The Italian's Love-Child

by Sharon Kendrick

  The undrawn curtains framed the stunning beauty of the night lights of Rome, though she was blind to it. All she could see and sense was him. He was still wearing the dark and elegant suit he had worn for the wedding, though she had insisted on changing from her wedding finery for the journey home.

  ‘It’s more comfortable this way,’ she had explained in answer to his silent look of query as she’d appeared in a trousers and a pink silk tunic, which by no stretch of the imagination could be classified as a ‘going-away’ suit. But it was more than that. She hadn’t thought she could bear to go through the charade of people congratulating her, them—making a fuss of her on the flight, behaving as if they really were a pair of exquisitely happy newly-weds, when nothing could have been further from the truth.

  His eyes had narrowed. ‘So be it, cara,’ he had said softly. ‘Comfort is, of course, essential.’

  And now they were here, and she was ready to begin her new life and she didn’t even know what the sleeping arrangements would be.

  He saw the wary look on her face. Like a cornered animal, he thought grimly. Was she afraid that he would drag her to the bedroom—insist on consummating this strange marriage of theirs?

  ‘Would you like to see your room?’

  Well, that told her. ‘I’d love to!’ she said brightly. ‘I’m so tired I think I could sleep for a whole century!’

  ‘A whole century?’ he echoed drily.

  In any other time or in any other situation, Eve would have exclaimed with delight at the bedroom he took her to. It was perfect. A room full of light, furnished in creams and softest peach.

  But Eve had seen his bedroom. Had shared that vast bed of his, where tonight he would sleep alone. For one brief and impetuous moment she almost turned to him, to put her hand on his arm and say shyly that she would prefer to spend the night with him. But he had moved away to draw the blinds, and part of her was relieved, knowing that if they made love it would change everything—it would shatter what equilibrium she had and make her vulnerable in a way she simply couldn’t afford to be. And there were far too many other things going on to risk that.

  He turned back from the blinds, and the blocked-out night made the light in the room dim, throwing his tall, lean figure into relief so that he looked dark and shadowy, like an unknown man in an unknown room in an unknown city.

  And that, she thought painfully, was exactly the way it was.

  ‘Goodnight, Eve,’ he said softly.

  ‘Goodnight, Luca.’

  ‘Do you have everything you need?’

  No. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  She stood exactly where she was, listening to the sounds of Luca moving around, until at last she heard the sound of his bedroom door closing quietly, and it was like a sad little signal.

  Sighing as she looked at her brand-new, shiny wedding ring, she began to get undressed.

  But when she woke up in the morning and drew open the blinds, she sucked in a breath of excitement at the sight of the city which lay beneath her, and it changed and lifted her mood. It couldn’t fail to. It was like a picture-postcard view, she thought. And there was so much to discover.

  She showered and dressed and wandered into the kitchen to find the tantalising aroma of good coffee and Luca squeezing oranges, a basket of newly baked bread on the table.

  He gave her a slightly rueful look. ‘I hope this is okay?’

  She sat down, suddenly hungry. ‘It looks wonderful.’ She remembered the time when she had stayed with him, exclaiming that his fridge had been completely bare, save for two bottles of champagne and a tin of caviare. And he had taken her out to a nearby café for breakfast, explaining that he never ate in.

  ‘You’ve taken to eating breakfast at home now, then?’ she questioned as she poured her coffee.

  ‘I shopped for these first thing,’ he said, feeling like a man who had accomplished a mission impossible! ‘I guess things are going to have to change around here.’

  Automatically, her hand crept to her stomach. ‘Well, er, yes,’ she said drily.

  He laughed. ‘Homes have food, so I guess I’m going to have to learn how to shop. And cook.’

  Eve laughed. He wore the expression of a man who had just announced his intention to wade through a pit of snakes. ‘If you shop—I’m happy to cook.’

  ‘You cook?’

  She gave him a look of mock reprimand. ‘Of course I cook! I love cooking.’ She risked it. ‘I could teach you, if you like.’

  A woman teaching him!

  ‘You might not be able to stand taking orders from a woman, of course,’ she said shrewdly.

  He met her eyes. ‘Oh, I think I could bear taking orders from you, Eve.’

  She hastily broke the warm, fragrant bread. She was going to have to watch herself, if some simple, throwaway comment like that was going to have her heart racing with some completely disproportionate pleasure, as if he had just offered her the moon and the stars.

  He sat down opposite her, feeling oddly relaxed. It felt strange to be eating breakfast with a woman in his own home and not covertly glancing at his watch and wondering how soon he could get his own space back.

  ‘I’ve made you an appointment to see an obstetrician tomorrow morning,’ he said, and then added, ‘He’s the best in the city.’

  She supposed that went without saying. Everything that was the best would now be hers for the taking, and she must try to appreciate it. Not get bogged down with wanting everything to be perfect, because nothing ever was, everyone knew that.

  ‘And I think we might arrange a small party—that way you can get to meet everyone at once—what do you think?’

  It was her first real entrée into his life. A whole circle of Luca’s smart and sophisticated friends—how were they going to accept her? She hadn’t even put that into part of the equation. ‘What will they think?’

  He raised his eyebrows in faintly insolent query. ‘That you’re my wife and that you’re expecting my baby—what else is there for them to think?’

  He was right. Even if it had been a conventional love marriage, he would not have gone around telling his friends so. They would just have made the assumption. Would they notice that he didn’t touch her? That they behaved as benignly as two flatmates? She stirred her coffee. ‘Luca.’

  He let his eyes drift over her. Her hair was loose and the morning light was spilling over it. He had never seen so many different hues in a head of hair and it looked like molasses and honey with warm hints of amber. Her green-grey eyes were bright and clear, their lashes long and curling even though she wasn’t wearing a scrap of make-up. She looked wholesome and clean and healthy, he thought, and that, surprisingly, was incredibly sexy. He hadn’t slept a wink last night, imagining her in the bed next door to his. What, he wondered, was she wearing in bed at the moment? Did pregnant women feel the need to cover up? He shifted slightly. ‘Mmm?’

  ‘I’d like to learn Italian, please. And as soon as possible.’

  He heard the determination in her voice. It didn’t surprise him, but it pleased him. ‘All my friends speak English,’ he commented. ‘Spanish, too.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I sort of somehow imagined that they would.’

  ‘And the baby is going to take a while to learn how to speak!’ he teased.

  ‘Yes, I know that, too! But I don’t want to be one of those women who move to another country and lets her…her…husband do all the talking for her.’ The word sounded strange on her lips. As if she were a fraud for saying it.

  ‘I can’t imagine you letting anyone do the talking for you, Eve,’ he said drily. ‘But, of course, I will arrange for a tutor for you. That might be better than going out to a class, particularly at the moment, don’t you think?’

  She nodded. How easy it was to arrange and talk about practical things. And how easy to suppress feelings and emotions. To put them on the back-boiler so that they didn’t disturb the status quo.

  ‘It seems strange to think of our baby talki
ng,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Too…too far in the future to imagine?’ she questioned tentatively.

  ‘A little. But I was just thinking that his or her first language will be English, won’t it? The mother tongue.’ He thought then of the reality of what her being here meant. Or rather, what it would have been like if she had stayed in England. He wouldn’t have got a look-in, not really. It would have been false and unreal and ultimately frustrating and unrewarding. Suddenly, he understood some of the sacrifice it must have taken for her to have come here—to start all over in a territory which was completely unknown to her.

  ‘We’ll need to think about decorating a room,’ he mused.

  ‘Pink, or blue?’ She searched his face. What if secretly he was so macho that he would only be satisfied with a son—and what if she didn’t produce one, what then? ‘Which would you prefer, a boy or a girl?’

  He frowned, as if the question had surprised him.

  ‘I don’t care which; there is only one thing I care about.’

  ‘Yes.’ Their eyes met and she smiled. ‘A healthy baby. It’s what every parent prays for.’ She looked at him. ‘So it’s yellow?’

  ‘Yellow? Sì. Giallo.’ A smile creased the corners of his eyes. ‘Say it after me.’

  She felt giddy with the careless innocence of it. ‘Gi-allo.’

  ‘So, there is your first Italian lesson!’ He leaned back indolently in his chair and studied the lush breasts through narrowed eyes. ‘What would you like to do today? The Grand Tour of the city?’

  She thought about it. What she wanted and craved more than anything was some kind of normality, for there had been precious little of it in her life of late. And even if such a thing were too much to hope for, she needed to start living life as she—or rather, they—meant to go on.

  ‘Will you show me round the immediate vicinity?’ she asked. Would something like that sound prosaic to such an urbane and cosmopolitan man? ‘Show me where the nearest shops are. Where I can buy a newspaper, that kind of thing. We could—if you meant it—go and buy some stuff for supper? Is there somewhere close by?’

  He nodded. ‘There is the al mercato di Campo de Fiori and there are shops. Sounds good.’

  She hesitated. She knew something of his life-style—the man with nothing in the fridge who rarely ate in, who travelled the world and went to fancy places. ‘Luca?’

  ‘Eve?’ he said gravely.

  She drew a breath. ‘Listen, I know you’re usually out—probably every night for all I know. You mustn’t stay in just because of me.’

  ‘You mean you want to go out at night?’

  ‘Like this?’ She shook her head, and laughed. ‘I’m far too big and lumbering to contemplate hitting on Rome’s top night-spots!’

  He frowned. ‘You mean you want me to go out without you?’

  ‘If you want to. I just want you to know that I don’t intend to cramp your style. You mustn’t feel tied—because of the baby.’

  He stared at her. Did she have a degree in psychology, or just a witch’s instinct for knowing how to handle a man? That by offering him his freedom, he now had no desire to take it!

  ‘I am no longer a boy,’ he said gravely. ‘And “top night-spots” kind of lost their allure for me a long time ago. So I’ll stay in. With you.’

  ‘Sure you won’t be bored?’

  ‘Let’s wait and see.’

  Her voice was wry. ‘That seems to be a recurrent theme with us, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Their eyes met. He admired her mind, he realised, and her sense of humour, too. The baby was going to be a lucky baby to have her as a mother, he thought suddenly. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Eve,’ he said.

  She put her coffee-cup down with a hand which was trembling. But he was merely being courteous, and he should be offered the same in return. She smiled. ‘And so am I.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘WE’RE not going to cook every night,’ said Luca suddenly, one morning.

  Eve didn’t answer for a moment. The baby’s foot was sliding across the front of her belly and she sat and watched it, then lifted her head. ‘You mean last night was a disaster?’

  He shook his head. The simple meal they had eaten on the terrace beneath the stars had been almost perfect. Almost. She was engaging and stimulating company and, because sex was off limits, all the focus had been on the conversation and this was new territory for him.

  Luca wasn’t averse to talking to women but he usually regarded conversation with them as purely functional. You might talk to a woman if you were dealing with her at work. Or if you were flirting with her, or making pleasant small talk before taking her to bed, or chatting to the wives of friends. They were easier to talk to, in a way, because they had no expectations of you as a potential partner, which all other women did.

  But he was a man’s man—he rarely had conversation with a woman for conversation’s sake. With Eve he had to—and last night he had realised why she had been so successful at her job. He had persuaded her to talk about her work, something she was normally reluctant to do.

  He had understood for the first time that working in television was not easy and that the skill lay in making it look easy. Not many people could cope with live and unpredictable interviews, while at the same time having the studio crew sending frantic instructions into your earpiece.

  ‘Will you ever want to go back to it?’ he had persisted.

  In Italy? With a baby? Who knew what she would want—and did people ever get what they truly wanted? Protected still by the bubble of pregnancy which surrounded her, Eve had smiled. ‘We’ll see.’

  Luca stared at her, watching the dreamy way that she observed the baby’s movements. ‘No, Eve, it was not a disaster.’

  Disaster was too strong a word. Crazy was better.

  It seemed crazy that they should part at the end of the evening and go off to sleep in their separate beds. Or rather, for him to toss and turn and think about how pregnancy could make a woman seem so intensely beautiful. Like a ripe and juicy peach.

  He wanted to lie with her. Not to make love—something deep within him told him that it would be entirely inappropriate to consummate their marriage when she was heavy with his child. But he would have liked to have held her. To have wrapped her in his arms and smoothed the silken splendour of her hair. To have run his fingertips with possessive and wondrous freedom over the great curve of her belly.

  ‘It is just that your freedom, and mine—will be restricted by a baby.’

  ‘Only a few weeks now,’ she observed serenely.

  ‘Exactly! Time to make the most of what we have, while we still have it! We shall play the tourist.’

  ‘I suppose when you put it that way,’ Eve murmured. Maybe they should get out more. Heaven only knew, it was difficult enough to be this close to him and not close enough to him. Itching for him to touch her, to kiss her—anything which might give her some inkling of whether or not he still found her sexually attractive, or whether that had died a death a long time ago.

  He showed her a different side of Rome. Took her to all the secret places of his boyhood, the dark, hidden crevices and sunlit corners.

  ‘We aren’t really playing the tourist at all, are we?’ she asked him as they strolled slowly around a hidden garden, soft with the scent of roses. ‘No tourist would ever find places as hidden away as these are.’

  ‘Ah, but this is the true Rome. For Romans.’

  Eve felt a brief, momentary pang of isolation. Their child would grow up and learn this secret Rome, with a native’s knowledge which would always elude her.

  ‘Eve?’ said Luca softly. ‘What is it?’

  I’m frightened of what the future holds, she wanted to say to him. But she wouldn’t. She had to learn to cope and deal with her own fears—not project them onto Luca. ‘Nothing,’ she said softly.

  They dined with Patricio, Luca’s oldest friend and his wife, Livvy, who went out of their way to make her feel comfortabl
e. Livvy had a toddler about the same age as Kesi and Eve was glad that all Luca’s friends weren’t childless.

  Gradually, she began to relax.

  And then, one starlit evening, they were walking home after having late-night coffee and pastries and Eve suddenly stopped, drawing in a gasp as a terrible sharp spasm constricted across her middle. ‘Ouch!’

  Luca caught her by the arm. ‘What is it?’

  She could see the paling of his face and shook her head. ‘It was nothing. It must have been the cake that… Oh, Luca…Luca—it hurts!’

  ‘Madre de Dio!’ he swore and steadied her. ‘I said we should get a taxi!’ He held up his hand and a taxi screeched to do his bidding as if it had been lurking round the corner, just waiting for his command.

  Eve’s Italian was still pretty non-existent, but even she understood the word ‘ospedale’. ‘Luca, I am not going to hospital!’

  ‘Sì, cara,’ he contradicted grimly. ‘You are!’

  She stared him out. ‘No,’ she said stubbornly. ‘And anyway, the baby isn’t due for another two weeks. I want to go home!’

  His impotent fury that she could not and would not be persuaded—he could tell that from the stubborn set of her mouth—was softened slightly by her instinctive use of the word ‘home’. He nodded. ‘Very well,’ he agreed softly. ‘We will go home. But the doctor will visit, and he will decide.’ He saw her open her mouth to protest. ‘He will decide, Eve,’ he said, in a voice which broached no argument.

  ‘It’s a waste of his time!’

  But Eve was wrong and Luca and the doctor were right. It was not a false alarm. The baby was on the way.

  Everything became a fast and frantic blur, punctuated only by sharp bursts of pain which became increasingly unbearable.

  ‘I want an epidural!’ she gasped as they wheeled her into the delivery room.

  But it was too late for an epidural, too late for anything. She was having her baby and the midwife was saying something to her frantically, something she didn’t understand.