by Sara Wood
‘It’s not that far away. You can visit,’ Vittore said, quite gently as if he recognised the extent of her affection and felt sorry for her. ‘You are his aunt and therefore will always be welcome. My mother would like to meet you, I’m sure. And whatever you say to the contrary, you will be properly thanked for what you have done. Tomorrow you can get on with your life,’ he soothed, patting her bare thigh consolingly, ‘which I am sure has been put on hold for the past two months.’
Words failed her. Numb with disbelief, she gazed blearily up at him, so overwhelmed by tears that she couldn’t argue her case any further.
‘Please don’t cry,’ he said gently.
‘I’m not crying!’ she raged, stupidly denying the obvious and crossly catching up the salty drops with her tongue as if that might hide them.
‘I understand that this is difficult for you,’ he murmured, voice, hands and eyes combining to placate her. ‘You’ve looked after him for many weeks and have become attached to him—’
‘Attached isn’t the right word,’ she muttered miserably. ‘Super-glued is closer.’
‘We both know he has to come back to Italy with me,’ Vittore went on relentlessly. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘No—!’
‘Excuse me,’ he said, his manner short and sharp. ‘I want to look at him again and then I will collect my overnight bag from my hire car and find somewhere to sleep.’
He strode to the door. She opened her mouth to protest but nothing came out other than a choking cry. For a moment she heard his steps falter and then they quickened and faded.
Unbelievably distressed, Verity slumped in a heap, sobbing her heart out for baby Lio and for herself.
In a few hours the light of her life would be gone. All too vividly she could picture the scene tomorrow: Lio, screaming at being parted from her, fear and hysteria in his eyes, his body rigid with terror.
‘No!’ she whispered sickly.
The image was too painful to bear and she pressed her hands against her face in an effort to obliterate it. She felt quite desolate. Vittore’s plan was brutal. Anything could happen to Lio’s fragile emotions. Anything.
She would stop Vittore. She didn’t know how, only that she must. Tormented and racked with misery, she wept uncontrollably for her little nephew, terrified that Vittore’s insensitive handling would be the ruin of little Lio.
CHAPTER FOUR
IN A state of euphoria, Vittore stripped off his clothes and took a shower, then slipped naked into the bed in the nursery, beside Lio’s cot. For a while he lay propped up on one arm, watching his sleeping son with deep love filling his heart.
‘Sleep on, my little one. We’ll be together from now on,’ he said softly.
There would be no problems. Lio needed the love, security and skills that he—as a doting father—possessed. For all her good intentions and sincerity, Verity clearly didn’t know how to handle children. She wore no ring, presumably had little experience of toddlers.
Contentedly, he settled down to sleep. He’d show her how it was done and she’d have to concede that he’d manage Lio very well.
‘See you in the morning, son,’ he whispered happily, and closed his eyes in blissful contentment.
His life had begun again. He felt a pure joy entering every cell, filling him with vibrant energy and an eagerness for the future. The women in his life would adore Lio. He smiled, imagining their faces, and settled down contentedly for the night, happier than he’d been for a long time.
And yet, perhaps it was the stifling heat of the summer night, or the eventful past hours, but he found it impossible to sleep. Tossing and turning for a couple of hours, he found his mind leaping erratically.
He was picturing his mother’s face when he returned with Lio—since he hadn’t told her why he was flying to England in case of disappointment—when up popped the face of the intense and passionate Verity, who had seemed determined to thwart him at every step.
From that moment on, she and Lio filled his thoughts to the exclusion of all else. He could visualise them in such detail that it was almost as if they’d been imprinted on his brain cells.
And then, on hearing a soft, rustling sound, he opened his eyes—and to his astonishment, there she was!
Intrigued, he sat up sharply in bed, something odd about her movements stopping him from speaking to her.
In a thin, semi-transparent nightdress that bared her lovely shoulders and the first swell of her breasts, she walked quietly towards the cot. Not once did she glance in his direction, though she must have realised he was there because the night-light shed a soft glow over the whole room.
Silver tracks marked her mournful face where tears had cascaded down her cheeks. Her lashes fluttered wet and spiky around her watery-violet eyes and every now and then a stray sob escaped her trembling lips. Vittore was transfixed, the breath catching in his throat.
He remembered the feel of her bare thigh beneath his hand when he had soothed her. The clarity of her incredible eyes, the tempting softness of her lush mouth that had constantly captured his gaze and forced him to acknowledge that celibacy was, perhaps, not an option for his future life after all.
And now she had come to his room. He swallowed. Had she come to plead her case? If so, she was playing with fire to be so flimsily dressed—unless that had been intentional.
‘Verity—’
He stopped. She didn’t acknowledge him. Clearly deeply unhappy, she settled herself down on the floor beside the cot. To his amazement, she curled up as if to sleep.
Vittore stared, baffled by her behaviour. Was this a gesture of defiance? Didn’t she trust his word?
The curve of her arm supporting her tousled head looked touchingly sweet. The line of her thigh aroused more primitive urges within him. What the devil was she trying to do to him?
‘Verity,’ he said sternly. She didn’t move. ‘Verity!’
He saw that her breathing had become deep and regular, the tantalising cleavage dark between her crushed breasts as they rose and fell rhythmically.
She couldn’t have fallen asleep. The sexual tensions between them were too obvious, too fierce, for her to judge this a safe situation. She was pretending, perhaps hoping he’d touch her…
As he must. Nothing would keep him from her. Even now, he was sliding out of bed, his heart leaping, his long-denied body hot with hunger.
‘Verity,’ he murmured, stroking her face.
She didn’t flinch, didn’t betray herself with even a flicker of an eyelid. If he didn’t know better, he would have said that she was fast asleep, her face relaxed, her moist lips drowsy. Smiling, he touched her mouth with his forefinger, which he then brought to his own lips. And tasted salt.
Her pulse felt even beneath his questing fingers. When he tentatively lifted one arm, it seemed limp.
She was asleep!
It dawned on him then that she could have been sleepwalking. A feeling of intense tenderness swept over him. Startled by this, he went back to the bed, removed a pillow and the counterpane which he had discarded, and arranged them slowly, carefully, for her so that she slept more comfortably.
In doing so, he touched her body as he moved it. Felt its yielding softness, inhaled the faint drift of natural perfume on her skin.
Fatal. His fingers lingered, his eyes feasted. An extraordinary feeling came over him, a sweet sensation of exaltation mingled with raw, naked desire that fired him to fever pitch.
He wanted her. Or, at least, his starved body did. He groaned, and tried to rein in his hot-blooded desire to pick her up and take her off to her own bed before slowly, beautifully, kissing that plush mouth and that luscious body and making slow and passionate love to her all night long.
Annoyed by his lurching emotions, Vittore got between his own sheets again and did all the usual things to crush the unwelcome desire. A review of his stocks and shares. Complicated mathematics and half-remembered formulae from his schooldays.
Somewhere around the ment
al listing of the staff in his Turin factory and the five hundred retail outlets worldwide, he finally won his battle with his foolhardy lust and fell asleep.
When he woke, it was a moment before he remembered where he was. He glanced at his watch. Six-thirty. Might as well start the day.
Rolling over, he expected—hoped—to see Verity fast asleep on the floor, but she had gone. The counterpane and the pillow had been pushed to one side.
‘Madonna!’ he rasped, suddenly alarmed.
A quick glance fed his fears. Lio wasn’t there!
In a flash he’d scrambled out of bed, frantically hauled on some boxer shorts and hurtled from room to room like a whirlwind, desperately searching for his son.
One bedroom was clearly Verity’s. The nightdress lay abandoned on the bed, the room seemed to be in chaos, as if…
His spine chilled. As if she’d flung things around, hastily packing perhaps…
‘Verity!’ he yelled, leaping to the head of the stairs. ‘Verity!’
This wasn’t happening to him. Not again. She hadn’t, surely, taken Lio… He let out a hoarse, feral cry and his feet thundered down the staircase as he bounded two, three, steps at a time with scant regard for his safety. Nothing mattered. Only Lio. Let him be in time! If she’d gone…
‘Verity!’ he bellowed, raging, desperate, wild-eyed and despairing.
‘What on earth…?’
He skidded to a stop. Swallowed back the nausea, the cloying emotion, the misery. Felt waves of relief crash through his agonised body. Offered up heartfelt thanks and leaned against a pillar, shaking.
She stood in the doorway of what must be the kitchen and blinking at the sight of his bare chest and legs. She looked startled. And to his relieved eyes, stunningly beautiful. An ache formed where his heart beat frantically in his heaving ribcage.
Something, someone, whimpered. Moist-eyed, he looked down and saw that Lio’s arms were wrapped tightly around Verity’s legs and his son was peering around her slender thigh nervously.
Assailed by a pang of tenderness and joy, he saw that Lio’s eyes were almost peacock blue and they were awash with tears, the small rosebud mouth quivering with trepidation.
‘It’s all right, sweetheart,’ Verity said in cheerful, reassuring tones as she stroked the white-blond hair with tender caresses. ‘What a lot of noise! All that banging about and stamping down the stairs! We thought it was a big teddy bear coming for breakfast, didn’t we? Wasn’t it fun?’
Lio’s trembling lip made it clear that he didn’t think it had been fun at all. Vittore was grateful to her for trying.
‘I thought… I thought you’d taken him away,’ he explained, panting heavily.
Her eyes widened indignantly. ‘I said I wouldn’t!’ she hissed, sotto voce.
‘Your room… I looked in… it looked as if you’d tried to pack in a hurry—’
‘I’m untidy,’ she said tightly. ‘I don’t have time to be neat. How could you, Vittore? You’ve upset him. Frightened him. Well done. So much for your sensitivity!’
She scooped Lio up and murmured soothingly to him, jogging him up and down. Then she disappeared into the kitchen and Vittore could hear her singing breathlessly. There was a child’s giggle and Vittore heaved a heavy, despairing sigh.
He was the child’s father. He’d wanted to meet Lio with a smile, to say ‘Hello, Lio! I am your Papa!’ And now…Sweet heaven, he wanted his son. His arms ached for his child.
His fist slammed into his palm. He’d have to work very hard to gain his son’s confidence. Curse it.
After a moment he had composed himself and risked walking into the room. Verity was dancing around, dipping and swaying, in an attempt to banish Lio’s fears with her jollity. Vittore watched her enviously. And yearned to have his son in his empty embrace.
Lio wore a navy and white striped top which brought out the deep colour of his eyes and looked wonderful with his blond hair. His navy shorts seemed touchingly baggy on his thin legs and Vittore felt his heart bump hard in his chest.
Was Lio undernourished? Toddlers weren’t usually that slender, were they? He opened his mouth to comment and found himself closing it again after a warning glare from Verity.
She couldn’t believe how clumsy Vittore had been. He’d really ruined any chance of a gentle and subtle introduction to Lio! Her fears had been confirmed. He had no idea at all how careful he’d have to be.
‘Did you…sleep well?’ Vittore asked casually.
She blinked at the extraordinary question. Her night had been disturbed with kaleidoscopic dreams and she felt as stiff as if she’d slept on a concrete floor, but that was none of his business.
‘Just stay quiet, Vittore,’ she said, keeping her voice neutral for Lio’s sake. Vittore looked like a pirate with that dark, sexy stubble. Enough to scare any child. Though it did peculiar things to her. ‘So, sweetheart! Shall we have our bacon now? Mmm! Scrummy!’ She smacked her lips and Lio copied, making her laugh. ‘Into your chair…yes, in you go! It’s OK, I’m here, I’m holding you, look how close I am! Snuggle close. Kiss close. Mmm! That’s a good boy. Now. We’ll eat together, one for you…one for me…Sit down and make yourself smaller instead of looming like a giant who’s lost his beanstalk,’ she murmured in Vittore’s direction, keeping up the merry tone.
And then she decided that she couldn’t cope with an expanse of muscular torso and shapely male calves and thighs over the cornflakes. It was playing havoc with her blood pressure.
‘On second thoughts, go and get some clothes on. You’ll curdle the milk,’ she ordered.
She heard him release a sharp, irritated breath. And then he was leaving the room, Lio’s apprehensive eyes following his father, the child’s mobile mouth quivering uncertainly.
It seemed as if someone had taken the pressure valve off the atmosphere. Only then did she realise how tense she felt when Vittore was around.
‘Idiot,’ she told herself.
And doubled her entertainment level, managing to get some food into Lio before Vittore appeared again. When he did, Lio whined and reached up to be held. Resigned, she lifted him onto her lap and gave him his non-spill cup.
She looked across at Vittore and instantly felt as if she’d been plugged into a battery charger. All he was doing, was sitting there; silently watching his son. But he looked gorgeous, his olive skin gleaming and freshly shaven. His white shirt could have taken a leading part in a washing powder advert and his elegantly cut stone suit flattered every inch of his body.
But it was something more intangible that actually affected her deeply—a chemistry that altered her from a mature, self-sufficient woman into a gibbering idiot the minute he came within fifty feet of her. Stick a bit of litmus paper on her, and she’d turn scarlet and ignite, she thought gloomily.
And now he was turning his dark, bitter-chocolate eyes on her as if puzzled by something—as if, she thought, her eyes widening, he too wondered at the strange energy field which flowed between them.
Though she doubted that his brains felt as if they were whirling about like a windmill in a force ten gale.
He frowned and the tip of his tongue moistened his lips. In response, a quiver rippled through every nerve she possessed. Down went his lashes to hide his eyes.
He sucked in a breath and then his gaze shifted to his son. Vittore’s stunned expression changed, the lines of strain on his face smoothing out into a tender smile.
‘Ciao bambino. Hello, little man,’ he said, very softly.
And his smile was so loving that Verity felt her heart turn over. She didn’t know whether to be sad or relieved when Lio whimpered and buried his head in her chest. Sad, she decided. For Lio, for his father. Automatically she stroked the soft, baby hair and murmured soothingly.
‘It’s Daddy! Hello, Daddy,’ she said encouragingly.
‘Papa,’ Vittore corrected, sounding very croaky.
She nodded and lifted Lio away but he began to grizzle and kick, reaching for the sa
fety of her bosom, pulling the neckline of her sundress out of shape.
‘Put him down,’ Vittore said with a frown.
She glared at him, secured her hold on Lio and stood up, rocking the fretful, distressed child till he was calm again.
‘If I had put him down,’ she then said quietly, trying not to sound as angry as she felt, ‘he would have screamed and screamed and crawled towards me blindly, pathetically, to grab any part of me he could. You must realise. Lio is not being naughty. He’s genuinely insecure and needs loads and loads of love, not cold-hearted, logic-based man-management!’
Vittore’s mouth thinned and she felt a pang of sympathy. It must be dreadful, being a stranger to your own child. A frightening stranger, at that!
‘This isn’t going as I’d hoped,’ he rasped.
‘I did warn you,’ she said gently. ‘You won’t take him when he’s like this, will you?’
He heaved a heavy sigh. ‘No. May I make myself some coffee?’ he asked.
‘Of course. Go carefully, no sudden movements.’ She hesitated, her tender heart reaching out to him in his plight. ‘Give it time, Vittore.’
‘How long? An hour? A day, a week?’
She looked down at the clinging Lio. Who could say? And maybe Vittore would give up after a while and return to his playboy life. Then she’d be left in peace with Lio—and she’d get her body back into order. Some perverse part of her, however, objected strongly to that scenario.
She was attracted to him, she thought in dismay. Her first real crush—and it had to be Lio’s father!
‘I don’t know, Vittore,’ she whispered, seeing he was waiting for her answer. ‘I honestly have no idea.’
Prowling up and down the kitchen a week later, Vittore felt close to letting out a roar of frustration. His movements were mechanical as he gathered the ingredients for supper. Cooking was the one thing he could do to help Verity.
He banged down some chicken thighs and smeared them with honey and herbs, suddenly afraid that Lio would never break away from Verity’s skirts. It broke his heart to see his own son so terribly frightened of him.
