by Robyn Grady
Tamara nibbled her toast. Armand and Matthew had been friends for so long. Surely that kind of bond didn’t wash away overnight. Matthew had been as good as family. If she was willing to try with her mother, surely Armand could try with him.
She set her toast down. “I think it’s a good idea Matthew’s coming. It might be the opportunity you both need to sit down outside of the office and work out what’s really eating you.”
Armand cocked his head, half-amused. “Believe me. Matthew doesn’t want understanding or forgiveness. He has a broader agenda. This is business, Tamara. Big business.”
Perhaps, but…“Isn’t it personal, too?” she asked.
He sauntered toward her. “Business is always personal.”
The glint in Armand’s eyes suggested something more. If business was personal, perhaps the reverse was true: the personal was always business.
She avoided his gaze as her palm settled over the twinge in her tummy.
Since saying yes, she’d convinced herself a little more each day that Armand’s cynicism regarding love was waning and they might actually be falling in love. But maybe she was kidding herself. Maybe she was still merely the practical choice for the family he had not only always wanted, but now also needed.
Binding legal papers would soon be signed. If she married only to discover later that his attentions were more about achieving goals than true affection, she couldn’t pull out. Armand would fight tooth and nail before he’d let her, or his heir, leave, which begged another sensitive question.
Would he love this baby as much as she did…as he would his own child when it came along?
Briefcase in hand, Armand bent to say goodbye and she simply couldn’t help it; the doubts magically disappeared. All she knew was the steady stir of longing as his mouth settled over hers.
He rubbed her nose with his. “I’ll see you tonight,” he murmured in a husky voice. Then, every inch the sexy CEO in his dark Armani suit, he strode off to disappear through the door adjoining the multicar garage.
Thankfully Ruth was there to fill the void.
The housekeeper’s tray rattled into the oven. “How about a muffin when they’re done?”
The aroma of freshly baked chocolate sponge rose up to claim Tamara’s imagination but she wasn’t tempted. “Maybe midmorning.”
Ruth removed her red-patterned oven mitts and slotted them into her apron’s side-to-side front pocket. “Would you like a glass of milk to settle your tummy?”
Tamara smiled. “Don’t worry. No morning sickness. I’m just not hungry.”
At thirteen weeks gestation, the worst of the hunger pangs had passed. She felt healthier, and a little heavier, each day. But while weight gain might be a necessary part of pregnancy, her doctor had suggested that appropriate exercise was important, too.
She clapped shut her books and stood. “In fact, a walk might work up an appetite.” It would be good to get out in the sunshine and enjoy the silky fragrance of the roses in bloom beyond the courtyard.
Wearing delicate pearl earrings today, Ruth crossed to collect the breakfast dishes. “Nice time of day, before it gets too hot. But take your hat.”
Tamara wanted to hug her. Between Ruth and Armand, she felt wrapped in the finest cotton wool. “I’ll take my books, too. The view might inspire my brain to work.”
“Want a rug to sit on?”
“I think I’ll camp out on the bench next to the statue.”
Dishes in hand, Ruth moved to the sink. “Mrs. De Luca liked sitting out there, too.”
Reaching for her books, Tamara snapped around. “You knew Angela?” Ruth had been here a long time, but over twenty-five years?
Ruth’s usually straight bearing sagged slightly as she flicked on the faucet. “I thought about leaving after the trouble. But I couldn’t when…” She visibly shuddered. “Well, you know.”
“No, Ruth, I don’t know. Armand doesn’t like to discuss his parents.”
Ruth’s mouth thinned. “Understandable.”
Now the door was open, Tamara couldn’t let it close without finding out what lay behind. At times she felt close to knowing Armand, at others he seemed a complete enigma, which might have its benefits in the commercial world, but wasn’t so great between future man and wife.
“Tell me, Ruth. What happened?”
Avoiding the question, Ruth switched on the oven light and stooped to check the muffins’ progress. “It’s really not my place to say.”
“I know sometimes a woman is given, or is left with no choice,” Tamara said. “But why would someone in Angela’s position choose to leave behind a child?”
Ruth wheeled around. “She didn’t leave him behind. Dante wouldn’t let her take him.”
More puzzled than ever, Tamara sank back into her chair. “Yet he let her take his younger son?”
“It wasn’t like that, either.” Uneasy, Ruth shoveled both hands into her apron pocket and flapped. “The story’s complicated.”
“I bet it is.” Tamara sat forward, hands clasped before her. She didn’t want to push, but something close to her heart said she should. This was important and she wouldn’t find out from Armand. She gave Ruth an imploring look.
Ruth flapped the apron once more then, on a groan, reluctantly nodded.
“At the start, it was ideal,” she explained, walking slowly forward. “They were very happy, Dante already wealthy beyond belief, Angela from more humble beginnings. Angela breezed through the first pregnancy, but took a few months to adjust after Marco. She was…listless, I suppose the word is. She loved her babies but said she felt lost in this huge house all day. She used to say she was a feather wafting around in a big empty maze.”
Lost. That word pretty much summed up the restlessness Tamara suffered whenever Armand was gone. The feeling had been the same when she was younger, too, left home alone hours on end. Maybe it was more about floating in a kind of limbo, waiting endlessly—it sometimes seemed—for someone who wasn’t necessarily waiting for you.
Ruth lowered down into a chair. “Mr. De Luca tried to understand. He organized charity events for her to attend, hired a lovely nanny who was available anytime Angela needed.” Ruth blinked down and took hold of the rumpled napkin. “Then Angela hinted at returning to part-time nursing.”
Armand had used the term free spirit when they’d spoken briefly about his mother; Tamara had pictured a painter or dancer, perhaps a fragile type like Ophelia in Hamlet. Had he, and his father, thought Angela a free spirit simply because she wanted to find some fulfillment outside of the home?
Elbows on thighs, Tamara brought her threaded hands under her chin. “What kind of nursing?”
“Accident and emergency. Takes special talent, so I’m told. And she desperately missed doing what she loved—helping mend people, many times saving them. While Mr. De Luca was at work, she brushed up on her qualifications. There was all hell to pay when he found out.”
“Why?” But Tamara suspected the answer.
“He said she didn’t need to work. A mother’s job was to look after the children, and a wife’s was to look after her husband. He lost his parents young,” she added, by way of apology. “Had to work very hard to keep anything he earned.”
The smear of empathy Tamara felt didn’t erase the queasiness stewing low in her stomach. “Dante had very old-fashioned ideas.” About wills, about women, she thought.
Ruth kneaded the napkin like a knob of dough. “He was traditional, yes, indeed.” She met Tamara’s gaze. “But things were different back then.”
Was Dante’s son so different now? Armand had been raised in a house where the man’s opinion was the only one that counted. Hell, he even accepted Dante’s reasons for including that ridiculous clause in his will. She’d been taken aback, but not overly alarmed, when Armand assumed he would decide the medical specialist and baby’s name.
Perhaps after the wedding he’d decide she shouldn’t pursue her own interests, her education, her business. She c
ouldn’t really imagine him being that chauvinistic. Then again, Angela probably hadn’t, either.
Ruth heaved out a sigh. “The more Dante put his foot down, the more determined Angela became. She took a part-time position and terrible arguments followed. One day when she was in her car leaving to take Marco to soccer training, Dante hurled an ultimatum at her. Stay and be a mother to both, he said, or leave with the one you have.”
Tamara flinched as a frantic scene unfolded in her mind.
“He wouldn’t allow her back until she surrendered,” Ruth went on. “She tried to make him see reason, but he put Armand in a boarding school and served court orders against her removing him. Cited negligence as the reason. She called him a devil and fought to get access to Armand, but Dante’s bullheadedness only grew and eventually turned his heart to pure stone. No one was allowed to mention her name.”
“But how could he give up his younger son?” Marc was so special as an adult; he would have been a dimpled blond cherub as a child.
“When he realized Angela wouldn’t return, Dante convinced himself Marco wasn’t his. Even cut him from his inheritance. Angela had loved Dante. She’d been with no one else. But he wanted to control her, like he controlled everything. In trying to possess her, he only succeeded in pushing her farther away.”
With a sorrowful air, Ruth threw the napkin at the bowl of fruit, and, as if pressing a button, the telephone rang. As Ruth eased up to answer it, Tamara let her joined hands drop between her knees.
What a heartrending story. A family destroyed, two little boys deprived of a parent’s support and love. No wonder Marc and now Armand would rather let it rest.
But she wasn’t sorry she’d prodded Ruth into explaining. Angela’s misery couldn’t be undone, but it was a blinking light for Tamara to bring forward her own concerns. Surely Armand wasn’t as merciless as his father, even given his ruthless business reputation. Still, hearing this tragic tale settled it.
They’d get a few things straight before walking down the aisle. Maybe she should suggest a prenuptial agreement outlining what was expected of both parties. As an astute businessman, he should appreciate her diligence. If he balked at the idea…
Tamara unfolded to her feet.
Well, she’d just have to take it from there.
She was assembling her books, and her jumble of thoughts, when Ruth returned with the handheld phone. “Tamara, dear, it’s your doctor.”
A rush of sensation funneled from her stomach to her soles. She hadn’t expected any communication. The doctor assured her everything was routine and she would see her in a month’s time.
Thinking it through, Tamara chided herself and took the phone.
No doubt she’d left behind her health care card. Or maybe she needed another blood test. She shuddered. She really hated needles.
She grabbed the phone and listened eagerly. The conversation was brief and clinical, barring the “I’m so sorry” tagged on the end. Tamara couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Everything seemed frozen. Her mind. Her voice. Surely this was some kind of joke.
Perhaps she said goodbye before the phone slipped from her hand. The clatter as it hit the tiles ricocheted in her ears at the same time Ruth’s baking tray scraped from its oven rack. At her feet, Master licked a callus on his front paw before he looked up at her, his eyes so sad and uncomprehending. And all the while Tamara’s throat burned, clogged with suffocating coals.
If she didn’t give in to the tears backed up behind her eyes, perhaps this wouldn’t be real. Perhaps God would let her go back in time and—
She barely noticed her shoulders being shaken.
Finally Ruth’s voice penetrated the shock. “What’s wrong? Tamara, look at me!”
She didn’t want to. Didn’t want to do anything but crumple up and hide from this heartbreaking news. But she made herself answer.
“The baby.” Oh, dear Lord. “Something’s wrong with the baby.”
Seven
Forty-five minutes later, Tamara sat as stiff as a wax figure in the sterile office of the east coast’s most respected obstetrician. Beside her, in the second guest chair, was Armand.
His hand squeezed hers repeatedly as he stared dead ahead at the empty chair behind the desk, and higher to the neat patchwork of degrees and credentials on the stark white wall.
His voice was firm, low and completely in charge. “Everything will be fine. Don’t worry.”
After the phone call, Tamara had suffered a delayed reaction before she’d sobbed like she never had before. Coolheaded Ruth had phoned Armand. He’d told her, since he was already in the city, a cab would be quicker for her.
She felt turned inside out, a wretched and drained mess. Her eyes burned as if they’d been dropped in a bucket of acid. Waiting for Dr. Fielding was tantamount to torture. She needed details. Needed to know if it was as bad as her GP had said.
Or worse.
“I’m so afraid.”
She hadn’t meant to speak aloud. It was clear from Armand’s strained expression that he saw terror racing across her face, and he was right. Panic crawled up her spine and crushed her throat ’til she thought she might scream.
He leaned over and his lips brushed her hair. “Whatever it is, whatever it costs, no matter where we have to go, or who we have to see, the baby will be fine. Don’t worry.” He pressed a lingering kiss to her temple. “I’m right here.”
“She said…” Tamara swallowed the nausea on the back of her tongue. “The doctor said there was a nine-in-ten chance of a major problem. That I’d have to make decisions.”
She’d replayed the conversation over and over in her mind. The doctor said they’d need to do more tests. And make decisions. Decisions. What the hell was that supposed to mean?
She didn’t want to know. The lunacy and injustice of it all left her bewildered. “I didn’t stop to think about anything going wrong. I only ever saw my baby as perfect, to me…to the world.”
“He will be.” Armand didn’t quite look at her as his nostrils flared. “I’ll make certain of it.”
So confident, so uncompromising. But she saw the sheen on his brow, the way his other hand gripped the armrest as if letting go meant dropping into an infinite abyss. They were together in this…in hope, in despair. He was here for her and her child.
Their child.
Tamara leaned back and stared at the ceiling, her body feverish, her insides strung high and tight.
Please, please, let this be over. Let it be all right.
She jumped when the swinging door pushed open. An attractive middle-aged woman, with honey-colored hair caught in a low ponytail at her back, swept into the room. Her gaze, behind frameless glasses, didn’t leave the clear plastic folder she held until she’d settled in behind the desk. As though she’d only now sensed her guests’ presence, her head pivoted up, the folder fell and the glasses were removed.
“I’m glad we were able to fit you in on such short notice, Ms. Kendle.” She acknowledged Armand and nodded. “Mr. De Luca.”
Armand ground out a reply. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Fielding.”
Tamara wondered again at the influence Armand must wield to have plucked an appointment with this specialist out of thin air. But at this point, she didn’t care how he’d managed it. Dr. Marion Fielding was the best. Her baby needed the best.
Lacing her hands on the teak desk, Dr. Fielding directed her words at Tamara. “I obtained the triple screen results from your GP, Ms. Kendle. I won’t beat around the bush. There was an error with regard to the gestational age, which I know must have caused you both a great deal of pain.”
Heart pumping, Tamara analyzed the doctor’s sympathetic expression and tried to digest the impossible, wonderful news.
“You’re thirteen weeks pregnant?” Dr. Fielding asked. Tamara could only nod as the beginnings of tingling relief dripped through her bloodstream. “Your GP administered a test that offers the best results when conducted between sixteen and eigh
teen weeks.” She flicked the folder with the back of her hand. “These results are abnormal and a concern only if you were further along. At thirteen weeks, however, the hormone levels are quite normal. There are other tests that can be conducted. I’ll perform a scan. But to my mind,” she said, smiling encouragingly, “there’s no reason to expect anything other than a healthy baby in approximately six months time.”
Tamara melted into the chair. The horror worse than death had been only a nightmare. She could wake up now.
“Thank you, Dr. Fielding.” Armand surged up with the energy of a fireball.
Lighter than mist, Tamara followed. She shook the doctor’s hand once Armand had freed it. “You can’t imagine—” She exhaled on an ear-to-ear grin. “Imagine the relief.”
Dr. Fielding’s light brown eyes shone as though she might have a very good idea. “I’ll have my receptionist book you in for your next checkup.”
Tamara stood in a dreamy endorphin-rush daze as Armand finalized her next appointment at the desk. They were descending in the lift when she turned to him and blurted out, “You were right.”
He turned to her, his handsome face supportive, a subtle smile tugging one corner of his mouth. “Right about what?”
“I should have listened. From the beginning you wanted me to see the very best. But I fobbed it off, needing to play Miss Independence and do it on my own. I was stupid.” She let her forehead drop against the hot wall of his jacketed chest. “All this pain, and it could have been avoided.”
Her head rolled from side to side as she silently cursed herself. Foolish pride. Growing up she’d learned to rely on no one but herself. Her existence had been a lonely, sometimes frightening one. But it was high time to put those fears behind her.
Unfortunate circumstances had brought her and Armand together, but fate hadn’t turned its back completely. Her business, her house, her dearest friend were all gone. But as recompense she had the most precious baby growing inside of her. And beside her was the man who had vowed to care for them both. Her greatest wish, which had seemed so elusive only weeks ago, was becoming a reality.
