Constantino's Pregnant Bride

by Catherine Spencer

  He saw the conflict in her eyes, the faint blush staining her cheeks, the erratic leap of her pulse at the corner of her jaw. “No,” she admitted reluctantly. “If it did, I’d never have made love with you.”

  “Then let us build on that. The spark exists, cara. With luck and perseverance, we can fan it into a flame.”

  “But it’s not that easy! It takes a lot more than one night of sex to build the solid foundation for marriage.”

  “You underestimate my determination,” he told her. “When I set my sights on a goal, nothing stops me until I achieve it.”

  “Which I might find flattering if your goal was to win me. But we both know it isn’t. If I weren’t pregnant, you’d never have proposed.”

  “Are you so sure of that?”

  “Well, yes! Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

  “Very well, we won’t pretend. Instead, we’ll be brutally honest with one another. So here is the way I see things.” He caught her hands in his. “I find you interesting and beautiful, both in mind and body. I admire your spirit and drive, the confidence and grace with which you approach life. We are sexually compatible. All good things for two people considering a lifelong union, yes?”

  “I suppose so, but—”

  He squeezed her fingers, drew her a fraction closer. “There is more. I believe in the sanctity of marriage, and of the family, and hold both sacred. I will allow nothing to harm either one. Although becoming a husband and father has happened sooner than I anticipated, I hold an aversion for neither. I shall honor you as my wife, and be proud to acknowledge you as the mother of my child. You will never want for material comfort or emotional support.” He took a step backward, searched her face to learn something of what she was thinking, of what she might be feeling. “There, I am done. Now it’s your turn.”

  “Oh,” she said, a trifle breathlessly. “After all that, I hardly know what to say.”

  “You could tell me you don’t believe me.”

  “But I do,” she said ruefully. “That’s half the trouble.”

  “It’s half the battle, Cassandra. If you trust me enough to take my word on matters as important as these, how can marriage fail to bind us ever closer to one another?”

  “You sound so sure.”

  “Because I am convinced this is the case.”

  “But there’s so much we don’t know about one another.”

  “We have the rest of our lives to learn, which is as it should be. A good marriage isn’t static, cara. It continues to grow and become richer.”

  “I have to agree with you on that, but what about the logistics? My business is here on the West Coast, and you’re based in New York.”

  “Only because it is closer to Europe and slightly more convenient. But with a wife and baby to think of, my priorities change and the world, after all, is a very small place. East Coast, West Coast, it makes little difference to me.”

  “You’d move here, just to be with me?”

  “Yes, because it is important to you. And I hope, if the situation were reversed, that I could say the same of you. Otherwise, what use would we be to one another or our child?”

  “Oh, Benedict,” she sighed, leaning against him. “You make it very hard for me to turn you down.”

  “Then we’ll be married? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  A trembling shudder ran over her, reminding him of a butterfly trapped in a net. “Oh, why not?” she whispered on an exhausted breath. “What have we got to lose?”

  It was hardly the enthusiastic response he’d hoped for. He was not a man who did things by halves. He had little tolerance for people unable or unwilling to take a stand on issues of consequence, and in his view, marriage fell under that heading. But at least she was no longer flatly refusing to consider his proposal and so, conscious of the need not to pressure her into giving more than she felt able to afford just then, he said with matching nonchalance, “Not a thing, Cassandra, but we stand to gain a great deal. Shall we eat?”

  “We might as well.”

  She knelt beside him and laid out the food. “How soon do you think we should do it—get married, I mean?”

  “Will a week give you enough time to find a gown and order flowers and send out invitations?”

  For the first time since he’d learned of her pregnancy, she actually laughed. “How like a man to ask such a question! Things like that take months to arrange, Benedict. But in our case, it’s irrelevant, because I don’t want a wedding dress or flowers, or a crowd of well-wishers. A private marriage ceremony before a justice of the peace, with two witnesses, is enough.”

  “So it is to be a bare-bones formality, with none of the romantic trimmings usually so dear to a woman’s heart?”

  “Under the circumstances, yes.”

  “Then how about a honeymoon in Italy, to make up for it?”

  “I don’t need a honeymoon, either.”

  Irritation mounting, he was on the point of telling her that if she planned to bring to their marriage the same lack of enthusiasm she showed for her wedding, it was bound to fail miserably. But sensing she needed little encouragement to call the whole thing off, he tempered his annoyance and said as pleasantly as he knew how, “Nevertheless, I would like to give you one. I believe, from the looks of you, that a holiday will do you good. And it so happens that, for reasons to do with my family’s business undertakings, I must return shortly to my home in Calabria.”

  Helping herself to a sliver of chicken breast, she said, “Where’s that? You’ll have to forgive my ignorance, but I’ve never visited Italy, so my knowledge of its geography is a bit sketchy. Show me a map, and I can point to major cities like Rome and Milan, but Calabria—”

  “Is right down in the toe of the country, across the Strait of Messina from Sicily.”

  She looked startled. “Isn’t Sicily the home of the Mafia?”

  “You watch too much television, Cassandra,” he said lightly. “I have a beautiful vacation home in Sicily, and it’s never once been under attack from the Mafia.”

  Thoughtfully, she nibbled at a square of melba toast. “Well, I’m sure I’d enjoy seeing it some day, but I’m not convinced this is the time. If you’ve got family business to attend to, you don’t need me traipsing along for the ride. Why don’t we put marriage on hold until you come back to the States?”

  “And leave you to cope alone with this pregnancy? Not a chance! I assure you I can deal with my family and still find plenty of time to pay attention to my wife.”

  She looked suddenly apprehensive. “But I’m not sure I should be traveling right now. My doctor might not approve.”

  “In that case, we’ll discuss it with him. If he advises against it, I’ll postpone the visit until you feel well enough to make the journey.” But she continued to look uncertain and, remembering her earlier remark about not having visited Italy, he said, “What are you really afraid of, cara? Is it the idea of flying?”

  She shook her head. “Not at all. It’s just that these early weeks of pregnancy have taken such a toll on my energy.”

  “All the more reason to take you away from the rigors of work. Calabria is beautiful, Cassandra, a paradise of pristine beaches and clear warm seas. You’ll be required to do nothing but relax and let my mother and sisters pamper you.”

  “What about your father? What’s he going to say about your mixing a honeymoon with business?”

  “My father died four years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” he said. “You had no way of knowing.”

  “That’s what scares me.” A frown creased the perfection of her brow. “One way or another, you’ve learned quite a bit about me, but I know little about you, and absolutely nothing about the members of your family beyond the fact that they grow a special kind of citrus fruit—bergamot, isn’t it?”

  “That is it exactly. So you are not as uninformed as you like to pretend.”

  “Oh, yes, I am! I wouldn’t know
a bergamot, if it jumped up and bit me.”

  “The bergamot orange is very distinctive. You’ll soon learn to recognize it.”

  “Bergamot….” She lay flat on her back, and ran the word over her tongue, imitating the way he rolled the R. Her hair fanned around her head, a bright halo against the dark green of the grass. “You make it sound so exotic.”

  “It is a remarkable fruit.”

  She propped herself up on one elbow to sip at her water, then lay down again and gazed at the canopy of trees overhead. “I remember your telling me, the first time we met, that it’s used in the most expensive perfumes, and as a pharmaceutical agent. Is it edible, too?”

  “Not in its natural state, but you’ll find essence of bergamot used as a flavoring in liquors, tea, and preserved sweets.”

  “So your family’s involved in very big business.”

  “We make a living.”

  She slewed a glance at him. The sunlight piercing the branches lent her skin an opalescent gleam and filmed her blue eyes with brilliance, reminding him of the jewelry studded with precious gems created by Calabrian goldsmiths. At another time and in a more private setting, he would have shown her with few words how alluring he found her.

  “I’m not asking you how much you’re worth, Benedict, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said soberly. “Just the opposite, in fact. The Ariel is a very successful enterprise, and I can well afford to bring up this baby alone. So if you’re thinking perhaps I’m marrying you for your money—”

  “It never occurred to me that you are, nor is that the reason I proposed. We are marrying because we both wish to do what is best for our child.”

  She sat up again and helped herself to the grapes. “Just as long as we’re both clear on that.”

  “Assolutamente! Would you care for a little cheese with the fruit?”

  “You know, I think I would,” she said, sounding surprised, and patted her waist lightly. “The fresh air seems to have settled my stomach.”

  “Or else knowing that the future is more settled has done the trick.”

  She sampled the cheese thoughtfully a moment, before replying, “Well, I don’t mind admitting, the idea of belonging to a large family is rather appealing. I’ve felt very alone since my mother passed away.” She shuffled over to make room for him next to her on his jacket. “Tell me more about your sisters. Are they older or younger than you?”

  “Bianca is my age—not surprising, since we’re twins!—and is married with two children, a boy, Stefano who’s seven, and a girl, Pia, who’s three. My brother-in-law Enrico is a lawyer and looks after the legal side of the business, as well as managing our Milano operation—did I mention that we have a few vineyards in Lombardy?”

  “No,” she said, enchanting him with the lilt of amusement in her voice. “That little detail somehow slipped your mind. But do go on.”

  “Francesca is twenty-five and still single. She works closely with our mother, running the Calabrian end of things—administration, book-keeping, that kind of thing. We have nearly seventy employees in Calabria, and another thirty in Milano.”

  “Are you sure there’s room for me in such a busy family?”

  “They will be overjoyed to welcome you, cara,” he said, hoping it was true. “Every Italian mother wants to see her son produce un bambino or two.”

  “Right now, it’s all I can do to manage one and keep track of my appointments.” She made a face, a quaint, endearing wrinkling of her elegant nose, and checked the gold fob watch pinned to the lapel of her jacket. “Speaking of which, I have a client meeting in twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll walk you back to the office.”

  Instead of arguing the point, as she might have done earlier, she merely packed up the remains of their lunch, then brushed the loose grass from his jacket and passed it to him. “I’m glad I wasn’t able to talk you out of coming here,” she said. “It’s a lovely spot, and there’s something very soothing in the sound of the waterfall splashing into the pond.”

  “At my summer home in Sicily,” he said, coming up behind her and sliding his arms around her waist, “the sound of the sea lapping on the shore is a night-long lullaby. You will fall asleep with the moon casting stark shadows over the land, and awaken the next morning to golden sunlight and the scent of verbena and rosemary and jasmine.”

  She leaned against him; let him rest his chin on the crown of her head. “You make it sound idyllic. Can you guarantee that’s how our marriage will be?”

  “No, cara,” he murmured, turning her slowly to face him. “The most I can promise is that I will make it the best that it can be. Inevitably, there will be storms, but there will be the calm that follows, and many, many times in between heated by a different passion.”

  “What kind?” she said, flirting with him from beneath lowered lashes.

  “The kind better demonstrated than described in words.”

  He kissed her then, something he’d been wanting to do ever since she’d stepped out of the elevator almost an hour before. Kissed her long and deeply, and as her mouth softened beneath his, the blood rushed to his loins.

  He ached to touch her more intimately; to lay his hand on her belly, where the life within her flourished. His seed, his child…and soon, his wife.

  She must have know that he was aroused, yet still she didn’t pull away, but instead slipped her hands around his neck, pressed herself closer to him, and whispered unsteadily, “Oh, that kind!”

  “That,” he told her, “is but a token, a promise, if you will, of better things to come.”

  She drew in a broken sigh. “Suddenly, I wish I didn’t have a client waiting for me at the office.”

  “It’s as well that you do,” he said, reluctantly putting her from him. “When next we make love, it will be behind closed doors, not in a public park with the ever-present chance of unwelcome visitors intruding on the moment.”

  She nodded and, with the casual intimacy of a wife or lover, reached up to wipe a fleck of something from the corner of his mouth. “Lipstick,” she said, mischief dancing in her eyes. “And it’s not your shade at all.”

  They strolled back along the busy street, the silence between them now easy. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in my asking you not to work too hard?” he said, as they slowed to a stop next to where a street vendor had set up his flower stall outside her office building.

  “Not really. But I promise not to overdo it.” She favored him with a brief and lovely smile.

  Behind her on the stall, tiny bunches of small, purple flowers echoed the color of her eyes and gave emphasis to the porcelain perfection of her skin. On a whim, he bought one of the sprigs and slipped it behind the pin holding her watch in place.

  She gave a muted exclamation of pleasure and dipped her head to sniff the fragrance. “Violets! How did you know I love them?”

  “Lucky guess,” he said, his attention captured by the slender curve of her neck. “They’re small and delicate, like you. Bella, like you.”

  “Sometimes, you say the nicest things.” A faint blush accompanied her smile and she touched her fingertips to his hand. “Forgive me having leapt to all the wrong conclusions about last night.”

  “Consider it forgotten. Focus on the future, instead.”

  “Yes.” She lingered a moment longer, as though reluctant to leave, then wrinkled her nose again in that habit which he found so charming. “I really must go. My client will be waiting.”

  “We’ll talk again,” he said. “Very soon.”

  “Yes.” She hesitated, turned away, then at the last moment swung back and kissed his cheek. “Thank you again for lunch,” she whispered at his ear, “and…for everything else.”

  And then she was gone, sweeping gracefully up the marble steps and through the revolving glass door. He stood watching as the dove gray of her suit merged with the colors other people milling about the lobby were wearing. Until her slight figure and blond head were hidden behind larger, an
onymous bodies.

  He remained there long after the crowd was swallowed up in the elevator, his thoughts troubled. There were serious problems awaiting him in Calabria. Was he being fair to Cassandra in taking her with him, knowing what he did? Yet she was carrying his child so how, in good conscience, could he leave her behind?

  He could not. Would not. Which begged another question. How best to break the news to his family that, at a time when so much else was uncertain, he was bringing to the mix a bride who was a stranger to them and to the culture and customs which bound their lives?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DINNER was over, the movie finished, the lights dimmed. Cushioned in luxurious leather beside a window in the Magnifica section of the Alitalia 767 jet, Cassandra raised her footrest and adjusted her seat to a reclining position. Next to her, her brand-new husband lifted his glance from the report he was studying just long enough to ask, “Comfortable?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She tucked the fleecy airline blanket more securely around her legs.

  “Think you’ll be able to get some rest?”

  She nodded and closed her eyes. But sleep, the one thing she never seemed able to get enough of since she’d become pregnant, eluded her. Instead, the events of the last six days raced in living color through her mind like a movie reel come unspooled….

  “What did he do to get you to change your mind?” Trish had wondered, when Cassandra returned from her lunch with Benedict and said she’d accepted his proposal.

  “Bowled me over with sweet reason, mostly.”

  “How about dazzled you with his smile? Seduced you with his long-lashed, bedroom eyes?”

  “That, too.” She’d lifted her lapel, buried her nose again in the damp, sweet-smelling violets. “He can be very convincing when he puts his mind to it.”

  And very efficient. Leaving her with no time for second thoughts, he’d swung into action. Within seventy-two hours, they’d purchased their marriage license, booked a time for the ceremony to take place at the County Clerk’s office, reserved their flight to Italy, and consulted by phone with her obstetrician who, upon hearing of their travel plans, immediately ordered a sonogram, “just to be on the safe side.”