Constantino's Pregnant Bride

by Catherine Spencer

  She sat at one of the outdoor tables, and with the help of her phrase book, ordered a vanilla milkshake. Afterward, since she had nothing with her but a small cosmetic kit and the clothes she stood up in, she drove in search of a place to buy such basics as shampoo and toothpaste, and a change of underwear.

  After making her purchases, she followed a different route on the way back to the hotel, and passed by a little boutique specializing in maternity wear. Confident now that she’d carry her baby to term, and free to let the whole world know it, she went inside and bought two outfits. One was a dress in silk the color of almond blossom, the other a royal-blue cotton two-piece.

  By the time she returned to her room, the sun lay low in the west and kerosene lamps flared in the garden to ward off the shadows of dusk. Relaxed for the first time in what seemed like forever, she bathed, put on her new blue outfit and, lured by the tempting aromas rising from the kitchen below her open window, went down for dinner.

  Ravenous, she dined on wonderful olives, and bread warm from the oven; on swordfish and pasta stuffed with eggplant; on local cheese and fruit. The only thing missing was not having Benedict there to share the experience, and she missed him dreadfully.

  She saw the moon rise and listened to someone nearby playing a violin. She watched two lovers at another table—how they gazed at one another, and held hands. And again, the ache of missing Benedict took hold.

  At twenty-two minutes past three the next morning, she awoke to a sensation in her womb as if a butterfly had swept open its wings. A moment later, it happened again, and she realized her baby was moving.

  She wished Benedict was there to share the moment with her. But he was not, so she settled for the next best thing. Sitting up, she reached for the phone on the bedside table and called Trish.

  It was six o’clock the next morning—more than fourteen hours since he’d learned she’d gone missing—before the phone rang and released Benedict from the confines of hell.

  “She’s been found,” the local police chief informed him. “She’s registered at a hotel in Reggio Calabria. We were able to track her down through the car. Just as well you provided us with a full description, otherwise we’d still be looking.”

  He was on the road within fifteen minutes, the hotel name and address scribbled on a slip of paper beside him on the seat. Traffic was light and he made good time, arriving in the provincial capital before the morning rush began.

  The hotel stood on a quiet side street. The desk clerk confirmed that Cassandra had taken a room and had not yet checked out. Benedict did a quick sweep of the lobby, locating the stairs, the dining room, and the door to the courtyard, to be sure he had all points of entry and exit covered, then took up his post in a corner near the front desk which commanded a clear view of the entire lobby.

  She didn’t show up until almost half-past nine, by which time he was beginning to worry that she’d somehow slipped through his fingers again, or else was too indisposed to make it out of bed. Just as he was about to demand a key to her room, however, she came down the stairs, dog-eared phrase book in hand.

  She looked rested and lovely and reassuringly pregnant. Glowing on the outside from the sun, and on the inside with a serenity he found hard to understand, given her trauma of the previous day. He knew without having to ask, that the baby was fine.

  Unaware that she was being observed, she made straight for the garden. Not about to let her out of his sight, Benedict followed and watched as she chose a table in the corner, next to a small wall fountain, popped a pair of sunglasses on her nose, and studied the menu.

  The tables on either side were unoccupied. Unobtrusively sliding onto the chair directly behind hers, he leaned back and said over his shoulder, “You seem familiar with the hotel, signorina. What do you recommend I order for breakfast?”

  She let out a sighing little squeak of recognition, a captivating sound reminiscent of the one she made when she approached orgasm, then recovered enough to say primly, “I’m a signora. A married lady.”

  “And I,” he said, “am a married man in dire straits. My wife, you see, has run off, and I’m desperate to find her.”

  “What did you do to drive her away?”

  “I’m afraid I neglected her shamefully, and in doing so, exposed her to danger in the one place she ought to have been safe. Should something untoward happen to her, I don’t know how I’ll live with myself.”

  “Does she know how strongly you feel?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve never actually said so, mostly because I didn’t fully realize it myself until yesterday, when I lost her.”

  “Women need to be told, signor. They need to hear the words.”

  “Have I left it too late to convince her?”

  She didn’t reply and he, in a wave of uncertainty as demoralizing as it was foreign, dropped his arm to his side and reached back his hand toward her. He knew she couldn’t see the gesture; knew it was a puny, even cowardly way to try to mend what was broken between them. Because she was right: actions didn’t always speak louder than words; sometimes, it was the other way around.

  “Is she planning to come back to me, do you think?” he asked. “Or is her plan to keep on going, and make a life without me?”

  The seconds dragged by, an eternity punctuated by an avalanche of regret for the mistakes he’d made. She’d shown him in a hundred different ways that she could love him if only he would let her, but because he hadn’t been able to keep his rampant testosterone under control, he’d rebuffed her overtures.

  Now, unable to tolerate the suspense, he was on the verge of accepting that the distance between them had grown too vast to bridge when, as lightly as a breath of wind, the tips of her fingers brushed against his and caught hold.

  “I think she’d far rather be with her husband,” she said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “IT’S NOT that I wanted to leave you, Benedict. It’s that I didn’t feel I had a choice,” she said, when she could speak past the emotion clogging her throat. “Not that I blame you for what happened yesterday,” she added quickly. “You’re not responsible for your mother’s actions.”

  Without letting go of her hand, he left his seat and took the empty chair at her table. He wore his navy slacks and a white sports shirt with the casual elegance so typical of everything he did. Just then, though, there was nothing casual or typical about his manner. The self-possession she’d thought impregnable lay in tatters, as evidenced by the haunted shadows in his eyes.

  “But I’m responsible for you,” he said urgently. “I’m responsible for my child.”

  “You can’t always be there to intercede between me and perceived danger. No one can. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m capable of looking out for myself.”

  “Obviously,” he said drily. “A lot more so than I realized, judging by the way you escaped under your own steam. How’d you find the drive, by the way?”

  “Horrendous, especially once I got here. The traffic congestion in this city is a nightmare. But the worst part was wondering if I’d be able to find your car keys at the palazzo. I knew where you usually kept them, but was so afraid you might have taken them with you when you left for the mountains. If you had, I don’t know how I’d have got away.” She shot him an amused glance. “But if it’s the Lamborghini you’re really worried about, don’t be. It doesn’t have a scratch on it.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the car, Cassandra! There are plenty more where it came from, but you…!” He expelled a heartfelt breath. “You are irreplaceable, and I never again want to come so close to losing you.”

  “I already told you, Benedict, that what happened wasn’t your fault.”

  “Indirectly, it was,” he insisted gravely. “I could have acknowledged sooner that having you live under my mother’s roof was a mistake. God knows, you tried to tell me, often enough. I could have sent you to Bianca. You’d have been safe with her. She’d have taken good care of you and the baby.”

>   “I wouldn’t have gone. I wanted to be with you—at least, I did until yesterday. Then, I’m afraid, it all just became too much.” She leaned across the table and cupped his jaw, wanting very much to erase the worry marking his features. “But I’m so glad you came after me. I have wonderful news.”

  He shook his head in disbelief, and almost smiled. “How can you possibly mine something wonderful out of near-tragedy?”

  “Easily,” she said. “I checked into the hospital here yesterday, just to be sure everything was as it should be with my pregnancy.”

  He turned his mouth to her palm and pressed a kiss there. “And?”

  “And I heard and saw our baby’s heart beating. Then, last night, I felt him move.” Reaching into her bag, she drew out the prints from the ultrasound and passed them to him. “Here are the first pictures of your son, Benedict.”

  “We have a boy?” His hand shook as he took them, and she almost started crying at the look of wonder on his face as he examined the blurry images. “And he’s perfect?”

  “He’s perfect!”

  He stroked his fingertip over the glossy paper. “We’re so lucky, cara! So blessed!”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “And that’s not all. The problem with my cervix…well, it turned out not to be a problem, after all. The doctor gave me a clean bill of health.”

  “And you trust his opinion?”

  “He’s a specialist, Benedict. I think it’s safe to assume he knows what he’s talking about.”

  “So I have a healthy wife, as well as a healthy baby?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wish that was enough to make me a completely happy man,” he said, the joy which had illuminated his face fading into solemnity.

  Her heart sank a little. “And it’s not?”

  “How can it be, considering everything that happened with my mother?” For the first time since she’d known him, the candor and pride always so predominant in his gaze was tinged with shame. “I hardly know what to say, Cassandra. I wish I could offer some insight into her actions, but frankly, I’m at a loss. I questioned her, of course, but she was able to give no rational explanation for her behavior. Have you any idea what possessed her?”

  “I suppose I might have provoked her.” Trying to be fair, Cassie explained the sequence of events. “I think finding out about the baby the way she did was what really set her off. But what shook me was that she’d willingly endanger the life of her unborn grandchild. I know she’s your mother, Benedict, but I’m sorry to say I find what she did unforgivable.”

  “Don’t apologize,” he said grimly. “I never thought to see the day that I’d say this, but she is not the mother I’ve always known, nor even a woman. She is a monster and while I’ve thought for some time that she might be mentally ill, I’m now beginning to wonder if she’s not criminally insane!”

  He spoke with fire, but Cassie could see what it cost him. The pain in his eyes was impossible to miss, and she hated having to add to it. But he had to know that there was no going back to the way things had been.

  “I wish I could disagree with you, but I can’t,” she said sadly. “I’m afraid I can’t ever go back to the palazzo. Nor do I don’t want your mother anywhere near me or my baby, ever again.”

  “I understand. And I wouldn’t dream of asking you to return. But I am begging you not to go back to the States, not yet. Please, Cassandra, come with me instead to La Posada, my home in Sicily. We’ll be alone, there, and you’ll be safe. We can start over again, the way a married couple should, with a proper honeymoon.”

  “I’m hardly equipped to go off on a honeymoon,” she protested, laughing. “I left in such a hurry that, except for a few items I bought yesterday, all my things are still at the palazzo.”

  “Then as soon as we’ve finished breakfast, we’ll shop some more.”

  “Well, not that it doesn’t sound wonderful, but what about work? You can’t just walk away when your entire family is depending on you.”

  “Yes, I can,” he said, gripping her hands so firmly, she almost winced. “You and our baby are my family, now. I won’t say I don’t care about my sisters and, yes, even my mother. But I’m through with putting other people, other things, ahead of you and me, Cassandra. From here on, our marriage comes first.”

  He spoke with feeling. With controlled desire. The atmosphere shimmered with the promise of unfettered passion waiting to be allayed, of a future suddenly bright with promise of the happy-ever-after she’d always longed for.

  And if all that didn’t quite add up to the same as I love you, Cassandra, it came close and, after the tumult and trauma of the last twenty-four hours, for now, for Cassie, it was enough.

  He took her to shops she’d never have discovered on her own. Overrode her protests and spent extravagant amounts on her: an entire wardrobe of silk lingerie, shoes, perfume, and maternity dresses so pretty she could have stayed pregnant forever, just for the pleasure of wearing them.

  They ate stuffed calamari and preserved figs for lunch, drank fragrant caffe latte, talked about his journey inland and the progress he’d made in putting the Calabrian end of the family enterprise in order again.

  “I’ve persuaded our old foreman to come back,” he told her. “Given him full control of operations. He’s well respected in the village. He’ll have no trouble enlisting hired hands. Many who’d defected are ready to return and start working the orchards again.”

  They arrived at his Sicilian hideaway late in the afternoon, and Cassie fell in love with the place on sight. If the Constantino palazzo hulked at the top of the cliff, all ancient stone and somber, brooding confinement, Benedict’s home, situated on a gentle slope of land running down to the shore, flowed in a graceful curve of white stucco walls and blue tiled roof around a turquoise swimming pool.

  Brilliant flowering shrubs filled every nook and cranny of the garden. Fountains splashed and little streams ran under rocks to form tiny hidden pools where brightly colored fish darted back and forth.

  He led her on a tour of the place. The windows and doors were wide, allowing the breeze to sweep the house with the scent of the jasmine growing in a planter beside the front entrance. The rooms were spacious and airy and, during the day, filled with the rippling reflection of sunlight glimmering on the sea.

  Marble, smooth as silk, covered the floors. Instead of stiff, uncomfortable carved chairs and sofas upholstered in heavy plush, leather couches, puffy and soft as marshmallows, graced the salon. The dining table was a sheet of beveled glass supported on a finely wrought iron base, the chairs pale wood with seats covered in white linen.

  The master suite was huge, with floor-to-ceiling windows opening onto a private terrace, a charming sitting area at one end and, oddly, two enormous bathrooms accessed by dressing rooms.

  “If you’re wondering how many other women I’ve brought here,” Benedict said, noticing her surprise at the convenient his-and-hers arrangement, “you’re the first—and last. I didn’t design this house, Cassandra. I bought it three years ago, for the location and view, from a couple who moved to an apartment in Roma to be near their grandchildren. That it happens to be designed for a man and his wife is purely and conveniently coincidental.”

  Embarrassed that he’d picked up on her thoughts with such uncanny accuracy, she replied, “You didn’t have to tell me that.”

  “Yes, I did,” he said. “There’ve been enough clouds hanging over us. I won’t allow there to be any more. You’re my lady, cara, and the only mistress, ever, of my house.”

  As the sun set, he left her to bathe and dress at leisure, his parting glance telling her that soon, very soon, there would be nothing keeping them apart. Not the walls of her bathroom, not the clothes on her body, and never again the sullen, forbidding presence of his mother tainting the atmosphere. The knowledge left her quivering with anticipation.

  That night, they dined by candlelight on a terrace overlooking the sea, with the murmur of the waves falling in sof
t cadence against the shore, and the moon riding low on the horizon. Music drifted from the house, old songs from the 1940s, full of lost love found again and two hearts beating as one. Carmine, the chef, served veal Parmigiano and rollentini, with a light salad to start and chilled zabaglione for dessert.

  And throughout, with every word, every glance, every touch, undercurrents of expectancy rippled between her and Benedict, an unseen but insistent third party refusing to go denied.

  Sipping a small flute of celebratory champagne, Cassie sat across from her husband, conscious of time ticking toward the sexual finale of a union now nearly four and a half months old. The flicker of candle flames showcased his high cheekbones and swathed his dark eyes in mystery. Weeks of strenuous physical labor had sculpted his already well-toned body to hard perfection and deepened his olive skin to bronze.

  He looked handsome as a god, and she wished she could fast-freeze the perfection of the moment—of him—and keep them as a talisman against future assaults on their marriage. Because for all Cassie’s stated intention to remain as far away from his mother as possible, the reality was that as long as Elvira was alive, the specter of her destructive potential remained a dark cloud on the horizon.

  “What are you thinking about, cara?” Benedict asked, eyeing her lazily over the rim of his wineglass.

  “I’m wondering how you can bear to leave such a place. It’s exquisite here.”

  He smiled, and pulling her to her feet, led her over the flagstones in a dreamy waltz. “I’m happy you think so because it’s my favorite retreat, also. The Manhattan apartment is comfortable and works well as a base for North American business, and those in Paris, London and Hong Kong serve me well enough. But this is where I come when I need to unwind.”

  Stunned by the casual way he rattled off his real estate holdings, as if having pieds à terre scattered over three continents was standard for any man, she lost the rhythm of the waltz and almost stepped on his foot. “Exactly how many homes do you own?”