all ‘bond'. Well, she couldn’t see that happening in her case.

  ‘Aisling?’

  She heard the sound of Gianluca’s velvety voice and inside she prayed for some sort of guidance on how best to handle this situation—surely the most bizarre state of affairs imaginable? To maintain some kind of emotional balance and make sure she knew the difference between fact and reality.

  She turned round to see his eyes sweep over the sleeping bundle she cradled in her arms—his expression all bright and shine.And then his features became shuttered as he met her gaze. Was he inwardly cursing her for trapping him, des
pite his obvious joy at the birth of his son? she wondered.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he questioned.

  She nodded. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Shall I carry him?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Aisling tried to tell herself that it was only fair he should—and she carefully handed the baby over, hoping that her face did not betray her inner panic. Because, unlike her, Gianluca seemed to be a natural at this. The baby looked like a swaddled white blob—almost lost in those powerful arms, which could be so strangely gentle with the infant.

  He ran a questing fingertip over the baby’s cheek and murmured something soft in Italian before lifting his head to look at Aisling and switching to English. ‘The car is outside. Are you okay to walk?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

  They spoke like strangers—intimate strangers—and the journey back to the flat was punctuated by long silences broken only by the little sucking sounds the baby made. Perhaps Gianluca was as inhibited as she was by the chauffeur’s presence—or maybe it was just the confined space and claustrophobic intimacy of the car. All Aisling knew was that when she emerged into the unseasonable drizzle of the summer day she had begun to shiver.

  There was no excitement in her heart as they walked into her apartment—the place had a disused and empty feel to it, even though she’d only been away for a little more than a day.

  ‘Shall I put him in his crib?’ questioned Gianluca.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, do. He shouldn’t be hungry. I fed him before we left. I’ll go and make coffee.’

  Not that she wanted coffee and neither, she suspected, did he. But she needed something to occupy her hands and her thoughts—anything to avoid staring across the room at him and wondering where they went from here. Slowly, she slipped off her raincoat and automatically hung it in the hall, then she went to put the kettle on.

  It felt weird just doing something as normal as making coffee and she had to force herself to remember the mechanics of it. It was as if the experience of childbirth had detached her from the rest of the world and made her look at it differently. A kettle was no longer just a kettle—overnight it had become a baby-hazard!

  When she came back into the sitting room it was to see that Gianluca was back from the nursery and was standing looking down at the rain-washed garden.

  Almost guiltily, she ran her eyes over him—as if sexual fantasy were out of bounds now that she had a new role to play as mother.

  Today, he was dressed casually and his dark hair was ruffled, and slightly longer than he usually wore it. Aisling swallowed down the salty threat of tears which threatened to prick at the backs of her eyes.

  How strange that, despite the icy politeness which had existed like a thick wall between them since she’d gone into labour, her heart could still turn over with longing for the love he would never give her.

  With an effort, she fixed her face into a smile. ‘Would you like some coffee?’ she asked.

  He turned round and his mouth hardened. ‘What I would like, Aisling,’ he responded softly, his black eyes glittering, ‘is for us to come to a few decisions.’

  She eyed him in alarm. ‘Can’t this wait?’

  ‘Until when?’ he demanded. ‘Until he’s six months old? A year? Until you decide you’re ready to talk? But this isn’t about you, Aisling—not any more. You kept me out of his life before he was born—but those days are gone. There are three of us now—and you’d better get used to that.’

  Three of us. In a way his harsh words mocked at what she most wanted—a secure unit in which to raise her son, the kind of unit she’d never known herself. And now it looked as if that was a legacy she was about to bequeath to the baby—giving him all the insecurities attached to having a single mother. ‘What do you want to talk about, Gianluca?’

  He registered how washed-out she looked. How her skin seemed almost transparent, and he wondered briefly if she needed more time, but then he steeled his heart against her pale face. Madonna mia—but he wasn’t asking her to go out and work in the fields! What he wanted wasn’t unreasonable—not to his way of thinking.

  He let his eyes drift over her. She had woven her hair into two thick plaits, knotted raven ropes which contrasted against her skin, a style which made her appear ridiculously young—much too young to have a baby. But at least that hated chignon was gone!

  ‘His name, for a start.’

  Aisling nodded. The name she could cope with. ‘Do you have any more suggestions?’ ‘Do you?’ he questioned silkily. ‘You still don’t like James?’ He shook his head. ‘William?’

  He laughed. ‘I think we both know that I won’t be satisfied with any name which isn’t Italian, mia bella.’

  Yes, she knew that. And didn’t he have a point? With his jet-black hair and huge, dark eyes, their son would look all wrong with a name like Andrew, or James or William.

  ‘Okay. Fire some suggestions at me.’

  ‘I thought of Claudio.’ He studied her reaction. ‘It was my father’s name—it’s strong and I like it. Do you?’

  ‘Claudio.’ She tried the name. Closed her eyes and pictured the image of her son—already burned there for the rest of her lifetime. Yes, it suited him. It suited him very well. She opened them again, to find Gianluca watching her—a wary expression on his face, as if he were expecting something unpredictable. So start being yourself again, she reasoned. Stop being this shaky bag of post-partum insecurities. Bring back the woman who can cope with anything life throws at her. ‘Yes. I like that.’

  ‘Good.’ He poured them both coffee and handed her one and as she moved forward he noticed the swollen heaviness of her breasts and felt the unexpected beat of desire. A sudden yearning to go over there and kiss her.

  Did men usually want their women this quickly after birth? he wondered—aware that this was completely new territory to him. Mercilessly, he swamped the feeling—because desire could cloud judgement and he needed his to be crystal-clear right now. ‘But this was about more than just a name—we also need to make some pretty big decisions.’

  Her senses prickled. ‘Such as?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Aisling. There is Claudio’s future at stake here. Just out of interest—how do you see that future?’

  It was strange to hear him say their son’s name. As if the baby had suddenly become a real person. And she would have been a fool if she had not anticipated this particular question either. ‘I’ve thought about it a lot and I think we can come to some sort of perfectly amiable agreement.’

  He raised his dark brows. How calm she sounded. How utterly in control. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I can do bits of work from home for the time being—and then I can go in part-time.’

  Gianluca’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something in this cosy little scenario?’

  Aisling stared at him. ‘Such as?’

  ‘Where does my son’s welfare come into all this?’ he demanded. ‘And where do I fit in?’

  She heard the fiercely possessive note in his voice when he said ‘my son’ like that and her heart sank. None of this was happening as it was supposed to and Aisling wanted to reassure him—to tell him that she wasn’t going to deny him his child, but she wasn’t going to crowd him with unrealistic demands, either. She certainly wasn’t going to become one of those troublesome ex-girlfriends who was always looming into his life like a spectre, with a baby in tow.

  ‘You know you can see the baby whenever you like!’ she protested.

  ‘How very generous of you, mia cara,’ he replied, with soft sarcasm. ‘But aren’t you forgetting simple geography?’

  Aisling nodded because she had been anticipating this, too. ‘Okay—so you live in Italy and I live in London—but the world has shrunk, Gianluca. You know it has. You can see Claudio …’ But her words trailed away as he leaned forward, eyes blazing black fire.

  ‘When? A weekend a month? A holiday in the summer? My boy growing up unable to speak Italian? You expect me to tolerate such
a situation?’ He looked around and made an arrogantly sweeping gesture with his arm. ‘And you expect me to stand back and allow you to bring him up somewhere like this?’

  ‘What’s the matter with it?’ she questioned, stung—for she was very proud of her little home. ‘There’s nothing wrong with where I live!’

  ‘I’m not saying there is—it’s fine for a working woman, but not one who has a young child. There’s only one bedroom, for a start! Where’s he going to crawl when he’s able to? Out in that minuscolo—tiny little garden? Or straight into the traffic outside?’

  ‘Loads of people bring up children in London!’

  ‘Not my child,’ he said flatly. ‘Unless you’re expecting me to buy you a house? Is that what you are angling for?’

  She stared at him, recoiling from the suggestion. ‘I won’t take your money—not for a house!’ she said proudly. ‘You can contribute towards his upkeep, if you insist.’

  Upkeep. It was such a soulless little word and one which crystallised the idea which had been forming in the back of his mind since she had first told him that she was pregnant. Knowing that it was the only way to guarantee that he would not be pushed to the sidelines, according to her mood or whim.

  ‘I’m going to insist on a lot more than that, cara,’ he vowed softly.

  Aisling sank back against the chair and eyed him warily. ‘You won’t change my mind. There isn’t an alternative.’

  He moved in for the kill. ‘Oh, but there is.’ Gianluca paused for maximum impact, as he always did before making an important announcement.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You will marry me,’ he said. ‘M-marry you?’ ‘Sì, cara. Mi sposa.’

  Just for one mad split-second she allowed her heart to soar. To imagine that he meant it in the way that most proposals of marriage were meant. But the look on his arrogant face spoke of no emotion other than the most fundamental one of possession. Ownership. As he owned hotels and properties. He wanted to own his son and, in order to do so, he must first marry his son’s mother.

  ‘It is the only sensible solution,’ he drawled.