by Paula Roe
She looked so genuinely flustered that his irritation quickly dissolved, leaving only an odd frustration. He sighed. “Look, forget it. We should go and see if there’s any damage to the boat.”
“I was only teasing.”
“I know.” When he held out his hand, her brief hesitation before she firmly grasped it and stood was telling.
It only increased that vague sense of wrongness.
He walked down the hall, a half-formed scowl on his face until he swung open the front door and their attention was immediately commanded by the outside world.
The warm air was rife with the smell of rain and dirt. The blue sky was cloudless, the sun already streaming through the trees to heat everything up. The palm trees still stood, but many were leafless; downed branches and debris were strewn over every inch of wet ground. As they stood there, taking in the damage, the familiar screech of rainbow lorikeets as they returned to their nests echoed.
Marco waited until they were in the buggy, making their way carefully down to the dock, before he said softly, “You know it’ll be different with your own child, right?”
Her gaze snapped to him but he kept his focus ahead, avoiding the fallen branches and clumped mountains of dirt the rain had swept across the road.
“Will it?”
“Sure it will. Je vous le—”
“So help me, Marco, if you say that stupid catchphrase I will seriously do you damage.”
He snapped his mouth shut but couldn’t completely keep the amusement from his voice. “Still don’t like it, huh?”
“Je vous le garantis. I can guarantee it? It’s lame. No one can guarantee something.”
“The press seems to think so. Everyone awaits my game predictions with bated breath.”
“Full of yourself much?” She snorted. “And you have called it wrong before.”
“Only you would remember that. Three times in two years,” he reminded her, grinning as he saw her mouth quirk. “Uh—I saw that smile.”
“Was not a smile.”
“Sure it was.” He glanced at her. “I hate seeing you so serious and angry, chérie.”
She crossed her arms and stared right ahead, her mouth twitching. “Keep your eye on the road. There’s debris all over the place.”
They finally reached the windswept dock, the trees familiarly bare, the water full of flotsam. But thankfully, his boat was still moored securely, bobbing in the water, jammed up against the jetty.
He cast an eye over the lines from bow to stern, then made his way on board to inspect further. Ten minutes later, satisfied there was no damage, they returned to the house.
* * *
It was only after they returned to the house, opened all the shutters and then went back outside to inspect the filthy pool that Kat’s stomach began to rumble so violently the ache made her wince.
“I need food,” she said as they walked in the patio door.
“Sure.” Marco moved to the kitchen. “What do you feel like?”
“I can do it.”
He huffed a sigh. “Seriously? What, you’ve had lessons since I was last home?”
“Don’t be facetious,” she sniffed.
“You haven’t. Which means I’ll cook. You—” he glanced over toward the bench “—do your usual and make the coffee.”
“Fine.” She opened the cupboard and grabbed the gourmet coffee beans, then the grinder. It felt so surreal, going through the motions of this familiar task when all around them everything had lost grip on reality. A cyclone had raged over the coast, devastating lives. A once-strong friendship had cracked from one impulsive night. And a baby would change their lives forever.
Stop. She stared at the grinder as it tossed the beans. She couldn’t make that decision yet, not when the test results were still to come.
With that tiny mantra echoing in her head, they made breakfast then ate at the table, watching the TV reports outlining the damage, filling them in on every single detail, flashing up familiar scenes of devastation, until Kat’s head buzzed with overload. She glanced at Marco and then away, focusing on her plate until the silence began to cloy and she was desperate to break it.
When it got unbearable, she finally said, “So, I hear you’re up for a Hall of Fame award at the FFA dinner next month.”
He nodded. “Yep.”
“You taking anyone?” she asked casually.
When his gaze met hers, she winced. That totally sounded as if she was fishing, when it was definitely not the case.
“You, if you want.”
“Sure.” Her response was automatic. The Football Federation of Australia’s annual awards dinner, a three-course dinner in a five-star Sydney hotel, was always a good night. Ironically, in a nation where sport ruled supreme, soccer barely rated a mention on the national networks, and that included the biggest soccer awards event of the year. Which suited her low-key life down to the ground.
June. Three weeks away. Three weeks plus ten weeks means... She scowled. No. Don’t think about that. “So you’re staying in Australia until then?”
He nodded. “I have the coaching clinics to set up, plus a new shoot for Skins. And a guest appearance on The Big Game when the new season starts in October.”
She smiled. “Still in demand. I knew that knee injury wouldn’t slow you down.”
His mouth curved. “Always right, aren’t you?”
“Always.”
As they finished their food, Kat asked, “So what else is news?” Marco took such a long time to answer that she glanced up from her empty plate with a frown.
“Ruby’s on the cover of next month’s Playboy,” he finally said.
Oh. She waited for him to share, and eventually, with a clatter of fork on plate and a deep sigh, he did. “She’s my ex-wife. I shouldn’t care what she does.”
Kat nodded. “True.”
“We’ve been apart for four years, divorced for two.”
“Yes.”
He sighed, linking his fingers together on the table. “Call me old-fashioned, but I draw the line at having my ex-wife’s hoo-ha on display for every guy who’s got ten bucks to spare. Those things are private.”
She looked him straight in the eye. “I agree.”
He picked up the fork and continued to toy with the remains of his food in silence for a few more moments. “She didn’t even ask me. I don’t care about the whole media thing. I just would’ve liked to be forewarned.”
She nodded again, knowing that the situation cut deeper than he let on. It wasn’t about the damage to his reputation, although the media attention had already started to swell following the sneak peek of Ruby’s cover two days ago. It was more personal than that. It went to the core of who Marco was—a deeply honorable man who respected women, who valued manners and was known in the French futball league as a true gentleman, despite his multitude of girlfriends and on-field arrogance.
“You know, we should get married.”
She stilled, the fork halfway to her mouth. “I’m sorry. Did you just say...we should get married?”
He nodded, his expression deadly serious as he leaned in. “Totally.”
She gaped for one second. “Why?”
He stared at her, as if waiting for her to say something more. But when she just continued to gape at him in shocked silence, he shrugged and said, “Why not?”
Because you should be madly in love with me when you propose. Kat swallowed the words as her brow dipped. “Because we don’t have to?”
“So you’re not worried about your pregnancy hitting the papers?” He tipped his head.
“Of course I am. I’m worried about everything hitting the papers. But I can’t live my life in a bubble because of it.” She eyed him. “Anyway, what does that have to do with marri
age?”
“Because we can lessen the damage. If we—”
She held up a hand. “I’m sorry, what?”
He sighed. “Look, just hear me out. For over twenty years you’ve not shown one symptom, so let’s assume the results are negative until otherwise proven, okay? Like it or not, marriage is still a respectable option. You’ll be pregnant with my child. Once the cyclone news dies down, the press will be on the lookout for the next big story, and they’re going to love this. The attention they give it will be off the charts. They’ll hound you, your family, and when they find out I’m the father, they’ll come after me.” He held up a hand, cutting her off. “The papers are going to rehash every romantic involvement, including our marriages and divorces. And you can bet they’ll find a way to bring my father into it. Someone at my network is going to listen to all that crap, and there’ll probably be repercussions because I do have a code-of-conduct clause in my contract. Grace will probably demand an exclusive. The attention will drag on and on. Even better, they’ll bring the romantic ‘holed up during a cyclone’ angle into it.”
“Marco—”
“Now think about the alternative. We get married in a private ceremony then put out a press statement. The deed is done. Everything’s announced how we want it, when we want it. The media have their story for a week, two, max. We’d have to tell Grace, of course, but there’ll be no backlash for me at the network, no comparisons to the past. And everyone returns to their normal lives.”
She stared at him for a moment and then slowly placed her fork on the plate. “It’s not that simple.”
“Well, obviously not.” He followed with a frown. “It won’t stop the attention, but it will lessen the time we’ll spend on the front page. Then they’ll go back to real news.”
She shook her head slowly. “You would seriously marry me?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
She said nothing, just stared at him for the longest time. She’d be Marco’s wife. Mrs. Corelli. For one second her heart swooped, an alarming response that sent her into a panic before she swallowed and it all crashed back down to reality. He wanted to marry her, but for all the wrong reasons. Duty. Respectability. To avoid publicity. Not because of love.
Wait, what?
This was Marco here. He didn’t think of her in that way. Oh, she knew he loved her, but he wasn’t in love with her, which was a huge difference.
Anyway, she didn’t want him in love with her. Not at all.
“You know it makes sense,” he said, chewing on the last piece of toast.
There were those annoying words again. Sensible. Smart. Logical. Everything she’d wished for after Ezio’s betrayal. Everything Marco was offering.
She drew in a slow breath. “I don’t want to get married.”
“What, ever again?” His brow went up. “Or just to me?”
“I’ve done it twice already.”
“I know, chérie. I was there to pick up the pieces, remember?”
Her heart squeezed. Yeah, he was. He was always there. Through the divorces, the horrific tabloid attention. Through the aftermath of her mother’s illness. He was her rock, more dependable than any of her girlfriends or family. He’d dropped everything to listen to her rant, then cry, then get solidly drunk and make a complete fool of herself at some swanky French nightclub. Then he’d dragged her backpacking around Europe in blissful anonymity.
And now he was offering again, stepping up and taking on the responsibility for their one lapse in judgment.
“I can’t marry you, Marco,” she said now. “That would be selfish.”
“Why? I suggested it. And it’s not as if we have anyone else lined up.”
“Oh, that makes me feel so special.”
He laughed, much to her chagrin. “You are. You’re my closest friend.”
“What about Grace?”
He sighed. “What about her? We’re over, I told you. It’s all in her head.”
She crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair, trying to get a grip on her jumbled thoughts. “Marco, this isn’t the solution. I don’t want to force you into something you’ll come to resent. No, let me finish,” she added when he opened his mouth. “You love your freedom. You love being able to pick up and go away on assignment. I totally get that. But I need someone constant, to really be here. Fly-by parenting doesn’t work. I know that firsthand. A child can’t just be an appointment in your schedule, someone you see whenever you have a spare few weeks.”
He stared at her for the longest time, until he ran a hand through his hair in frustration, his eyes narrowing. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Which part?”
“Oh, just about all of it.” He braced his hands wide apart on the table and pinned her with his dark gaze. “Don’t tell me what I feel, Kat. Sure, I love my job, but it’s just a job.”
“Are you kidding me? Soccer is your life. It’s a part of who you are. You would die if you couldn’t do it.”
“You say that like I’d be giving it up. Which I’m not.”
She sighed. “And we’re back to where we started. Being Marco Corelli takes you all over the world. You’ll be away from your child for months on end.” Away from me. She prudently swallowed those words.
“So what’s stopping you from coming with me?”
She blinked. “I have a job, in case you’ve forgotten.” Boy, he just didn’t let up, did he? Her head whirled with all the scenarios, emotions running riot until she had to take a mental step back. It was all just speculation, pipe dreams. She couldn’t make a decision based on that, not when she might not even have a future.
The black moment engulfed her, stealing her breath so suddenly she shoved to her feet.
It was too, too much.
“I can’t think. I need some air.” Without waiting for his response, she turned and walked down the hall to her room.
Thoughts still churning, she pulled open a drawer and rummaged through the clothes she’d left from her last visit. She took a denim skirt and white linen shirt from the chest of drawers, slathered on sunscreen and then swiftly changed. When she emerged fifteen minutes later, Marco was nowhere to be seen.
After digging out sunglasses from her handbag and picking up yesterday’s newspaper, she stalked over to the patio doors and slid them open, thankful Marco was not around.
That was good, wasn’t it? It meant a respite from the questions she had no answers to. A break from thinking for once. And a reprieve from those annoying emotional responses that kept hijacking her thoughts whenever he smiled, shoved back his hair or touched her...or...
Simply breathed, it seemed.
With a deep sigh, she stepped outside. The tiles that ringed the eternity lap pool warmed her feet and the morning air teased over her bare arms, making her hairs stand on end.
Blinding sun speared across the deep blue ocean, the sky unmarred by clouds. She shoved on her sunglasses and assessed the now-familiar storm debris scattered over the deck and tiles, the leaves and filth floating in the pool, and then padded over to the small storage room, removed a broom and pool skimmer and set to work.
It was good to have something to do, and she set to her cleaning task with singular concentration. The sun shone brightly down, making her sweat through her shirt as she first swept the deck and surrounding tiles, then took up the skimmer and went to the pool. By the end of the repetitive skim-and-tip, her shoulders pleasantly ached and her brow was damp. Finally, she walked over to a lounge chair and settled back with the paper.
Five minutes, that was all it took, and her mind began to drift back to what she’d effectively avoided the past hour.
With a sigh she closed the newspaper, folded it and stuck it under her leg.
“Test results aside, do you want a baby?” she asked herself aloud now
, as if by voicing the question, she was giving it the proper gravitas.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Pause. “Kat,” she added, her voice dipping lower as if she was conducting a self-interview, “are you thinking about what others think again, and not what you think?”
Yeah, she was. Her father would be livid when he found out she was pregnant. The press would have a field day with this seemingly unsurprising return to form. Grace would... Well, she wasn’t exactly sure what her boss would do.
On the flip side, Connor and Luke would offer support and be happy if she was, and honestly, their opinion meant more to her than all the others put together.
“Just forget about the test results for a second and think. Would having a child make you happy?”
With a sigh she recalled that odd thought from a few weeks back, the one where she’d allowed her mind free rein and had imagined a home and husband and a family.
Oh, Lord. Her breath hitched as her chest tightened, sending her emotions haywire. Maybe it was the aftermath from the storm. Maybe it was because she’d suppressed so many urges for so long. Or maybe it was because deep down inside, she didn’t want to be that woman whom everyone pitied, who projected a fierce “I don’t care” attitude, but inside died every time someone made a joke about her staunch opposition to having kids.
She’d thrown herself into researching motor neuron when her mother was first diagnosed with the debilitating disease that attacked the muscles but left the mind clear. The statistics, the chances of survival, the death rate... It broke her heart piece by tiny piece with every detail she’d uncovered. So after a few weeks of agony, she’d bundled up the research papers, untagged all the bookmarks and cleared her computer history, then solemnly made the choice not to get tested.
She’d come to terms with that decision, even made her peace with it. Outwardly, she’d projected that capable-career-woman persona, had brushed off any discussions about family and babies. Of course, her mother’s illness wasn’t a huge secret, but she’d refused to let that be a reason for people’s pity. To the outside world, she’d made a conscious decision to remain childless. If everyone wanted to pour scorn on her because of that, that was their choice. Her skin was tough—she could handle it.
