A Scandal, a Secret, a BabyMarriage Scandal, Showbiz Baby!

by Sharon Kendrick

  With an effort she stopped slumping against the cushions and sat up to glare at him. ‘And what else does Tiffany do?’ she questioned. ‘Is it part of her job description to provide extras for the boss?’

  ‘I try never to mix business with pleasure,’ he answered coolly. ‘And you really shouldn’t be getting yourself worked up like that. You’ve already had enough excitement for one afternoon, so why don’t you go and get some rest?’

  ‘Oh, just go,’ she said, shutting her eyes to block out the sight of his undeniably gorgeous face. She kept them closed until she’d heard the front door click behind him, and when she opened them again he was gone.

  She sighed. If only it was as easy to get rid of the memory of what she’d just let him do to her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘DANTE WANTS TO KNOW whether you’ve received the brochure, Miss Perry?’

  Justina’s fingers tightened around the telephone receiver as she listened to the transatlantic accent of Tiffany Jones and wondered why the hell she hadn’t just let this call go through to her answering service. She was feeling lumpy and lethargic enough without having to endure yet another of these polite and all-too-frequent queries which had been coming from Dante’s personal assistant in his New York office.

  But it would be demeaning to give in to what she really wanted to say, which was: Are you sleeping with the father of my baby? Surely a situation like this demanded that she act with an unflappability equal to that of the cool-sounding Tiffany.

  ‘Yes, thank you. I’ve received it,’ said Justina, recalling the ritzy attachment which had pinged through on to her computer last week, offering a cornucopia of luxurious items for the more privileged baby.

  ‘And did you like it?’ Tiffany’s voice was eager. ‘Would you like us to go ahead and order the crib for you—and the stroller?’

  Us? Us? Justina’s hand wrapped itself around the receiver as if it was Dante’s neck she was squeezing. Resisting the urge to tell the woman that in England they were called a cot and a buggy, she walked into the smaller of her two bedrooms to see one of each standing there, all new and shiny-bright. The primrose-yellow walls of the nursery been adorned with a giant jungle scene, and a mobile of tigers and lions swirled down from the ceiling, adding to the storybook feel of the room. A smile of satisfaction curved her lips. From all the fuss that Tiffany had been making from New York you’d have thought that decorating and furnishing a nursery was right up there with brain surgery.

  ‘Can you please tell Dante that none of that will be necessary?’ she said crisply.

  ‘I can tell him,’ said Tiffany doubtfully. ‘But I think he’d prefer to speak to you himself, Miss Perry.’

  Well, why didn’t he pick up the phone himself, instead of asking his wretched assistant to make the call? ‘I’m afraid that I don’t really have the time—’

  ‘Justina?’

  Dante’s velvet-edged drawl came on to the line and Justina could have screamed. Why weren’t any of them listening to what she was saying?

  ‘What do you want?’ she questioned ungraciously.

  ‘I want to know how you’re feeling today.’

  ‘Honestly? I’m tired, and I’m feeling like a whale, and I’m fed up with these regular interrogations of yours—’

  ‘And have you given any more thought to my question?’ he interrupted smoothly.

  ‘I’ve given it a good deal of thought and my feelings haven’t changed.’ She sucked in a deep and determined breath. ‘I don’t want anyone there with me at the birth—especially you. It isn’t mandatory to have a birthing partner, you know.’

  She could hear what sounded like Dante tapping his finger against the phone. ‘I know it isn’t mandatory,’ he said. ‘But it’s certainly preferable. You can’t do it all on your own, Justina.’

  ‘On the contrary, I can—and what’s more, I intend to.’ She paused for a moment as her abdomen tensed with a sharp and disturbing kind of twinge. ‘I don’t need anyone while I go through what is a perfectly natural procedure. And it isn’t as if we’re in some kind of relationship, is it?’ Her mind took her back to the last time she’d seen him, when a seemingly innocent massage of her shoulders had turned into a sensual act which still made her cheeks burn with embarrassment whenever she thought about it. No wonder he thought she was some kind of puppet when she’d behaved like that. So show him you’re not some kind of puppet. ‘I’m an independent woman, Dante. Just in case you’d forgotten.’

  ‘How could I possibly forget,’ he questioned acidly, ‘when you never fail to remind me?’

  ‘Then why don’t you try listening to me for a change instead of forcing your will on me? I could—’ But the rest of the sentence froze in her throat as an iron-hot band of pain clamped itself around her belly.

  ‘Justina? Are you still there?’

  The intensity of the pain was so unexpected and so powerful that she clapped her hand over the phone so that he wouldn’t be able to hear her panting her way through it. It wasn’t until it had passed that she spoke again, in a voice which was unnaturally bright. ‘Sorry about that—I thought I heard someone at the door.’

  She could hear the frown in his voice. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘When you did you last see the doctor?’

  ‘When I was supposed to see him—last week. I have all my appointments written down neatly in my diary and I have been following them to the letter. Now, will you stop fussing?’ she said. ‘I’m perfectly capable of having a baby without having you checking up on me every five minutes like some kind of demented midwife. And I really have to go—I’m in the middle of writing a song and I must get the words down before they go out of my head. Don’t worry, Dante. I’ll let you know the minute something happens.’

  She cut him off without another word and walked over to the window, trying to shake off her strange feeling of restlessness and the power he always had to unsettle her. She didn’t need to feel any more unsettled than she currently did and it couldn’t be good for her or the baby. She felt as if the air was pressing down on her, and the rain which had been falling for seven days straight showed no sign of stopping. She’d been stuck inside all day, and yet the last thing she wanted was to go outside and brave the elements.

  She should watch a film—or read that book she’d bought, which everyone was raving on about—the one whose hero seemed to have modelled himself on the Marquis de Sade. She knew that relaxation was vital during these late stages of her pregnancy, but her strong work ethic meant that she always felt guilty if she did nothing.

  She flicked through the TV channels and found a woman yelling at a weaselly man who really needed to do something about his skin. The woman’s inarticulate insults were at first amusing—and then a touch disturbing. Because Justina realised that what motivated them was frustration that the man wouldn’t do what the woman wanted him to do—which was to love her.

  I’m never going to be that woman, Justina vowed fiercely as another sharp band of pain tightened across her abdomen. I’m never going to have hopeless expectations of a man who can never meet them, because that’s a sure-fire recipe for unhappiness. Much better to be independent and free of emotional pain.

  But then another very physical pain caught her by surprise. It was so strong that she had to stand perfectly still and cling to the back of the sofa. It wasn’t until they started coming regularly that she realised she was in labour.

  She tried to stay calm and remember what to do. Stay at home for as long as possible. Time the contractions and call the hospital. Another wave clamped like a burning iron around her middle, and she was gasping a little as she picked up the phone and spoke to a midwife.

  ‘Come in now,’ said the midwife. ‘Have you got someone with you?’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ said Justina, neatly
avoiding the question.

  But they asked her again when she’d been checked in to the birthing suite as she lay on the bed, having her blood pressure monitored.

  ‘Is the father on his way, Miss Perry?’

  ‘No.’ Justina shook her head. ‘He’s in New York.’

  ‘Does he know that you’re in labour?’

  She thought about Dante seeing her like this. She thought about how nothing but a capricious fate had brought them together. Hadn’t she told him that she was independent and that she didn’t actually need him? Well, that hadn’t just been bluster—she’d meant it.

  She shook her head. ‘No, he doesn’t know.’

  ‘Someone here could easily—’

  ‘I don’t want him here,’ declared Justina.

  Did she imagine the look of disapproval which passed between the midwife and her student? But then another pain came, and it was so powerful that it obliterated everything, and she stopped wondering if she was being judged for her morals or her cold-heartedness.

  Time slowed and she felt disorientated—only the relentless contractions brought reality into sharp and clear focus. Hours passed by in a blur of pain as Justina tried to remember all the things she’d learned at her antenatal classes and put them into practice. She paced the floor. She crouched down on her hands and knees as sweat poured from her brow. She tried not to gasp, but not gasping became impossible when the midwife examined her and announced that she’d gone into ‘second stage’.

  ‘I don’t care what stage I’m in! I just want this bloody baby out!’ shouted Justina recklessly.

  She heard the sound of some commotion at the door, where the student midwife stood talking to someone. She heard an unmistakable Italian accent speaking low words edged with fierce intent.

  ‘Just ask her. Please.’

  The student came over to the bed, her cheeks looking flushed. ‘There’s a man outside who says he’s the father of your baby and he wants to come in. He says his name is Dante D’Arezzo and please could I ask you.’

  In a brief respite between contractions it occurred to Justina that this was possibly the first time in Dante’s life that he’d had to ask for anything without being guaranteed the desired response. But her reasons for wanting to exclude him seemed petty in the light of what was happening. Justina looked towards the door and there he stood—six feet plus of dark and brooding determination. And strength, she realized as she registered the tension in his powerful shoulders. Couldn’t she use a little of that strength right now?

  ‘Let him in,’ she croaked, and he must have heard her because in an instant he was at her bedside, his expression impenetrable as he looked down at her. But the words of recrimination she’d expected were absent as he brushed aside a lock of matted hair with a hand which was remarkably gentle.

  ‘I’m here now,’ he said simply.

  ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’

  ‘I’m rather hoping it might.’

  For some reason his words made her feel bad. ‘Dante, I didn’t want to—’

  ‘Shh. I doesn’t matter. I’m here,’ he repeated. ‘And that’s all that matters.’

  She swallowed. ‘It...hurts.’

  ‘Then hold on to me. Go on, hold on—as tight as you like. Hurt me instead, if it makes you feel better.’

  She told herself that it was stupid to want to cling to him. To hold him so tightly so that he would never let her go. But all her inhibitions seemed to be melting away as the demands of her body took over and she clutched him like a drowning woman snatching at a floating branch.

  ‘I’m hot,’ she added.

  ‘Then lose the gown.’ The corners of his lips curved. ‘It’s not the best thing I’ve ever seen you in.’

  She almost smiled back as he helped her tug the sweat-soaked hospital issue garment from her body and the coolness of the air washed over her naked skin. But then came another of those contractions, and when she had breath enough to speak she shuddered out the fear which was threatening to overwhelm her.

  ‘I’m so scared that something’s going to go wrong.’

  His black gaze caught hold of her and enveloped her. He lifted up the hand which wasn’t digging into his and briefly touched it to his lips. ‘The chances of that happening are infinitesimally small. You’re in the best possible hands. You know that, Jus. You’ve told me often enough. How did you put it? A perfectly natural procedure that women have been going through since the beginning of time.’

  Had she really said that? Had she really sounded so stupidly confident when now she felt as nervous as a child on the first day of school?

  Her fingernails dug even farther into his hand. ‘I want to push!’

  Dante flicked a glance at the midwife, who nodded. ‘Then push, tesoro,’ he urged softly. ‘Go ahead and push all you like.’

  ‘Arrgh!’

  Her anguished cry made him feel helpless—Dante felt more powerless than he’d ever felt in his life. Frustration washed over him as he watched her writhe, but he did what little he could to help her. He smoothed away her hair when she thrashed her head wildly against the pillow, and dabbed cool water at her temples which briefly made her moan with gratitude. But only briefly.

  All too soon the tension in the room increased, along with the rising sound of her cries. Dante watched as the movements of the midwives became brisker, though one of them paused long enough to raise her head and ask, ‘Do you want to come and see your baby being born, Signor D’Arezzo?’

  Dante met Justina’s eyes and wordlessly she nodded. For one minute he thought she might be about to make some smart comment, and perhaps if she hadn’t been in the middle of giving birth she might have done, but she closed her eyes again and screwed up her face with a fierce concentration.

  And then it all became very urgent. The air pulsed with taut words and fractured cries as Justina gave an almighty push. His breath caught in his throat as he saw a dark slick of hair appear, followed by the seemingly impossible appearance of a bruised and bloodied baby as she pushed again. And his heart clenched as the infant opened its mouth and howled and somebody said, “It’s a boy!”

  They put the slippery infant into the cradle of his hands as they cut the cord, and Dante’s throat was so tight he could barely breathe. His baby. His son. So tiny and so helpless. He could feel the tears pricking at his eyes as the midwife took the baby from him. She cleaned him, before placing him onto Justina’s breast, where he began to suckle, his eyes fixed on his mother’s as if they’d known each other for a very long time. Silently, Dante watched as Justina touched a finger to the newborn’s smooth cheek and gave a secretive kind of smile.

  And in that moment he had never wanted her quite so much.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  JUSTINA WATCHED AS Dante’s fingers moved with remarkable dexterity over the tiny baby, his dark head bent as he focussed intently on the task at hand. He was so careful, she thought, as if Nico was made of porcelain rather than of flesh and blood. But every so often the intense concentration on his features would soften a little, and he would smile and murmur something in Italian. With an unwanted rush of emotion she acknowledged how tender he could be—and how gentle—and something dangerously close to nostalgia flickered over her.

  Forcing her thoughts away from the wistful and back to the purely practical, she looked at the ebony gleam of Dante’s head. ‘I never thought I’d see you change a nappy,’ she observed.

  Dante gave Nico a final kiss on his little belly, before raising his head to look at Justina, who sat with an expression of serene interest on her face as she watched him. It was hard to get his head around the fact that she’d given birth less than a month ago, for although she was definitely curvier than she’d used to be she was still as slim as a reed. She
looked more casual than he’d ever seen her, with her hair caught into a single plait which fell over one shoulder and a face completely free of make-up. Yet he didn’t think he’d ever seen a woman looking as delectable as she did right now. Her skin was soft and clear and her eyes were bright. He found himself wondering whether this was another of wily Mother Nature’s safety mechanisms—that a man should feel such overwhelming lust towards the woman who had just borne his child.

  ‘Changing a nappy isn’t difficult,’ he said as he lifted the drowsy Nico from the changing mat and placed him carefully in his cot.

  ‘Obviously not,’ answered Justina, wishing that he’d stop being quite so...reasonable. Because this was Dante, she reminded herself. Powerful Dante, who didn’t say or do anything without an ulterior motive. She raised her eyebrows in ironic query. ‘But I thought that a macho man like you...’

  Her words tailed off and he gave a wry smile. ‘You make me sound like someone who bares his chest and wears a medallion. There’s nothing in the rule book to say that the most masculine of men can’t be hands-on with his own baby.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Although obviously things were very different in my father’s day. I’m sure he never changed a nappy in his life.’

  Justina started to fold one of Nico’s tiny vests as Dante’s words forced her to confront something which up until now they’d managed to avoid. ‘You haven’t really mentioned how your family have reacted to the news. I assume you’ve told them?’

  ‘Of course. I rang them the night he was born.’ She saw his ebony eyes soften with memory. ‘My mother is over the moon. This is her first grandchild and she’s eager to meet him. All my family are.’

  Justina nodded. Of course they were—and she knew they had every right to be. Just as she knew that she couldn’t keep putting off the inevitable meeting. She felt as if she’d been living in a bubble since Nico’s birth—a feeling which had only been strengthened by Dante’s unexpected help with the baby. Had he been worried that she’d be unable to cope or that she’d sink into a mire of postnatal depression? Was that why he’d seamlessly relocated from New York and booked in at the nearby Vinoly Hotel, so that it was easy for him to drop by and visit his son?