It was true that he had become engaged to Marisa when he hadn’t been in love with her. To his mind it had seemed eminently sensible in light of rising divorce rates to base marriage on mutual respect and shared goals rather than the unstable emotion that love too often proved to be. Torre raked his hands through his hair, feeling uncomfortable with the idea that he had decided to have a loveless marriage to protect himself from the pain he associated with love. But it hadn’t happened because Marisa had fallen in love, prompting the end of their engagement.
Swearing beneath his breath, he walked noiselessly from the bedroom into the lounge, located his tablet and entered a search for luxury properties in central London. It was time he took back control of the situation with Orla. In a few weeks Renzo would return to work as his assistant and Torre was confident that when he was no longer spending every day with Orla, like he did now, the disturbing hold she had over him would disappear.
He would set her up in an apartment and give her one of his credit cards so that she could buy some new clothes. Pretty dresses and sexy underwear purchased for his delectation, he mused. It was standard stuff he’d done with previous mistresses, and there would be rules, boundaries—not this permanent hunger for her that demeaned him because he couldn’t control it.
Satisfied with his plan, he scrolled through the property listings and requested to be sent more information on a few of them.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘DO YOU WANT to eat in tonight or shall we go out for dinner?’ Torre asked one evening. ‘We could drive along the coast to Positano and have a meal at the seafood restaurant down by the harbour that you liked when we went there a couple of weeks ago.’
Orla experienced a sudden queasy sensation at the thought of eating fish. ‘I’d rather have dinner at home,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ll cook. I know my cooking doesn’t come anywhere near to your housekeeper’s standard, but Tomas and Silvia will be away for a few more days, and we can’t eat out every night.’
‘All right. But if you cook, I’ll do the dishes. That way it’s a fair division of labour.’
‘Loading the dishwasher is hardly labour intensive,’ she teased.
Torre grinned. ‘I need to save my energy for tonight, cara.’
Orla glanced at him sitting beside her in the car and her heart gave its usual flip because he was just so gorgeous. They drove the fifty-minute journey between Casa Elisabetta and his office in Naples most days, although when they went to ARC’s headquarters in Rome they travelled by helicopter.
Torre’s tanned hands held the steering wheel loosely as he drove the car with consummate skill along the winding road from Naples back to Ravello. He had put the sunroof down and the breeze ruffled his dark hair. Every day after work he pulled off his jacket and tie and undid the top three or four of his shirt buttons before he climbed into the car. It was a signal that the serious stuff was done and now it was time to relax and have fun.
The mellow days of late summer on the Amalfi Coast had slipped past, and a month had gone by since they had left London following their visit to the new Docklands development managed by ARC UK. Since then they had been to ARC construction projects in France and Hong Kong. Orla’s interest in engineering was stronger than ever, and with her new self-confidence, which stemmed from Torre’s belief in her capabilities, she had applied to her old university to complete her degree. She planned to study part time so that she could look for a secretarial job in London until she qualified as a civil engineer.
She was still committed to paying for her mother’s medical bills but Kimberly’s health had improved enough for her to be able to move into a house in Chicago which her new husband had adapted to accommodate a wheelchair. Free from the worry of her mother and her ex-husband—she hadn’t received a single call or text from David, whose popularity with the public had slipped after he had crashed his car while he’d been drunk—Orla tried to convince herself that she had plenty to look forward to when her temporary job as Torre’s assistant finished in two weeks’ time.
He had not mentioned what would happen to them when his assistant Renzo returned. And the truth was that there was no them—not in the way she would like there to be, she thought bleakly. They made love every night with a wildfire passion that blazed hotter than ever. But for Torre it was just sex. Orla knew he would never fall in love with her and she was convinced that he was still in love with his ex-fiancée.
She would miss the companionship they had shared for the past month, she acknowledged with a heavy heart. Everything—eating meals with him, swimming in the pool together after a day at work, watching a film with him in the cinema room. She had harboured a fragile hope that they might have a future, that the way he stroked her hair when they lay in each other’s arms after making love might mean he felt something for her other than lust. But this morning when they’d had breakfast outside on the terrace, as they usually did, while glancing through the daily newspapers, her silly romantic dream had hit—slam—a concrete wall of reality.
The picture on an inside page of one of the papers had been innocuous enough—a stunningly beautiful woman, a handsome man and an adorable baby. The caption beneath the photo had caught Orla’s attention. Translated into English it said: Count Valetti’s daughter Marisa Cardello and her husband Giovanni show off their new daughter Lucia.
‘Cute baby,’ she’d commented to Torre. And it had been then, when he had taken the newspaper from her and stared at the photo as if he’d seen a ghost, that she’d realised the woman was his Marisa, his ex-fiancée who, according to Jules, had broken off the engagement and broken Torre’s heart.
‘I suppose all children are deemed to be cute—at least by their parents,’ he’d drawled as he had handed the newspaper back to her. ‘I must admit that my knowledge of babies is based on what some of my friends who have had fatherhood thrust upon them have told me.’
Orla had been puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Gennaro and Stephan’s girlfriends both fell pregnant by accident—supposedly,’ Torre had said sardonically. ‘In each case the couple married for the sake of the child, but neither of my friends are happy in their respective marriages, and I suspect they felt that they had been trapped in a situation they had not wished for.’
‘It takes two people to make a baby,’ Orla had pointed out. ‘Perhaps your friends should have been more careful.’
‘And perhaps their girlfriends saw pregnancy as a quick route down the aisle,’ he had countered, making her shake her head.
‘Why are you so cynical?’
He had shrugged. ‘I’m a realist. There are some women who would deliberately fall pregnant to force the baby’s father to marry them.’
The conversation had moved onto a less contentious subject after that, but at work later that day Torre had been uncommunicative—although once or twice Orla had looked up from her desk to find him standing in the doorway linking their two offices, watching her with a closed expression on his face that had made her think he was comparing her unexciting paleness with his ex-fiancée Marisa’s sultry beauty.
Now, as he turned the car through the gates of Casa Elisabetta, Orla looked up at the ultra-contemporary building that never ceased to fascinate her with its bold design. ‘Why did you build such a huge house when most of the time only you live in it?’ she asked him.
‘I don’t anticipate I’ll live alone for ever,’ he said as he climbed out of the car.
‘Did you design your home with someone in mind who you hoped would share it with you?’ She knew that construction of the villa had begun while he had been engaged to Marisa and it occurred to her that the house might be a spectacular monument to the woman he loved, in the same way that the Taj Mahal in India was synonymous with everlasting love.
Torre paused on the front steps, his jacket slung over his shoulder and his sunglasses hiding the expression in his eyes. ‘I suppose I did,’ he said. There was an odd note in his voice that Orla could not define. ‘Where a
re you going?’ he called after her when she turned and began to walk back up the drive.
‘I told you this morning that I have a doctor’s appointment. I hope to find out why I keep feeling nauseous after eating meals. It’s probably an intolerance to a certain food. I really hope I don’t have to give up pasta, although it might be a good thing for my hips,’ she said ruefully, thinking about the few pounds she’d gained recently.
‘You should have reminded me. Get in the car and I’ll drive you into Ravello.’
She kept on walking, not wanting Torre to see the tears in her eyes because she was sure he had built his amazing house for the woman he loved. ‘I’d rather walk, after sitting in the car for nearly an hour. And you are expecting a phone call from the Shanghai office,’ she reminded him.
In truth, Orla wanted some time alone. The scene at breakfast had bothered her for the rest of the day. Torre’s reaction to the photograph of his ex-fiancée had filled her with despair, but the discussion they’d had when he had told her about his two friends who had reluctantly married their girlfriends as a result of unplanned pregnancies had triggered a niggling concern in her mind.
The nauseous feeling she had been experiencing recently happened after she had eaten a meal, but for the past few days she had also felt sick first thing in the morning. Her period was only two days late, and it was highly unlikely, if not impossible for her to have fallen pregnant when she had been taking the Pill for the past three years, she reassured herself. There hadn’t been a chance for her to slip out of the office during the day to visit a chemist and buy a pregnancy test, but she had phoned the doctor’s surgery and made an appointment because she needed a new supply of her contraceptive Pill, and she decided to mention that she had been feeling more tired than usual lately.
* * *
Ravello was a popular town on the Amalfi Coast, and even though it was the end of the summer the narrow streets were filled with tourists. Usually Orla loved the bustle of the place, but when she emerged from the doctor’s surgery she headed for a quiet spot away from the crowds. The famous gardens of Villa Cimbrone were open to the public but luckily there was no one else around when she stood on the terrace lined with white marble busts and stared out over the bay. But she did not notice the breath-taking beauty of the view. She was numb with shock after a pregnancy test at the doctor’s surgery had proved positive.
‘I can’t be pregnant,’ she’d said shakily. Her first reaction had been one of panic and utter disbelief. ‘I have never missed taking a Pill.’
* * *
‘Have you been unwell at all in the last couple of months?’ the doctor asked.
‘No. Well—I did have a stomach upset, but it only lasted for forty-eight hours.’ She remembered that she’d been worried she would be too unwell to travel to Amalfi for Giuseppe’s birthday party.
‘Missing just one or two Pills or, as in your case, being sick for a few days could have lessened the effectiveness of the contraceptive Pill,’ the doctor had reminded her. That was when Orla’s panic had turned to fear. She knew the Pill could only be relied on to prevent an unplanned pregnancy if it was taken regularly, but when she had made love with Torre she had been swept away by their tumultuous passion and she’d totally forgotten to take extra precautions.
She leaned against the railings on the balcony of Villa Cimbrone and tried to calm herself, but there was no escaping the fact that it was a disaster. She was expecting Torre’s baby and the conversation they’d had that very morning gave her an indication of how he was likely to react to her news. Some of his old cynicism had returned when he had told her of his friends who had both felt trapped when their girlfriends had fallen pregnant.
Would Torre think that she had deliberately conceived his child? She felt sick as she tried to imagine his response when she told him he was going to be a father. Would he lose his temper, like her ex-husband had done when she’d told David that her period was ten days late? Memories swamped her mind. It had been in the first few months of her marriage and although she had already grown wary of David’s unpredictable mood swings, he had not yet displayed his violent temper. They had been on his friend’s yacht, cruising the Mediterranean, and Orla hadn’t been able to take a pregnancy test but she had mentioned her suspicion that she was pregnant.
David had stayed silent for so long that she had felt increasingly nervous. His face had twisted in an ugly expression. ‘You stupid cow. I told you when we got married that I don’t want children while I’m focusing on my career.’
‘It was an accident. I didn’t mean it to happen.’ She had sought to defend herself.
‘You’ll have to get rid of it,’ David had told her coldly, and his shocking statement had made her realise that any feelings she might have had for him had died. Later the same day her period had started and she’d felt relieved.
But this time her pregnancy had been confirmed. Her hand crept to her stomach as she tried to comprehend the enormity of what had happened—what was happening inside her now—a new life developing. Her baby, who she would love and protect with her own life if necessary, she vowed as maternal instinct replaced her shock at the prospect that she was going to be a mother.
Briefly she considered not telling Torre. If, as seemed likely, he intended their relationship to end when her role as his temporary assistant finished then it might be better to keep her news to herself. But she quickly dismissed the idea. She had no idea how he would feel about her being pregnant but he had proved over and over again that he was nothing like her ex-husband. And the baby would need its father just as she had needed her father. She had to hope and trust that Torre would want his child.
On the walk back to Casa Elisabetta, Orla rehearsed how she was going to break the news to Torre but her heart was thudding so hard that she was surprised she could not hear it when she located him in his study. He was working at his desk but he looked up when she entered the room and immediately switched off his computer.
‘Hello, cara.’ He smiled as he walked over to where she stood in the doorway, her tension ratcheting up by the second. It did not help that he looked devastatingly sexy in a pair of faded jeans that sat low on his hips and a black tee shirt moulding his muscular chest. He pushed a hand through his swathe of dark hair and the gleam in his grey eyes almost reassured her that she wasn’t standing at the edge of an abyss—almost.
‘You were a long time at the doctor’s. I was starting to worry,’ he murmured, before he covered her mouth with his. The kiss stole her breath and Orla thought that she would give her life to keep this moment enshrined for ever. But her life was not her own any more—she had her baby to consider, to love. That thought filled her with fierce joy and an even fiercer resolve.
Torre lifted his head and looked down at her, a faint frown of concern drawing his brows together. ‘Was everything all right at the doctor’s?’
‘Yes...well—no. What I mean is...’ She took a deep breath and sent up a silent prayer, aware that her future and, more importantly, her baby’s future hinged on this pivotal moment and Torre’s reaction to her news.
‘Orla?’
‘I’m having your baby.’ The words burst from her lips and came direct from her heart. However Torre chose to respond made no difference to the unassailable fact that she had every intention of going ahead with her pregnancy. The memory of how David had reacted to her suspected pregnancy haunted her. And Torre’s initial reaction—or rather his complete lack of reaction—was not a good sign, she thought, feeling a heavy sense of dread in the pit of her stomach.
He was so still that he could have been a statue carved out of granite. Only a nerve jumping in his cheek told her that he hadn’t turned to stone, and his eyes had lost their smoky warmth and were as hard and cold as steel. Ice formed around her heart. It was David all over again—only this time there really was a baby.
‘Say something at least,’ she choked. The man who had been her lover and, yes, her friend for the past weeks had turn
ed into a stranger. But she had been fooling herself, Orla thought bleakly. Torre had always kept a part of himself distant from her and as he continued to stare at her with no expression at all in his eyes she sensed that he was bringing the shutters down and she would never be able to reach him.
‘What do you want me to say?’ His voice was carefully controlled and somehow that made him seem more forbidding than if he had shouted and stormed at her. She could cope with his anger. But his apparent lack of interest in the child they had created together told her everything she needed to know about their relationship, and the fragile hope she had nurtured withered and died.
* * *
Torre did not know how to deal with the wildness that swept through him, or the knowledge that this would be his life from now on. Out of his control and at the mercy of emotions that he had never sought nor wanted.
What he wanted was his well-ordered life where there were no nasty surprises that inevitably brought hurt and pain. He remembered the ache in his chest like his heart was about to explode when he had touched his mother’s cold hand and realised that this was what death did. His mamma would never smile at him or hold him in her arms ever again.
He had understood the fragility of life when he was six years old and he had learned that love hurt. He’d managed perfectly well without that pernicious emotion since he was a boy, but now events had spun out of his control. Orla was pregnant with his child. He felt something like panic—he refused to call it fear. And he was furious because he had never asked for this, for her.
Ever since Orla had swept into his life he had broken every rule he lived by. He didn’t know how to react to the latest bomb she’d detonated and anger was his only defence against all the other emotions roaring through him.
‘You told me you were on the Pill.’
She flinched, and he saw something flicker across her face that looked like disappointment with him, as if he’d failed her. It wouldn’t be the first time, his conscience whispered.
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