Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
S HE GRABBED A HOLD OF her immediate response, and just sat there, staring at him, trying to make sense of his last few statements. That he hadn’t had sex with anyone in so many years went some of the way to explaining why it had felt so animalistic and wild, why it had seemed as though he needed to bury himself in her and stay there forever. And she was relieved. Because in the back of her mind, she’d started to worry that in some way, Dante Santoro had been the perfect lover, and that she’d never enjoy that kind of passion again, but it wasn’t about him, so much as his life circumstances.
He'd been widowed. He was alone. She closed her eyes on that awful sadness. Not just that his wife had died, but his daughter too. She swallowed past a lump in her throat. “How old was she?”
“Bianca was twenty four. Livvie was four.”
Georgia groaned, so desperately sad for him and what he’d lost. “That’s awful.”
He didn’t respond; he didn’t need to. She could see on his face how much that grief had wrapped around him, changed him, and suddenly, everything made so much more sense. His air of “get the hell off my property”, for example. What had seemed like anger had actually been devastation. Five years after their deaths and he was still mourning them.
She toyed with her fingers, not knowing what to say. Even Georgia, a perennial optimist, couldn’t offer a platitude that would make this seem less awful.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said, and she meant it. With all her heart. Having lost her parents, she knew a lot about grief, but she could imagine that the death of a child was something else entirely.
“I cannot lose our son.” His voice had a rough, rawness to it that drilled right into her heart. “I cannot go through it again. I didn’t want this, Georgia. Believe me when I tell you this is the last thing I would ever have wanted, but now that it’s happened and you’re pregnant, I cannot exist in a world where my child is not a part of my life.” His accent was thick. “Mine to care for and to protect.”
She shivered at the emotion in his words, so dark and primal. She hated what he was suggesting. It felt a lot like being trapped in a steel cage to Georgia, but maybe, just maybe, she could make it work. Not for Dante, necessarily, but for their son. Because she could see that he would be a good father. Just looking at how willing he was to fight to be in their child’s life meant something.
Once upon a time, she’d wanted to travel, to see the world.
And she’d wanted to study medicine for as long as she could remember.
When she’d discovered her pregnancy, she’d known she had to kiss that dream goodbye. How could she go to university and do such an intensive course as a single mother?
But with Dante’s involvement, his support, maybe she could do both. Not straight away—she knew it would take time to adapt to motherhood, and besides, she wanted to soak up everything she could about their baby. But she could enroll, perhaps to study a single subject. With help and support, surely it would be possible.
And not only was London beautiful, it was also, as Dante had pointed out, that much closer to the States. She could fly over to see the boys much more frequently, though the thought of using his private jet lodged strangely in her throat. She couldn’t look at this man without remembering the way he’d treated her after they’d slept together, how he’d moved heaven and earth to get her out of his life.
Georgia knew it was vital that she remember that. On that night, he’d revealed to her who he truly was, and she didn’t ever want to forget it.
“Let me show you the house,” he said, grim, as though the idea of that was torture.
Whether it was sympathy for him or something else, she shook her head once. “That’s okay. It doesn’t matter what your house is like. It’s not going to influence my decision.”
He frowned. “You don’t think environment matters to children?”
“Of course I do, but I have a lovely home back in Australia, just a street away from the beach, with a big backyard and Hills Hoist clothesline that’s just perfect for running up and grabbing hold of and swinging around and around until you’re so dizzy you can’t stand up straight.” She said, a small smile tweaking her lips despite herself, so when her eyes met his, she noted his reaction—almost of panic—and sighed, the smile slipping. “I don’t doubt this place is perfect in other ways. It’s just…more complicated than that. ”
“No, it’s very easy,” he responded, softly, and with a flat tone to his voice, perhaps of resignation. “I cannot let you leave, Georgia. I won’t.”
She had been weakening. She could see the logical advantages to what he was proposing. But his threat was like a red rag to a bull. Her temper burst like lava from a volcano, spewing through her veins, making it hard to think straight.
“Are you planning to lock me in the house until the baby is born?”
Something shifted in his features and for reasons she didn’t comprehend, a different kind of heat began to run through her veins.
“No.”
She breathed out softly.
“But I will use every legal mechanism available to me to ensure I get my way.”
Her eyes swept shut and her teeth chattered. How could he be saying this? How could he be threatening her? Then again, why should it surprise her? He was a beast of a man. Apart from in bed, when he had some sublime skills and instincts, he had shown her every minute they’d spent together, which wasn’t many, what a horrible, arrogant, grump of a person he was.
“You’re shaking,” he said, as though he hadn’t caused her to have a panic attack, or something damn near it.
“I’m aware of that.” She wrapped her arms around her torso, hugging herself, and their baby.
“Sit down again.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“That is your problem,” he responded with a hint of anger, his hands curving around her arms. And oh, how she wished he hadn’t touched her! The moment his fingers connected with her bare skin, it was as though she was being flashed with heat and memories, the intimacy of his nearness stirring something inside of her she desperately didn’t want to feel. Yet she didn’t wrench away. She didn’t step backwards, out of his touch. “You are stubborn to a fault,” he continued, staring down into her face. “You claim to be able to care for a child, yet I see no evidence of that.”
She flinched.
“You are reckless and impulsive. I will not let my son be harmed because you?—,”
It was too much. She lifted her palms and pushed at his chest then, every bit of her outraged fury conveyed by the gesture. He was so much bigger than her, so much stronger, so all her gesture achieved was for his nostrils to flare a little as their bodies connected in another way.
“How dare you?” She demanded. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you almost ran right off a cliff chasing a damned scarf,” he bit out. “And that instead of allowing me to help you from a high branch of a tree, you jumped and sprained your ankle. And instead of telling me you were hurt, you walked half a mile in a storm. Reckless and impulsive, all of it.”
Tears sparkled on her lashes. “First of all, I don’t agree with any of what you’ve just said. That’s your perception of what happened but it’s not how I remember it. Secondly, I would never take risks with my child’s life, nor the life of any person whom I was entrusted to care for. You’re so paranoid because of what you’ve lost, you see risks everywhere.”
“Don’t talk to me about loss,” he ground out. “That’s not a part of this.”
“Of course it is, because it’s a part of you,” she shouted, aware that he was gripping her and she had her hands on his chest, yet neither of them broke that contact. “I don’t know what happened to them. An accident, I presume,” she swallowed past a lump, unable to bear the thought of it. “Accidents happen, Dante. Awful, tragic accidents. But you know what? More often, they don’t. Most of the time, things are fine. I’m going to be fine. Our son is going to be fine. I can do this without you.”
His eyes were sparking with anger, but otherwise his face was impassive. “But you won’t.” He dropped his hands then, easily and without delay, so she realised that the current of awareness that had been threatening to drown her hadn’t even come close to him. “We will either do this together, as I suggested, or I will hire every barrister in England to ensure I have sole custody of this child. That is your decision.”
She shivered more, faster, so he made a sound of frustration, put his arms on her shoulders once more and this time guided her to the sofa, and down into it. She glared at him, even when she was grateful for the support of the soft, sumptuous leather.
“I hate you,” she whispered, for her own benefit, more than his. “You really are a ghastly person.”
“Yes,” he agreed, then turned on his heel and left the room.
Dante braced his palms on the kitchen counter and stared out at the garden his daughter had loved so much. It had been a pain to look at it these last few years. Every aspect reminded him of her, of Bianca, of the way they’d loved lying on a blanket and looking up at the clouds. How many times had he come home from work and found them out there reading a book, snuggled into the bed of blankets Bianca had dragged with her onto the grass?
It was still immaculately tended, courtesy of his gardeners, and now he imagined another little person there, exploring the rock walls, poking their fingers into the rough grout, finding little treasures like old snail shells and perfectly-rounded pebbles. His gut churned painfully with a whole host of emotions, none of them easy to interpret for how overlapping they were. So much grief, so much sadness, stress, worry, anger, resentment, but there was also a feeling of wonder, because he knew what lay ahead, and how a baby had a way of reaching into your soul and repurposing it as their own. He’d lived a life of indentured servitude from the moment Livvie had been born—he existed only for her. Would that be the case with his son?
Something burst in his chest.
He knew his answer.
He would do whatever he could for this child; he had to. He was terrified of loving him, terrified of losing him like he’d lost Livvie, because he didn’t know if he could survive such a loss, but what choice did he have?
When he returned to the living room, he was carrying a tall water glass with ice that clinked musically against the edges. He placed it down on the coffee table near her then paced to the other side of the room.
“The house is large. Before the baby is born, you can have the whole first floor to yourself. There’s ample space and privacy. We have months to work out how to do this,” he gestured from his chest to hers.
“Do what?” She asked, numb.
“Co-exist without wanting to kill one another. ”
She grimaced, ignoring the little voice in her head that was reminding her she didn’t always want to kill him. There was a big part of her that also wanted to rip his clothes off, just for a moment, then she’d go back to hating him. She ignored that voice though, absolutely refusing to give it any quarter.
“Once the baby is born, one of us will move—either me, to the first floor, or you, down here. It makes sense to both be close to the nursery.”
Her eyes widened and something about the way he spoke, so pragmatically, made this feel more real than it had, to this point.
“Show me,” she whispered, reaching for the water and taking a sip.
He didn’t respond, just stared at her for a long time.
“Show me the nursery.”
It was obviously an agonising thought and she was sympathetic to him; of course she was. But minutes ago, he’d threatened to take her baby away if she didn’t fall in with his plans completely, so she wasn’t in the best headspace to give consideration to his emotional needs.
He gestured to a door on the other side of the room. Georgia walked through it, aware that he was right behind her, not because she could hear him but because somehow her body had become completely attuned to his.
The corridor was wide with high ceilings and the artwork on the walls was, like the living room, eclectic. A mix of bright, modern paintings hung clustered together, so despite being quite different in style, they were all somehow complementary. It must have taken a designer with an excellent eye to coordinate so many disparate pieces.
“Through there,” he said, muscle jerking in his jaw.
She glanced up at him, felt his hesitation and sympathy had her hesitating too. “You can’t even bear to go in, can you?” she said, moving closer, so she could see him better. “How are you going to have a baby in this house? How are you going to do this?”
He was silent, staring straight ahead.
“Dante, listen to me.”
His eyes dropped to hers and her pulse leaped.
“You just found out about our baby. You’re acting on instinct. I think we both need time to consider our situation.” Her voice was husky. “I’m not saying your suggestion doesn’t have merit,” she added, to placate him, but also because it was true. “It’s just, why rush into this decision? I’m only just in my second trimester. We have time.”
But it was hard to speak when his eyes were probing hers, as if looking for the thoughts behind her words, as if he could somehow read something in her that wasn’t there.
“From the moment I learned we conceived a child, I have been a father,” he said, quietly. “I do not need time to consider our options—there is no option, but for us to be together, to raise this child, and for me to keep him—and by extension you—safe from harm.”
“You can’t do that,” she said, frowning. “And I’m not your responsibility.”
“I can provide the best environment, for both of you,” he said.
“But I could still step out on the street and be hit by a bus.”
His eyes swept shut. “I will not speak in hypotheticals.”
“I’m just saying?—,”
“I know what you are saying. I have heard it all before. I understand life, risks. But where there is an option to protect you and this baby, I will take it.” He put his hand on the glossy white timber door. “Go. Have a look.” She went to take a step inside but his hand curled around her wrist, forestalling her. “I know you like to fight with me,” he said. “But don’t fight me on this. I do not want to become a man who fights a woman for custody of their child.”
“You prefer blackmail,” she said with a lift of one shoulder.
“I prefer common sense and rational thought, neither of which are your strong suits, evidently.”
She flinched at that. “You don’t know me.”
“So show me,” he challenged. “Show me you can be reasonable in the circumstances and agree to move in here. I don’t want to fight you, Georgia. Not about this.”
She shivered, because in this gear, he was so dangerously persuasive, she found her heart twisting and bending to his will, even when she still wasn’t sure it was a good idea.
“I’ll think about it,” she said, to buy herself some extra time, and because she wasn’t yet ready to admit that she was coming around to his perspective. The advantages to his suggestion were definitely there, and in reality, Georgia didn’t want to do this alone. Not when there was an option to live with another parent, someone who could share the load when it got tough.
He let her wrist drop and she rubbed her fingers over it surreptitiously. He noticed though, his eyes dropping to the betraying gesture. With a flare of his nostrils and a brief closure of his eyes, he stepped back, waiting for her to inspect the nursery.
Everything about his house was perfect. From the nursery with adjoining bedroom for a parent or nanny, to the large, farmhouse style kitchen that was the exact opposite of what she’d expect someone like Dante to have, to the proximity of his house to a little nursery school. It was hard to think of their baby as a school aged child and yet, how quickly life went when children were in the picture. She’d felt that with the twins—she’d been jettisoned so quickly from being a footloose and fancy-free teenager with the world at her feet to being orphaned and responsible for her brothers. From that moment on, she’d been caught in a whirlwind of after school sports, study, exams, school holidays, part time jobs, and she found the days passed in a blur, blending into weeks and months and years so before she’d known it, she’d been throwing the boys a sixteenth birthday party, then helping them apply for colleges and sit scholarship exams, knowing that she should be focusing on her own goals too.
But Georgia had wanted to travel first. It had always been her plan to enjoy a palette-cleansing gap year after working so hard in high school, and before undertaking a degree as demanding as medicine.
She sighed as she stepped into the back garden, running a hand over the top of a rock wall, feeling the rough crenellations formed by the tradesman’s trowel, and she imagined their son walking along the top of it, or running, as was more likely. She knew enough of little boys to know that Dante was going to have a meltdown when he saw how much risk was involved in a little boy’s day. All children liked to push boundaries, but in Georgia’s experience, little boys could be terrors. They ran too fast, rushed everywhere, were loud and silly and loved to roll around on the floor with each other, a mess of limbs and laughs.
“Well?” He asked, standing behind her, imposing despite the beauty and freedom of this garden. There was a huge mulberry tree towards the back, the trunk thick, the canopy like a big, fluffy umbrella. She could imagine how delightful it would be to lie beneath it on a summer’s day.
“It’s lovely,” she said quietly. “But so is your house in Como. I suspect you have a veritable buffet of properties you could use to tempt me into giving up my freedom.”
“Would you prefer to live elsewhere?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I thought we had to be here?” Even as she said it, the use of ‘we’ burrowed into her chest, making her feel like she was part of a team. With Dante Santoro? Impossible.
“My office is here, but I can work from anywhere. If you’d prefer Italy, we’ll make it happen.”
“New York?” She asked, toying with her fingers.
He lifted his shoulders. “Sure.”
It was evidence of how much he wanted this. And also, of the fact he was prepared to make some sacrifices too.
“Australia?”
His eyes narrowed. “Perhaps that’s too far. Is it so important to you?”
She considered that. It wasn’t, but she wasn’t prepared to concede that point yet. “I need to think.”
He walked towards the wall, lifted a twig off it, snapped it in his hands, lost in thought. She studied his face, his features so fascinating, she thought she could look at him like this for hours. But then he glanced up, pinning her with his gaze, and she flushed, feeling guilty for having been caught staring. “Where is your hotel key?”
She furrowed her brow. “Why?”
“I’ll go and get your things.”
Her eyes widened. “Why?”
“We’ve just discussed that, haven’t we?”
“You mean for me to move in now ?”
“You’re pregnant now, aren’t you?”
“But I still haven’t decided. There’s still more I need to know?—, ”
“No, there isn’t. The pertinent information is before you.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “So what’s it to be, Georgia?”
She ground her teeth together. “Well, between this,” she waved a hand towards his house, “or an expensive, probably unwinnable and definitely damaging custody battle, I suppose I choose door number one.” She stomped towards him, channeling her anger because it felt a little like a protective cape. “But don’t ever think I don’t hate you for this. Don’t ever think I’ll forgive you.”