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A Baby to Bind His Bride

Page 17

by Caitlin Crews


  Together, there was nothing they couldn’t do.

  She was pregnant with twin girls when he came to her, late one night after he’d put four-year-old Adonis to bed with tales of brave Greek gods and stories of grand adventures. Susannah watched him from where she sat, out by the quiet pool in the soft Australian night, in the same Darling Point house in Sydney where he’d sent her to live on her own once upon a time.

  Leonidas smiled as he came to her, lit by the soft lights that hung in the trees, and sat beside her on the outdoor couch that was tucked up in the shade during the hot days and offered a fire pit for the cooler evenings.

  He rested one arm on the back of the sofa and twisted to kiss her as he rested his other on her huge belly, laughing against her mouth when one of his daughters kicked at him. This was how they danced now, Susannah thought. This was the best dance of her life.

  “When you tell Adonis stories of gods, do you mention that you were one?” she teased him.

  Leonidas took the kiss deeper for a moment, letting her taste that hunger that had only intensified across all these full, bright years. And when he pulled back his smile had gone wolfish in a manner that boded well for the rest of the evening.

  “That is a story he will appreciate more when he is older, I think,” he murmured. “When he has forgotten how much he looked up to me when he was small.”

  He did not mention how little he’d looked up to his own father. He didn’t have to; it was obvious every time he did not beat his own son to a pulp. Every time he did not go off on a rampage and use his fists as punctuation.

  Every time he did not have to try to love his son and his wife—he just did, and well, despite the lack of any parental role models in that area.

  Because when Leonidas Betancur decided to do something, he did it well.

  Susannah had stood beside him as he’d handled his mother these past years after he’d cut her off from the Betancur fortune, as promised. The world had watched Apollonia’s dramatic response to that, played out in as many tabloids as would listen to her tales of woe.

  “If you want to see your grandchild,” Leonidas had told her the last time she’d showed up where she wasn’t welcome, “you have a great deal of work to do to convince me that you deserve it.”

  The names his own mother had called him then had been disgusting, but unsurprising. And the last they’d heard of Apollonia, she’d shacked up with one of her many lovers in Cape Town. Where Susannah hoped she’d stay, nicely hidden away, for as long as possible.

  Meanwhile, the arrival of Adonis had cracked something open in the heart Susannah would have said Martin Forrester didn’t have.

  “I suppose you don’t have to be a good man to love a baby,” she’d said to Leonidas in wonder not long after Adonis was born, when her father had not only insisted on a visit but had chastised Annemieke for her dour attitude during it. Because if she wasn’t mistaken, her crusty father had fallen head over heels in love with his grandson.

  “No,” Leonidas had agreed. “But if you’re lucky, loving a child can show you how to be a better one.”

  Leonidas was more than a good man, Susannah thought. He loved his son so wholly and obviously that it could have lit up the world, if he’d let it.

  He loved her the same way.

  So much, so deep, it was almost funny to imagine that five years ago, they’d stood in the Betancur offices in Rome and vowed to try to love each other.

  “Do you know what today is?” she asked him now.

  “A Tuesday,” he replied at once, drawing patterns on her belly as if sending secret, encoded messages to the twin girls within. “In Sydney, Australia, where I am happy to say we are both on the same side of the international dateline.”

  “Five years ago today I hunted you down in your office in Rome, pregnant with Adonis and very, very unhappy with you,” she reminded him.

  “Surely not, when I am in all ways the very best of men. Isn’t that what you were moaning into your pillow just this morning?”

  Susannah made a face at him. Then reached out to put her hand on his rock-hard thigh beside her, letting his heat and strength seep into her. He made her feel safe and strong. He made her feel as if they were dancing, around and around, when they were sitting still. She was huge with this pregnancy, ungainly and slow, and he made her feel beautiful.

  “If all of this is you trying to love me, and our son, and these babies we haven’t met yet, I can’t imagine what succeeding at it will look like,” she told him softly. “Or how my heart will take it.”

  Leonidas turned to her then, his hard and beautiful face in shadow—but she could see him. She could always see him.

  “I love you, Susannah,” he said, very gravely, so it lodged in her heart like the best kind of steel. “You saved me five years ago. And you’ve saved me every day since. And your heart can take it, I promise. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “I love you, too,” Susannah whispered, as his lips claimed hers.

  She felt him smile against her mouth.

  “I know that,” he told her. “Haven’t you heard? In some places, I am worshipped as a god.”

  But no one could possibly worship this man as much as she did, Susannah thought, even as she laughed. This remarkable, formidable, perfect man. Her husband. Her other half. The man she’d loved since she was a girl, and loved so much more now she was a woman.

  So she showed him, right there on their patio while the wind blew in from the water with hints of summer in it.

  The way she showed him for the rest of their life, day after day.

  It turned out Leonidas was right. Her heart was just fine, if bigger and brighter than she ever could have imagined when she’d walked up the side of a mountain so long ago and located the husband she hadn’t lost, after all.

  And never would again, as long as they lived.

  * * * * *

  If you enjoyed A BABY TO BIND HIS BRIDE by Caitlin Crews why not explore these other ONE NIGHT WITH CONSEQUENCES stories?

  A NIGHT OF ROYAL CONSEQUENCES

  by Susan Stephens

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  by Sharon Kendrick

  THE VIRGIN’S SHOCK BABY

  by Heidi Rice

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  T
he Innocent’s One-Night Surrender

  by Kate Hewitt

  CHAPTER ONE

  LAUREL FORRESTER BURST from the hotel room like a bullet from a gun, aiming for the lift down the hall. Her breath came in tearing gasps and she stumbled in the heels she wasn’t used to wearing—stupid, sky-high stilettos her mother had insisted on.

  She heard the sound of the door to the executive suite being wrenched open behind her and then heavy footfalls.

  ‘Come back here, you stupid little—’

  With a mewling gasp of terror, Laurel put on a burst of speed, racing around the corner. The gleaming black doors of the lift shimmered ahead of her, a promise of freedom.

  ‘Wait until I...’

  She closed her mind to Rico Bavasso’s threats and stabbed the button for the lift with a shaking finger. Please, please open. Save me...

  Bavasso came round the corner, moving swiftly for a man pushing sixty. Laurel risked a glance back and then wished she hadn’t. Three diagonal cuts slashed one of his lean cheeks, where she’d scratched him, blood oozing down his face in crimson, pearly droplets.

  Please, please open. If the lift doors didn’t open, she didn’t know what she’d do. Fight for her safety, for her life. Go down kicking and screaming, because go down she would. Bavasso might be older but he was big, strong and angry, and she was five-foot-four and just a little over a hundred pounds soaking wet.

  With a glorious ping the doors opened and Laurel threw herself inside, bruising her shoulder against the far wall before she scrambled upright. She pushed just about every button she could, anything to get her away from the hell that had erupted with Bavasso’s demands and grabs, his insistence that he would get what he’d paid for. What her mother had promised him.

  Bile rose in Laurel’s throat at that memory and she choked it down. She didn’t have the luxury of memories or even thoughts in this moment. This was about basic survival. She pushed the ‘door close’ button repeatedly as Bavasso stumbled towards the lift, a smile of triumph curving his cold mouth, his glowering face thrust forward. His bow tie was askew, his tuxedo shirt straining against the buttons as he reached one hand forward to keep the doors from closing. Laurel shrank back against the lift wall, her heart beating in her chest like some wild, winged thing.

  ‘I’ve got you, you little slut.’

  Laurel kicked off one of her wretched stilettos and swung it at Bavasso’s grasping hand. He let out a howl of outrage and yanked it back, his palm impaled by the dagger-sharp heel. The doors closed and then the lift was soaring upwards and Laurel was safe, safe.

  She let out a sob of both terror and relief, her senses overwhelmed by what had happened—and what had almost happened, but thankfully hadn’t. Her trembling legs felt weak and watery and she sank onto the floor, drawing her knees up to her chest as shudders wracked her body. That had been so close.

  But she wasn’t out of danger yet. She still had to get out of this hotel, out of Rome. Bavasso had her handbag in his hotel room, as well as his security detail waiting down in the foyer. Laurel had seen them when he’d been playing baccarat, standing around like stony-faced gorillas, eyes darting around the casino floor, looking for threats. And now she was one.

  What would he do? Over the last two days’ acquaintance he’d been sleek and charming, although admittedly paying her more attention than she’d have liked, considering he was her mother’s latest love interest. He also seemed arrogant and entitled, and she feared he might not let this lie. And what about her mother? Was Elizabeth safe? Would Bavasso turn on her—or had she really been part of it all along, as he’d implied? I’m only taking what your mother promised me.

  Surely not? Surely her mother wouldn’t have sold her off like a cow at auction? With another cry Laurel covered her face, the tumult of the evening too much to bear. She should never have agreed to come to Rome, to play a part so she could get what she wanted. And yet she had. She’d weighed it up in her mind and she’d decided it was worth it. One last favour and then she’d finally be free. Except she wasn’t free now. She didn’t feel remotely free.

  The doors opened and Laurel lifted her head, shrinking back, half-expecting Bavasso to be there, waiting. But, no; the lift opened directly into what looked like a private suite, twice as elegant and spacious as the one Laurel had just fled.

  She scrambled to her feet, pulling on the hem of the short sparkly dress of silver satin that had also been her mother’s choice. Bavasso wants to see a lovely young woman in her prime, not some dowdy wallflower. He’s a discriminating man, Laurel. Now she was afraid she understood all that had meant.

  Laurel knew she couldn’t stay in the lift; the doors would close and then the lift would start heading down again, back to Bavasso or his goons, somewhere she definitely didn’t want to be. Cautiously Laurel took a step out, onto a floor of polished black marble. Floor-to-ceiling windows were visible in every direction, giving a panoramic view of the Eternal City, lights shimmering in the darkness.

  Modern-looking sofas of black leather and gleaming chrome were scattered around, the soaring space lit only by a few minimalistic table lamps, so it took Laurel a stunned second to realise there was someone in the room with her.

  A man stood at its centre dressed in black trousers and a charcoal-grey shirt that was open at the throat. His hair was black and cropped close to his head, his eyes a piercing grey, the same colour as his shirt. His arms were folded, emphasising impressive biceps, and everything about him radiated power. Control. Danger.

  Laurel’s breath hitched and she froze where she stood, dawning realisation, relief and fear colliding inside her with an almighty crash. Could it be...?

  Then he spoke, a voice like molten silver, pitched low. His tone was both authoritative and sensual, winding around her shattered senses, pulling them tight.

  ‘Hello, Laurel.’

  She gave a little gasp of surprise even though she’d known, deep inside, that it was him. That it had to be him. The awareness she felt of him didn’t make sense, considering they were near strangers, yet she wasn’t surprised by it at all.

  ‘Cristiano.’ She let out a little laugh of relief; the adrenalin still coursing through her body made her feel shaky and weak. Or maybe he was making her feel shaky and weak, standing there like a rock-solid pillar, arms still folded, face expressionless in the dim light. ‘Thank God.’

  He arched one dark slash of an eyebrow, his gaze travelling to her tiny, torn dress. ‘Things get a little out of hand?’

  Laurel glanced down at her dress, an embarrassed flush sweeping over her along with all the other overwhelming emotions. The dress was practically indecent, a spangled slip that revealed far too much thigh and cleavage. One of the straps had torn from the bodice, so the dress gaped even more. She wasn’t even wearing a bra, only a tiny scrap of a thong. And, from the hard look in her stepbrother’s eyes, Laurel suspected he knew it—and wasn’t impressed.

  She took a deep breath, trying to gather her scattered wits. Her head was spinning from everything that had happened, and her legs still felt weak. She longed to sit down, to breathe, to figure out how she’d got here and what on earth she was going to do next. ‘I didn’t even know you were here.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘No, of course not...’ Laurel frowned, belatedly registering Cristiano’s cool tone, the look of mocking censure in his iron gaze. And then she remembered the last time she’d seen him, ten years ago, when she’d been a silly fourteen-year-old to his manly twenty-three, and when she’d practically thrown herself at him as part of a stupid teenaged dare.

  ‘I don’t even know where I am,’ she said, trying to smile, but her lips didn’t seem to be working properly. They just wobbled.

  ‘You’re in the penthouse suite of La Sirena. My private home.’

  ‘Oh.’ So she’d pushed that button? But how had
she been granted access? ‘Well, I’m glad the doors opened up here. Very glad.’

  ‘I’m sure you are.’ There was a note of sardonic amusement in his voice that Laurel felt too scatter-brained to understand at the moment. It sounded as if he was referencing something she was meant to know about and didn’t. Unless he was referring to her stupid schoolgirl crush all those years ago. Laurel doubted that. She doubted her one clumsy attempt at a kiss—he’d pushed her firmly away before she’d so much as made contact—had stayed in Cristiano’s memory for more than a millisecond. He’d been that unimpressed.

  ‘Do you mind if I clean myself up?’ she asked. ‘I feel...’ Dirty. She felt dirty. But Cristiano didn’t need to know that. He was already looking at her as if he thought she was, a realisation that made heat scorch Laurel’s face once more. She knew she was wearing a slinky, slutty get-up, but did he have any right to judge her? Although, considering her actions tonight, perhaps he did.

  ‘Be my guest.’ Cristiano gestured towards a corridor that led to the suite’s bedrooms. ‘You’ll find everything you need in one of the bathrooms.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Laurel answered, her tone turning a bit haughty to cover her confusion—and her guilt. If she could have picked the circumstances in which she ever saw her stepbrother again, these would not have been them. Not by a million awful miles.

  Was it just the way she was dressed or was there another reason he was being so cold? Not that they’d ever had much of a relationship, or one at all. Her mother had been married to his father for three years, but in that time Laurel had only met Cristiano twice. Once after the wedding, when he’d had a blazing argument with his father, Lorenzo Ferrero, and then stormed out. And the second time when he’d come home for some reason and she’d attempted, in pathetic, girlish naivety, to impress him.

  Six months later Lorenzo had divorced Elizabeth and Laurel and her mother had high-tailed it back to Illinois, with nothing but a pocketful of jewellery to fund Elizabeth’s often exorbitant lifestyle. Ferrero had had a water-tight pre-nup, and her mother did like to spend money...

 

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