“That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose. But it could just as well be that, having at last gotten out from under one man’s thumb, she’s in no hurry to repeat the experience with another.”
He laughed, a low husky sound that sent his breath rippling warmly against her neck. “Are you afraid I’ll hold you under my thumb, cara?”
“Not in the least.”
“That’s good. Because I can think of many more pleasurable ways to keep my bride close.”
“Well, I hope she enjoys them, whoever she is.” Cassie picked up the vase and carried it through to the living room, leaving him to accompany her or not, as he pleased. “But you might as well accept that it won’t be me, Benedict. I have no intention of settling for a marriage based on fondness.”
He followed her down the hall, his footsteps slow and measured on the planked oak floor. “You will marry me,” he said, with unshakable confidence. “The only thing yet to be decided is how long it will take for me to convince you of it.”
She looked past where he’d stationed himself near the fire, to the carriage clock on the mantel behind him. “Think in terms of two hours, Benedict. I plan to be in bed, alone, no later than half past nine.”
“You’re not feeling well?”
“Apart from a little queasiness now and then, I’m perfectly fine,” she lied, unwilling to give him another reason to pressure her. “My doctor said everything’s proceeding swimmingly.”
Actually, what he’d said was, I don’t want to alarm you unnecessarily, but your cervix is a little softer than it should be in a woman at this stage of her first pregnancy, so I’m sending you for a sonogram sooner than usual. If the results warrant it, we need to take preventative measures to minimize the risk of a premature birth, or miscarriage.
When she’d first suspected she might be pregnant, she’d been ambivalent about the idea. But the specter of possible miscarriage terrified her. Only then had she realized how much, during those early weeks, she’d connected with the tiny life growing inside her.
What sort of measures? she’d asked.
The medical term for the procedure is a Circlage. It involves a local anesthetic and the placing of sutures through and around the cervix, thereby drawing the opening firmly closed. In layman’s language, it’s sometimes referred to as “the purse string” operation, which actually describes it rather well. The sutures are removed around the thirty-sixth week of pregnancy, to allow for normal dilation of the cervix as birth becomes imminent.
Is there any risk to the baby?
Some slight risk, yes, but the earlier the procedure is performed, the safer it is for both mother and child, which is why I’m bringing it to your attention now.
“If everything’s going swimmingly,” Benedict said, interrupting her thoughts so suddenly that she almost dropped the vase, “why are you looking so apprehensive? What aren’t you telling me, Cassandra?”
“Nothing. I’m wondering if I’m overcooking the Veal Prince Orloff, that’s all.”
“I can’t imagine that gazing pensively at a container of freesias is going to give you the answer.”
“You’re right,” she said, placing the flower arrangement on the corner table between the sofas. “Excuse me while I check the oven.”
This time, he didn’t follow her and when she returned to the living room, she found him examining the framed antique floral prints on the wall. “You have some very fine things in your home, cara.”
“Much of what you see I inherited.”
He strolled about the room, stopping to admire the voluptuous shape and contrasting wood of her prized bombé chest, and ended up in the arched entrance to the dining alcove. “And the rest?”
“I bought. Haunting antique auctions is one of my hobbies.”
“You have excellent taste.”
“Thank you.” The reception rooms were large, but he made them seem cramped and airless. If he wasn’t standing close enough to ruffle her hair with his breath, his shadow was reaching out to touch her.
She found it unsettling. The sooner he was gone, the better. “We should start on our first course. The veal is almost done.”
He pulled out her chair at the head of the long, oval table, took his own place opposite and, while she served the asparagus soup, poured himself a glass of the wine chilling in a silver wine cooler at his elbow.
“I very much appreciate this,” he commented, breaking apart a fluffy dinner roll still hot from the oven. “Hotel food serves well enough when it must, but it doesn’t approach the pleasure found in a home-prepared meal.”
She could hardly take exception to that and for the next fifteen minutes or so, they exchanged the kind of pleasant small talk any couple might enjoy. Relaxing despite her previous reservations, Cassie was able to manage her soup and a small helping of the salad which followed.
It was a different story with the main course. The rich combination of veal layered with mushrooms and onion, and covered with cheese sauce, was more than she could stomach. And of course, Benedict noticed.
“You’re not eating, Cassandra,” he remarked, eyeing the way she was pushing the food around her plate with very little of it making its way to her mouth.
“I’m suddenly not very hungry.”
“Isn’t it a bit late in the day for morning sickness?”
“My body doesn’t seem able to tell the time.”
“You’ve discussed this with a doctor?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And nothing.” She sipped her ice water and prayed she wouldn’t have to make an undignified dash for the bathroom. “My digestive problems don’t exactly make for sparkling dinner conversation. Can we please talk about something else?”
“If you wish. But I’d like the name of this doctor.”
“Why?” Her stomach rumbled a warning.
“To satisfy myself that he’s competent.”
“He’s more than just a run-of-the-mill doctor. He’s an obstetrician. He specializes in pregnancies.”
“So you say.”
“Don’t you believe me?”
He regarded her silently a moment, then said, “Yes, but I’m not sure I believe you’ve told me everything there is to know. I’m anxious about you.”
This time, it was more than a warning. This time, her stomach heaved a protest. “Well, don’t be. I’m in very good hands.”
“I intend to make sure that you are. I intend to speak with this doctor, with or without your cooperation.”
She took another cautious sip of ice water and, as calmly as she could, said, “No. It’s none of your concern.”
“It’s very much my concern, Cassandra. Make no mistake about that.”
“Perhaps you haven’t heard about doctor-patient confidentiality. You don’t have the right to information about me.”
“Not have the right? As the father of your child, I have every right, and I assure you I intend to exercise it.”
The edge in his voice unnerved her. Rumor had it that he was wealthy, a tycoon with international connections; that he represented his family’s North American business interests, and acted as its transaction agent and import specialist. He was undoubtedly accustomed to negotiating with other powerful magnates and coming out on top.
And she? At her best, she’d be hard-pressed to beat him at his own game. In her present condition, she was in no shape to go toe-to-toe with him on the weather, let alone his paternal rights.
Right on cue, Prince Orloff’s veal swirled unpleasantly in her stomach. She clamped her napkin to her mouth and pushed away from the table.
“Excuse me,” she muttered, and fled.
When she came back some fifteen minutes later to discover the dining room dark and only the lamp on the desk burning, she thought he’d left. Dispirited at finding her relief mixed with regret—did she want his attention, or not?—she sank onto the couch and folded her legs under her. But no sooner was she settled than footsteps approaching f
rom the kitchen told her he hadn’t abandoned her, after all.
A second later he came into the living room.
“I brought you some tea and dry toast,” he said, placing a tray on the coffee table, and the genuine concern in his voice brought tears trembling to her lashes. “Sorry it took me so long. I had to find my way around your kitchen. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No,” she said. “How did you know to do this—serve me dry toast, that is?”
“I have two nephews, and well remember the misery they caused my sister before they were born. This was her remedy and she swore by it.”
Cassie sipped from the cup he passed to her, aware that he watched the entire time, that he missed not a flicker of expression on her face.
Eventually he said, “What is it, cara? Do I make such dreadful tea, that you look so unhappy?”
Again, the compassion in his voice undid her. Helplessly, she shook her head and pressed her lips together, struggling to hang on to her composure. Even when she felt able to speak again, her voice remained thick with tears. “The tea’s fine. It’s everything else….”
“I’m sorry about the baby. Not that I wish it harm, but that it was conceived so carelessly.” He took her hand and covered it with both of his. “I blame myself, Cassandra. I’m past the age where such impulses are forgivable in a man which is why I beg you to let me atone in the best way I know how.”
His hand slid up her arm, caressed her shoulder, slipped inside the loose cowl collar of her caftan and cupped the back of her neck.
She flinched at his touch—so gentle, so subtly erotic. How was she supposed to remain immune to it? To cling to her resolve not to weaken under his persuasion?
“Are you afraid of me?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, looking him straight in the eye.
“Will you tell me why?”
She fell silent then because she daren’t admit how insidious her attraction to him was.
He continued to watch her, to stroke her nape. After a while, he said, “What happened, that you grew up without a father, Cassandra?”
“I was conceived before my parents married. My father stayed around long enough to know he had a daughter, then left my mother and me for another woman when I was seventeen months old. We never heard from him again.”
“That won’t happen to us. I give you my word that I’ll honor my wedding vows. I will take care of you and our child.”
“I don’t need taking care of,” she told him, even though a part of her yearned to accept what he offered. Just once, it would be nice to know how it felt to have a strong male shoulder to lean on, a big warm masculine body to curl up against at night. “If my mother could take care of herself and a child, I can.”
“Don’t you see that you shouldn’t have to? That this is a shared responsibility?”
“I’m not saying I won’t let you be part of this baby’s life. That wouldn’t be fair to either of you.”
“That’s not what you told Patricia this morning. I distinctly heard you say it hadn’t hurt you growing up without a father. You also said you weren’t going to tell me you’re pregnant.”
“Well, I feel differently now, since you found out anyway and it turns out that, unlike my father, you don’t mind being saddled with a child.”
His long, strong fingers massaged the tension knotting the base of her neck. In the warm, drugging sense of relief that followed, it was all she could not to groan with pleasure. “Or with that child’s mother,” he whispered against her ear.
Like the first warning tremor of an approaching earthquake, she felt her resistance waver and begin to topple frighteningly close to acquiescence. Sidestepping the danger just in time, she pulled away from him and said, “Stop pressuring me, Benedict. I’ve had enough for one day.”
“Then we’ll leave it for now, and talk again when you’re feeling more rested. Thank you for allowing me to come here, and for the wonderful dinner.”
“Hardly wonderful! I never got around to offering you dessert or coffee,” she said, on a small laugh.
He rose and shot his cuffs into place. “You offered a glimpse inside your head and your heart, cara. There isn’t a dessert in the world to compare with that.”
“How long will you be in town?” she asked, following him to the foyer and opening the front door.
He paused on the threshold and looked down at her. His remarkable eyes, so dark a brown they were almost black, caressed her face, feature by feature. His silky lashes drooped lazily at half-mast, as though concealing a joke he wasn’t ready to share. “As long as it takes for you to learn to trust me,” he said, and pressed his lips to her cheek.
They stayed there too long, took vaguely erotic liberties against her skin, and she opened her mouth to tell him so. He promptly took advantage of her error. So swiftly and smoothly she was caught completely off guard, his lips covered hers, and there was nothing the least bit vague about their message this time.
They spoke of raw passion barely held in check. Of wicked, delicious midnight-dark delight hers to enjoy if only she’d let herself. They stole the very things she most needed to cling to: her sense of purpose, her conviction—and a little bit more of her heart.
And the reprimand she’d been about to hurl at him? Poor thing, it simply withered in the heat of his kiss. Died without a murmur or even a whimper.
“As long as it takes, mi amore,” he said again, and leaving her clinging limply to the door frame, he ran swiftly down the stairs and out to the street.
She shut her door, rammed home the dead bolt, and tottered back to the living room where the snack he’d prepared remained virtually untouched. Suddenly starving, she devoured the toast, drank the tea and, appetite still not satisfied, swept up the tray and went to the kitchen.
She saw at once that he’d made himself useful while she was busy throwing up. The leftovers from dinner were stored in the refrigerator, the china and silver rinsed and loaded in the dishwasher.
It’s difficult to nurture immunity toward a man as thoughtful as this, she decided, boiling water to make a poached egg, and popping another slice of bread in the toaster. Maybe I’m being too rash in rejecting his proposal out of hand. Maybe New Year’s Eve wasn’t an end in itself, but the beginning of something incredible. Maybe, against all odds, I’ve found the man destiny created me for.
If she could be sure he was right in saying that a marriage was stronger for being founded on trust, respect and family values, with a soupcon of chemistry thrown in for good measure, she might be willing to take the plunge. If, as well, there was some hope, however slender, that the potential for consuming love might also be in the cards, she’d definitely consider it worth the risk.
She broke an egg into a cup, swirled the boiling water vigorously, and dropped the egg in the eye of the vortex she’d created. While it cooked, she buttered the toast lightly, and poured herself a glass of milk.
He had been kind and thoughtful. He wanted to be a physical presence in his child’s life. He’d shown concern for her physical well-being, her mental state. They weren’t bad qualities in a father, a husband. She could do a lot worse.
How long will you be in town?
As long as it takes for you to learn to trust me…as long as it takes, mi amore….
How long was that?
The egg was done. She scooped it onto a slotted spoon, let it drain a moment, then slid it, all fluffy white around the edges with a hint of yellow at its center, onto the toast. Drizzled on a little salt, a speck of pepper. For the first time in days, the smell of the food—melting butter, hot, fresh egg—made her mouth water.
She stacked everything on the tray he’d used earlier, and carried it to the window nook overlooking the terrace. Her daytime planner lay face down in the middle of the little wrought-iron table where she normally ate breakfast. When she turned the book over, she found it open at that day’s page. It showed her obstetrician’s name and telephone number, as well as the time of her
appointment that morning. And on the floor, where it must have fallen without his noticing, was a business card with Benedict Constantino’s name on it.
She didn’t have to be a mental giant to figure out what had taken place while she’d been losing her dinner.
I had to find my way around your kitchen. Hope you don’t mind….
How about, I snooped through your private possessions? she thought furiously. How about, I made a note of your doctor’s name and phone number on one of my business cards and didn’t notice that I’d pulled out two by mistake and left the second behind as evidence of my deception?
All at once, the egg smelled like sulfur. Looked as slippery as he was. So much for his professed concern! He must have gloated all the way back to his hotel at how easily he’d hoodwinked her!
“How long before I learn to trust you, Benedict?” she muttered bitterly, shoveling the toast and egg into the sink and flushing it down the waste disposer. “When hell freezes over, that’s when, and not a minute sooner!”
CHAPTER THREE
“WELL, at least he’s got good taste.” Trish brushed a gentle finger over the mist of baby’s breath interspersed among the six dozen long-stemmed pink roses overshadowing everything else on the board-room table. “If you won’t have them in your office, I’ll take them in mine.”
“Take them, and Benedict Constantino as well!” Cassie fumed.
“I don’t think it’s me he wants, dearie. I think he’s prepared to do whatever it takes to make sure he winds up with you.”
“Then all I can say is, he’s got some strange ideas of how to go about it, if he thinks rifling through my personal records is the way to win me over.”
“He looked at your daybook, for heaven’s sake, not stole your inheritance out from under you! And from what you’ve told me, you pretty much drove him to it.”
Constantino's Pregnant Bride Page 3
