Claiming His One-Night Child

by Jackie Ashenden

  Except it was clear that Stella had other ideas.

  Her stubborn little chin had lifted and, despite her pallor, anger glinted in her silvery blue eyes. ‘Go with you?’ she asked flatly. ‘I think not. But by all means, if you want to—’

  ‘There will be no argument,’ Dante interrupted, in no mood for protests. ‘You’re not staying in this hellhole and risking the life of my child.’

  She gave him a look he couldn’t interpret. ‘Really? And since when does a notorious playboy give a damn about the life of his child?’

  A memory shifted inside him, of that ghastly apartment in Naples—very similar to this one in Rome, now he thought about it—and his mother passed out on the couch, the sounds of someone shouting in the hallway outside. And he’d been terrified—terrified—that the person who’d been shouting would somehow break down their door and come in. And there would be no one to protect him...

  A dull anger that had been sitting inside him for years, that he’d made sure to drown under alcohol and women and too many parties to name, flared to life, bringing with it a latent protectiveness.

  His mother hadn’t given a damn about his life. No matter how many times she’d slurred that she loved him, that she’d take care of him, she hadn’t. She’d been drunk when he’d needed her, preferring the oblivion of the bottle to caring for him.

  Do you want to end up being like her?

  No. No, he did not.

  Dante met her guarded blue gaze. ‘Strangely enough,’ he said, acid edging his tone, ‘I find that I do give a damn. Unfortunately for you.’

  Her expression turned contemptuous. ‘Oh, please, don’t tell me that the most infamous man-whore in Europe has had a sudden change of heart. Do the gossip columns know?’

  He decided to ignore that, folding his arms and staring at her. ‘Kitten, pay attention. Because I’m only going to say this once. You have five minutes to get your things and then we’re leaving. And, if I have to pick you up and throw you over my shoulder, then believe me I will do it.’

  There was a moment of silence, the tension between them gathering tight. Her eyes glowed, her beauty in no way dimmed by her obvious exhaustion. Neither, apparently, was her anger.

  He didn’t care. She wasn’t staying here, not when she was pregnant with his child and he didn’t trust her one single inch.

  Nothing to do with how exhausted and sick she’s looking.

  Dante dismissed that thought. Yes, she wasn’t looking well, but taking her away didn’t have anything to do with her. He was protecting the baby. Plus, he really needed to deal with the question of her attempt on his life and whether she might have another go.

  Stella’s expression was still mutinous, and it was obvious to him that she was trying to contain herself, but the silvery glow in her eyes gave her away.

  Again, he didn’t care. Let her be angry. This wasn’t about her and this time it wasn’t about him either. This was about their child.

  Abruptly, she glanced away. ‘Fine. I have nothing I want to take except my handbag on the table.’

  Expecting more of a fight, Dante stared at her.

  There was a set look on her face and she was holding her forearms tightly. Too tightly. Her nails were digging into her skin. And she’d gone white again, the circles beneath her lovely eyes like bruises. The strands of golden hair hanging around her face looked lank, as if she hadn’t washed it in a while, and the jeans and T-shirt she wore were rumpled and stained, as if she hadn’t washed those either.

  A far cry from the perfect china shepherdess, in her blue satin cocktail dress and her perfect shining hair.

  She’d been on the run, from the looks of things, hiding from him. Which meant that finding out she was pregnant must have come as a shock. Certainly enough of a shock that she hadn’t been taking care of herself.

  Something else shifted in his chest, that protectiveness again. But he didn’t want to examine that feeling, so he didn’t.

  Instead, impatient all of a sudden, and suspecting that the reason she’d made no move to get up was because she couldn’t, Dante bent and scooped her up in his arms once again.

  ‘Stop,’ she murmured, pushing ineffectually at him, while at the same time her body relaxed, as if his arms were the bed it had been searching for all this time.

  That shouldn’t have made him as satisfied as it did so he ignored that feeling too.

  ‘Can you walk?’ he asked instead, glancing down at her face.

  She’d gone pink, which was a damn sight better than the pallor that had been there before. ‘Of course I can walk.’

  ‘Then do you really want me to put you down?’

  Her mouth firmed and she glanced away again, staying silent.

  Satisfied, Dante moved over to the table to allow her to grab her handbag, then turned to the door and carried her out of the apartment.

  People stared at them as they passed, but he ignored the stares, just as he tried to ignore the slight, fragile weight of her in his arms. She was all softness and heat, and her scent was warm with a hint of feminine musk, no trace of the overwhelmingly sexual perfume she’d worn in Monte Carlo.

  Which was good. Because his body, the traitor, was hardening at her physical proximity and he didn’t need that on top of everything else.

  In fact, he decided that, given how complicated this particular situation was, it would probably be best if he didn’t further complicate it with sex. Denying himself didn’t come easy to him, it was true, but there was a time and place for such things, and now was not the time and this was definitely not the place. Even his hotel was not the place.

  Because she was not the woman he should be doing any of those things with, and certainly not after he’d already made the catastrophic mistake of having sex with her in the first place.

  Ignoring the demands of his body, Dante carried her out of the building, conscious of the dealers and junkies in the hallways and the youths out on the pavement by the front. Giorgio had his wits about him enough to get quickly out of the car and pull open the rear door so Dante could put her inside.

  ‘To the hotel,’ Dante ordered shortly once Giorgio was back behind the wheel. And, as they pulled away from the kerb, an odd sense of satisfaction collected inside him. As if for once in his selfish, useless life he’d done something right.

  Stella said nothing the entire trip, but he let her have her silence. She looked exhausted and for once he could think of nothing to say.

  The hotel wasn’t far from the Spanish Steps and the hotel staff, whom Dante all knew by name, were waiting to usher him to his usual penthouse suite.

  He had a moment as he helped Stella from the car where he realised that there might be some curiosity about her, given she wasn’t exactly dressed like his usual type of woman, and that wouldn’t exactly be a good thing.

  The Montefiores had fallen a long way since Dante’s father had been exiled, but people might be curious enough about Stella to investigate who she was and why she’d suddenly turned up at Dante’s side.

  It wasn’t a comfortable thought. He’d never cared about gossip—usually he openly courted it—but things were different now. He didn’t want people drawing conclusions about her and he definitely didn’t want anyone finding out about the baby. Not yet, at least. Not until he had some time to decide how best to proceed.

  Ignoring half-formed ideas of getting someone to attend Stella, he decided to do it himself, pausing only to give the butler responsible for his suite instructions to bring up some food, while making sure the hotel staff knew to be discreet about Stella’s presence, before dismissing everyone and shutting the door firmly.

  Then he went into the luxurious living area where he’d left her sitting on the edge of one of the white linen-covered couches, gazing out over the fantastic views of Rome’s ancient roof tops.

  She wasn’t sitting no
w, though. Clearly exhaustion had overtaken her because she was curled up, fast asleep, her head on one of the white linen cushions, her gilt lashes lying still on her pale cheeks.

  Silently he went over to where she lay and looked down at her.

  She seemed so small. A tiny, delicate china-doll of a woman with her big blue eyes and her corn-gold hair. A woman who’d first tried to kill him then given him one of the most intense sexual experiences of his life.

  A woman who was now carrying his child.

  The protectiveness that had washed over him at the apartment washed over him again, a rampant surge of emotion that he hadn’t asked for, didn’t want and yet couldn’t seem to do anything about. It swamped him and he found himself grabbing the pale-grey cashmere throw that had been slung over the arm of the couch and tucking it securely around her so she didn’t get cold.

  For the baby’s sake, naturally. He didn’t much care about the woman who’d pointed a gun at his head five weeks ago.

  So you do, in fact, care about the baby.

  A certain tension settled in his jaw and in his shoulders.

  He’d gone through life very happily not caring much about anything, so it came as something of a shock to realise that very much against his will he cared about this.

  His child.

  Back at that awful apartment where he’d found Stella, he’d thought it was simply about keeping that child safe. But, now Stella and the baby she carried were here in his territory, he was conscious that it went deeper than mere safety.

  There was something else inside him, something he was pretty sure was that biological imperative operating again but, whatever it was, the fact remained that the baby mattered to him.

  Of course it matters to you. Why else did you insist she have it?

  The thought was sharp and deeply uncomfortable.

  There had been a time once before when he’d walked away from a problem he hadn’t wanted to deal with and he’d had to live with the consequences ever since. Consequences that even now he tried very hard not to think about.

  So these days, whenever a situation looked like it might get complicated, he avoided it like the plague. Yet this was the very definition of complicated and for some reason he simply could not bring himself to walk away. Not this time.

  The child hadn’t asked to be born to a selfish playboy and a potential murderer. The child was innocent. And, if anyone knew what it was to be an innocent caught up in adult problems, it was him.

  That baby needed someone to be there for it and, even though Dante knew he was possibly the worst man on earth to be a father, he nevertheless wanted that someone to be him.

  Whether Stella Montefiore liked it or not.

  * * *

  Stella didn’t want to wake up, but there was something delicious-smelling in the room. And for once she didn’t feel sick. In fact, she almost felt hungry.

  Except eating would involve having to open her eyes and she didn’t want to do that quite yet.

  She was lying on something ridiculously soft, and there was something equally as soft tucked around her, and she was warm, and moving felt like an impossibility.

  Someone was talking nearby. A man, his voice rich and dark and somehow soothing. He was speaking English and he must be on the phone since she couldn’t hear any responses. Something about a child...

  Reality hit her like a bucket of ice water dumped straight on top of her head.

  The pregnancy test. Dante Cardinali coming to the door. Dante Cardinali finding out that she was carrying his child...

  Every muscle in her body stiffened as that deep, beautiful voice rolled over her like a caress.

  Him.

  She’d been surprised when he’d insisted on her coming back to his hotel suite with him—she hadn’t expected him to take responsibility for the baby quite so quickly, not a selfish, dissolute man like him. But it was all going to work very nicely for her plan, so she’d only put up a fight enough that he wouldn’t suspect her motives. She’d even let him carry her to the car, nothing at all to do with the fact that she’d been too dizzy to stand.

  Without moving, she lifted her lashes slightly so she could see where she was and what was happening.

  It looked to be early evening, the pink light making the white walls of the room look as if they were blushing. The large glass doors of the living area were standing open to the terrace outside and there was Dante, standing with his back to her, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone to his ear.

  She tried to muster some rage at him for the arrogant way he’d brought her here, as if he owned her, but her anger kept slipping out of her grip every time she tried to reach for it.

  She was too warm and too sleepy, which was an issue when what she needed to be was cold, on her guard and wide awake.

  He turned suddenly and his dark eyes found hers. And, just as it had back in that awful apartment when she’d opened the door to find him standing in the doorway, the impact of his gaze drove all the breath from her lungs.

  He was smiling, but it wasn’t for her, because as soon as he finished up the call and put his phone in his pocket the smile vanished.

  A chill crept over her. It felt as though the sun had gone down even though rays of light were still filling the room.

  ‘You’re awake,’ Dante said and it wasn’t a question.

  Since there was no point in pretending she was still asleep she sat up, pushing a lock of hair back behind her ear and drawing the soft wool of the throw around her. ‘Yes. So it would seem.’

  There was something in his eyes she couldn’t read, something that made her uneasy. As if he’d made a decision about something. Had he changed his mind about the baby and called the police after all, perhaps?

  No less than what you deserve.

  Stella swallowed, fighting not to let any sign of her unease show.

  ‘I had some food delivered.’ He nodded towards the small stone table on the terrace, a couple of cushioned stone benches flanking it. The table had been set and there were plates of food on it, tea lights in small glass holders casting a golden glow. ‘You should eat.’

  It looked warm and inviting, and the smell of the food made her stomach rumble.

  She gritted her teeth, instinctively wanting to refuse him yet managing to stop herself at the last minute. Letting him get to her would be a mistake and she couldn’t afford any more of those. No, if she was going to figure out a new revenge plan then she had to lull him into a false sense of security, get him to see her as no threat. Which meant not fighting with him.

  And you’re hungry.

  Yes, well, since the nausea had faded it appeared that she was indeed quite hungry.

  Stella got up from the couch slowly, pleased to discover that her legs weren’t as wobbly as they had been before and that she could at least stand up by herself.

  Dante’s gaze was completely and utterly focused on her, and she had the impression that if she fainted again he would probably know before she did and would catch her the very second that she fell.

  She found the thought intensely irritating.

  ‘I’m fine now,’ she said shortly. ‘You don’t have to stare at me like I’m going to keel over any second.’

  His gaze didn’t waver. ‘You said you were fine before and look what happened.’

  ‘Again, you’re very concerned about my health. Why is that?’

  ‘You’re carrying my child, kitten.’ His expression remained impassive, though there was an acid bite to his tone. ‘If you hadn’t noticed.’

  Stella decided to ignore that for now, taking a couple of tentative steps. No dizziness threatened, so she took a couple more, moving through the doors and stepping out onto the terrace.

  Dusk was settling over the city and, even though it wasn’t particularly cold, she kept the throw wrapped around h
er. The air was full of the scents of the food on the table and the ancient city spread out below the terrace, plus the slightest hint of something warm and exotic. Sandalwood. Dante’s aftershave.

  He hadn’t moved, yet somehow she’d got close to him. Which she hadn’t meant to do at all. His gaze was very dark in the fading light, the sunset picking up the strange gold lights in his eyes and the odd golden glint in his thick, nearly black hair. That same golden light gilded his skin too, making him look like the angel he’d appeared to be back in that apartment.

  A whisper of electricity crackled in the air between them, making her very aware of his height and the powerful body underneath all that cotton and wool.

  You remember that body. You remember what it can do.

  Oh, yes, she remembered. She remembered acutely. And she wished she didn’t. In fact, that had been the one thing she’d wished many times the past five weeks. That she could forget what she’d done and most especially forget what he’d done to her.

  You can’t forget now. You’ll have a reminder for ever.

  Her hand had almost crept to her stomach before she stopped herself, though quite why she’d done it she had no idea. She couldn’t think of the baby, not yet. Not when she still had a job to do.

  Annoyed with herself and her physical awareness of him, she quickly stepped past his tall figure, moving to the table and sitting down on one of the cushioned benches. The food arrayed on small silver platters was simple but looked delicious: cheeses, olives, bowls of salad, hummus and some fresh crusty bread. There were cold meats too, but she couldn’t eat that, or at least not according to the pamphlets.

  A glass of wine had been poured for Dante, while orange juice in a tall glass stood waiting for her, condensation beading the sides.

  She was desperately thirsty all of a sudden.

  As she picked up the juice and took a sip, Dante moved to sit opposite, still watching her with that strangely focused look.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, picking up his wine glass and holding it loosely between his fingers.

  ‘Fine. How long was I asleep?’