Chapter 12
And he did. At the end of every week together he proposed.
And at the end of every week she said no.
That didn’t change but Peyton did. She was different.
She was thriving, this pregnancy poles apart from the last. No nausea, minimal fatigue.
Hell, she was practically glowing and it was such a relief.
It actually gave her hope that this time things would be different.
She and Valentino fell into a routine. He came for dinner one night a week after McKenzie was in bed. Peyton insisted they wait till her daughter was asleep. She knew how easily McKenzie loved people and she didn’t want her becoming too attached.
On Sunday mornings he joined the whole family for breakfast. It seemed less intimate with her parents there as a buffer to his charisma and charm, and Peyton had to admit she looked forward to it. If for nothing else than to taste what amazing culinary offering he brought with him.
And, of course, they saw each other at work three days a week. Although Peyton insisted that they be scrupulous about keeping things strictly professional. No one in the department had an inkling of their private affairs, which was exactly what she wanted.
Peyton had also insisted that aside from her parents, they tell no one about the baby, including McKenzie, not until she’d passed the twenty-eight-week mark at least. To her surprise, Valentino agreed. As he had with the McKenzie-in-bed rule. It seemed he didn’t want to do anything to upset her.
He treated her with kid gloves. Was attentive and sweet.
He fed her tempting, delicious creations at every opportunity and made her laugh.
Apart from his weekly proposal he didn’t push her into any decisions or even try to make a pass at her, despite how alarmingly she wanted to feel his mouth on hers again.
It was an urge that grew with each week of pregnancy into an almost unbearable craving. Forget ice cream with tomato sauce! Her hormones went into overdrive as she entered the second trimester and Valentino looked more and more edible.
Aggravatingly, he seemed immune to her vibes. It was like he’d decided her body was a temple for his baby and that she was no longer the woman he’d had very through carnal knowledge of – she was a mother now. The mother of his child.
Some kind of sacred vessel.
She should have appreciated it. And she did.
By and large. Because while her fear of sexual penetration inducing labour might be irrational, it was tenacious.
Still, she wouldn’t mind exploring some of those other ways of satisfying her he’d hinted at because sometimes Peyton just wanted to smack a kiss on that full sexy mouth so badly she could barely see straight.
When she started to feel the baby move at sixteen weeks, he came over twice a week for dinner and spent all day Sunday with them.
Which was harder on a libido now raging but involved him more, for which she knew he was grateful.
He attended the weekly ultrasounds and all the doctor’s appointments.
When it came to discussing the best course of action to prevent another premature labour, she involved him in all the decisions and even looked to him for advice.
Her obstetrician, Dr Erica de Jongh, was confident that although Peyton was at an increased risk of having a second premature labour, it was highly unlikely she would this time round because the risks factors from her first pregnancy did not exist in this one.
For a start, there was only one baby and from the weekly ultrasounds they could see their baby boy – yes, Valentino had been right about that and smug with it as well – was growing normally, unlike Daisy who had always been small for dates.
Erica, who specialised in high-risk pregnancies, saw no reason for intervention.
It was only the patients who went into premature labour for no apparent reason that she tended to treat more aggressively in subsequent pregnancies, and her faith that Peyton would go to full term was hugely bolstering for Peyton.
And even though it was true that she would never be entirely relaxed, both her and Valentino had confidence in Erica and were happy with her care and her treatment plan.
And each week as their little boy grew and did all the right things and there were no signs of trouble, Peyton was more and more encouraged.
The day she turned twenty-two weeks, Peyton was joined by Valentino in the scrub room as she was nearing the end of her three-minute hand wash. It was their first case of the day.
‘So.’ Valentino wet his arms and applied the liquid surgical scrub. ‘Twenty-two weeks today.’
Peyton could see the smile in his eyes and knew his dimples would be dazzling beneath his mask. Still, they’d agreed not to talk about it at work. ‘Not here,’ she murmured.
Valentino chuckled. ‘I’m just making conversation.’
Peyton rolled her eyes at him. ‘It’s a nice day, is conversation. We need more rain, is conversation.’
He shrugged, his arms soaped to his elbows. ‘Blame it on my command of the English language. Subtleties are harder to pick up on.’
Peyton laughed. Valentino spoke perfect English with almost no accent. He certainly understood subtleties and nuance just fine. ‘Poor Valentino.’
As she ran her hands under the water for one last rinse, the baby kicked her hard and high as if he objected to Peyton teasing his father. She gasped and leaned over a little, the motion of her hands freezing as her breath was momentarily stolen.
Valentino frowned, his hands also ceasing their activity. ‘Are you all right?’
Peyton nodded, her hands still up and elevated above the sink as the baby continued to tap-dance in her womb. ‘I think this baby’s going to play soccer for Italy.’
Grinning, Valentino said, ‘He kicked?’
‘Oh, yeah. I think he’s awake and ready to party.’
Before she could blink, Valentino had abandoned his scrub and reached for her belly, soapy hands and all.
‘Valentino!’ Peyton gasped as he made wet imprints on her blue scrubs. How was she going to explain that when she walked into the OR? ‘They’re expecting us inside.’
Ignoring her, he demanded, ‘Where?’
His hands roved over the small bump her baggy scrubs had been easily able to hide thus far, obviously waiting for the tell-tale movement he never seemed to tire of feeling.
‘These clothes are in the way,’ he muttered and, before she knew it, his soapy hands pushed under the hem of the scrub top, touching her bare belly.
She gasped again, quieter this time, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she concentrated on keeping her arms sterile and remaining upright while his warm, slippery, depressingly asexual touch slid all over, spreading sticky tentacles of lust directly lower.
He’d felt her belly before. But never liked this. Always through her clothes. Not that there was anything sexual about his touch, it was just that her nipples hadn’t gotten the memo. They were hard and rubbed almost painfully against the fabric of her bra.
‘Valentino…’ Even to her own ears it sounded husky and aching. Not that he seemed to be listening, intent on awaiting the baby’s next move.
She was about to give him the whole this-is-entirely-inappropriate spiel but then the baby kicked again, another hard jab, right beneath Valentino’s hand, and he looked up at her with joy in his eyes, and she forgot about what was appropriate.
He turned a few more loops for his father’s benefit, Peyton watching Valentino’s downcast head, his dark hair just visible beneath the semi-transparent fabric of his theatre hat.
‘This is the best feeling in the world,’ Valentino said, glancing at her for confirmation.
Peyton smiled and nodded. It was. It really was.
But as always it was fleeting and after a torturous minute of his hands smoothing all over the ripe swell of her belly with no action, Peyton called it.
‘I think the show’s over,’ she murmured, her upright arms pretty much drip-dried, other parts of her much wetter.
He glanced at her, his hands still splayed over her flesh, and smiled.
She smiled back, trying not to get lost in his dark eyes or the glorious sensation of his fingers touching her intimately, lighting sparks in their wake.
But it felt so damn good, so damn hot, pouring over her like warm honey, pooling between her legs.
The fact they were at work? That the taps were still running and people were waiting for them to commence the day’s list?
It all faded into insignificance as the tempo of Peyton’s pulse beat through her head and she swayed a little, everything below the point of his hands turning liquid, the urgent thrum of desire the only thing keeping her upright.
He saw it too; she could see the flicker of recognition in his eyes, feel it in the slight indentation of his fingertips as they tightened over her bump, before he drew in a ragged breath and took a step back, his hands sliding from her belly.
‘Sorry,’ he murmured.
Peyton wobbled as his hands left her body and she ground her clogged feet into the floor to stop herself from pitching forward.
God, what was wrong with her?
Tugging a deep breath into her lungs, she tipped her chin at his hands. Those soothing, seductive, thorough hands.
Jesus.
‘You’d better start again.’ Then she flapped her arms to dispel the last drips from her elbows and headed for the theatre doors.
That Sunday, Peyton, McKenzie and Valentino hit up the riverside markets before meeting her mum and dad for brunch at South Bank. It had been months since McKenzie had come down with a sniff or a fever and Peyton, at the urging of her parents, had decided to risk an outdoors expedition.
And she was pleased she had. The weather was glorious and McKenzie had been in absolute heaven. She’d worn her external device but with the crowd noise and the stiff river breeze playing havoc with the sensitive external microphone, she quickly became overwhelmed by all the stimuli.