by Penny Jordan
‘But it’s just not feasible, not at the moment, what with the way we’re expanding and the fact that you and I are away so much …’
‘Mmm. But Mark’s at home and since you live right next door to his office …’
Deborah and Mark had bought the pretty stone town house next to Mark’s office eighteen months ago, and, since Mark had been the one to urge its purchase, Deborah had remained firmly unsympathetic with his complaints that she had deliberately arranged for the builders to carry out the majority of their work while she was away …
The house was virtually finished now, its furnishings an eclectic mixture of things she had bought on her many trips abroad with Stephanie—silks and damasks from Florence, sturdy, simple cherrywood furniture from France which mingled easily with the antiques she and Mark had bargained for together at antique fairs and country markets …
‘Yes, I know. Mark has said the same thing, but …’
‘But you don’t feel you’d want to leave him in sole charge …’
‘Oh, it’s not that. Mark will make a far better parent than I shall. But my career means so much to me. I do want children as well but I’m not sure if I’m ready yet, if it would be fair to the company, the baby or myself …’
‘Mmm, that’s a pity … I was thinking only the other night what a good thing it would be if we could manage things so that we were both pregnant at the same time … give or take a month or two, of course …’
‘Both pregnant?’ Deborah stared at her. ‘You’re not …?’
‘Not yet,’ Stephanie told her. ‘But soon, I hope. What’s wrong? I’m forty-four now, and if André and I are going to have children it will have to be soon … or don’t you approve?’
‘Of course I approve; it’s just that I never imagined …’ Deborah paused, struggling for the right words. It had been hard enough getting Stephanie to admit how much she loved André and how little she wanted to lose him, so to hear her say now that they were planning to have a child …
‘I’ve warned André that we’ll have to time things so that he or she arrives during our quiet season,’ she added. ‘And I thought that if things worked out that way and if we could find the right kind of nanny, she and the babies could travel with us … If they don’t, I suspect we’re going to have two over-besotted fathers on our hands.’
‘You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?’ Deborah asked the older woman incredulously.
‘Uh-huh … Think how good it will look in our PR handouts,’ Stephanie told her mischievously, ‘the two of us heavily pregnant, photographed in a field full of flowers … us and them blooming!’
‘There is no way that I’m going …’ Deborah began, and then stopped and laughed. ‘OK, I know when I’m being wound up. You said we’d time it so that we had these babies out of season …’
‘Mamma Nature sometimes chooses her own season for these things,’ Stephanie told her slyly.
‘Not if I have anything to say about it, she doesn’t,’ Deborah objected. ‘You really think it would work …?’
‘Yes, if we wanted it to. I’m not going to pretend I’m an advocate of anyone, man or woman, being able to have it all—that’s a PR myth that reality has well and truly exploded. I told myself I’d never marry again, that I was too old and too cynical to be foolish enough to fall in love, and yet I’ve done both and been happier for having done so than I’ve ever been or imagined being. I can’t pretend, though, that the business doesn’t mean one hell of a lot to me, or that I’d ever want to give it up, for anyone or anything. But I’m not going to pretend either that I don’t want André’s child, that some tiny idealistic, idiotic part of me doesn’t want that very specific kind of female fulfilment.
‘You’ve got plenty of time left to make those kind of decisions, Deborah. I haven’t. Rightly or wrongly, I want to have a child.’
* * *
‘Sorry … have you been waiting for me …?’
Smilingly Mark handed the baby back to Philippa.
She was a pretty little blonde with soft flaxen curls and dark blue eyes, and when she turned and looked roguishly at Deborah over her mother’s shoulder Deborah looked hurriedly away, already dangerously aware of the far too strong hold those small, pudgy baby fingers could have on a vulnerable heart.
‘They aren’t all like that, you know,’ she told Mark as she took his arm. ‘Some of them are quite ugly; they cry a lot and smell … and they’re sick …’
‘What makes you so sure it’s going to take after you?’ Mark teased her.
Deborah glared at him.
‘They could be like me … calm, placid … good-looking …’
‘Big-headed …’ Deborah added for him.
She waited a few minutes, drawing his attention to the murals on the walls of the new ward, and then said thoughtfully, ‘We don’t even know if I can conceive yet, anyway …’
She felt the responsive jerk of Mark’s arm.
‘We could give it a try, I suppose,’ she added semi-musingly. ‘But …’
‘Deborah …’
She forced herself to look vague and innocent as Mark swung her round to face him, but her own laughter defeated her.
‘Just you wait until I get you home,’ Mark threatened her.
‘I certainly shall,’ Deborah told him mock primly. ‘I don’t want our child to have the embarrassment of being conceived … Mark!’ she protested as he took hold of her and started to kiss her. ‘Mark …’
* * *
‘Have you heard the news about David Howarth?’ Brian asked jovially as he came over to join Richard and Elizabeth. ‘Apparently he’s been head-hunted by one of the international industrial concerns and he’s already handed in his notice … That’s the official version of events; the buzz all round Area is that the Minister was so keen to see him go that they actually paid the head-hunters to find somewhere for him …’
‘Well, the truth probably lies somewhere between the two,’ Richard responded judiciously.
David had ceased to bother him a long time ago … from the date it had become official that the General was to get the new Fast Response Accident Unit, in fact.
Richard was as enthusiastic about the future of the new children’s ward as Blake, but the Accident Unit continued to be his own special project … It had opened officially the previous year, and the results they had achieved so far had far outweighed even Richard’s most optimistic private hopes.
On the strength of their success Richard had been asked for advice and help by several other hospitals wanting to run a similar scheme, and Brian was beginning to become afraid that they could very easily lose their senior surgeon.
The mayor came up to claim Brian’s attention. They had deliberately kept the launch of the new children’s ward very low-key.
‘People won’t want to see the money they have donated being wasted on expensive entertainment for local dignitaries,’ Blake had claimed, and Richard had fully agreed.
As Richard turned away to speak to Blake, Elizabeth watched him affectionately. It was typical of him that he bore David no malice, and typical as well that the issue of his ultimate retirement still remained.
Richard was proud of the results the Fast Response Accident Unit had achieved, and with good reason. Even David had been forced to back down and admit that the money had been well spent and, far from detracting from the service they were able to provide their other patients, had actually improved them.
‘I was thinking, you know,’ Richard told Elizabeth, breaking into her thoughts. ‘Patrick Stowe got in touch with me the other day. He’s thinking of setting up a unit similar to ours at Peterborough. He wants me to go down there and talk things over with him. I was thinking … if I did decide to retire next year it would give me more time to concentrate on that sort of thing. And I can always keep my hand in on the surgical side of things by working at Ian’s practice on a part-time basis …’
‘Mmm …’ Elizabeth agreed. Richard would
be sixty within a couple of years … young enough to build up a part-time secondary career which would give him a sense of purpose and self-worth. She smiled warmly at him. ‘It’s certainly worth thinking about …’
‘I know what you’re thinking, Liz,’ Richard told her quietly. ‘That all I’m doing is delaying the inevitable. But I am trying to come to terms with what lies ahead, to accept …’ He paused, shaking his head. ‘All human beings need their sense of self-worth; for us … for men, that self-worth is by tradition tied in with our work.’
‘But men need to learn what women have always known … that there is pleasure in travelling slowly along life’s byways, enjoying the journey and all its new discoveries, much more than racing through life on a motorway, blind to everything but overtaking the driver in front, oblivious to the misery and danger you’re causing your passengers, their fear of the way you’re controlling and risking their lives.’
‘It is beginning to happen,’ Richard told her. ‘Look at the way Blake’s reorganised the shifts in the new ward; his insistence on crèche facilities for both male and female staff … the way he himself scheduled his work to fit round his family, not the other way round. Look around you and see how men’s attitudes have changed towards their children, how much more physically affectionate they are with them, how much more involved in their lives …
‘We might not be wholly converted to your byways of life yet, but at least we’re beginning to accept that we have to allow you your turn at the wheel and your choice of journey …’
‘You, allow us …?’ Elizabeth shook her head and laughed. ‘Yes, you’re right,’ she agreed softly. ‘It is happening …’ She paused and then added, ‘If you do decide to retire next year, I might start working part-time myself,’ she told him.
‘But you’re in the early stages of getting your career off the ground,’ Richard protested.
‘My career can still progress, but at a pace of my choosing,’ Elizabeth told him.
Richard looked at her for a moment and then told her softly, ‘You don’t have to do that, you know. You’ve already made more than enough sacrifices for me … for us over the years …’
‘It isn’t a sacrifice,’ Elizabeth told him. ‘You’re my husband, Richard. I want to be with you … And I want to work as well, and in my world—a woman’s world—there’s room for both.’
‘Mmm … seems like a very good world to live in to me … a very good world indeed,’ Richard told her as he reached for her hand.
* * * * *
Now, read on for a tantalizing excerpt of Michelle Smart’s next book,
CLAIMING HIS ONE-NIGHT BABY
The second book in her Bound to a Billionaire trilogy!
Natasha Pellegrini and Matteo Manaserro’s potently charged reunion leads to one night of explosive passion. When Matteo discovers Natasha’s pregnancy, he’s intent on claiming his baby. Except he hasn’t bargained on their insatiable chemistry binding them together so completely!
Keep reading to get a glimpse of
CLAIMING HIS ONE-NIGHT BABY
CHAPTER ONE
JAW CLENCHED, HIS heart pounding an irregular beat in his chest, Matteo Manaserro watched the coffin being lowered into the consecrated ground of Castello Miniato’s private cemetery.
Surrounding the open earth stood hundreds of Pieta Pellegrini’s loved ones, friends, family, colleagues, even some heads of state, with their security details standing back at a discreet distance, all there to say a final goodbye to a man who had been respected the world over for his philanthropic endeavours.
Vanessa Pellegrini, Pieta’s mother, who had buried her husband Fabio in the adjoining plot only a year ago, stepped forward, supported by her daughter Francesca. Both women clutched red roses. Francesca turned around to extend a hand to Natasha, Pieta’s widow, who was staring blankly at the wooden box like an ashen-faced statue. The breeze that had filled the early autumn air had dropped, magnifying the statue effect. Not a single strand of her tumbling honey-blonde hair moved.
She lifted her dry eyes and blinked, the motion seeming to clear her thoughts as she grabbed Francesca’s hand and joined the sobbing women.
Together, the three Pellegrini women threw their roses onto the coffin.
Matteo forced stale air from his lungs and focused his attention anywhere but on the widow.
This was a day to say goodbye, to mourn and then celebrate a man who deserved to be mourned and celebrated. This was not a day to stare at the widow and think how beautiful she looked even in grief. Or think how badly he wanted to take hold of her shoulders and…
Daniele, Pieta’s brother, shifted beside him. It was their turn.
Goodbye, Pieta, my cousin, my friend. Thank you for everything. I will miss you.
Once the immediate family—in which Matteo was included—had thrown their roses on the coffin, it was time for the other mourners to follow suit.
Striving to keep his features neutral, he watched his parents step forward to pay their last respects to their nephew. They didn’t look at him, their son, but he knew his father sensed him watching.
Matteo hadn’t exchanged a word with them since he’d legally changed his surname five years ago in the weeks that had followed the death of his own brother.
So much death.
So many funerals.
So much grief.
Too much pain.
When the burial was over and the priest led the mourners into the castello for the wake, Matteo hung back to visit a grave on the next row.
The marble headstone had a simple etching.
Roberto Pellegrini
Beloved son
No mention of him being a beloved brother.
Generations of Pellegrinis and their descendants were buried here, going back six centuries. At twenty-eight Roberto was the youngest to have been buried in fifty years.
Matteo crouched down and touched the headstone. ‘Hello, Roberto. Sorry I haven’t visited you in a while. I’ve been busy.’ He laughed harshly. In the five years since his brother’s death he’d visited the grave only a handful of times. Not a day passed when he didn’t think of him. Not an hour passed when he didn’t feel the loss.
‘Listen to me justifying myself. Again. You know I hate to see you here. I love you and I miss you. I just wanted you to know that.’
Blinking back moistness from his eyes, his heart aching, his head pounding, Matteo dragged himself to the castello to join the others.
A huge bar had been set up in the state room for the wake. Matteo had booked himself into a hotel in Pisa for the next couple of days but figured one small glass of bourbon wouldn’t put him over the limit. His hotel room had a fully stocked mini-bar for him to drink dry when he got there. He would stay as long as was decent then leave.
He’d taken only a sip of his drink when Francesca appeared at his side.
He embraced her tightly. ‘How are you holding up?’ He’d been thirteen when his uncle Fabio and his wife Vanessa had taken him into their home. Francesca had been a baby. He’d been there when she’d taken her first steps, been in the audience for her first school music recital—she’d murdered the trumpet—and had beamed with the pride of a big brother only a few months ago at her graduation.
She shrugged and rubbed his arm. ‘I need you to come with me. There’s something we need to discuss.’
Following her up a cold corridor—the ancient castello needed a fortune’s worth of modernisation—they entered Fabio Pellegrini’s old office, which, from the musty smell, hadn’t been used since the motor neurone disease that eventually killed him had really taken its hold on him.
A moment later Daniele appeared at the door with Natasha right behind him.
Startled blue eyes found his and quickly looked away as Francesca closed the door and indicated they should all sit round the oval table.
Matteo inhaled deeply and swore to himself.
This was the last thing he needed, to be stuck in close confines with her,
the woman who had played him like a violin, letting him believe she had genuine feelings for him and could see a future for them, when all along she’d been playing his cousin too.
It seemed she had been with him every minute of that day, always in the periphery of his vision even when he’d blinked her away. Now she sat opposite him, close enough that if he were to reach over the table he would be able to stroke her deceitful face.
She shouldn’t be wearing black. She should be wearing scarlet.
He despised that she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and that the years had only added to it.
He studied the vivid blue eyes that looked everywhere but at him. He studied the classically oval face with its creamy complexion, usually golden but today ashen, searching for flaws. Her nose was slightly too long, her lips too wide, but instead of being imperfections they added character to the face he’d once dreamed of waking up to.
And now?
Now he despised the very air she breathed.
* * *
‘To summarise, I’ll take care of the legal side, Daniele takes care of the construction and Matteo takes care of the medical side. What about you, Natasha? Do you want to handle publicity for it?’
Francesca’s words penetrated Natasha’s ears but it took a couple of beats longer for her brain to decipher them.
She’d struggled to pay attention throughout the meeting Francesca had called, the outbursts of temper between Daniele and Francesca being the only thing that had kept her even vaguely alert.
‘I can do that,’ she whispered, swallowing back the hysteria clamouring in her stomach.
Ignore Matteo and keep it together, she told herself in desperation.
God, she didn’t know anything about publicity.
She knew Francesca thought she was doing the right thing, inviting her to this meeting of siblings—and the Pellegrinis considered their cousin Matteo to be a sibling—and that Francesca assumed she would want to be involved.
Any decent, loving widow would want to be involved in building a memorial to their beloved husband.
And she did want to be involved. For all his terrible failings as a husband, Pieta had been a true, dedicated humanitarian. He’d formed his own foundation a decade ago to build in areas hit by natural disasters; schools, homes, hospitals, whatever was needed. The Caribbean island of Caballeros had been hit by the worst hurricane on record the week before he’d died, wrecking the majority of the island’s medical facilities. Pieta had immediately known he would build a hospital there but before his own plans for it had fully formed his own tragedy had struck and he’d been killed in a helicopter crash.
