by Jane Porter
Brando misread her contemplative mood as fatigue, and insisted he leave for the night so she could get some sleep. “The nurse knows to call me if you want anything, or if you suddenly crave gelato, or if you’re wide awake in the middle of the night and just want to talk.”
She smiled crookedly. “I can call you just to chat?”
“If you’re lonely or bored, have the nurse call me, and I will keep you company on the other end of the line.”
“And if I wanted you to come back and keep me company here?” she asked.
“I’d get dressed and come straight away.”
“What if I wanted you to stay here with me tonight?” The words popped out before she’d thought them through.
“Do you want me to? I’ve been told the little couch makes into a bed.”
She eyed the small couch and then looked at him. He was over six feet two, and his shoulders were wider than the sleek Italian sofa. “You wouldn’t be comfortable.”
“I don’t mind, not if it’d give you peace of mind.”
She tried to picture him sleeping so close to her, his big body sprawled out, just the way he’d slept with her during their night together when they’d finally stopped touching and kissing and tasting—
“No, I wouldn’t sleep a wink,” she answered. “Go home and come back tomorrow...if you have time.”
“Cara, I have nothing but time.” He leaned over the bed, kissed her brow and then a fleeting kiss on her lips. “Can I get you anything before I leave?”
And suddenly, just like that, she didn’t want him to leave.
Not just now, but ever.
The simmering feelings she’d had for him six months ago had become a fireball, exploding to life.
“No,” she said, hating the thickness in her throat, and the aching pang in her heart. “I’m good. Go home, sleep well. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Easier said than done, Brando thought, back at his elegant town house in the converted palace. He wandered through the second floor and then up to the third floor, which was his private office suite. Sitting down at his desk, he sorted through mail that had been left for him by his assistant, and documents requiring signatures. He signed where necessary and then leaned back and stared across the room, to the summer sky just now going dark.
He thought of nothing and everything, of Charlotte in the hospital bed, and the ultrasound earlier where he saw his son for the first time, the baby so tiny, but also so very perfect. Brando knew he would do whatever he had to do to ensure his son’s safety, as well as his future. What mattered now was Charlotte and the baby. Everything else was secondary.
His phone pinged with an incoming text. He looked at it immediately, in case it had to do with Charlotte. Instead it was a text from Louisa.
Hello, handsome. I’m free now. Are you?
Brando picked up the phone and texted back.
Sorry, no.
He thought for a moment, before sending another swift text.
I enjoyed our time together, but I am no longer single. Ciao e abbi cura di te.
Goodbye and take care.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BRANDO WAS BACK at the hospital in the morning and Charlotte was sitting up in bed, looking anxious and restless when he arrived. “What’s wrong?” he asked, leaning over to greet her with a kiss on her forehead.
“I need my phone, and my computer. I can’t work without them.” She gestured to the short stack of magazines on the bedside table. “The nurse brought me fashion magazines this morning but I don’t want to read them. I need to check in with my clients—”
“Easy, slow down,” he said, checking his smile as he pulled a chair close to the side of the bed. “You’re supposed to be resting, not stressing out.”
Charlotte drew a deep breath. “I know, and I agree. But I feel naked without my phone, and it’s even worse not having a phone or computer. I’m not used to being completely out of touch.”
“Do you want me to have someone drive them up from the castello? I can.”
Her brow furrowed. “Am I going to be here long?”
“I don’t know. That’s something we’ll have to ask the doctor when he makes his rounds this morning.”
She was silent a moment and then nodded. “Obviously if me being here is the best thing, then I should be here. I just would feel better being here if I had my vanity bag, and briefcase with laptop, phone and chargers.”
“I’m worried work will create stress for you, though.”
“I’d be more stressed not being able to communicate with my clients.” She hesitated. “I’ll let them know I’m taking the next week or two off and will be in touch soon. I’d feel better about that than just not answering emails.”
“Agreed.”
She looked at him, brows still knitting together, expression still troubled. “I’m not flying anytime soon, am I?”
“I think it would be incredibly risky.”
“I do, too.” She looked past him to the window with its view of the city and the hills that framed the capital of Tuscany. “I don’t want a repeat of yesterday.”
“Neither do I.”
“I was terrified.”
He saw her bring her hands together, fingers laced tightly against the white hospital covers, and he reached out and covered her clenched hands with one of his. “Everything is good,” he said quietly, firmly, determined to keep her calm. Relaxed. The baby needed her to be still, and relaxed.
“For now,” she said, a catch in her voice. She glanced up at him, blue eyes shining with a film of tears. “But I can’t stop thinking about the what-ifs. What if I’d been on the plane? What if I’d been going through customs at the airport? What if—?”
“But you weren’t. You were with me, and we got you here quickly and the doctors were able to stop labor.” He squeezed her hands. “And it wasn’t all bad. Yesterday we saw the baby and he’s healthy, and beautiful—”
She snorted. “I wouldn’t go so far as to describe him as beautiful. I’m sure he will be—”
“He was beautiful to me. My son. Our son.” Brando’s voice deepened. “It’s a miracle. I wasn’t expecting a family and yet suddenly I have one, and I vow to take care of you both, always. Forever.”
He hoped his words would reassure her, but instead tears trembled on her lashes before falling.
She pulled her hands free to wipe them away. “I hate crying,” she said hoarsely. “Please don’t mind me.”
His chest squeezed, and he felt a peculiar pang near his heart. “You don’t have to be an island,” he said carefully, not wanting to upset her. “It’s okay to have feelings and cry. Italian women are passionate, and emotional, but those emotions do not make them weak. Emotions are what make us strong.”
She swiped beneath her eyes, drying them. “You seem to understand women quite well.”
“Somehow you manage to make that sound like a criticism.”
“In so many ways you seem so perfect, but then you don’t want serious relationships. You aren’t married—”
“If I was married, we wouldn’t be here today. I would have never had that night with you.”
She gazed up at him from beneath wet spiky lashes. “Lots of men have affairs.”
“Are you thinking of that survey from a number of years ago that said in Italy, most affairs started in the office?”
“No, but interesting.” Two bright spots of pink colored her cheeks. “I just know my parents divorced over affairs, and it was a problem between my mom and her last husband.”
“I don’t condone affairs. And I don’t know if my father ever had an affair, but he cherished my mother, and taught his sons to protect your family at all costs, and you can’t protect your family if you’re damaging the marriage.”
“So when you marry, you won’t have one?”
/> “It goes against everything I believe.”
“Then why haven’t you married?”
“Because I hadn’t found the one I wanted to commit myself to for the rest of time.”
Charlotte’s heart fell, and she looked away, teeth catching her lower lip to keep it from quivering.
Brando would marry her because it was the right thing to do, but she wasn’t the one he would have married. And yet yesterday had made her realize she couldn’t manage everything by herself. She’d been prepared to go it alone when she’d felt good and strong, but if there were complications, or if the baby came early, she realized she wouldn’t be able to cope on her own. She didn’t want to struggle alone.
“Remember when we agreed we’d be honest?” she said, stomach in knots, pulse racing.
He nodded.
“I’m going to be honest with you now, but it’s not easy because I like my independence, but it’s a problem.” She glanced at him, trying to read his expression, but his silver gaze hid whatever he was thinking. “I was wrong. I can’t do this on my own.” She drew a quick breath and plunged on. “I can’t even imagine what I would have done if I were in California when this happened. I don’t know what I would have done yesterday without you. I was so scared, and in so much pain.” She pressed her lips together, and counted a few counts, giving her time to gain control over her emotions, not easy when her heart felt bruised and she felt overwhelmed by the reality of her situation. “I try so hard to be independent and handle things, but Brando, I’ve never been so scared in my life. It was too soon for the baby to come, and I just kept thinking of all the problems he’d have if he was born at almost twenty-four weeks.”
“It was scary, but you’re fine, and he’s fine—”
“For now.” She looked up into his face, her gaze meeting his, and holding. This was serious. Important. She needed him to realize just how serious she was now. “But what if I go into labor again? What if the baby is born early? He could have serious challenges—” She broke off, swallowed and continued. “I was naive to think I could do it all, handle it all on my own. Honestly, it wasn’t just naive, it was selfish. He isn’t just my baby, he’s yours, too, and you need to be part of his life.”
“I will be.”
She nodded, again biting down into her tender lower lip. For a moment there was just silence and then she added softly, “You were wonderful yesterday. You were such an advocate and so calm and so strong—” She broke off, fighting to hold back fresh tears, uncertain as to why she was falling apart now. She didn’t cry and yet she felt as if she were a watering pot, tears springing free. “I realized I can’t do this without you. I don’t want to do this without you—”
The rest of Charlotte’s thought was interrupted by the sudden appearance of the doctor with a nurse, and they entered her room in the middle of conversation, but the conversation ended as the obstetrician approached the bed.
“How are we today?” Dr. Leonardi asked, glancing from Charlotte to Brando and back again. “I understand it was a restless night for our patient. The night nurse said you were awake much of the night, but we need you to rest.”
Brando looked at Charlotte, a black eyebrow lifting. She ignored it, and him, and answered the doctor. “I didn’t realize hospitals are so noisy, and every time the nurse came in to check on me I’d wake up and then stay awake.” She realized how that sounded and quickly added, “I’m not complaining, I’m just explaining why I couldn’t sleep.”
“You couldn’t pretend it was a fine hotel?” the doctor teased.
“If it was a hotel, I would have phoned the front desk and complained,” she answered with a wry smile. “I think I just had too much time on my own, and no way to distract myself. Brando has promised to send for my computer and then I’ll be able to work if I can’t sleep.”
“Is your work very taxing?” Dr. Leonardi asked. “We don’t want you to do anything that will create stress. It might be better for you to read a relaxing book, nothing too scary or violent. Maybe a romance. My wife reads them and says they’re very good for escaping.”
Charlotte forced a pleasant expression, hiding how she truly felt, as she would never, ever be caught reading a romance. A biography, yes. A history, yes. A cozy mystery, yes. Romances were for those who believed in happy endings. She didn’t, at least, not anymore.
“Do you have an idea of how long you’ll want to keep her here?” Brando asked.
“Another day or two, and then we can evaluate how she’s doing, and how the baby is doing. If both are doing well, I don’t see why Charlotte couldn’t go home with you, but I’d keep her on modified bed rest.”
Charlotte’s heart fell. “For how long?”
“Possibly for the duration of your pregnancy.”
Her jaw dropped. Three months?
Brando crossed his arms over his chest. “What is modified bed rest?”
“It’s a term we use for restricted activity without the stringent dictate to remain completely confined to bed. Every doctor probably has his own definition for it. For me it means limited physical activity, and lengthy morning and afternoon rest periods in bed. I also restrict lovemaking, so no sexual activity, as sex releases prostaglandins that are similar to the medications used to induce labor.”
Charlotte blushed. “That won’t be an issue,” she said unsteadily. “We’re not having sex.”
“It won’t be forever,” the doctor replied with a smile. “After the baby you’ll need a few weeks to heal, and then you should be able to resume sexual intercourse—”
“Any other concerns?” Charlotte interrupted, embarrassed, and more than a little horrified. “Or do I just stay put for the day?”
“Just stay put, and relax, and I’ll be back later this afternoon.” The doctor nodded, smiled and walked out with the nurse.
Charlotte couldn’t even look at Brando. Everything was so strange, and so uncomfortable. Her life seemed to be spinning completely out of control. “So there’s that,” she said, plucking at her covers.
“No sex for us—”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” she interrupted quickly, heat rushing through her, making her feel tingly and self-conscious. “And you know it. You’re just tormenting me now.”
“Sex is what got us into this situation,” he said mildly. “And it was good sex. Probably the best sex I’ve ever had.”
She jerked her head up as she looked across her room at him. He was leaning against the wall, one shoulder resting against the window trim, sunlight pouring in, haloing his head with golden light. He had a hint of a smile, and there was a glint in his silver eyes that made her tummy flip and her pulse quicken. He was tall and lean, and incredibly handsome.
And he was hers...or had been for one night.
Two days ago he suggested they marry, which meant he could be hers forever.
Would he be happy, though? Would she?
“We were talking about something important when Dr. Leonardi walked in,” he said now, his smile disappearing, his expression turning serious. “Let’s finish that conversation.”
“I don’t remember what we were saying—”
“You’d just said you couldn’t do this alone, and you didn’t want to.” Brando repeated her words back to her, almost exactly as she’d said them. “So what do we do?” he added. “What is our next step?”
Her mouth dried and her pulse jumped, beating too hard in her veins. “You tell me.”
“I want to hear it from you. We both already know what I think.”
She swallowed hard, her mouth feeling as if she’d been sucking on a cotton ball. It took forever to form words, but Brando waited, saying nothing, just watching her with those piercing eyes of his. “You think...you believe...you said, we should...marry.”
“And what do you think?” he said bluntly.
She f
elt another sharp twinge in her chest. “I think we do what’s best for the baby.”
“Which is?”
He wasn’t making this easy, was he? She drew a deep breath, feeling tender and shy. “We get married.”
“When?”
Her shoulders rose and fell. “Whenever we can?”
Brando needed to head to the Ricci headquarters for a meeting that couldn’t be postponed, but he promised to be back for a late lunch. He returned two and a half hours later with lunch and her briefcase and her vanity bag. She didn’t know if she was more excited at being able to brush her hair or check her email.
Again Brando’s chef materialized with lunch, and after lunch was cleaned up and put away, Brando opened his laptop and worked, while she worked on hers. She handled the most urgent emails, and then sent emails to others letting them know that she was taking the next few weeks off for a personal matter, but hoped to be working again by the end of the month.
It wasn’t until she got a flurry of email responses from her clients asking if everything was all right that she realized her wording was problematic. Normally Charlotte was an expert at handling sensitive matters but she certainly wasn’t handling her own situation very well.
She didn’t realize she’d muttered any of her frustration out loud until Brando asked what the matter was.
She sighed and rubbed at her temple, trying to make the headache go away. “I think I’ve made a mess of things,” she said. “I reached out to my clients and let them know I’d be taking some time off, and it’s backfired. Everyone is asking if I’m okay, and if there is anything they can do.” She grimaced. “Someone just now wanted to know how they could help. This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen.”
“Read what you wrote.”
“I said I was taking the next few weeks off for a personal matter, but hoped to be back at work by the end of June.” She looked over at him. “I shouldn’t have said ‘personal matter,’ should’ve I?”