He glanced up to find Alannah still watching him, her bare legs tucked up beneath her. His sweater was much too big for her and it had the effect of making her look unbelievably fragile. Her black hair was spilling down over her shoulders and her blue eyes were shining and something about that almost innocent look of eagerness made his heart contract.
Deliberately, he turned away, reaching for a bottle of prosecco and two glasses. She’s just someone you’re trying to get out of your system, he reminded himself grimly.
His face was composed by the time he handed her a glass. ‘Happy Christmas,’ he said.
They drank prosecco, lit candles and ate lunch. Afterwards, he made love to her again and they fell asleep on the sofa—and when they awoke, the candles were almost burnt down and outside the starry sky was dark and clear.
Alannah walked over to the window and he wondered if she was aware that her bare bottom was revealed with every step she took.
‘I think the snow might be melting,’ she said.
He heard the unmistakable note of disappointment in her voice and something inside him hardened. Did she think they could exist in this little bubble for ever, and pretend the rest of the world wasn’t out there?
He insisted on loading the dishwasher and making tea to eat with their chocolate. Because any kind of activity was better than sitting there letting his mind keep working overtime.
But action couldn’t permanently silence the nagging thoughts which were building inside him and he thought about what she’d said earlier. About putting contentment before wealth and satisfaction before ambition. About not wanting to drag him up the aisle.
Because that was not a decision she alone could make. And if there was a baby, then surely there was only one sensible solution, and that solution was marriage.
His jaw tightened. Obviously it was something he’d thought about, in the same way that the young sometimes thought about getting old—as if it would never happen to them. He liked children—and was godfather to several. Deep down, he’d recognised that one day he wanted to be a father and would select a suitable woman to bear his child.
He’d imagined she would be blonde and slightly aloof. Maybe one of those American women who had been brought up on milk and honey and could trace their roots back over generations. The type who kept their emotions on an even keel. The type who didn’t believe in fairy tales. The type he felt safe with. It wasn’t their trust funds which excited him, but the satisfaction of knowing that they would unknowingly welcome the son of a Corsican bandit into their rarefied drawing rooms.
He stared across the room at Alannah. In no way was she aloof; he had never seen a woman looking quite so accessible. Even with her fingers wrapped chastely around a mug of herb tea, she looked…wild. He felt his throat dry. She touched something deep inside him, something which felt…dangerous. Something which took him to the very edges of his self-control. She always had. She spoke to him as nobody else did. She treated him in a way which no one else would dare try.
But the fact remained that she had a background even more unsettled than his own. He had already taken a gamble on her—but surely there was no need to take another. He might not have learnt many lessons at the knee of his father, but one thing he knew was that the more you gambled—the greater your chance of losing. The most sensible thing he could do would be to walk away from her. To keep on walking, without looking back.
He swallowed. Yet if she carried his child—he could walk nowhere. What choice would he have other than to stay with her? To tie himself to someone who no way fitted the image of the kind of woman he wanted to marry. Two mismatched people united by a single incident of careless passion. What future was there in that?
She looked up and her expression grew wary.
‘Why are you frowning at me?’
‘I didn’t realise I was.’
‘Actually, frowning isn’t really accurate. You were glaring.’
‘Was I?’ He leaned back in his chair and studied her. ‘I’ve been thinking.’
‘Sounds ominous,’ she said.
‘You do realise that despite all your words of rebellion this morning—I’m going to marry you if you’re having my baby?’
Her creamy skin went pink. He saw her fingertips flutter up to touch the base of her neck.
‘What…what made you suddenly think of that?’
He saw the flare of hope in her eyes and knew he mustn’t feed it, because that wasn’t fair. He had a responsibility to tell her the truth and the last thing he wanted was her thinking he was capable of the same emotions as other men. He mustn’t fool her into thinking that his icy heart might be about to melt. His mouth hardened. Because that was never going to happen.
‘I suddenly realised,’ he said slowly, ‘that I could never tolerate my son or daughter growing up and calling another man Father.’
‘Even though I am the last kind of person you would consider marrying under normal circumstances.’
He met her eyes—but hadn’t he always been completely honest with her? Wouldn’t she see through a placatory lie to try to make her feel better? ‘I guess.’
She put her cup down quickly, as if she was afraid she was going to spill it. ‘So this is all about possession?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be? This child is half mine.’
‘This child might not even exist!’ she choked out. ‘Don’t you think we ought to wait until we know, before we start having arguments about parental rights?’
‘When can you find out?’
‘I’ll do the test when I get back to London,’ she said, jumping up from the sofa and dabbing furiously at her eyes with shaking and fisted hands.
The warm and easy atmosphere of earlier had vanished. And how.
Alannah stormed upstairs to splash cold water onto her face and to try to stem the hot tears from springing to her eyes, and yet all she could feel was a growing sense of frustration. She didn’t want to be like this. She couldn’t blame him for what he’d said, just because it didn’t fit in with her fantasies. He was only being straight with her. So maybe this was a wake-up call to start protecting herself. To start facing up to facts.
Their fairy-tale Christmas was over.
She went back downstairs and turned on the TV, giving an exaggerated sigh of relief when she heard the weatherman announce that a warm weather front was pushing up from Spain, and the snow was expected to have thawed by late morning.
‘Great news,’ she said. ‘London here we come.’
Niccolò watched as she stomped out of her chair to throw away the untouched mince pies and chocolates and every attempt he made to start a conversation was met with a monosyllabic response. He realised that he’d never been given such cool treatment by a woman before.
But that didn’t stop them having sex that night. Very good sex, as it happened. Their angry words momentarily forgotten, he reached for her in the darkness with a passion which she more than matched. In a room washed silver by the full moon, he watched as she arched beneath him and called out his name.
He awoke to the sound of dripping outside the window to find the weatherman’s predictions had been accurate and that the snow was melting. Leaving Alannah sleeping, he packed everything up, made a pot of coffee, then went along the lane to find his car.
By the time he drove back to the cottage, she was up and dressed, standing in the middle of the sitting room, clutching a mug—her face pale and her mouth set. He noticed she’d turned the tree lights off and that the room now looked dull and lacklustre.
‘Christmas is over,’ she said brightly, as if he were a stranger. As if she hadn’t been going down on him just a few sweet hours before.
‘What about the tree?’
‘The woman I hired the cottage from supplied it. She said she’ll take it away.’
‘Alannah—’
‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t want any protracted stuff, or silly goodbyes. I just want to get back to London and finish up the job you�
��ve employed me to do.’
Niccolò felt a flicker of irritation at her suddenly stubborn and uncompromising attitude, but there didn’t seem to be a damned thing he could do about it. She was almost completely silent on the journey back as the car slushed its way through the unnaturally quiet streets and, for some reason, the passionate opera he usually favoured while driving now seemed completely inappropriate.
He drove her to Acton and parked up outside her home, where most of the small nearby houses seemed to be decked with the most garish tinsel imaginable. Someone had even put an inflatable Santa in their cramped front yard.
‘Thanks for the lift,’ she said, as she reached for the door handle.
‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
She gave him a steady stare. ‘Why would I do that?’
‘Maybe because we’ve been sleeping together and I might like to see where you live?’
Alannah hesitated and hated herself for that hesitation. She wondered if secretly she was ashamed of her little home and fearful of how judgemental he might be. Or was it simply an instinctive reaction, because she was unwilling to expose any more of herself to him?
‘Okay, come in, then,’ she said grudgingly.
‘Grazie,’ came his sardonic reply.
It was shiveringly cold as she unlocked the door. She’d turned the heating down low before the taxi had arrived to take her to the cottage and now the place felt like an ice-box. Niccolò stood in the centre of her small sitting room as she adjusted the thermostat, looking around him like a man who had just found himself in a foreign country and wasn’t quite sure what to do. She wondered how he managed to make her furniture look as if it would be better suited to a doll’s house.
‘Would you like a guided tour?’ she said.
‘Why not?’
The cramped dimensions meant she needed to be vigilant about tidiness and Alannah was glad there were no discarded pieces of clothing strewn around her bedroom and that the tiny bathroom was neat. But it still felt excruciating as she led him through an apartment in which she’d tried to maximise all available light in order to give an illusion of space. She’d made all the drapes herself from sari material she’d picked up at the local market, and the artwork which hung on the walls was her own. A friend from college had feng-shuied every room, there were pots of herbs lined up on the window sill in the kitchen, and she found the place both restful and creative.
But she wondered how it must seem through Niccolò’s eyes, when you could practically fit the entire place into his downstairs cloakroom back in Mayfair.
They walked back into the sitting room and, rather awkwardly, she stood in front of him. He really did seem like a stranger now, she thought—and a terrible sense of sadness washed over her. How weird to think that just a few hours ago he was deep inside her body—making her feel as if she was closer to him than she’d ever been to anyone.
‘I would offer you coffee,’ she said. ‘But I really do want to get on. If Alekto is going to have the apartment ready for his New Year’s Eve party, then I need to get cracking.’
‘You’re planning to work today?’
‘Of course. What did you think I’d be doing?’ she questioned. ‘Sobbing into my hankie because our cosy Christmas is over? I enjoyed it, Niccolò. It was an…interesting experience. And you’re a great cook as well as a great lover. But you probably know that.’
She made a polite gesture in the direction of the door but he suddenly caught hold of her wrist, and all pretence of civility had gone.
‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’ he iced out, his eyes glittering with unfeigned hostility.
She snatched her hand away, swallowing as she met his gaze. ‘No, I haven’t. It’s not the kind of thing you can easily forget, is it? Don’t worry, Niccolò. I’ll let you know whether I’m pregnant or not.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘I’M NOT PREGNANT.’
Alannah’s voice sounded distorted—as if it were coming from a long way away, instead of just the other side of his desk—and Niccolò didn’t say anything—at least, not straight away. He wondered why his heart had contracted with something which felt like pain. Whether he’d imagined the cold taste of disappointment which was making his mouth bitter. He must have done. Because wasn’t this the news he’d been longing for? The only sane solution to a problem which should never have arisen?
He focused his eyes to where Alannah sat perched on the edge of a chair opposite him and thought how pale she looked. Paler than the thick white lanes through which they’d walked on Christmas Day, when the snow had trapped them in that false little bubble. Her blue eyes were ringed with dark shadows, as if she hadn’t been sleeping.
Had she?
Or had she—like he—been lying wide-eyed in the depths of the night, remembering what it had felt like when they’d made love and then fallen asleep with their limbs tangled warmly together?
He flattened the palms of his hands flat on the surface of his desk. ‘You’re sure?’
‘One hundred per cent.’
He wondered why she had chosen to tell him here, and now. Why she had come to his office after successfully negotiating a ten-minute slot in his diary with Kirsty. And Kirsty hadn’t even checked with him first!
‘Couldn’t you have chosen a more suitable time and place to tell me, rather than bursting into my office and getting my assistant to collude with you?’ he questioned impatiently. ‘Or is it just a continuation of your determination to keep me at arm’s length?’
‘I’ve been busy.’
That was usually his excuse. He leaned back in his chair and studied her. ‘You won’t even have dinner with me,’ he observed coolly.
‘I’m sure you’ll get over it,’ she said lightly.
His gaze didn’t waver. ‘I thought you said you’d enjoyed our “experiment” over Christmas—so why not run with it a little longer? Come on, Alannah.’ A smile curved his lips. ‘What harm could it do?’
Alannah stared at him. What harm could it do? Was he serious? But that was the trouble—he was. Unemotional, cynical and governed by nothing but sexual hunger—Niccolò obviously saw no reason why they shouldn’t continue with the affair. Because it meant different things to each of them. For him, it was clearly just an enjoyable diversion, while for her it felt as if someone had chipped away a little bit of her heart every time she saw him. It was being chipped away right now.
She had chosen his office and a deliberately short appointment in which to tell him her news in order to avoid just this kind of scene. She’d actually considered telling him by phone but had instinctively felt that such a move would have been counterproductive. That he might have insisted on coming round to confront her face to face and her defences would have been down.
It was bad enough trying to stay neutral now—even with the safety of his big oak desk between them. Sitting there in his crisp white shirt and tailored suit, Niccolò’s face was glowing with health and vitality and she just wanted to go and put her arms around him. She wanted to lean on him and have him tell her that everything was going to be okay. But he didn’t want a woman like her leaning on him and anyway—she was independent and strong. She didn’t need a man who could never give her what she wanted, and what she wanted from him was love. Join the queue, she thought bitterly.
‘You haven’t done anything,’ she said. ‘You haven’t made or broken any promises. Everything is how it’s supposed to be, Niccolò. What happened between us was great but it was never intended to last. And it hasn’t.’
‘But what if…?’ He picked up the golden pen which was lying on top of the letters he’d been signing and stared at it as if he had never really seen it before. He lifted his gaze to hers. ‘What if I wanted it to last—at least for a little while longer? What then?’
Alannah tensed as fear and yearning washed over her—yet of the two emotions, the yearning was by far the deadlier.
‘And how long did you have in mind?’ she question
ed sweetly. ‘One week? Two? Would it be presumptuous to expect it might even continue for a whole month?’
He slammed the pen down. ‘Does it matter?’ he demanded. ‘Not every relationship between a man and a woman lasts for ever.’
‘But most relationships don’t start out with a discussion about when it’s going to end!’ She sucked in a breath and prayed she could hold onto her equilibrium for a while longer. ‘Look, nothing has changed. I’m still the same woman I always was—except that I have you to thank for helping me lose some of my inhibitions. But I still don’t know who my father was and I still have the kind of CV which would make someone with your sensitive social antennae recoil in horror. Appearances matter to you, Niccolò. You know they do. So why don’t you just celebrate the fact that you had a lucky escape and that we aren’t going to be forced together by some random act of nature.’ She rose to her feet. ‘And leave me to finish off Alekto’s apartment in time for his party. The caterers are arriving tomorrow, and there are still some last-minute touches which need fixing.’
‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘I haven’t finished yet.’
‘Well, I have. We’ve said everything which needs to be said. It’s over, Niccolò. I’m not so stupid that I want to hang around having sex with a man who despises everything I stand for!’
‘I don’t despise what you stand for. I made a lot of judgements about you and some of them were wrong.’
‘Only some of them?’ she demanded.
‘Why can’t you just accept what I’m offering? Why do you have to want more?’
‘Because I’m worth it.’ She hitched the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. ‘And I’m going now.’
He rose to his feet. ‘I don’t want you to go!’ he gritted out.
‘Tough. I’m out of here. Ciao.’
And to Niccolò’s amazement she picked up her handbag and walked out of his office without a backward glance.
Christmas in Da Conti's Bed Page 13
