Caroselli's Accidental Heir

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by Michelle Celmer


  “How long have you been up?”

  “A couple of hours,” she said, looking tired and miserable. “But even when I was in bed, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I doze off, it starts to hurt again.”

  “You should have woken me up.”

  “There wasn’t much you could do. And you need your sleep. If this is labor it’s probably going to be a long day. And at least she waited until after we were married.”

  He could have at least kept her company. “Come here. Lean forward and rest your elbows on the counter.”

  “Hey!” she said when he lifted her nightshirt up. “What do you think you’re doing back there?” He started rubbing her lower back and she collapsed in an exhausted heap against the cool marble. “On second thought, I don’t care, just keep doing it. That feels heavenly.”

  He rubbed gently, feeling the muscles tighten under his fingers as another contraction started. That one passed, and only a few minutes later another started. They kept up like that for a good forty-five minutes, and according to the stopwatch on his cell phone, occurred every twelve to fifteen minutes. The doctor had told them that with a first baby not to come in until the contractions were a steady five minutes apart. He’d also warned them that first labors could last for days.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked Lucy, wishing he could make the pain disappear. Make her stop hurting.

  “You could call the hospital,” she said, wincing against another contraction, her breathing slow and shallow. “Tell them we’ll be there soon.”

  “It could still be a while,” he said.

  “I don’t think so. Either my bladder just gave out, or my water just broke.”

  * * *

  When they got to the hospital, Lucy was dilated to only two centimeters. And after three hours of pacing the delivery ward, Tony and his mom taking turns walking with her, she’d progressed to only three centimeters.

  The nurse gave her an injection to speed things up, and instantly the contractions went from six minutes apart to two minutes and according to the monitor they had strapped her to, almost doubled in intensity. Up until that point she had refused an epidural, or any sort of pain medication. Three contractions later, she was begging for anything to take the edge off.

  It was an all-new ball game now. He was excited and scared and anxious. But mostly he was proud of Lucy. If she hadn’t been his hero before, she sure would be now. As far as he was concerned, any woman who gave birth deserved a medal. He had seen a show some time ago about a man who, through the use of small electrical nodes, was able to accurately recreate the pain of labor. He used the method on himself, to prove that men had the same, if not a higher threshold for pain than women.

  He lasted three hours, and then had to give up.

  Men, Tony believed, were inherently wusses, but they were also ridiculously prideful. He didn’t doubt that when it came to pain, Lucy had a will of steel.

  “I hope she’s going to be happy as an only child,” Lucy said coming down off a particularly hard contraction. “Because there is no way in hell I’m doing this again.”

  “Every new mom says that,” Sarah told her, swabbing her forehead with a cool rag. Lucy’s hair was soaked with sweat and sticking to her forehead. “But everyone forgets.”

  Tony kissed her forehead, smoothed back her damp hair. “Lucy, you are doing an amazing job. I’m so proud of you.”

  “I just want the pain to stop,” she said, looking tired and miserable.

  “It will,” he promised. “Just hang on a little while longer.”

  Several contractions later, when the nurse came in to check Lucy’s progress, Lucy begged her for an epidural. She had been a real trouper up to that point, but Tony could see that she was exhausted.

  “Let’s check your progress first.” She checked Lucy’s cervix, which looked so uncomfortable it made him cringe. “Breathe through it, honey,” the nurse said.

  When she was done, Lucy pleaded, “Can I have drugs now?”

  “Sorry, hon, but you’re fully dilated. It’s time to get ready to push.”

  Fifteen

  The baby weighed in at a respectable seven pounds two ounces, and was born with a shock of long, jet-black hair. She had Lucy’s eyes and Tony’s nose.

  Oh, and she had a penis.

  “I still don’t believe it,” Tony said from the rocking chair beside her bed, where he cradled their sleeping son. Far as she could tell, he hadn’t stopped chuckling since the doctor called out, “It’s a boy!”

  “I definitely saw girl parts on that ultrasound,” Tony had insisted, while the doctor assured him that he definitely had not. Because despite popular belief, human fetuses did not spontaneously change gender.

  “I guess it was a good thing you didn’t tell me,” Lucy said. “Or I fear our son would be wearing a lot of pink.”

  “You realize that if Rob and Nick don’t have a son someday, this little guy will single-handedly have to carry on the Caroselli name.”

  “Only if he wants to,” Lucy said. “Our son is going to be exactly who he wants to be. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  Tony’s mom had been with them for the birth and shortly after, Tony’s dad joined them, beaming at his third grandchild. The flowers—and the visitors—started to pour in a steady stream after that until the room was filled to capacity. Someone passed around chocolate cigars, and everyone sipped on sparkling cider. They were loud and nosy and all-around nuts, but she loved them. They had sucked her in, made her part of the family, just as Tony said they would. She was one of them now.

  Rob showed up alone, and after a quick peek at the baby, who was sleeping in his father’s arms, he sat on the side of the bed. “On behalf of my wife, I’d like to apologize to you, Lucy. It was terrible what she did.”

  Honestly, she was beginning to think Carrie had done her a favor. She forced Lucy to realize how important it was to trust Tony. “You don’t have to apologize. Everything turned out okay.”

  “For what it’s worth, she feels horrible. She’s been having a rough go of it lately and she lashed out.”

  “We all make mistakes,” she said.

  It was shaping up to be another perfect day. Then Nonno showed up.

  Though Lucy had every right to be angry with him, she was too happy, and too content to ruin this special day. Sadly, he would never be more to her than Tony’s grandfather. But she could live with that. As long as she had Tony, and their son, she didn’t need anyone else.

  Gradually people cleared out until only Tony’s parents and Nonno remained.

  “I’d like a private word with my grandson,” Nonno told Tony’s parents.

  They left to get dinner.

  “I have something for you,” Nonno said, turning to Tony. “In the pocket of my shirt.”

  Tony pulled out a folded slip of paper. “A check?”

  Nonno nodded.

  Tony unfolded it and his mouth fell open. “Oh my God, this is a check for ten million dollars.”

  “It is.”

  “I can’t take this,” he said, handing it back. “Absolutely not.”

  “It’s your severance.”

  Tony blinked. “Severance for what?”

  “Your loyal years at Caroselli Chocolate.”

  “Wait a minute. Are you saying I’m fired?”

  “As of today.”

  “But—” Tony paused, shook his head and laughed. “How did you know I wanted out?”

  “I make it my business to know. There’s a reason I consider you the most loyal of my grandsons. And I know what’s good for you.”

  Tony opened his mouth to argue—or so she a
ssumed—but he laughed instead. “It was you, wasn’t it? You were the ‘friend’”—he made quotes with his fingers— “who sent Lucy the email. You told her to come here so I wouldn’t marry Alice. Somehow you knew about Lucy. And the baby. Didn’t you? You got us back together.”

  “You have a vivid imagination, Antonio.”

  “Actually, I’ve always considered myself fairly practical, like my grandfather. In fact, if I were to bribe my grandsons with thirty million dollars, I would probably assume that once they fell in love and married they would no longer want the money. ”

  According to what Tony told Lucy, that was exactly what had happened. Had he planned this from the start? Was Tony implying that his grandfather never intended to give his grandsons the thirty million dollars?

  “Young people,” Nonno said, with a shake of his head and a twinkle in his eye, but he wasn’t fooling either one of them. And she and Tony both knew that he wouldn’t cop to it in a million years.

  Shortly after that Nonno complained of being tired, so Tony walked him down to the car. When he came back, he cuddled with Lucy and the baby on the bed.

  This is it, she thought, this was what it felt like to be truly happy.

  “You know,” Tony said, “I always resented that Nonno felt it was his place to tell everyone how to live, but look how happy we are. Rob and Nick are, too. I guess he knew what was best for everyone after all.”

  “I don’t care what he knows or doesn’t know. All that matters is that we’re together,” she said.

  “You know the scariest part about this? At ninety-two years old, he orchestrated this entire production, and in the end he got exactly what he wanted.”

  “He did,” she agreed, “but I think you’re missing the point.”

  “What point?”

  She smiled and kissed him. “So did we.”

  * * * * *

  If you liked Tony and Lucy’s story, pick up the other books in

  THE CAROSELLI INHERITANCE trilogy

  from USA TODAY bestselling author Michelle Celmer.

  CAROSELLI’S CHRISTMAS BABY

  CAROSELLI’S BABY CHASE

  All available now from Harlequin Desire!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from THE LAST COWBOY STANDING by Barbara Dunlop.

  We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Desire story.

  You want to leave behind the everyday! Harlequin Desire stories feature sexy, romantic heroes who have it all: wealth, status, incredible good looks…everything but the right woman. Add some secrets, maybe a scandal, and start turning pages!

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  One

  Travis Jacobs could do anything for eight seconds. At least, that’s what he told himself every time he climbed up the side of a bull chute. Tonight’s Vegas crowd was loud and enthusiastic, their attention centered on the current rider being bucked around the arena by Devil’s Draw.

  Putting the other cowboys in the competition from his mind, he looked at Esquire below him, checking for any sign of agitation. Then he rolled his cuffs up a couple of turns, pulled his brown Stetson low and tugged a worn, leather glove onto his right hand.

  The crowd groaned in sympathy a mere second before the horn sounded, telling Travis that Buckwheat Dawson had come off the bull. Up next, Travis swung his leg over the chute rail and drew a bracing breath. While Karl Schmitty held the rope, he adjusted the rigging and wrapped his hand. Wasting no time, he slid up square on the bull and gave a sharp nod to the gate operator.

  The chute opened, and all four of Esquire’s feet instantly left the ground. The Brahma shot out into the arena then straight up in the air under the bright lights. The crowd roared its pleasure as the black bull twisted left, hind feet reaching high, while Travis leaned back, spurred, his arm up, muscles pumped, fighting for all he was worth to keep himself square on the animal’s back.

  Esquire turned right, twisting beneath Travis, shaking him as if he was a bothersome gnat. Three seconds turned to four. Travis’s hand burned against the rope, and his wrist felt like it was about to dislocate. The strain sent a branching iron along his spine, but he also felt completely and totally alive. For a brief space of time, life was reduced to its essence. Nothing mattered but the battle between Travis and the bull.

  Esquire made an abrupt left turn, nearly unseating Travis, but he kept his form. His hat flew off into the dust. The blaring music and the roar of the crowd disappeared, obliterated by the pulse of blood pumping past his ears.

  The horn sounded just before Esquire made one final leap, unseating Travis, sending him catapulting through the air. Travis summersaulted, grazing the bull’s left horn, quickly twisting his body to avoid hitting the ground head-on. His shoulder came down first, with his back taking the brunt of the impact. As the air whooshed out of his lungs, a face in the crowd danced before his eyes.

  Danielle? What the heck was Danielle doing in Vegas?

  Then Esquire’s menacing form filled his vision, and he leaped to his feet. Corey Samson, one of the bullfighters, jumped between them, distracting the animal while Travis sprinted to the fence.

  Glancing back, he realized Danielle had to be a figment of his imagination. The crowd was nowhere near close enough for him to recognize a particular face. He heaved himself over the top of the fence and jumped to the ground on the other side.

  “Nice one.” Buckwheat clapped him good-naturedly on the back.

  “Hey, Travis,” Corey yelled from inside the arena.

  Travis turned to see Corey toss him his hat. He caught the Stetson in midair, and Corey gave him a thumbs-up.

  “Ninety-one point three,” the announcer cried into the sound system.

  The crowd roared louder, while lasers and colored spotlights circled the arena, the music coming up once more. Travis was the night’s last rider, meaning he’d just won ten thousand dollars.

  He stuffed his hat on his head and vaulted back over the fence onto the thick dirt, waving to the crowd and accepting the congratulations of the clowns and cowboys.

  “You have got to go pro,” Corey shouted in his ear.

  “Just blowin’ off some steam,” Travis responded, keeping his grin firmly in place for the spectators, knowing he’d be projected onto the Jumbotron.

  His older brother, Seth, had recently been married, and he’d committed his next three years to working on the Lyndon Valley railway project. Responsibility for the family’s Colorado cattle ranch now rested completely on Travis’s shoulders. Faced with that looming reality, he’d discovered he had a few wild oats left to sow.

  “You could make a lot of money on the circuit,” said Corey.

  Travis let himself fantasize for a minute about going on the road as a professional bull rider. The image was tantalizing—to be footloose and fancy free, no cattle to tend, no ranch hands, no bills, no responsibilities. He’d ride a couple of times a week, hit the clubs, meet friendly women. There were no bleak, dusty, hick towns on this particular rodeo circuit. It was all bright lights and five-star hotels.

  For a moment, he resented the lost opportunity. But he forcibly swallowed his own frustration. If he’d wanted to be a bull rider, he should have spoken up before now. While his brother and sisters were all choosing their own life paths, Travis should have said something about leaving the ranch. But it was too late. He was the last Jacobs cowboy, and somebody had to run the pla
ce.

  A small crowd had gathered in the middle of the arena to celebrate his win. He unzipped his flak jacket to circulate a little air. Then he accepted the prize buckle and the check from the event manager and gave a final wave of his hat to the crowd.

  Mind still mulling what might have been, he turned and fell into step beside Corey, their boots puffing up dust as they moved toward the gate.

  “How long have you been on the road?” he found himself asking the bullfighter.

  “Nearly ten years now,” Corey responded. “Started when I was seventeen.”

  “You ever get tired of it?”

  “What’s to get tired? The excitement? The adventure? The women?”

  Travis stuffed the check in his shirt pocket. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I know. When I get tired of the wheels turning, I go back to the folks’ place in New Mexico for a while.”

  “Ever tempted to stay there?” Travis was trying to reassure himself that life on the road got old, that all men eventually wanted a real home.

  Corey shook his head. “Nope. Though, last trip home, there was this pretty red-haired gal living down the road.”

  Travis chuckled at the yearning expression on Corey’s face. “I take it she’s calling you back to New Mexico?”

  “Not yet, but likely soon. She’s got some kind of a bullfighter fantasy going on inside that head of hers, and she’s decided I’m the fire she wants to play with.”

  Travis burst out laughing.

  Corey grinned and cocked an eyebrow.

  “No pretty women calling me back to my hometown.” There was nothing calling to Travis except cattle and horses.

  Though, for some reason, his thoughts moved back to Danielle. But she wasn’t from his hometown, and she sure wasn’t any young innocent. She was twenty-eight, only a year younger than Travis. She was a graduate of Harvard Law, a practicing lawyer and probably the smartest, most sophisticated woman he’d ever met. She also flat out refused to give him the time of day.

 

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