by Day Leclaire
He didn’t give her a chance to protest, but eased her onto the mattress. Kneeling, he removed her shoes. “Do you want to strip down or will you be comfortable enough like this?”
“I’m too tired to strip down,” she confessed.
“Then sleep. I’ll bring the bags up in a little while along with some dinner and you can change then. You can even indulge yourself and eat in bed.”
She yawned, half smothering her reply. “After that meal your relatives prepared, I don’t think I’ll be able to eat again for a week.”
He helped settle her in bed and arranged the pillows for added comfort and support. “Some soup, then?”
Shayla’s eyes drooped and she sighed in pleasure. “Some of that minestrone your grandfather made? I’ve never tasted anything so delicious.”
“Absolutely.”
He doubted she heard his response. She fell sound asleep on her last word. He checked on her periodically, not the least surprised when she didn’t stir. Long after the sun set and evening had deepened into night, he slipped into the room once again. It was clear she wouldn’t wake until morning and he gently unbuttoned her dress, easing it off. He debated stripping away all her clothing, but decided she might feel self-conscious about his seeing her naked so late in her pregnancy.
Personally, he thought her unbelievably beautiful. She was softer than before, rounder, her curves lush with impending motherhood. There was also an ethereal radiance about her, an otherworldliness that made him hesitant to touch her, as though she’d magically vanish if he dared lay a hand on her. Vanish like one of the mystical creatures decorating the nursery walls. The mere thought of her disappearing again caused his heart to give a painful lurch.
Soon she’d be both wife and mother, just as he’d be husband and father. How odd that two short days before he’d been neither of those things, hadn’t even known one reckless night with this woman had created a child. But he found himself fiercely glad it had happened, that a new life had been breathed into existence from a moment of perfect passion.
He knelt beside the bed and rested his hand against the baby Shayla held safely tucked within her. The Inferno hummed as though recognizing its connection to what snuggled beneath. Draco closed his eyes, realizing he’d fallen and fallen hard. For mother. For child. And then he pressed his cheek to that restless mound, whispered to his son and made promises he’d do everything within his power to keep.
Shayla woke with the sun and sighed in pleasure. It had become more and more difficult to find a comfortable position while her pregnancy came closer and closer to term. But somehow, Draco’s spare bed offered the sort of support and relaxation she hadn’t experienced in months. She stretched, only then discovering the muscular arm cradling her belly, felt the warm male body spooning her own and buttressing her back and legs.
“This is nice. I could get used to this,” Draco rumbled sleepily.
“Easy for you to say. You’re not currently a blimp.” But it was nice, Shayla privately conceded. And she could absolutely get used to it. She shot him a wry look over her shoulder. “Just out of curiosity, what are you doing in my bed?”
“Getting acquainted with our son.” He nuzzled the curve of her neck with a raspy cheek. “Getting reacquainted with his mother, too.”
She took a quick peek beneath the covers, relieved to see she still wore two scraps of silk and lace, not that they offered much protection considering how thin they were. Or how they failed to conceal the dramatic changes to her shape. “And—also just out of curiosity—what happened to my clothes?”
“Gone.”
“I see that. Did you gone them?”
“Yup. Would have goned the rest of them but I figured you’d be a tad upset.”
She smothered a laugh, which faded when she thought of him seeing her asleep and almost naked. Not to mention a full thirty-nine weeks pregnant. “I’ve lost my figure,” she informed him self-consciously, just in case he hadn’t noticed.
“No, you haven’t. It’s right here.” His fingers splayed across her stomach while satisfaction rippled through his statement. “And it’s even more beautiful than before.”
Tears pricked her eyes, tears that never seemed far away. “You don’t mind?”
He turned her in his arms so they faced each other. Gently he traced the curve of her cheek, then lower to the painful fullness of her breasts, overflowing from the royal blue cups of her bra, then lower still to the swell of her belly. “How can you ask such a thing? Hell, no, I don’t mind. You’re a goddess.”
It was a lie, but one she could live with. She smiled through her tears. “Does that make you a god?”
“Nope. Just a man. A very lucky, very humble man.”
Draco lifted onto one elbow and cupped her face. Leaning in he kissed her wide-awake and she discovered another delightful fact about him. Her husband-to-be was very thorough in the morning. Very. Thorough.
With a reluctant groan, he pulled back. “Hungry? For food, I mean.”
“Starving.” And not just for food. She eyed him hopefully. “I vaguely remember you saying something about minestrone soup. I don’t suppose the offer still stands?”
He grinned. “For breakfast?”
“Why not?” she asked with a shrug. “It’s healthier than pickles and ice cream.”
A chuckle broke free. “You’ve been craving pickles and ice cream?”
“No, but I could have,” she explained with the sweeping logic of late pregnancy. “Instead it’s Primo’s minestrone soup.”
“He’ll be thrilled to hear it. Would you like it served in bed?”
She considered, then made a face and shook her head. “No, thanks. I’ll come down right after I shower and dress.”
Draco’s expression turned wicked. “Need help?”
“I think I can manage,” she replied drily.
He levered himself out of bed with an ease Shayla could only envy. These days she felt like an upended turtle, rolling around on its shell. Without her saying a word, he gave her a hand, helping to free her from the nest of mattress, covers, and pillows. And he accomplished it with an innate courtesy, as though he’d done the same thing every day for the past half-dozen months. She realized his gallantry came naturally, without conscious thought or premeditated intent. It was just who he was.
“You know, you might want to shower in the master suite,” he suggested. “The one in here is a combination shower/tub and will be more difficult for you right now. Mine is a free-standing shower. There should be towels in the closet in my bathroom. Give a shout if they’re not there. In the meantime, I’ll head down and start the soup.”
She simply stared at him, helplessly, hopelessly, impossibly drawn to him. But not in love. No, definitely not that. Falling in love would be foolish. It would be dangerous. Worst of all, it would steal away her one shot at freedom. So, why did her heart stutter and pitch at the thought of walking away from him?
“What?” he demanded in response to the look.
She shook her head, ending the moment. “Nothing.” She smiled at him, allowing her gratitude to show. “I mean, thank you. I appreciate the offer.”
But it wasn’t nothing. All the while she stood beneath the soothing spray of the shower, she tried to convince herself their marriage pact would work. She’d stay with him in this beautiful home for the first several weeks after the baby was born, though she wouldn’t share a bed with him again. It was too dangerous a risk. She’d put a swift stop to that right now before she grew too attached to having him beside her. Then once she got the hang of being a mother, she’d insist on finding her own place. She’d regain her independence. She’d be free, or at least as free as she could get with the weighty responsibilities of a newborn.
But even as she set new goals for herself and created new dreams, she knew deep in her heart she’d never be free. She and Draco were bound, tied tightly together by the baby she carried. She’d tried running once, telling herself she was chasing her dream.
In the end she’d been caught. Fettered tight. And she doubted she’d escape again.
The thought filled her with panic, which receded over the next several hours, though never quite vanished as it continued to disturb the even tenor of her thoughts. While she ate, Draco finalized the details to obtain their marriage license.
“Four weeks for an appointment, my Aunt Fanny,” he grumbled.
“We have to wait four weeks?” Shayla asked in alarm.
“I had to pull a few strings, call in several favors, but we can get it done this afternoon.” He checked his watch. “That should allow us to fit in your doctor’s appointment and lunch beforehand.”
She didn’t bother to conceal her relief. “Oh. Oh, well, all right, then. You had me worried there.”
“You were worried?” he shot back. “I had images of dragging you to Vegas and having you gasp out your ‘I dos’ while I timed your labor pains.”
She grinned. “That would have been quite a story to tell our son.” She groaned. “See? I did it again.”
Draco leaned a hip against the counter while mainlining caffeine in the form of a very fine Costa Rican coffee. “Dr. Dorling didn’t mention whether or not it was a boy? I’d have thought he could have told by the ultrasound.”
“I didn’t want to know.” She patted her belly. “Everything else about this baby has been a surprise. I figured that should be, too.”
“Oh, we’ll be surprised, all right. If it’s a girl, we’ll all be downright shocked.”
“Is it really that unusual?”
Draco shrugged. “Nonna has the eye, and she said only one girl among this newest generation. Ariana and Lazz already have a lock on that. Their daughter, Amata, was born three months ago.”
“Oh, I remember her.” Shayla grinned in delight. “She was the one with all the ringlets.”
“That’s our Amata.” He checked his watch. “We’d better get going. We have a busy day ahead of us.”
Their first stop was the doctor’s office. Both she and Draco instantly took to the new obstetrician, a friendly, outgoing woman who warned them that, based on her examination, Shayla could go into labor at any time. Before they left the office, Dr. Henderly gave them a checklist of items to deal with in preparation for an early delivery. It covered everything from obtaining a car seat suitable for a newborn to preregistering at the hospital.
Since they had a couple of hours to spare, they worked their way through the list before collapsing at a restaurant near the courthouse. While they waited for their meal, Draco pulled Shayla’s feet onto his lap. Beneath the linen tablecloth and hidden from the view of the other diners, he gave her a bone-melting massage from calf to toe. Her luncheon massage was followed by a pleasantly quick stop at the registrar’s office, where they obtained a marriage license. Then, exhausted, Shayla slept the entire drive home. The instant they arrived at the house, Draco insisted she rest, much to her displeasure.
“I rested in the car,” she protested. “And I’m tired of being treated like an invalid.”
“Primo called,” he explained as he corralled her up the steps. “My grandfather never ceases to amaze with the amount of pull he possesses. He’s arranged for a priest to perform the marriage ceremony tonight, at his place, no less.”
“So soon?” she made the mistake of asking.
Draco’s expression closed over and he retreated behind a cool, polite mask. “Since the doctor suggested you were likely to deliver sooner rather than later, I don’t think there’s any time to waste. Do you?”
Great. Pregnancy had made her about as tactful as her grandmother. “No, of course not. You’re right.” Her reassurance only partially mollified him. “What time?”
“Eight. Just before sunset.”
It was a sweet gesture on Primo’s part. A romantic gesture. “That sounds lovely,” she said, then gazed at Draco in distress as a horrifying thought occurred. “I can’t take a nap. There’s no time. Not if we’re getting married tonight.”
“Because . . . ?” Impatience rippled through the single word.
“Because I don’t have a thing to wear, at least nothing suitable for a wedding dress.” She attempted to push past him toward the stairs. “We have to go back to the city right now so I can find something.”
He caught her close and urged her toward her bedroom. “No.”
“You don’t understand—”
“I do understand, but that doesn’t change my answer.” Before she could argue further, he lifted a hand to stem the flood. “Don’t panic. You’re a Dante now. Or will be in a few short hours.”
She planted her hands on her hips, or rather, what she could find of her hips, and glared at him. It was either that or cry. “What has my being a Dante got to do with anything?”
He actually had the nerve to laugh, sending her temper soaring. “Right, right. Sorry. Forgot you never had the benefit of a big family.” He dropped a finger to her lips to hold her silent. “See, this is how it works. I put out the alarm. The phone calls fly and every Dante goes on alert status.”
“You’re kidding,” she said around his finger.
“Not even a little. Since three of my cousins’ wives have had babies recently, one of them is bound to own a dress they wore during their pregnancy that you can use for a wedding gown.” He replaced his finger with his mouth, stealing a swift, blistering kiss. “Just one phone call and I guarantee, suitable attire will be waiting for you at Primo’s in time for the ceremony.”
She had her doubts, but they were swiftly laid to rest the instant she arrived at Primo and Nonna’s. The women all descended on her and swept her off to one of the bedrooms, where a gown hung from the closet door. One glance warned it wasn’t borrowed, but a maternity wedding gown that had been newly purchased for her benefit.
She stood and stared at the gown in disbelief. This time she didn’t even try to hold back the tears. The off-the-shoulder sleeves were wisps of puckered ivory tulle, framing a softly ruched bodice. From beneath the pearl-seeded bodice flowed a series of chiffon pleats that would drape loosely over her abdomen. A veil hung nearby, stealing Shayla’s breath. Tiny fire diamonds and seed pearls created a delicate tiara complete with a flowing cascade of tulle veiling. It was a beautifully preserved piece.
Shayla touched the veil with trembling fingers. “It’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”
Draco’s mother, Elia, embraced her. “I wore it at my wedding. It pleases me to have you wear it at yours.”
Next on the agenda was hair and makeup. Laughter abounded and Shayla allowed herself to drift along on a current of pleasure, refusing to consider the ramifications of her marriage to Draco—what it meant and how it promised to change her life. She sat patiently beneath the ministrations of the Dante women, Gianna wielding a curling iron, Larkin and Téa taking turns with the makeup case. Once everyone was satisfied, they all stepped back so Shayla could see the results.
“Oh,” she murmured. “You’ve made me beautiful.”
“No crying,” Gianna warned. “You’ll ruin everyone’s hard work.”
Larkin and Téa had employed subtlety when it came to the makeup, emphasizing the high arch of Shayla’s cheekbones and giving depth and definition to her dark eyes. Her mouth appeared softer, rosier, and just-kissed moist. Gianna had also worked magic, pulling Shayla’s hair away from her face and coaxing the sheet of ebony into a cascade of soft curls.
“Now it is my turn,” Nonna announced. Carefully she studded the curls with jasmine blossoms, their sweet scent filling the air.
Shayla stroked one of the ivory petals. “They’re absolutely lovely.”
“They are from Primo’s garden,” Nonna explained. “He picked them himself. He thought it might remind you of home.”
And it did. Jasmine bloomed yearly in the ruins of her grandmother’s garden, its heady scent a welcome advent each May. Elia signaled the time to dress had arrived. It didn’t take long, not with so many women helping. Though Shayla didn
’t have a hope of disguising her pregnancy, the drapes and folds floated around her, making it far less obvious. Next came the veil. Elia did the honors there. The final touch came when Gianna handed Shayla a bouquet of trailing jasmine to match the flowers in her hair.
Gianna stepped back with a trembling smile. “The veil is something old and borrowed. The dress something new,” she explained. She indicated the ribbon they’d used to tie the bouquet together. “And there’s your something blue.”
Finding herself unable to utter a word, Shayla hugged her sister-to-be, then Elia and Nonna. Three generations of Dante women and soon she’d be one of them. “Thank y’all so much,” she finally managed to say. Her gaze swept the other women in the room. “You have no idea how much this means.”
From that moment forward the evening passed in a haze. She joined Draco in front of the priest in a garden filled with beds of colorful flowers and overflowing with the warmth of family. Just as the last ray of sunshine touched the gathering in a golden benediction, the priest pronounced them husband and wife.
Draco lifted the single layer of tulle away from her eyes and mouth and cupped her face in a gesture as endearing as it was familiar. “My wife,” he announced, his words ripe with possession and stamped with satisfaction.
And then he kissed her. The kiss stripped away nerves and hesitation, crashed through barriers and conflict. In its place it gave hope. Passion. More than that, it offered a promise fraught with possibility.
If only . . . came the stray notion as resistance slipped away and she succumbed to the embrace. If only this were real. If only they were in love. If only the baby kicking impatiently for freedom weren’t responsible for their marriage.
If only they loved each other.
No sooner had the thought been born, than the first star fired to life in the velvety sky overhead. It glittered bright and steady in the heavens, then flashed like the heart of a fire diamond. The Inferno burned within her palm, as though in confirmation, as though it were somehow connected to the star.
A first wish made . . .