The Valtieri Baby

by Caroline Anderson

  Perfect. And just enough left in the bowl to make licking it out really satisfying. She scooped the spatula round it, looked up and found him watching her hopefully.

  ‘No. It’s mine. Cook’s perks,’ she told him firmly, and stroked her tongue up the spatula.

  Something flared deep in his eyes, and after a breathless second, he looked back down at his laptop and she turned away.

  But the damage was done. He’d seen her licking the spatula, seen the smears of chocolate all around her mouth, and the urge to get up and go over there and kiss the chocolate off her lips was crippling him.

  He kept his eyes firmly down, but even so he could see her, his peripheral vision just good enough that he could see every time she lifted it to her mouth, and finally he crumbled and looked up, just as she threw the spatula back in the bowl and plunged it into the sink.

  ‘I hope you enjoyed that.’

  ‘Mmm, mmm,’ she said, licking her lips still. ‘Did you want some? You should have asked. You’ll have to wait now until after dinner.’

  ‘You said it was cook’s perks.’

  ‘I might have given you a little taste if you’d asked nicely.’

  Mischievous little witch.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll survive,’ he said drily, stifling a smile. ‘How about some coffee?’

  ‘Again? No wonder you have dreams.’

  ‘Wine, then? It’s nearly dark.’

  Wine? Sit with him and drink wine, to weaken her already fragile defences? She didn’t think so.

  ‘Have whatever you like. I’m going to have tea.’

  ‘Make that two.’

  ‘Please.’

  He growled. ‘Please,’ he said, and she turned away so he wouldn’t see her smiling. He was miffed because she’d eaten all the scrapings from the bowl and hadn’t offered him any. Well, tough. She put the kettle on, took two mugs out of the cupboard and made the tea.

  * * *

  The wild boar casserole was wonderful, she thought, much better than any previous attempt she’d ever made, and he seemed to enjoy it, but the chocolate mousse wasn’t quite set yet, so they left it for later.

  They’d eaten at the table, because the casserole was a bit messy to eat sprawled out on the sofa, but as he went back to its welcoming softness, she could see he was struggling a bit.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  He sat down, propped his foot up and met her eyes. ‘Do you know how many times today you’ve asked me that?’

  She paused, plates in hand, and frowned. ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon. I’m so sorry I spoke.’

  He sighed heavily, and shook his head. ‘Sorry. I’m being unreasonable.’

  ‘You are. And it’s difficult to know what else to say when it’s quite obvious that you’re not all right. I guess I just keep waiting for you to say you’re feeling better, but you don’t.’

  ‘That’s because I’m not—and I’m bored. I’m going to go crazy if I can’t do something soon.’

  ‘Like what?’

  He shrugged, his smile crooked and mocking. ‘We could go for a walk. Oh, no, that’s right. I can’t walk anywhere.’

  ‘Ha-ha, very funny. Just remember it’s not my fault, I’m not the one who hit you with the handbag.’

  ‘Rub it in, why don’t you.’

  She suppressed a smile. ‘Television?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing on. We could play chess if we had a chess set.’

  ‘What, so you could thrash me?’

  He smiled lazily. ‘I thought you wanted me to feel better?’

  ‘Not at my expense!’

  ‘Anyway, it’s academic. We should have thought about it earlier, we could have brought my chess set.’

  ‘I’ve got one here,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘You gave it to me years ago.’

  He stared at her, his eyes unreadable. ‘Have you still got it?’ he asked softly, his voice faintly incredulous.

  ‘Of course.’

  He’d made it for her during a long, wet winter, turning the pieces on her father’s lathe, carving the tops with a skill she hadn’t known he possessed. He’d given it to her for Christmas, the year she turned sixteen, and although she hardly ever used it, it was one of her most treasured possessions.

  She took it out of the cupboard, cleared the coffee table and set it up, and he reached out and picked up the knight, turning it over in his hand with a low chuckle. ‘It took me so long to carve these,’ he said quietly. ‘I had to do about seven. I kept breaking the ears off the horses.’

  ‘Is that why they look angry, with their ears laid back, so they don’t stick up?’

  He chuckled. ‘It was the only way I could do it. The wood wasn’t hard enough and they would have broken off anyway. Your father suggested it.’ He put it back, a slight frown furrowing his brow as if he was miles away, back in the time when things were less complicated and rather happier.

  She picked up two pawns, one dark wood, one pale, shuffled them behind her back and held them out in her fists. ‘Left or right?’

  * * *

  He thrashed her.

  She’d known he would, but he accused her of not trying.

  ‘I am trying.’

  ‘So focus.’

  ‘I am focused,’ she snapped. Just not on chess.

  ‘Doesn’t look like it. Try again.’

  She tried. She really, really tried to concentrate, but he was sitting right opposite her with his bandaged foot up on the sofa, looking so enticing it was impossible to focus her mind on anything other than him.

  And then he moved his knight and said, ‘Checkmate.’

  ‘What? How? How on earth is that checkmate?’

  She stared at the board in disbelief, then threw up her hands and put the pieces back into the box.

  ‘Quitter.’

  She gave him a withering look and folded up the board with a snap. ‘I’m not a quitter, but I’m not here as a prop for your ego, either.’

  ‘So did you want me to let you win?’

  ‘No! I wanted to be able to do it.’ She shut the cupboard door on the offending game and stalked into the kitchen. Quitter, indeed.

  ‘So, do you want this chocolate mousse?’

  ‘Not if you’re going to tip it on my head.’

  She laughed then, letting out the frustration in a defeated little chuckle, and then took the desserts over to the table. She’d put a dollop of cream on top of each, and as they dug the spoons in, the cream slid down and puddled in the centre, ready for the next mouthful.

  Gio felt the cool, creamy and yet intensely chocolaty dessert melt on his tongue, and he groaned. If sin tasted of anything, then this was it.

  ‘Good?’ she asked, and he flicked his eyes up to hers and smiled slowly.

  ‘Oh, yes. Really good,’ he said, taking another spoonful and savouring it slowly. And then he watched as she lifted her spoon to her mouth, her lips parting just enough to let it in, then closing around the spoon as her eyes drifted shut in ecstasy.

  He nearly groaned out loud.

  Dio, he wanted her. Wanted to taste the chocolate on her tongue, wanted to stand up and walk over to her and pull her to her feet and carry her to bed and make love to her until she screamed.

  But he couldn’t.

  Not just because of his ankle and the cuts on his hand and thigh, but because Anita was out of bounds.

  Rule number one—don’t mess with friends.

  He’d messed with her enough, both last night and five years ago. He wasn’t going there again, wasn’t risking her emotional wellbeing by letting her get involved with him again.

  If he could have just taken her to bed and had fantastic and uncomplicated sex with her, it would have been fine. But he couldn’t. No way. This was Anita, and nothing about their relationship was uncomplicated.

  And she was a forever person, a believer in the happy-ever-after—for heaven’s sake, she was a wedding planner! She made people’s dreams come true.

  He seemed to t
urn them all to nightmares.

  He dragged his eyes off her, finished his dessert in silence and put the pot down. His mind full of Kirsten and the tragic waste of a life, he hadn’t even tasted the last few mouthfuls. It could have been wallpaper paste.

  ‘I need a shower,’ he said curtly. ‘Do you have a plastic bag and some tape so I can wrap up my foot?’

  She blinked, a little startled by the sudden change of atmosphere, but this was Gio. He did this all the time, especially recently. She stifled an inward sigh and got up.

  ‘Sure. What about your hand and your leg?’

  ‘They’ll be fine. The dressings are waterproof, apparently, so long as I don’t soak them.’

  She pulled a bag out of a drawer and held it scrunched up against her middle. ‘Um—do you need a hand to get this on?’

  ‘No. I can manage,’ he said firmly.

  ‘What about the tape?’

  ‘I can manage. I can use these fingers now a little. I’ll be fine. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  He walked out, limping heavily, shoulders ramrod straight, the bag and the tape in his left hand.

  She watched him go, listened to the sound of him undressing. Grunts, the odd unintelligible comment that she probably hadn’t needed to hear, the occasional thud.

  Then she heard the bathroom door close, and a moment later the sound of running water.

  He’d call her, surely, if he was in difficulties?

  She was being ridiculous. He was fine. He was young and fit and the hospital had been happy with him. Of course he was all right.

  She cleared up the kitchen, loaded the dishwasher and switched it on, wiped down the tops and tidied the sitting room. There. Now she’d go and sit on her bed with her book and wait for him to finish.

  Not that she needed to. It didn’t matter to her how long he took, because she had an en suite bathroom off her room. It was just that she wouldn’t be able to rest until she knew he was all right.

  The water had been turned off long ago, and she guessed he was drying himself. Slowly and awkwardly with one hand, she would think. She wondered how the waterproofing had worked.

  And then she heard a yelp and leapt to her feet, running to the bathroom door.

  ‘Gio? Are you OK?’

  There was a stifled sound of frustration. ‘I’m fine,’ he said at last.

  ‘Can I do anything?’

  ‘Only tell me why women would ever contemplate having their legs waxed,’ he growled, and the penny dropped.

  He was changing the dressing on his thigh, peeling the plaster off the hairs. She winced and tried not to laugh. ‘Ouch. Do you want me to help?’

  ‘No, I want you to leave me alone. I can manage,’ he snapped, and she retreated, muttering about ungracious men and telling herself at the same time that he wasn’t really ungracious, he was just proud and hurt and trying to keep his distance.

  And she wasn’t making it any easier.

  ‘I’ll say goodnight, then,’ she said, and walked swiftly away, leaving him to it. He didn’t need her with him tonight. He’d had her last night, and look what had happened. From now on, he was on his own, the ungracious, sulky, temperamental—

  ‘Stop! Stop thinking about him! Just go to bed!’

  She went, exhausted from the strain of keeping up a neutral front, worn down by the emotional tension zinging between them.

  And then, in the middle of the night, she had a dream...

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SHE was late.

  They were going skiing, and she was meeting Gio at his apartment and he was giving her a lift. It was difficult, because she was dragging her skis along behind her and her bag was trundling awkwardly over the old stones, but she was trying to hurry, because he was going to be so angry with her.

  She turned the last corner, hurrying towards the front door, but it was dark there, so dark, and in the shadows by the wall she could hear the sounds of a scuffle.

  There was a grunt of pain, and she froze.

  ‘Gio?’ she whispered, her heart pounding. She could vaguely make out a man lying on the ground, and somewhere a long way away a woman was sobbing.

  ‘Gio!’

  ‘Anita—help me! I’m bleeding. You have to help me...!’

  ‘I’m coming!’ she yelled, and tried to run to him, but her feet wouldn’t move. She felt as if she was running in treacle, every step a marathon, and the stones were covered in broken glass. She had to get to him, had to help him, but suddenly the place was full of people and they wouldn’t let her through. They kept asking who she was, and all the time she could hear him calling her.

  She began to scream, sobbing with terror. People were shaking her, shouting at her, and she tried to fight them off. She had to get to him, to help him, and they were holding her back...

  ‘Anita! Anita, wake up! You’re dreaming, cara! It’s all right. Wake up. It’s me—I’m here. I’ve got you.’

  She heard her name, heard his familiar voice slicing through the terror and reaching out to her, and she opened her eyes and stared at him in confusion.

  ‘I couldn’t get to you,’ she croaked, lifting up a hand to cradle his dear, precious, familiar face. It was warm, reassuringly so, his eyes troubled, and she felt the fight drain out of her. ‘Oh, Gio, you were calling me and I couldn’t get to you!’ she said again, and burst into noisy, messy, uncontrollable tears.

  ‘Oh, Anita, carissima, come here...’

  He gathered her up against his chest, his arms wrapped firmly round her, rocking her rhythmically as he soothed her with meaningless words of comfort, and gradually the tears subsided.

  He eased back, staring down at her, searching those tear-drenched, empty eyes. ‘Are you OK now, cara?’

  She sniffed and nodded, but a shudder ran through her and he knew she was lying.

  ‘You were hurt,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘You told me you were bleeding, and you asked me to help you and I tried to get to you but I couldn’t run, my feet were stuck and the stones were covered in broken glass, and then everybody was blocking my way and I was so afraid you were dying—’

  ‘Shhh,’ he murmured, gathering her back up into his arms, and she slumped against his chest and let him hold her, too overwrought to care about keeping up a front. She loved him, and she could so easily have lost him. She was allowed to cry for him.

  Gradually her sobs hiccupped to a halt, and her breathing slowed and eased, and he let her lie back against the pillows, her eyes staring up at him as if she still couldn’t quite believe he was all right.

  ‘I should never have let you go to my place today,’ he said, his brows drawn together in a frown.

  ‘It’s not your fault. It’s just my vivid imagination. It must have been seeing that piece of glass.’ She shoved herself up the bed, shifting the pillows so she was sitting upright against the headboard, her hands knotted in the quilt.

  She might seem all right, he realised, but she was still gripped by the dream, and the moment she fell asleep again, it would come back. He knew that. He was painfully familiar with the principle, and he was kicking himself for taking her there today.

  ‘Hey. Why don’t I make us some hot chocolate and we can sit up and drink it?’

  She stared at him. ‘You?’

  He smiled and shrugged.

  ‘Or I could ask you? Because you’ll do it better than me.’

  She gave a soft, slightly unsteady chuckle and threw back the bedclothes, slipping her legs out of bed and standing up. She was in the pyjamas again, he saw. They were meant to cover her up, but they just draped enticingly over her bottom and hugged her breasts gently, cradling them.

  His hands itched to take their place, to cup her bottom and draw her closer, to feel the weight of those soft, rounded breasts in his palms once more.

  ‘I’ll just get my robe,’ he said, and retreated quickly, before she could see the effect she was having on him. Well, as quickly as he could, considering he’d almost run to her room on hi
s damaged foot and it was giving him some significant hell at the moment.

  Good, he thought as he limped hastily back to the privacy of his room. It might take his mind off Anita and her lovely, luscious body.

  * * *

  It didn’t work.

  Neither did the fact that she’d swathed herself in an ankle-length cashmere cardigan over the pyjamas. The fabric draped softly over her body, and he stifled a groan and dropped into the corner of the sofa, propping his feet on the coffee table.

  ‘Have you got any music?’

  ‘Mmm. My CDs are there.’

  On the other side of the room.

  ‘Just press play on the remote—it’s there, on the coffee table. I can’t remember what’s in there.’

  Jazz. Soft, smoky jazz, that filtered out of the speakers and drifted into every corner.

  He leant back and closed his eyes as the lazy, haunting sound of a saxophone filled the room. It was such a sensuous instrument, he thought as the music swirled around him and through him.

  Music to make love to.

  He dropped his left foot to the floor and sat upright, ramming himself back into the corner and growling quietly in frustration.

  ‘Change it if you don’t like it.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘I just had cramp. I’m all right now.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. I’m fine.’

  She blinked, and then shrugged. ‘Whatever. Here. Your hot chocolate.’

  She set it down in front of him, and he picked it up, wrapping his left hand around the mug and propping it with the fingers of his right.

  His hand was getting better, but he still wouldn’t like to pick anything up with it. Two weeks, he’d been told, to allow any minor damage to the tendons to repair itself. Before then, they could tear if he over-used it, but it was too sore to want to do anything except, possibly, curl his hand gently over one of her delectable breasts and test the sweet, mobile weight of it—

  He took a gulp of the hot chocolate. Too hot. He felt it scald his tongue, and he put it down again.

  ‘Sorry, I should have put cold milk in it,’ she said apologetically, settling herself in the far corner of the sofa and tucking her feet up under her bottom so she was turned to face him.