The Costanzo Baby Secret

by Catherine Spencer

  This woman was her mother-in-law?

  The ludicrous indignity of the occasion, with her cowering naked under her adversary’s withering scrutiny, revived an old, familiar despair in Maeve. It crept over her like a second skin, cold, clammy and soul destroying. Numbly, she said, “Regardless of what you think of me, will you at least pass me my towel?”

  The woman spared her another blistering glare then, with the toe of her elegant shoe, inched the towel within reach. Seizing it, Maeve used it to screen herself until she’d climbed out of the pool, then wound it around her body to cover everything from her breasts to her knees. As a fashion statement, it hardly compared to her mother-in-law’s sleek outfit, but it was better than the nothing she’d had on before.

  “I regret meeting you again under such embarrassing circumstances,” she said, scraping together her tattered pride and daring to look her visitor in the eye. “To avoid its happening again, perhaps in future you’d be so kind as not to show up unannounced in my private quarters.”

  “Or perhaps in future,” a steely masculine voice interrupted from the open garden door, “you wait for an invitation before so much as setting foot on my property, Mother.”

  Oh, perfect! As if she hadn’t been humiliated enough for one morning, now Dario had shown up in time to witness Maeve’s near-naked body in all its scrawny glory!

  Women of character, she’d once read, always stood their ground and never ran away from a challenge.

  She didn’t care what women of character did. She fled.

  Taking his mother ungently by the elbow, Dario marched her through the garden door and far enough away from the villa that they could not be overheard.

  “You are angry,” she observed, when at last he released her.

  “Angry doesn’t begin to cover it, Mother,” he informed her in a low, furious tone. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “I assure you my intentions were completely innocent, Dario. I merely dropped in to say hello.”

  “Innocent, my left foot! You’ve always got an agenda. Exactly how much did you tell her?”

  “Not nearly as much as I might have.”

  “You had no right to say a word. No right to confront her at all. After everything I’ve told you, what were you thinking?”

  “That I might have misjudged her and, because I knew it would please you, I should give her the chance to redeem herself. And that is all I intended when I came here. But she…! Madre di Dio, Dario, she was cavorting naked in the pool. Flaunting herself without a milligram of shame. Can you imagine that?”

  All too easily! She’d have looked like a sea nymph. And if he’d been the one to discover her, he’d have stripped off his own clothes and leaped into the pool with her.

  Turning aside to hide the smile such an image evoked, he said, “Where’s the sin in that?”

  “Any one of your staff—a gardener or a housemaid—might have seen her. What do you suppose they would have done?”

  “What you should have done, Mother. Disappear. As quickly and discreetly as possible.”

  She smoothed a fastidious hand over her hair. “Well, since I have no interest in witnessing a repeat performance, I won’t disturb her again.”

  “No, you won’t,” he assured her, propelling her around to the front of the house and hustling her into her car. “Much though I regret having to take such a drastic step, until such time as the situation with my wife is resolved, you will stick to your own property and stay away from mine.”

  She lowered the window and pinned him with a reproachful gaze. “I see.”

  “Do you?” he said, his anger boiling over again. “Do you have any idea, or indeed any interest, in learning of the kind of damage you could have done with your interference? If you had told Maeve about Sebastiano, the consequences could have been disastrous.”

  “I would never tell her about Sebastiano. If I had my way, she’d be sent packing without ever knowing she bore you a son.”

  He turned away in disgust. “Which is precisely why you will stay away from her until she recovers her memory.”

  “And what about you, Dario?” his mother called after him. “Can you stay away from her? Or will you once again fall victim to her cheap, superficial charms and let her entrap you a second time?”

  His mother drove away then in a burst of speed that sent crushed rock spraying out from under the car’s tires. His harshness had hurt her, he knew, and he wished it could be otherwise. But since he had no intention of allowing her to sabotage his marriage, the change in attitude, if ever there was to be one, had to come from her.

  There was no sign of Maeve when he returned to the guest wing. The gate to her garden was closed, and she didn’t answer when he knocked on her door. In fact, he neither saw nor heard anything from her until he found her waiting on the terrace to join him for lunch, although hovering might have more accurately described her. Wearing a full-skirted dress in varying shades of pink, she resembled a delicate butterfly poised to take flight.

  “Nice outfit,” he remarked, attempting to lighten the atmosphere, “although I quite liked the towel ensemble, too.”

  She flushed. “I’m so sorry about that, Dario.”

  “Why? You’re not the one who showed up uninvited. My mother is.”

  “Still, I wish I’d made a better impression. As it is, I’m afraid I’ve reinforced her already poor opinion of me. What did I do to make her dislike me so much?”

  “You married me,” he said, pouring them each an aperitif from the decanter on the sideboard. “Italian mammas always have a hard time accepting their sons’ wives. She’ll change her attitude when she gets to know you better.”

  “Perhaps when we have children of our own?”

  He choked on his wine. “Possibly,” he managed, when he was able to draw breath again, “but there’ll be time enough to worry about that when you’re feeling yourself again.”

  “I suppose.” She frowned and chewed her lip. “I’ve been thinking a lot since last night.”

  In his opinion, she was thinking altogether too much, but saying so wasn’t likely to stop her. “About what?’

  “You mentioned you oversee the North American side of your family’s business. Does that include Canada?”

  “It does,” he admitted, already uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking.

  “Have you ever been to Vancouver? Is that where we met?”

  “I’ve been to Vancouver, yes,” he said guardedly. “But no, we didn’t meet there.”

  “Then where?”

  He hesitated. Less than ten minutes in her company and already he was picking his way through that metaphorical minefield again. “You were on holiday in Italy.”

  “Alone?”

  “No. With a woman friend.”

  “Where in Italy?”

  “Portofino.”

  “Were you on holiday, as well?”

  “You could say so. I keep my yacht moored in the harbor and often used to spend summer weekends there.” Carousing the night away with friends, but she didn’t need to know that.

  “Before you married me, you mean?”

  Definitely before he married her! “That’s right.”

  “And we met on your yacht? That’s hard to picture. What was I doing there?”

  “You weren’t. You were in the casino.” He grinned as her expression changed from skeptical to outright appalled. “At the roulette table.”

  “That’s even harder to believe. I’ve never been a gambler.”

  She wasn’t that night, either, which was why he’d been able to lure her away and ply her with enough champagne to loosen her inhibitions. Profligate that he’d been back then, he’d thought it would be amusing to give such a lovely young thing a night to remember. What he hadn’t bargained on was finding himself tied to her for life.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  HE’D noticed her at once. Needing nothing more than pearls and a straight, strapless gown in basic blac
k to enhance her blond beauty, she carried herself with the grace and dignity of a duchess. But what captured his interest was less her elegance and style than the indifference in her blue eyes when she caught him looking at her. He wasn’t accustomed to being ignored by the opposite sex, especially not on his recreational home turf.

  The woman with her, flamboyant in feathers and crimson ruffles, more accurately portrayed the kind of tourist found in the casinos—which was to say, wearing too much jewelry and attracting attention to herself by working too hard at having a good time. “Save my place, Maeve,” she squealed, raking in her pile of chips. “I’m off to powder my nose.”

  “Is that really what women do?” he said, moving into the spot she vacated.

  The duchess spared him a lofty glance. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Do women really still powder their noses?”

  “I have no idea,” she replied stiffly. “I don’t make a habit of asking them. And by the way, that seat is taken.”

  “By your friend.” He nodded. “Yes, I heard. I’ll hold it for her until she returns.” Then, as a new game began, went on, “Are you not placing any bets?”

  “No. I’m here to keep Pamela company, and don’t have any chips.”

  He slid a pile of his own in front of her. “You do now.”

  She shied away as if he’d thrust a loaded pistol at her, and wrinkled her dainty nose. “I can’t possibly take yours. For heaven’s sake, I don’t even know you. You could be anyone.”

  Both amused and piqued by her unsophisticated candor, he said with as much solemnity as he could manage, “I’m Dario Costanzo and perfectly respectable, as anyone here will tell you.”

  Not missing his deliberate emphasis on the word, she blushed disarmingly. “I wasn’t trying to be offensive.”

  “I’m sure you weren’t.”

  “Even so, I can’t accept your money.”

  “It isn’t money until you win.”

  Very firmly, she returned his chips to him. “Which I’m not likely to do since I haven’t a clue how the game is played.”

  “I could teach you.”

  “No, thank you.”

  He eyed her thoughtfully. “You’re not enjoying yourself much, are you?”

  “No,” she admitted. “This isn’t my kind of place. I wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for my friend.”

  “What is your kind of place?”

  “Somewhere quieter and less crowded.”

  “Come with me. I know the perfect spot.”

  She shot down that suggestion with a glance that would have turned a less determined man to stone. “I don’t think so, thank you!”

  “Because you’re still worried that I might be the local ax murderer?”

  She pressed her lips together, but wasn’t quite able to hide her smile. “The thought has crossed my mind.”

  “Then allow me to put your fears to rest.” He signaled the manager, a man in his late fifties who epitomized silver-haired respectability and whom he’d known for years. “Federico, would you be so kind as to vouch for me to this young lady? She’s not sure I’m to be trusted.”

  Federico straightened his impeccably clad shoulders. “Signor Costanzo is one of our most valued clients, signora,” he told her, subtly conveying shock than anyone might assume otherwise. “I speak from long and personal experience when I say you find yourself in excellent company.”

  “Well?” Dario eyed her questioningly as the man departed. “Did that change your mind at all?”

  She flinched at a sudden burst of raucous laughter behind her. “I admit I’d be tempted to take you up on your offer if it weren’t for Pamela. I can’t just abandon her.”

  But Pamela, as he pointed out, had found diversion at the next table with a man old enough to be her father. “Sure,” she brayed, flapping her beringed hand as if dismissing an annoying fly when the duchess stopped by to mention she was leaving. “See you whenever, but probably not before tomorrow. I have big plans for tonight.”

  And so, Dario thought, had he. Increasingly intrigued by the duchess’s cool reserve, he ushered her out of the casino. “Shall we stroll for a while?”

  “I’d love to,” she said, breathing deeply of the balmy night air. “I found it unbearably stuffy inside.”

  Although his ultimate goal was to lure her aboard the yacht, he took her first to a tiny supper club tucked away in a quiet corner of la piazetta. A frequent visitor, he was shown immediately to one of the candlelit tables on the covered patio.

  “Better?” he inquired.

  “Much,” she sighed, slipping out of her evening sandals and wiggling her bare toes.

  More charmed by the minute, he undid his black bow tie and the top button of his dress shirt, ordered champagne cocktails, and encouraged her to talk about herself.

  The wine loosened her tongue and in short order he learned her name was Maeve Montgomery and she was from Vancouver, Canada. After two years in college, she’d worked as a sales assistant in a bridal salon, been promoted to fashion director at the ripe old age of twenty-two, but found her true calling when she became a personal shopper for clients long on money, but short on taste. She was an unapologetic clothes horse, sewed many of her own outfits and lived in a sixth-floor apartment with a west-facing view of Georgia Strait and the Gulf Islands.

  She’d been very close to her parents, both of whom had died within the past five years. Her father, never sick a day in his life, had suffered a ruptured abdominal aneurysm as he sat watching television. He was gone in less time than it took to phone for an ambulance. Thirty-four months later her mother, a severe asthmatic, had succumbed to pneumonia at age seventy. “I miss them dreadfully,” she confessed.

  That she was in Italy at all had been a last-minute arrangement and a bonus of sorts from Mrs. Samuel Elliott-Rhys, a grateful, longtime client who happened also to be Pamela’s mother. “The friend who was supposed to come with Pamela slipped and broke her leg the week before last,” Maeve explained. “Mrs. Elliott-Rhys persuaded me to take the friend’s place because she wasn’t comfortable having Pamela traveling alone.”

  I wouldn’t be, either, if Pamela were my daughter, Dario thought, but declined to say so. After all, he had her to thank for the way the evening was turning out. “How much longer will you be in Portofino?”

  “Five days. We fly home next Wednesday.”

  Perfect! Enough time for an enjoyable fling, without the entanglement of her expecting a lasting association. “More champagne?” he suggested smoothly.

  “I don’t think so, thanks. I don’t like to drink too much.”

  She’d had two glasses only. “Can one ever have too much of a good thing?”

  “Maybe not, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather walk some more before I have anything else.”

  “By all means.” He pulled back her chair and knelt to slip her narrow, elegant feet into her shoes.

  They set off again, along the cobbled promenade toward the harbor. She didn’t object when, as they approached the ramp leading down to the docks, he held her hand firmly and said, “Be careful. Those high heels weren’t designed for this kind of walking, and I’d hate to see you trip.”

  “I’m more concerned about getting arrested,” she confided, taking in the flotilla of expensive yachts at anchor in the bay. “Are you sure it’s okay for us to be wandering around like this?”

  “Perfectly. I keep my own boat here.”

  “If it’s anything like these others, I’m way out of my league.”

  “Don’t let them intimidate you. Most are charters,” he said, but didn’t bother to add that his was larger than any she’d yet seen and never available for charter. She was antsy enough as it was.

  He always anchored as far from the docks as possible, a smart decision in more ways than one. When he felt inclined to go sailing, he was soon clear of the harbor and into open water. When he had seduction in mind, he was assured of privacy. And tonight he definitely had seductio
n in mind.

  As soon as she was seated in the dinghy he kept moored at the end of the last dock, he fired up the outboard engine and sped across the water to the big boat. Once aboard, he wasted no time setting the mood. A little champagne, a little soft music. Just enough lantern glow on the promenade deck to compensate for the absence of moonlight. Precisely the right kind of casual conversation to put her at ease.

  No, he didn’t live on the yacht, but did spend days at a time cruising the Mediterranean with friends. Yes, being able to get away from it all helped him unwind. He’d take her out tomorrow, if she liked—let her experience the pleasure for herself. Meanwhile, would she like to dance?

  “If I can go barefoot,” she said.

  She could go stark naked if she wanted to, but again he refrained from voicing his opinion aloud. The night was still relatively young. Time enough to think about undressing her later. “Of course,” he said, and took her in his arms.

  At first, she held herself a little stiffly, but he’d selected the music well. Trendier names might top the charts these days, but as far as he was concerned, if romantic ambience was on the menu, nothing could beat the melodies of the legendary Nat King Cole.

  At six-two, Dario was taller than most Italians, but Maeve was tall, too, close to five-nine, he’d guess, and that was without the heels. It made for a stimulating fit of male and female anatomy. As the timeless magic of the music wound around them, she relaxed enough to let him mold her body to his. Her hair smelled of bergamot and thyme. Her skin was as soft and warm as a sun-kissed gardenia petal.

  He slid his hand to the small of her back and deliberately urged her closer still. Close enough that she couldn’t miss the erection he made no attempt to hide. He felt the accelerated puff of her breath through his shirt front, the wild flutter of her lashes against his cheek.

  The music died. Tilting her face up to his, he held her captive in his gaze. Across the water a ship’s bell sounded, haunting and soulful. As it, too, faded, he let the silence spin out just long enough to stoke the sexual tension arcing between them so that, when at last he kissed her, she melted in his arms.