Constantino's Pregnant Bride

by Catherine Spencer

  “He wasn’t too concerned with doing the right thing when he had sex with me on New Year’s Eve.”

  “At risk of stating the obvious, it takes two, Cass, and let me remind you that, by your admission, you didn’t exactly rebuff him.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Cassie admitted, not so far gone in self-pity that she’d delude herself on that score. “But it was his fault. He was just too…seductive for me to say ‘no.”’

  Trish grinned. “I can see how that might happen. He gives new depth and meaning to the term, tall, dark and handsome, and all I can say is that between his genes and yours, you’ll have made a beautiful baby.”

  Beautiful, yes. Provided…

  “And one he’d want to acknowledge, even if it turned out to be homely as a board fence. You really do have to let him know, Cass.”

  So they were back to that again, were they! “I’m not telling him,” Cassie said flatly, “and neither are you. Let me be very clear on this, Patricia! What I’ve just told you remains in this room.”

  “Well, I’m not about to take out a full page ad in The San Francisco Chronicle, if that’s what you’re afraid of, but I surely don’t have to point out that this isn’t the kind of secret you can keep indefinitely.”

  “This is my first baby. I probably won’t show that much.”

  “Possibly not. But the next time Benedict shows up in town, which likely will be for Nuncio’s Midsummer Night’s party this June, you’ll be a good six months along, my dear, and sticking out in front enough that there’ll be no hiding the fact that you are, as they say in polite society, with child. So how do you plan to handle that?”

  “I’ll take a vacation and leave you to deal with Nuncio.”

  “I’m in charge of catering, not marketing and PR. That’s your department, Cassie.”

  “Then I’ll take care of things over the phone or by e-mail.”

  “You’re dreaming! Nuncio will be expecting the personal, hands-on approach he’s always received from you, and given the size of his account with us, you can’t afford to disappoint him. This isn’t just about you anymore, you know. You have a child’s future to think of, and babies don’t come cheap these days.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Trish, I’m not exactly short of money!”

  “You’re not exactly worth millions, either,” Trish said, “so if you’re determined to go the parenting route alone, you’d better be willing to cater to the likes of Signor Zanetti, because I’m here to tell you, you’re going to be glad of accounts like his when it comes time to think about medical expenses, private schools, orthodontics, riding lessons, and all the other extras you’ll want to lavish on this child.”

  “Fine,” Cassie said, too overwhelmed by the possible problems facing her in the next few months to worry about what might happen years from now. “Then I’ll have all the arrangements nailed down by the beginning of May which is only six weeks away. I won’t be showing then, nor will I be in any danger of accidentally running into Benedict.”

  “And how long do you think you can keep this secret?”

  “Until enough time has passed that no one’s going to question when or by whom I became pregnant.”

  Trish glanced at her watch and rolled her eyes. “You’re dreaming!” she said again. “If it weren’t that I’m running late for a meeting with a supplier, I’d stay and point out the folly of such thinking, but don’t for a moment think I’m leaving it at that. The subject is by no means closed.”

  “Oh, yes, it is,” Cassie said, leaning back in her chair and pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes as the door swung shut behind her friend. “I’ve made up my mind. Everything’s settled.”

  Scarcely had she spoken though, when she sensed, rather than saw or heard, that she was not alone, after all. A trembling heartbeat later, she knew it for certain as a voice seasoned with dark, rich mocha, flavored with hints of sunny Italy, and laced with a forbidding undercurrent of steel, announced softly, “Everything is indeed settled, Cassandra.”

  Dismayed, she dropped her hands and gaped in stunned amazement as Benedict Constantino stepped into the room through the partially open glass door leading from the balcony.

  “But not,” he continued, his long legs carrying him across the carpet with frighteningly stealthy speed, “quite the way you suppose. Far from it, in fact.”

  Clearly, he’d listened in on every word of her conversation with Trish. Clearly, he’d understood the exact context of what he’d heard and didn’t like it one little bit. A complete stranger lacking the usual complement of brain cells could have taken one look at his face, and recognized immediately that he was furious and in no mood to play games.

  But Cassie, sitting there as if she’d been poleaxed, paid no heed to the evidence staring her in the face, and instead climbed on her woefully inappropriate high horse and said haughtily, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I would like to know how you managed to break into my office. You have exactly one minute to explain yourself, and then I’m calling Security.”

  “Be silent!” he commanded, oozing contempt. “You will call no one!”

  She’d been intimate with him. He’d seen her with her breasts exposed. With her skirt drawn up around her waist, and her legs spread wide to accommodate him.

  He’d touched her most private flesh. He’d known how hungry for him she’d been. How willing. She’d gazed in awe at the power of his arousal. Cradled its pulsing weight in her hand. In her body.

  She had trusted him that much.

  Looking at him now, though, she was afraid of him. Because that fierce, burning passion he’d shown before was still there. And once again, it was directed at her. But this time, it had taken a deadly turn.

  CHAPTER TWO

  CASSIE’S glance wavered. Strayed from his face to the closed door across the room; to the telephone mere inches away. If she moved quickly, she could scoot past him and be in the safety of the outer office before he realized her intent. If she leaned forward a fraction, she could punch the speaker button on the phone console, and call for help.

  Either was preferable to her current predicament. Neither, though, proved to be an option.

  “No, Cassandra,” he said, interpreting her thoughts all too accurately. “You will neither leave this room, nor call for reinforcements—unless, of course, you’d prefer we discuss our situation in front of an audience?” He bent over her desk and lifted the telephone receiver. Dangled it in front of her nose. “If that’s the case, then by all means go ahead. Alert every occupant in the building, if it pleases you. Or shall I do it for you?”

  “Put that thing down!” she implored, furious at how feeble she sounded. Furious that, even when she felt threatened by him, she still found him fascinating—the moth drawn to a devastating flame.

  “Certainly, cara. The last thing in the world I intend is to distress you anymore than I already have.” Gently, he returned the phone to its cradle, then dropped into one of the chairs on the other side of the desk, stretched out his long legs, and said conversationally, “So, there is a baby on the way. How do you propose we deal with this unexpected turn of events?”

  Somewhat reassured by his more reasonable tone, she said, “We don’t. This isn’t your problem, Benedict.”

  “A child is never a problem. But if I am the father, then it most assuredly becomes my concern.” His dark brown gaze scrutinized her features, searching for indecision, for deceit. “Is this baby mine, Cassandra?”

  If she’d thought she could get away with it, she’d have lied and said “no.” But he’d already heard her admit the truth to Trish, and even if he hadn’t, it was a simple enough matter these days to obtain irrefutable clinical proof of paternity. “It’s yours.”

  “Then our next move is clear enough. We shall be married.”

  “Married?” she choked, laughter bubbling hysterically in her throat. “You must be joking!”

  “About taking a wife? Hardly!”

  �
��Then you’re insane. Marriage between us…it’s simply not possible.”

  “Do you have a husband you neglected to mention before now?”

  “Of course I don’t!”

  “There you are then.” He lifted his hand. “Since I have no wife, marriage between us is entirely possible.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Benedict, we were together once, and that was nearly three months ago. Since then, I’ve heard not a word from you.”

  “I’ve been out of the country.”

  “Well, I haven’t! I’ve been here every day. The telephone works around the world, and so does e-mail. But you elected not to use either one, which leads me to believe that, as far I was concerned, ‘out of sight’ meant ‘out of mind’ to you. That being the case, you’ll understand, I’m sure, why I find the idea of your wanting to marry me completely ludicrous.”

  He examined his short, immaculate fingernails, seemed to find them satisfactory, and favored her with another glance. “It isn’t a question of wanting. I consider it to be my obligation.”

  It wasn’t what he said, so much as the calm resignation with which he said it, that started her crying again. Not outwardly—pride wouldn’t allow that—but inside, it was as if he’d stabbed a sharp needle into her heart. She’d known clients negotiate business contracts with more warmth and emotion!

  “I don’t want a husband who sees me as an obligation,” she said, when she trusted herself to speak again.

  “What do you want in a husband, Cassandra?”

  “Love, friendship, commitment, passion—none of which I’m likely to find with you.”

  “None?” he echoed lazily. “Do you not remember how it was for us, last New Year’s Eve?”

  Not remember? She’d have laughed at such a preposterous question if she hadn’t suddenly found herself floundering in a wash of déjà vu so intense that her face burned. Whatever other elements might have been missing that night, passion hadn’t been among them. “Yes. And as I said a moment ago, it was one time only.”

  “Yet even today, the mention of it stirs you. I think I can promise you more of the same. I’m a normal, red-blooded man—as you so succinctly pointed out to your friend, Patricia. And you, cara, although technically no longer a virgin, remain in many ways such an innocent that you can’t begin to know the power of sex—of how it can tame even the most reluctant heart, or weld the most unlikely union.” From the table beside him, he picked up the art deco figure of a woman, and traced his finger over her eyelids and down her cheek to her throat. “It will be my very great privilege to instruct you.”

  He might as well have touched Cassie. Her flush deepened, spread. Raced the length of her body until it found its mark, and bathed her panties in dew.

  Sometimes, the obstetrician had informed her, as he detailed what she could expect over the next six and a half months if everything went according to plan, women lose all interest in sex during their pregnancies. Others can’t seem to get enough of it.

  Was she, she wondered mournfully, destined to belong to the latter group? Was there no end to the day’s humiliation? Hadn’t she enough to contend with already?

  Embarrassed, she squirmed in the chair, despising the tiny electric charge pulsing between her legs. And Benedict…he smiled. He knew!

  “I don’t want to have this discussion with you, especially not now, and definitely not here,” she said.

  “I can see that.” Replacing the statuette, he eased himself out of the chair. “We’ll continue it this evening then. I can arrange for a private dinner in my hotel suite, if you like, or shall I come to your home?”

  Neither, if she had a choice. But the hard, determined set of his jaw told her that if she refused to see him, he’d simply waylay her the next time she set foot in the office. And he might not be quite so discreet, the next time!

  She grabbed a pen. Scribbled on a notepad, tore off the page, and thrust it at him. “To my home,” she said from between clenched teeth. “Here’s the address.”

  At least she’d be in control there. Could show him the door when she’d had enough.

  “At what time?”

  “Seven o’clock. But don’t expect anything elaborate in the way of food. Mealtimes are a bit of a trial for me, at the moment.”

  “I understand.” He nodded, and assuming that was his way of taking his leave, she thought he’d make straight for the door. Instead, he came around the desk toward her.

  As hastily as her queasy stomach would allow, she sprang up from the chair. She felt at enough of a disadvantage as it was, without having him loom over her even more than his eight-inch height advantage already allowed.

  “Goodbye,” she said, and thrust out her right hand. It might be a ridiculous gesture, considering she was carrying his baby and he’d just proposed, but it was safer to keep things formal.

  Unfortunately, he had other ideas, though she didn’t at first realize it. Instead of shaking her hand, as she’d intended he should, he turned it over and, dipping his head, kissed the inside of her wrist, right on the pulse point.

  Her blood leaped wildly, and she let out a muffled squeak of surprise, at which he smoothed open her tightly clenched fingers and planted another, slower kiss on the palm of her hand. Then he lifted his head a fraction, blinked so that his lashes brushed over the skin of her arm, murmured, “Arrivederci, Cassandra,” and a moment later, the door clicked shut behind him.

  With sunset, the air turned cool enough to warrant putting a match to the kindling in the hearth. Once the flames took hold, Cassie threw on two small logs, then stood back and spared one last glance around the living room.

  The silk-shaded lamp on the desk cast gentle shadows over the curved ceiling, and painted an overlay of gold on the glass doors of the built-in bookcases on each side of the river rock fireplace. An arrangement of fresh arum lilies stood in the bay window, the blooms creamy white against the navy background of sky outside.

  A small epergne of pink roses, tall candles, and her grandmother’s china graced the table in the dining alcove. In the kitchen, Veal Prince Orloff simmered in the oven. A bottle of white burgundy chilled in the refrigerator.

  Had she gone to too much trouble? Made it look as if she cared what Benedict Constantino thought of her style and taste? Should she have made the occasion more casual, and served pizza in the den, with the TV turned to the evening news, instead of playing Claude Debussy’s Piano Preludes playing softly on the stereo? Should she have chosen to wear jeans and a sweater, rather than a long silk caftan and pearls?

  Uncertain, excited, nervous, she was on the point of returning to the bedroom to change, when the downstairs buzzer sounded. Peering from the living-room window, she saw Benedict standing under the awning on the street below, perusing the list of other residents in the building. He had on what appeared to be the same dark suit he’d worn earlier. Probably the same shirt and tie, too. He might be willing to marry her, but clearly didn’t give a rap about impressing her!

  “Something smells wonderful,” he said, when he arrived at her door on the second floor. Then, to put paid to any notion she might entertain that he was referring to her perfume, added, “I thought Patricia was the expert chef in your partnership.”

  “She is. I shopped at a gourmet deli on the way home. The only thing I’ve contributed to the meal is the salad.”

  It wasn’t the same suit, after all, but another superbly tailored effort in dark gray, with a shirt the color of mist, and a silk tie midway between the two shades. He looked altogether too divine for her to handle with equanimity, and to stop herself from staring, she buried her nose in the flowers he’d brought. “Mmm, freesias! How did you know they’re one of my favorites?”

  “Why else would you have them growing outside your office window?”

  “You noticed? Well, thank you. They’re lovely.”

  “Prego!” He smiled—something else she found disturbingly attractive.

  Indicating the living room, she said, “Make
yourself comfortable while I find a vase for them.”

  “I would have brought wine,” he remarked, ignoring her direction and following her into the kitchen, “but I assume you’re avoiding alcohol these days.”

  “You assume correctly. But that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy a predinner drink. You have the choice of scotch, sherry, campari or wine.”

  “Perhaps a glass of wine later, with the meal. For now, I’m content to watch you.”

  Another of those annoying flushes stole up her neck. “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that.”

  “Why not? I enjoy looking at you, which is a good thing, since you’re about to become my wife and we’ll be seeing rather a lot of each other.”

  “That hasn’t been decided, Benedict,” she said firmly. “I’ve yet to be convinced there’s any merit to your proposal.”

  “But certainly there is,” he said, his Italian accent suddenly more pronounced. “In my country, a man marries the mother of his child. It’s as simple as that.”

  “But this is the United States. Things are done differently here.”

  “Differently, perhaps, but that doesn’t make them better, or right.” He touched her cheek. “You’re troubled that we’re not in love, but where I was born, it used to be that other factors carried more weight when it came to marriage, such as building respect for one’s spouse, and working together to create a good home for one’s children. If love of the kind you’re referring to entered the picture, it was by coincidence and deemed a secondary consideration.”

  “In other words, you’re talking about arranged marriages.” She tossed her head contemptuously. “Maybe there are some women who don’t mind being treated like chattels, but I’m not one of them.”

  “Arranged, yes, but also lasting. Divorce was unheard of in my parents’ day, Cassandra. Family came first, and all the rest—the fondness between a man and his wife, the devotion—fell into place after that. Even now, seldom does a widow of my mother’s generation choose to remarry—surely a powerful endorsement of the durability of a union based on reason rather than romance?”