Modern Romance Collection February 2025, #1-4

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREE

S IENA SIGHED DESPONDENTLY . She’d just been told by the art school’s accommodation officer that the hall of residence where she had a room reserved, subsidised by a bursary for mature students, did not cater for parents, and nor did any college accommodation. She must rely on the private rental sector.

Siena sighed again. That would be far more costly—and when the baby arrived there would be childcare costs too. Would the legacy from her parents that was to pay for art school stretch that far? Doubt filled her. And resentment too.

How could her life have changed so dramatically?

So disastrously.

Just because of that one damn night.

One night—and it’s changed my life for ever. Destroyed my dreams.

It had been wonderful beyond all things to get into this ultra-prestigious, world-famous London art school as a mature student, with a subsidised room in a hall of residence. But if she could not afford to live in London and pay for childcare too, how was it going to be possible to take up her place?

She couldn’t stay indefinitely in Meg’s flat—she was only here doing some temporary office work at the PR company where Meg worked because Meg’s flatmate, Fran, had taken off for the summer. It was meant to have tided her over until term started and she moved into the hall of residence. But now that wasn’t going to be possible.

As for getting council accommodation... For single mothers, the waiting list was a mile long, and it would probably be little more than a grim bedsit or hostel.

She gave another sigh, deeper this time, and more despondent. In the face of such difficulties a decision was forcing itself upon her—one she didn’t want but had to accept, with heavy reluctance and resignation. There was no other option.

She made herself tell Megan when her friend came back from work that evening.

‘I’m calling it quits, Megs. Giving up my place at art school. I just can’t afford it. I’ll move out of London...find somewhere loads cheaper to live. I’ll work until the baby arrives, then live on my parents’ legacy until I can sort childcare for when the baby’s older. As for art school... Well...’ she gave a shrug ‘... I gave up on it once before and survived. I’ll do so again.’

Megan looked at her, dismayed. ‘You mustn’t do that, Si,’ she said emphatically. ‘I know what you went through...giving up your place all those years ago. You lost your dream then—you must not give it up again.’

Siena looked at her sadly. ‘I’ve no alternative. It just isn’t financially viable. And it’s my own fault, isn’t it? I got myself pregnant—’

‘No, you didn’t “get yourself” pregnant,’ Megan began forcefully. ‘The man you refuse to contact again got you pregnant.’

Siena held up her hands, wearied beyond measure by her friend’s pointless insistence. ‘Megs, please, please, please —just don’t. Look, I’ve made my mind up. I’m chucking art college, starting my life afresh—again—and moving out of London. I’ll start checking out where rental prices are cheapest, but somewhere decent enough to raise a baby. I’ll be fine.’

Megan’s expression changed. ‘There is another option, you know,’ she said slowly. ‘You could choose not to have this baby...’

‘No!’ Now it was Siena’s voice that was forceful. ‘I won’t do it—I won’t even think of it!’

Megan bit her lip, looked uneasy. ‘I know... I know it’s because of...well...because of...what you went through with your family.’ She halted, then went on, her voice lifting. ‘But what about adoption? There are plenty of couples who would love—’

Again, Siena cut across her. ‘I couldn’t do that either. Megan, I’m honest enough to admit I don’t want to be pregnant—but I am, and it is my responsibility from now on.’

My responsibility. No one else’s.

To her relief, Megan didn’t argue any more. But as she headed into the kitchen her expression was set and determined...

Vincenzo was watching the yachts criss-crossing the bay, skimming the azure waters. He was in Sardinia, meeting up with a CEO in whose company Vincenzo was considering investing. Meeting done, he was having lunch at his hotel, prior to flying back to Milan that afternoon.

As he ate on the shady open-air terrace overlooking the azure bay the yachts made a peaceful scene.

They also brought back memories—mixed memories.

As a teenager, he’d wanted to learn to sail—wanted to step aboard one of those light, almost winged craft and skim across the waves. Carefree...

But his teenage years had not been carefree. Even from a younger age he’d been aware of how much of a soft touch his widowed father was...had watched women making up to him, getting him to squander his money on them. Finally, one of them had become his wife—and then the spending spree had really started. Ending with his increasingly stressed father dying, leaving everything to her. She’d seen to that...

Vincenzo’s expression hardened. He’d learnt a lesson from his father’s sorry experience...his lack of judgement when it came to women and their ambitions.

His thoughts flickered. He’d heard nothing more from that woman he’d spent a single night with who had then claimed he’d got her pregnant. Clearly it had been nothing but a try-on. But the fact that she’d tried it on at all showed him that he’d made the right call, that morning at the Falcone, to walk out as he had. Not to take things any further with her.

However alluring her charms...

He reached for his wine glass, memory spearing. She really had been something...right from the first moment he’d set eyes on her, looking at him wide-eyed, lips parted, as obviously drawn to him as he to her. And when he’d taken her into his arms, slowly and sensuously peeled that tightly clinging dress from her soft, sensual body...

Sheer indulgence on his part.

But one he had enjoyed—even though he’d been right to keep it to a single night. A night that had been as out of character as it had been memorable.

He pulled his thoughts away, draining the last of his wine. That night and the unpleasant follow-up scene in his office, tainting what otherwise would have been a pleasing memory of their night together, were done with. Over. He could draw a formal line underneath them.

Time to head for the airport—get back to Milan.

As he moved to stand up, his phone rang. Sliding it out of his jacket pocket, he frowned. Why should the account director of the PR company who handled his media comms be contacting him? He kept a low press profile overall, and there was nothing in the offing.

He answered the call, intent on disposing of it as swiftly as he could, whatever it was about.

His voice was short—the voice at the other end, however, was the opposite, apologising for disturbing him and then hesitantly venturing, ‘Does the name Siena Westbrook mean anything to you?’

Vincenzo froze.

‘You did what ?’ Siena stared, aghast—more than aghast—at Megan across the breakfast table.

It was Saturday, and Megan had been out late the previous night, on duty at a corporate client’s dinner for journalists. Now she’d surfaced and was fessing up to Siena, who’d gone pale.

‘I did what needed to be done,’ Megan said defiantly. ‘And it’s no good getting on your high horse about it! I’m not letting you screw your life up!’

Siena fulminated visibly. ‘It’s my life to screw up if I want—and anyway, I am not screwing it up! I am making a perfectly rational decision—’

‘No, you’re not!’ Megan cut across her. ‘Look, it’s not as if you hadn’t decided to tell him in the first place!’

‘And how I wish to God I hadn’t!’ Siena’s eyes glowed with remembered fury, exacerbating the anger spearing her at what her friend had just told her she’d done.

‘Well, you did tell him,’ came Megan’s rejoinder. ‘And just because he proved to be a total jerk about it, it does not let him off the hook. Which is exactly what I told his press office!’ She went on, her voice more emollient now. ‘Look, I know how this stuff works, OK? I’m in PR, and I know what levers to pull. So that’s what I did. Pulled a lever that your precious Italian jerk really wouldn’t like being pulled!’

Her voice changed, and Siena, furious though she was, could hear satisfaction in it.

‘And even I think it was a lulu! I simply told the guy that his precious Signor Giansante could look forward to reading the headline The billionaire and his bedsit baby . He didn’t like that—didn’t like it one little bit! Oh, he prevaricated, and went all smooth and evasive, but I’d got him ruffled all right!’

Siena went on staring at her, but now her anger was subsiding, to be replaced by unease.

‘Megs, I know you meant well...’ it cost her to say it, but it was true ‘...but this guy, Vincenzo Giansante—well, he’s not some patsy. You’ve poked a tiger, and—’

Megan stood her ground defiantly, not letting her finish. ‘Si, he got you pregnant and has treated you like dirt!’

‘Yes, and because of that I don’t want anything to do with him!’

‘You don’t have to have anything to do with him!’ Megan remonstrated heatedly. ‘All you have to do is accept a maintenance payout from him! That’s all. And, given he’s so loaded, any payout will pay for you to live in London, go to art school and afford decent childcare while you study—not to mention when you graduate. The whole thing can be done through lawyers, and you’ll never have to set eyes on him!’

Siena’s face worked. Oh, dear God, why had Megan gone and interfered like that? Didn’t she understand?

I don’t want anything to do with the man! I don’t want him coming near me—or my baby! And he can take his money and choke on it for all I care!

‘Megan, I don’t want to be beholden to him in any way at all! I don’t want his money—and I don’t need it!’

If I take any money from him at all he’ll just feel it proves that’s what I was after all along, and I won’t give him the satisfaction of despising me for it!

She made herself take a steadying breath. Getting upset wasn’t good for the baby. She reached for her mug of tea—but before she could lift it, the flat’s doorbell rang.

‘I’ll get it,’ she said, standing up. She was dressed, and Megan was still in her dressing gown.

It was probably a delivery, and some other resident had obviously let them in at the main door on their way out.

She unbolted the security lock and opened the door.

Vincenzo Giansante stood outside.

For a moment, Vincenzo thought she was going to pass out. Instinctively he reached for her arm to steady her as she visibly swayed, slumping against the doorframe. He felt her jerk violently away, stumble backwards. Heard her give a strangled cry.

A voice called from the room beyond the hallway.

‘Si, who is it? Si...?’

Someone was emerging into the hallway—another female, wearing a loosely tied dressing gown and with messy hair.

She gave a gasp as she saw him. Frozen in the doorway.

‘Get out!’

The words were hurled at him—but not from the woman in the dressing gown. From the one now slumped against the wall. The woman he had last seen stalking out of his office as he dismissed her from his presence.

She looked white as a sheet, except for two spots of high colour in her cheeks. Absently, with a part of his brain that was completely irrelevant to his purpose, he registered that she was making him want to look at her just as powerfully as she had the very first time he’d laid eyes on her that fateful evening.

An evening that had brought him here, now, right in front of her.

He ignored her hissed and equally irrelevant outburst.

‘Where can we talk?’ he demanded. ‘Privately.’

‘I said, get out!’

He ignored her again, turning his attention to the woman in the dressing gown, who was looking as if she could not believe her eyes. He smiled inwardly, grimly, and entirely without humour. He could see a sitting room of sorts behind her—that would do.

He turned back to the woman he had flown from Sardinia to see.

‘I want this settled,’ he said. His voice was quelling. Intentionally so. Necessarily so. ‘And I want it settled now. You, or your representative, have made an allegation and threatened me with damaging publicity. You will either withdraw or substantiate your allegation. Which is it to be?’

She didn’t answer him. Instead, her face contorted again. ‘I have absolutely nothing to say to you! Nothing except get out!’

Vincenzo drew in his breath sharply, ignoring her imprecation, walking into the room beyond.

He heard the woman in the dressing gown speak, her voice urgent. ‘Si! This is it—he’s here now. God knows how... He moves fast—including finding out where I live, because how else is he here? Look, let’s just do this! Commit to nothing, just hear what he’s offering, then hand the whole thing over to lawyers to hammer out so it’s watertight.’

Dark rage fleeted in Vincenzo’s eyes. Rage had filled him from the moment he’d heard his media comms account director say her name. It had brought him here and he would not be leaving. He watched, his face stony, as Siena Westbrook walked into the room, the other woman’s hand propelling her.

He threw a quelling glance at the other woman, who lifted her chin and crossed her arms assertively.

‘Whatever you intend saying, you’re saying it in front of me as well,’ she said fiercely. ‘It was me who talked to your media comms guy yesterday—and I meant what I said. I promise you that!’

He made no reply, his eyes going to the woman who’d confronted him in his London office last month with the claim she had made. The claim, his expression tightened, that she must now either prove or withdraw.

His eyes rested on her for a moment. Did she look pregnant? No more than she had in his office. She was wearing jeans now, with a baggy tee shirt—both cheap. Her hair was in a plait, and she wore no make-up. Two spots of colour still burned in her cheeks. Her eyes glowed—but only with anger. Absently he noticed that they were still that same dark blue-green that had so intrigued him that fatal evening at the Falcone...

He dismissed the memory summarily. Frowned. Why did she want him to get out? Her PR friend had clearly been the one to bring him here by the means she’d used so effectively twenty-four hours ago. So why object to his arrival? Did she think his lawyers would be easier to deal with? If so—tough.

He cut to the chase.

‘If you want to claim maintenance you must prove paternity. I told you that in my office. Since you have not done so, I have drawn my own conclusions.’ He spoke briskly, and coldly. ‘Now, however, you are pursuing that claim. So, which is it?’ He levelled his gaze at her.

She didn’t answer—the other woman did. The one who’d made the call yesterday. Megan Stanley was her name, he recalled.

‘Mr Giansante,’ she said, eyeballing him. ‘You are, without doubt, the father of Siena’s baby. As such, she is entitled to maintenance from you. She is perfectly prepared to substantiate that claim, and an in utero paternity test will do so. All that is required is for you to provide the appropriate DNA blood sample for her claim to be verified. Then it is simply a question of the level of maintenance required by Siena from you.’

Vincenzo turned his laser gaze on her, saying nothing. He saw her start to quail, for all her bravado. Then another voice cut across.

‘There will be no paternity test—now or ever! And no claim for maintenance!’

Vincenzo’s eyes snapped back to Siena. ‘Because,’ he directed at her quellingly, ‘you know perfectly well the baby is not mine.’ It was not a question—it was a statement.

Something flashed in her eyes. He’d seen it in his office, and now he was seeing it again.

‘Because,’ she echoed, ‘you are the very last man on earth I would want to be the father of any baby—let alone mine !’

He saw her take a heaving breath and point towards the hallway.

‘So, having established that, you can now give me the only thing I want from you—and it is not your precious money!—which is for you to get out !’

She stalked ahead of him and he saw her yank open the front door. Hold it pointedly open.

He did not hesitate. He walked out of the room, across the hallway. He paused by the door and looked into her face. Anger was in it...and something more. For one long, timeless moment he held her eyes. Then he walked out.

Decision made.

He heard the door slam shut behind him as he headed downstairs.

Siena slumped back against the wall. Her heart was racing, her breathing shallow, her colour high.

Megan came hurrying out, and Siena turned on her. ‘Well, now you know why I will not— will not! —have anything to do with him!’

‘No,’ Megan bit back, ‘I do not know why.’ Then her voice changed, sounding quite different. ‘But I’ll tell you something for free. I know exactly why you fell into bed with him! Dear God, but he’s just lethal !’

Siena’s teeth gritted. ‘ Lethal is exactly the right word. And, no, I don’t mean it the way you damn well mean!’

Megan made a face. ‘Well, the one adds to the other,’ she said. Then her expression and her voice changed again. ‘Oh, Si...why on earth did you send him packing? OK, so I never dreamt he’d actually turn up like that—I assumed he’d be too high and mighty to want to do anything except through lawyers. Speaking of which—what I said back there is absolutely what you must do next. I know a good law firm who will sort it for you. Yes, it will cost, but since he’ll have no option but to concede to pay maintenance, once the paternity test is done, you’ll cover the legal costs with that, so—’

Siena held up a hand. When she spoke her voice, still shaky, was nevertheless adamant. ‘Megan, I know you mean well, but just stop. Stop interfering in my life. I am abjectly grateful he doesn’t think he’s the father! Because I meant every word I threw at him. He’s the last man on earth I want to have anything to do with either me or my baby. I am done with him.’

She went back to the breakfast table, her hand still trembling, she could see, as she picked up her now cold mug of tea. Her heart rate was subsiding, but slowly, and shock waves were still going through her.

She must calm herself down...it would upset the baby.

My baby—as in mine and mine alone.

It was sentiment she clung to for the rest of the weekend. Until, on Monday morning, by registered hand delivery, she received a summons to co-operate with a claim for paternity or face legal action for refusal.

It seemed, she thought, with a hollowing out of her insides, that she might be done with Vincenzo Giansante, but he was not done with her.

Or with the baby she carried...

Vincenzo sat behind his desk in his London offices, staring at the screen of his computer. His face held no expression, yet behind its frozen surface emotions were scything.

He was the father of the baby Siena Westbrook was carrying. The baby conceived on that single, fateful night with her.

Despite the evidence on the screen, disbelief still sliced through him. More than disbelief.

What the hell had she been playing at, Siena Westbrook? Why come here—stand right here, in front of this very desk—tell him she was pregnant and then never follow through on paternity tests?

Why had she not simply included him in the round of DNA testing she had presumably been instigating since their confrontation here? Why get that termagant in PR to do what she had? Threaten a press scandal? Why had that been the slightest bit necessary? It made no sense.

His mouth thinned, his frown deepening. Just as it made no sense that she should throw that hysterical outburst at him when he’d confronted her at the termagant’s flat—telling him she wanted nothing to do with him. That wasn’t the message he’d got when she’d told him she was pregnant, or she wouldn’t have turned up here in the first place.

He thrust it aside. It was irrelevant. As irrelevant as her objecting to his demand for a paternity test—refusing to co-operate until, losing patience, he’d instructed his lawyers to exert the necessary pressure to get her to comply. Eventually, she had. He’d left her no option but to do so, or be hauled—expensively—into court. So finally she’d had the required blood test, and he had had the required cheek-swab. At this stage of pregnancy, nearing the end of her first trimester, there were sufficient foetal cells circulating in her system for the test to be completely non-invasive—and for the results to be ninety-nine point nine percent accurate. No room for effective doubt.

He stared at the screen, emotion still scything through him.

He’d been so sure the results would be negative. So completely sure...

And yet—

Into his head one last question shaped itself. The one that he could not avoid.

So what the hell do I do now?