Chapter Two #3
For the last seven months, he had been haunted by their week together, but Alessandro had sworn to himself that he would never see Ann-Sophie again.
The lingering ache for her was the price he was paying for the way he had let his control slip for one, short moment on the dance floor, he told himself.
But if she was… No, he would not let himself think about it until he had confirmation.
Which meant he needed to go directly to her apartment and clear up this situation.
“You could be waiting outside her apartment for days,” his brother had said over the phone as Alessandro sped toward the airport. “To think it wasn’t so long ago that you were the one telling me that I was not acting rational.”
“This is not the same,” he growled at his brother.
“Not at all,” Massimo had replied all too easily. “Because I was actually engaged to the woman I was pursuing. Whereas you are quite far from that.”
Somewhere over Europe, in the privacy of his jet, where he could think more rationally, Alessandro had reassured himself that she couldn’t be…
rounder. Instead, he found himself planning to see her again.
If his brother had been mistaken, and he found himself face-to-face with Ann-Sophie, close enough to touch, he would make an excuse for being in town and apologize for his unfortunate behavior.
Naturally, she would forgive him. This would soothe both the unsettling memory of their last night together and, if all went as planned, satisfy the desire that had plagued him, and finally put it to rest.
And if his brother was right? Alessandro had turned to stare out at the clouds, trying not to think about that possibility.
But now, as he stood on this narrow street, under the tempestuous Stockholm sky, the evidence in front of him was irrefutable.
Ann-Sophie was standing in front of him with a rolling suitcase in tow, and the word round didn’t begin to capture her belly.
Lush. Ripe. Those words continued to echo inside him, over and over, despite the fact that here on the street, he could only see a hint of this new development under her outer layers.
Seven months of repressing her voice, her laugh, the way her body seemed to be made especially for him—everything came back so viscerally.
The hints of new curves under her shawl made his hands clench with the need to touch her in all the ways he shouldn’t.
Because the hunger that gnawed inside him was mixed with the jumble of emotions he had spent his adulthood shutting off.
He glared at her belly incredulously, focusing on the fact that she hadn’t said a word about this situation to him.
“You are pregnant.” The words were an accusation that he flung at her, and for a moment she looked as if he had slapped her. Hurt and betrayal flashed across her face, and he hated the way it wrenched at him. Then her eyes narrowed.
“How very observant of you.” She tilted her head a little. “You know, I remember you as significantly more charming. Funnier. At least until those last moments on the dance floor.”
And he remembered her as easygoing. The last seven months of being pregnant on her own appeared to have given her teeth. Or maybe just the desire to use them on him.
“Is it my child?”
She rolled her eyes, as if this much was obvious.
“How did this happen?”
“My grade four teacher was pretty clear about the process, but maybe your fancy boarding schools left these details vague?”
He glared at her. “We used condoms.”
“Most of the time. I’ve had seven months to go back over our week. It’s definitely possible.”
Alessandro’s anger and lust flared, intertwining into something far more dangerous as he pictured a few choice moments of carelessness.
He had spent the last seven months intentionally not going over that week.
Now, flashes of their nights came back, feeding the storm clouds gathering in his mind.
Building, threatening to unleash their power and envelop everything around him.
He narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t tell me. ”
“Did you think that email I sent about ‘something important’ was a plea for more sex?” She huffed out a sigh. “Never mind. I don’t want to know how truly impressive your ego is.”
He bit back a snappier response because he had, in fact, thought something quite similar. Instead, he made an attempt to soften his voice. “We need to talk.”
She glared at him. He waited. Finally, she broke the silent war with a sigh and a shake of her head.
“Let’s go inside,” she said, and she didn’t wait for his answer.
Alessandro followed her through the front door and into the lobby, with its marble floors and brass letter boxes, as frustrations welled inside him—frustrations he didn’t know where to aim.
She bypassed the elevator and headed for the stairs, despite the fact that she was pulling a suitcase behind her.
“Why are you walking up?” he demanded. “Shouldn’t you be…”
He gestured vaguely to her body as he tried to remember what common wisdom said about what a pregnant woman should do. He was sure it included being careful about, well, everything.
“I’m perfectly capable of walking up stairs.” Ann-Sophie gestured to the sign taped next to the brass call button, written in unintelligible Swedish. “Also, the elevator is broken. They’re ordering a part, but…”
She shrugged, as if she had long ago accepted this fact and moved on. Again, his frustration bubbled to the surface, pushing aside those dangerous poisons of betrayal and lust.
“I will make sure it is fixed today.” At least one problem in this mess had a concrete solution.
The dry humor he remembered flashed across her face. “Of all the problems I have right now, that one doesn’t even rank in the top one hundred.”
The reference to all her problems raked through him uncomfortably.
“Let me carry your suitcase,” he said, just barely holding on to his calm facade. His temper must have shown on his face because her expression softened a little.
“Thank you,” she said and handed it to him.
Then she turned around and continued up the stairs as he stewed over this last comment. She said it as if she was humoring him. This situation obviously needed some clarifications.
Ann-Sophie climbed the stairs, past the second-floor landing of the spiral staircase, and came to a stop on the landing on the third floor, lit by the overcast sky through the window in the stairwell.
She keyed the door, and they stepped into a tiny hallway.
The floor was filled with mail and newspapers, and as she bent to pick up everything, her full rear brushed against his thigh.
His body stirred again, and Alessandro gritted his teeth.
This woman had the power to take over his thoughts and make him act irrationally.
It had already happened once, with disastrous consequences, and he could feel how easily it could happen again.
“I’ll get the mail,” he growled.
Everything he did from this point forward must be strategic, and from the moment he had registered her round belly, partly concealed by the billowy shawl she wore, Alessandro knew immediately what the goal had to be.
He would never be a negligent father and treat his child like an inconvenience—or worse—the way his own parents had.
And though Alessandro had never envisioned himself as a father, he had very strong ideas about how a child should be raised.
He needed a solution that would give him some much-needed control over this…
situation. Which required keeping the child and Ann-Sophie close.
That’s what this strange, possessive urge was about, he told himself.
The solution he had in mind did not involve intense emotions.
As long as he kept himself under control, he could fix this situation into something that worked.
He had succeeded with more delicate negotiations, and he always pursued his interests relentlessly until he was satisfied with the outcome. This would be no different.
He took a moment to evaluate her living conditions, which, on the whole, looked perfectly acceptable, though a little small.
The apartment’s old wooden floors and high ceilings lined with flourishes marked the building’s age, but it had been kept up reasonably well.
Alessandro hung his coat on a brass coatrack and followed her into a living room.
The walls were white and decorated with a series of paintings that could have been Southeast France or Northwest Italy.
The most notable feature was an old-fashioned, floor-to-ceiling stovelike fireplace, freestanding and entirely covered with tile.
The rest of the room was decorated in the Scandinavian modern style that one might expect, with a low, white sofa and chairs and an area rug patterned in tan and white.
On the whole, the room was tasteful and might have even felt a bit impersonal if not for the books.
They were everywhere, in overflowing piles on the bookshelves and scattered on the furniture and the low tables, some bookmarked and others propped open.
Ann-Sophie cleared a book from the armchair and gestured for him to sit. “I’m putting on the kettle for peppermint tea. Would you like a cup?”
He shook his head. The drink he needed right now was significantly stronger.
She disappeared through the doorway, and he wandered through the room, inspecting the books that lay open, faced down, half-read and abandoned.
There were a few in Italian and English that he recognized, but most were in what he assumed was Swedish.
Ann-Sophie clearly loved to read, and Alessandro filed this information away for future strategic use.
She returned moments later with a tray that held a cup of tea and a plate that held some sort of sugary bun, which she set next to a stack of older-looking books.