Chapter Seven #2
Hugging her arms around her chest, she rocked forwards and back, closing her eyes as troubled thoughts invaded her head. In a way she was glad Amy had left the country, because she didn’t want anybody else’s advice, no matter how well-meaning.
This had to be her decision and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that she was going to love this baby with all her heart.
Because she knew about motherhood. She’d stepped in to raise her little sister when their mother had died and had loved doing it.
Whatever fate threw at her, she would deal with. She would manage.
But the voice of her conscience wouldn’t be silenced.
Because…
What about Vito? Despite his aversion to fatherhood, surely he had a right to know he was going to be a dad.
And if that were to be the case, then what was the correct protocol for imparting such a monumental piece of news?
Should she pluck up courage and phone him, or maybe just pitch up at his Milanese headquarters and announce it without any kind of warning.
No.
That kind of dramatic confrontation might have been appropriate if they’d had been in some sort of relationship, but it had been nothing more than a one-night hookup.
It wasn’t ever supposed to be repeated and it wasn’t supposed to have any repercussions.
Imagining Vito’s horror at discovering that she was carrying a Monticelli heir was all too easy and Flora wasn’t feeling strong enough to stomach such a reaction.
Nor to face the sniggers of the workers in his Italian office with whom she’d spoken many times.
It turned out that procrastination was easier than confrontation. So she put off doing anything.
February came and went, and soon the first buds of spring appeared in some of the window boxes along her road. She should have been cheered by the sight of all those miniature yellow daffodils pushing through the wet brown soil but for once the advent of spring was refusing to inspire her.
And then the sickness started. Without any kind of warning she’d be forced to rush to the loo at work and, more than once, she caught Dante Antonelli regarding her curiously when she returned to the office, pale-faced and dry-mouthed and trying very hard not to tremble.
‘You are not well,’ he observed one morning, his dark eyes narrowing.
‘I think I must have some sort of bug!’
‘Again?’
Was she imagining the thoughtful tone of his reply?
Was he thinking she was useless as a secretary and about to ring HR to ask how best she could be replaced and if that were the case, what would she do?
If people found out she was pregnant they’d want to know who the father was and unless she was planning on trying to carry off a virgin birth, imagine their shock if they discovered it was the boss!
And although the sickness receded as swiftly as it had arrived, she knew she couldn’t carry on like this, pretending nothing was the matter.
She would ring Vito at the weekend—when he wasn’t busy and she wasn’t distracted—and she would tell him her news very calmly.
What he did with that piece of information was up to him, but she would let him know that she was prepared to be reasonable.
Flora awoke on Saturday morning to the heavy pound of rain.
Wind was whistling through the gap in the window frame and, after shivering in the shower, she bundled on her thickest sweater and a pair of Amy’s jeans which were slightly too short for her, before making some weak tea.
Carrying her mug into the sitting room, she sat down on the battered sofa and started rehearsing the words she would say when she finally plucked up enough courage to dial the international number, when a loud ring on the doorbell startled her out of her reverie.
Was it her hipster neighbour Joe from upstairs?
she wondered. Offering her one of his homemade brownies, or asking if she had any camomile teabags?
Amy had been certain the geeky designer fancied her, but Flora hadn’t been convinced.
Anyway, the most eligible man on the planet could have asked her out and she would have just looked at him blankly, because who in the world could have compared to Vito Monticello?
She opened the door by a crack, her polite smile dying when she saw who was standing there and for a moment Flora thought she must have magicked him up from her frenzied thoughts.
But this man wasn’t a figment of anyone’s imagination.
This man was real.
Very, very real.
And angry.
Not a raging kind of anger, but a quiet and infinitely more deadly kind, which simmered at the back of his ice-blue eyes.
Why was he angry? she speculated with a sudden sinking feeling of apprehension.
‘Vito!’ she said.
‘You look surprised, Flora,’ he observed, his silken tone underpinned with something which sounded like…
Danger?
Tiny droplets of rain glinted like jewels in his ebony hair and his dark and golden beauty was so intense that it quite simply took her breath away, just as it had done the first time she’d seen him.
And oh, how she wanted him. Flora swallowed.
It was as instant and as complete as that.
She felt a part of him. Was that because she was carrying his baby inside her?
Sucking in a deep breath, she sought to compose herself. ‘Of course I’m surprised! It’s a long way from Milan! Why…why didn’t you warn me you were coming?’
‘I think,’ he said, and his voice sounded as if it had been coated in some dark and corrosive liquid, ‘that if there are any questions to be asked, then I should be the one seeking answers. Don’t you?’
A shiver of apprehension whispered down Flora’s spine. ‘Not if—’
‘Is everything okay, Flo?’ came a concerned voice, and Flora looked over the shoulder of the Italian billionaire, up to see Joe coming down the communal stairs, his brow creased with concern.
She saw Vito shoot the pony-tailed designer a look of dislike.
‘I’m fine, Joe. Thanks for asking.’ But she didn’t introduce the two men, just opened the door a little wider and sent a pointed look at her ex-boss. ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’
‘At last!’ he snarled sarcastically.
Steeling himself against what he might find, Vito followed Flora into her ground-floor apartment, his heart sinking as he looked around.
It was worse than he’d imagined. But then, he’d never been anywhere like this before.
A tiny sitting room crammed with mismatched furniture which overlooked a busy street.
A small table was pushed against a wall, a cheap television sat on a shelf and next to it, a bookcase sagged from the weight of all the books. And it was cold. Bitterly cold.
Turning to Flora, he looked at her properly for the first time, his gaze scanning over her, unable to prevent the arrow of shock which shot through him.
Her face was as white as marble and there were shadows beneath her green-gold eyes.
Her cheekbones were hollow and pinched and she looked as if she might have lost weight, though it was difficult to tell beneath that jumper.
He felt the twist of something inexplicable in his heart but hot on the heels of guilt, came rage.
What was she trying to hide?
You know damned well what she’s trying to hide.
Part of him wanted to test her by prevaricating.
To see how long it would take for her to admit the truth.
But what was the point of trying to see if she would attempt to pull the wool over his eyes and fool him, just so he could gain some kind of moral advantage?
This was way too serious. ‘Do you have something you want to tell me?’ he questioned coolly.
He saw her swallow, saw the sudden spring of tears to her eyes and he had to fight the urge to pull her into his arms. To comfort her, or to kiss her, he wasn’t quite sure.
But kissing her would be sending out mixed messages and comforting her would confuse the hell out of him.
Don’t fail her by letting her think you’re the kind of man you can never be, he told himself fiercely.
Don’t start acting in a way you’ll be unable to sustain.
‘So,’ he said, while still she continued to look at him, her extraordinary eyes hooded and wary, her lips trembling as she drove her teeth into them. As if she were reluctant to say the words which would change everything.
‘I’m having a baby,’ she said at last.