Chapter Ten
HE MADE LOVE to her as soon as they got back—while her cheeks were still cold from the snowy air and her eager fingers icy against his chest as she burrowed beneath his sweater.
Alannah lay on the rug in front of the fire, with her arms stretched above her head, wearing nothing but a pair of knickers.
And all her shyness and hang-ups seemed like a distant memory as he trailed his lips over every inch of her body.
His fingertips explored her skin with a curiously rapt attention and she found herself reaching for him with a sudden urgency, drawing in a shuddering breath as he eased into her and letting the breath out again like a slow surrender as he lowered his mouth to hers.
She loved the contrast of their bodies—his so olive-skinned and dark against her own milky pallor.
She liked watching the flicker of flames gilding his flesh and the way his limbs interlocked so perfectly with her own.
She loved the way he tipped his head back when he came—and made that low and shuddered moan of delight.
Much later, he pulled his sweater over her head and set about cooking lunch, while she curled up on the sofa and watched him, and suddenly she felt relaxed. Really and properly relaxed. The cushion behind her back was soft and feathery and her bare toes were warm in the fire’s glow.
‘It seems weird,’ she said as he tipped a pile of clean vegetables from the chopping board into a saucepan, ‘to see you in the kitchen, looking like you know exactly what you’re doing.’
‘That’s because I do. It isn’t exactly rocket science,’ he answered drily. ‘Unless you think cooking is too complicated for a mere man and that women are naturally superior in the kitchen?’
‘Women are naturally superior at many things,’ she said airily. ‘Though not necessarily at cooking. And you know what I mean. You’re a billionaire businessman who runs an international empire. It’s strange to see you scraping carrots.’
Niccolò gave a soft laugh as he grabbed a handful of fresh herbs, though he recognised that she’d touched a nerve.
Just because he could cook, didn’t mean he did—and it was a long time since he’d done anything like this.
Yet wasn’t there something uniquely comforting about creating a meal from scratch?
He’d cooked for his sister in those early days of loss but as she’d got older his responsibilities towards her had lessened.
When he had sent her away to school, only the vacations had required his hands-on guardianship.
But he had enjoyed his role as quasi-parent and he’d made sure that he carried it out to the best of his ability—the way he tackled everything in his life.
He remembered the trips to the famous Campagna Amica market, near the Circus Maximus.
He had taken Michela with him and shown the sulky teenager how to select the freshest vegetables and the finest pieces of fruit.
And all the stall-owners had made a fuss of her—slipping her a ripe pear or a small bunch of perfect grapes.
When Michela had finally left home, he had filled every available hour with work—building up his property portfolio with a determination to underpin his life with the kind of security he’d never had.
And as his wealth had grown, so had his ability to delegate.
These days he always ate out, unless a woman was trying to impress him with her culinary repertoire.
His Mayfair fridge was bare, save for coffee and champagne.
His apartment was nothing but a base with a bed.
It wasn’t a home because he didn’t do home.
But as he squeezed lemon juice over the grilled fish he realised how much he had missed the simple routine of the kitchen.
He glanced up to find Alannah still watching him, her bare legs tucked up beneath her.
His sweater was much too big for her and it had the effect of making her look unbelievably fragile.
Her black hair was spilling down over her shoulders and her blue eyes were shining and something about that almost innocent look of eagerness made his heart contract.
Deliberately, he turned away, reaching for a bottle of prosecco and two glasses. She’s just someone you’re trying to get out of your system, he reminded himself grimly.
His face was composed by the time he handed her a glass. ‘Happy Christmas,’ he said.
They drank prosecco, lit candles and ate lunch. Afterwards, he made love to her again and they fell asleep on the sofa—and when they awoke, the candles were almost burnt down and outside the starry sky was dark and clear.
Alannah walked over to the window and he wondered if she was aware that her bare bottom was revealed with every step she took.
‘I think the snow might be melting,’ she said.
He heard the unmistakable note of disappointment in her voice and something inside him hardened. Did she think they could exist in this little bubble for ever, and pretend the rest of the world wasn’t out there?
He insisted on loading the dishwasher and making tea to eat with their chocolate. Because any kind of activity was better than sitting there letting his mind keep working overtime.
But action couldn’t permanently silence the nagging thoughts which were building inside him and he thought about what she’d said earlier. About putting contentment before wealth and satisfaction before ambition. About not wanting to drag him up the aisle.
Because that was not a decision she alone could make. And if there was a baby, then surely there was only one sensible solution, and that solution was marriage.
His jaw tightened. Obviously it was something he’d thought about, in the same way that the young sometimes thought about getting old—as if it would never happen to them.
He liked children—and was godfather to several.
Deep down, he’d recognised that one day he wanted to be a father and would select a suitable woman to bear his child.
He’d imagined she would be blonde and slightly aloof.
Maybe one of those American women who had been brought up on milk and honey and could trace their roots back over generations.
The type who kept their emotions on an even keel.
The type who didn’t believe in fairy tales.
The type he felt safe with. It wasn’t their trust funds which excited him, but the satisfaction of knowing that they would unknowingly welcome the son of a Corsican bandit into their rarefied drawing rooms.
He stared across the room at Alannah. In no way was she aloof; he had never seen a woman looking quite so accessible.
Even with her fingers wrapped chastely around a mug of herb tea, she looked…
wild. He felt his throat dry. She touched something deep inside him, something which felt…
dangerous. Something which took him to the very edges of his self-control.
She always had. She spoke to him as nobody else did.
She treated him in a way which no one else would dare try.
But the fact remained that she had a background even more unsettled than his own.
He had already taken a gamble on her—but surely there was no need to take another.
He might not have learnt many lessons at the knee of his father, but one thing he knew was that the more you gambled—the greater your chance of losing.
The most sensible thing he could do would be to walk away from her.
To keep on walking, without looking back.
He swallowed. Yet if she carried his child—he could walk nowhere.
What choice would he have other than to stay with her?
To tie himself to someone who no way fitted the image of the kind of woman he wanted to marry.
Two mismatched people united by a single incident of careless passion. What future was there in that?
She looked up and her expression grew wary.
‘Why are you frowning at me?’
‘I didn’t realise I was.’
‘Actually, frowning isn’t really accurate. You were glaring.’
‘Was I?’ He leaned back in his chair and studied her. ‘I’ve been thinking.’
‘Sounds ominous,’ she said.
‘You do realise that despite all your words of rebellion this morning—I’m going to marry you if you’re having my baby?’
Her creamy skin went pink. He saw her fingertips flutter up to touch the base of her neck.
‘What…what made you suddenly think of that?’
He saw the flare of hope in her eyes and knew he mustn’t feed it, because that wasn’t fair.
He had a responsibility to tell her the truth and the last thing he wanted was her thinking he was capable of the same emotions as other men.
He mustn’t fool her into thinking that his icy heart might be about to melt.
His mouth hardened. Because that was never going to happen.
‘I suddenly realised,’ he said slowly, ‘that I could never tolerate my son or daughter growing up and calling another man Father.’
‘Even though I am the last kind of person you would consider marrying under normal circumstances.’
He met her eyes—but hadn’t he always been completely honest with her? Wouldn’t she see through a placatory lie to try to make her feel better? ‘I guess.’
She put her cup down quickly, as if she was afraid she was going to spill it. ‘So this is all about possession?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be? This child is half mine.’
‘This child might not even exist!’ she choked out. ‘Don’t you think we ought to wait until we know, before we start having arguments about parental rights?’
‘When can you find out?’
‘I’ll do the test when I get back to London,’ she said, jumping up from the sofa and dabbing furiously at her eyes with shaking and fisted hands.
The warm and easy atmosphere of earlier had vanished. And how.