The Consequence She Cannot Deny
Page 10
‘I’m sorry, I don’t think you understand. What I choose to do has nothing to do with you.’
His jaw was almost locked down. ‘It has everything to do with me!’ he hissed. ‘This has everything to do with me! When were you going to tell me? Ever? Never?’
‘However,’ she said, as if he hadn’t even spoken, ‘if you’d prefer me to shout across the room that the father of my child is preventing me from going about my business, I don’t have a problem with that.’
Father of my child...
He took that like a punch in the guts. Actually flinched.
‘Do not play games with me, Coral,’ he said, forcing himself to breathe deeply, to calm down.
Her skin bloomed pink. Her eyes flashed fear and challenge. ‘You think I’m playing games? I’ve had more than enough of you and the Di Viscontis’ games for one lifetime. So if you think I’m going to dance to your tune, you can think again.’
She lifted her folder from the desk and threw her raincoat over her arm.
‘I’ll call you when I’m ready to talk.’
‘I think you’ll find that your plans might have changed. You’re not leaving my sight until I get to the bottom of this.’
‘I’m wondering why you think I’ll listen to a word you’ve got to say.’
Her defiance was unbelievable. Every fibre of his being thrummed with adrenalin. Every muscle tensed as she stood facing him, fighting him.
‘You’ll listen because we’ve got a pretty big problem to solve—and I don’t hide away from problems.’
‘You see that is why—that is exactly why—I didn’t come near you. Because this is not a “problem”—it’s a child!’
She put her hands on either side of her stomach, and as the fabric pulled back he could see exactly how big she was. How big the baby was. How many months had it been growing in her stomach while he was obliviously getting on with his life?
‘My child!’ she went on. ‘And I will not have you or anyone else talking about this as if it’s a “problem” or not wanted. Because this baby is wanted. By me. And that’s all that matters.’
‘Keep your voice down!’
‘Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do!’
Two spots of colour had sprung to her cheeks and her voice rose as she spoke. He’d need to keep her calm or she might do something stupid. He’d already seen her temper in full flow.
‘You’re flying off the handle,’ he said, as calmly as he could. ‘What I am trying to say is that I will stand by my responsibilities. I will do the right thing. You’re not on your own.’
‘Well, forgive me if I jumped to the wrong conclusion. I wonder what could have possibly made me think otherwise?’
‘I’m jumping to some conclusions myself. You turn up here—at my magazine—looking for a job, out to here with my child—or so you say—having had with no intention of telling me! Just what goes on in your head?’
‘If I’d known this place was anything to do with you I would never have set foot in it.’
‘Well, thank God for that, then. Otherwise I might never have known!’
‘I hardly think you can claim any moral high ground. Your family is rotten to the core.’
‘Correction. It’s your family. Which I’m sure the DNA test will confirm. I’m only a member of that family through bereavement and a legal process, remember?’
‘What DNA test? I don’t need to prove anything to anyone.’
‘Yes, you do. And you will. Believe me. And then I’ll take whatever action is necessary. You’ve already proved you’re untrustworthy, so you’d better get ready for court. I’m no Giancarlo Di Visconti, cara. I’m a Rossini, and if that’s my child it’s going to be one too. Capisce?’
He knew he was overplaying his hand, but how dared she? How dared she think that she was the only one who mattered here? From this moment onwards they would be playing by his rules.
‘What are you trying to say?’ she said, the slow dawn of horror now rising over her face.
‘I’m saying that you will not leave my sight until I know if that child is mine. And if it is it will be brought up properly—as a Rossini. Not in some bohemian bedsit in London while you wait on tables for a living.’
‘You might need tests, but I don’t. I’m perfectly aware of the fact that I’ve got the world’s worst father. But it’s something I want to forget. Did I come running for his name or his money when I found out? No! And I don’t want yours either!’
‘If that baby is mine you don’t have a choice!’
‘My baby doesn’t need a father,’ she said. ‘Certainly not one like you.’
She had no idea—truly, no idea what she was saying. Didn’t she realise that a father’s role was to protect and cherish and keep his wife and child safe? Had she any idea what world she was walking into as a Di Visconti, pregnant with a Rossini baby? In Italy there would be a media frenzy to end all others. And as for Salvatore...
There was absolutely no other option than to take control of the situation. If he was the father, his life changed from this moment on. For ever.
He paced towards her. She stood proud, her head back, flushed and feminine, fierce. But she was vulnerable. Completely vulnerable. He could see it in the tremble of her lip and the flicker of fear in her eyes.
He would make sure no harm came to her. And he would lay down his life for his child! But he had to be sure.
‘Is. That. Baby. Mine?’ he breathed.
And he waited for the longest second of his life.
She stared at him, and then it happened.
All the fire in her voice and her eyes flared and went out, doused by the tears that surged and flowed.
‘Yes,’ she sobbed. ‘Yes. And I did nothing wrong. Nothing wrong. But you threw me out of your house like a common whore. You’re horrible! Horrible!’
The words were choked in her throat, but they were like spears in his heart. Her eyes were blazing. Her creamy skin was flushed and dewy. Her lips were plump and red. And her breasts and her tummy were round and full under her clothes.
She was pregnant. And he was shouting at her.
She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘You’re my baby’s father.’
He moved to where she stood, hunched and sobbing. He put his arms around her and pulled her rigid body close. He didn’t care if she pushed him away. He had to feel the life within her, had to hold her safe. To let her know that he would never treat her badly again.
‘I’m so sorry, Coral. I know that what happened was awful, and if I could turn the clock back I would. I wish you could understand... We thought you were up to something. Salvatore was sure you were going to try to blackmail him and ruin his wedding. He distrusts everyone, and I accepted what he said. I didn’t question it, and I’ve been furious with myself ever since.’
‘But you were so cruel. You made me hate you,’ she sobbed.
‘I know,’ he said, holding her, feeling the fight die within her.
He rocked her as her tears soaked his shirt. Her face was buried in his chest, her voice thick with grief. He held her steady as she told him over and over that she hated him.
And then he felt her lips on his skin, his neck, and his lips found her brow and her cheek. And then together they found each other’s mouth and he devoured her sobs and her anguish. He kissed her gently and yet greedily, and felt the fire of his lust flash swiftly through his veins.
This woman was special. He’d known it then and he knew it even more surely now. He tugged her closer, absorbing the softness and the warmth of her body, full with their growing child.
She was kissing him back, and for a second he felt the world fall into place. Then she pushed. Her hands flew to his chest and she pushed with all her might.
‘Get away from me!’
‘Coral, don’t fight me. I’m going to help you. You’ll have whatever you need. You’ll want for nothing.’
‘No, no, no! I don’t want anything to do with your family. You threw me off your island and now suddenly you want to get involved? All those years my mother could hardly put food on the table. And now you want to know? I don’t think so!’
She sobbed out the words and grabbed at her coat and bag. His stomach lurched. He understood how she must hate them all, but there was no way he could let her go.
‘Coral, this stops now. I understand that you’re upset about your father, but don’t take me on too. I know I treated you badly. I made a mistake and I will right it—I promise you.’
He was ready for more drama, but surprisingly she didn’t shout, didn’t scream. When he finally moved a chair beneath her and urged her to sit down she didn’t even pull away. He stood there, listening to her deep, soulful sobs. She couldn’t hate him any more than he hated himself right now.
‘I’ll get you some tea. Would you like me to call anyone? Your mother, perhaps?’
She shook her head, said nothing. He spoke to the side of her head, which she now held in her hands, elbows on her knees. The folder of her work had spilled its contents onto the floor. He bent to pick it up.
‘I know you don’t trust me, Coral. And I think I understand why you didn’t seek me out. But this is too big and too important. We can work out the past later, but right now we have to work out the next few hours. OK?’
She still said nothing.
‘Look, you can ignore me, but you can’t ignore this. We have to make sure you’re in good health. Are you still living in Islington?’
She glanced at him, drew her eyes away and shook her head slowly.
‘I have an address for you there. If you hadn’t come for the interview today I was going to look you up.’
She shot him a glance through bleary, tear-soaked eyes.
‘Let’s not pretend we’re star-crossed lovers, Raffaele. I’m not so naïve any more.’
It wasn’t much, but it was a start. At least she was communicating.
She turned now, took the folder from him and started to reassemble it. She still looked pale and drawn and desperately sad.
‘The car is here,’ he said, checking his phone. He reached out to help her to her feet but she shrugged him off.
‘I’m coming with you because I have no real choice. Capisce?’
She grabbed her bag and her coat, walked to the door, down the steps and past the desks to the front door. Once on the street, she faltered. She looked around like a cornered deer, and for a moment he thought she was going to run. He caught her eye and in those seconds saw her fear and her hurt, and he felt the weight of what he was doing more keenly than if he had thrown her behind bars. It was going to take a long time for her to trust him, but it was absolutely the only thing he could do.
He watched as she sat down heavily and buckled the seatbelt over her belly. As he closed the door he saw her hand, bunched into a fist and clutching the cotton fabric of the tunic she wore. She looked straight ahead, saying nothing.
As they drove his mind swirled with a thousand thoughts. He had never come to any decision about parenthood. Had only thought that if the right woman came along he might marry her and then together they would plan to have a child. Not like this.
This wasn’t just a pregnancy. It was the joining of two families—each of them with estates that would tie up their legal teams for years. Giancarlo’s will wasn’t even settled, and Salvatore’s rage would be immense when he learned that he had a half-sister, and soon a half-niece or nephew. Legally they would all be entitled to something, and though Coral might be saying now that she wanted nothing, when she realised the world she was entering that might change.
His mind fired thought after thought as he battled to do what he always did and take hold of the universe, reorder it before it got even worse. But it felt as if he was wading through a river of mud, trying to get everybody safely to the shore, while they were all kicking and screaming and trying to swim in the other direction.
He reached across to close his fingers around Coral’s tight little fist, and as his skin touched hers she glared at him and pulled her hand away.
OK. It would take time. He knew that. Just as he knew that he would do everything he could to win her round. There was no way he was going to let any harm come to Coral and his child. She might think that fathers were superfluous, and that was understandable after what she’d been through. But from his point of view the presence of a father was non-negotiable.
His child needed him. And he would damned well be there. Every day from here on in.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE DOCTOR CLOSED his case. Two deadened clicks—one for each lock. He stood up, forced out some more breezy words, and then turned and walked away. Another click—the door this time. Footsteps retreated on rugs and wood until finally the house was in silence.
Coral lay back on the bed, closed her eyes and placed her hands on her tummy. She felt her baby—her boy—and recalled with a wave of sweet joy the little foot that she had seen on the screen, each little toe, the gentle bend of the ankle, his knee and hip and shoulder. His arm curled up and his tiny fist in a ball by his face, eyes closed in sleep.
What was he dreaming about? Was he having some innocent dream or had he heard all the things that had been said this morning? Had the baby felt all the strain, as she had done? Had he known his father was there? Heard the low steady burr of his raised voice, drilling out his icy instructions and orders?
And then he’d tried to make it all better by holding her close, making her feel just for a moment that he cared about her.
Of course he didn’t. It wasn’t love for her that had caused him to ‘press pause on the rest of the week’, as he had instructed his assistant. It was his duty because she was Giancarlo Di Visconti’s daughter. Nothing else.
Giancarlo Di Visconti was dead and buried and past reproach. He would never be held to account. So his first lieutenant would sweep up the mess of the father just as he’d swept up the mess of the son.
The only thing she hadn’t expected was that he really seemed to care about the baby. No, she hadn’t expected that at all...
She opened her eyes and stared at the canopy above her head. It was a beautiful room, she had to admit, with the most lovely bed. Each brass post disappeared into a silk and muslin cloud. The mattress was high and she knew if she let herself curl up in it she’d feel like a fairytale princess.
To think that she’d lived across town in poverty while this was here. All the years of not having, of feeling trapped in their apartment, dreading the creeping chill of winter and the suffocating humidity of summer. Her mother’s anguish over paintings that wouldn’t sell, part-time jobs and summer jobs. Holidays that were a train ride, never a plane ride away.
Outside the traffic flowed in hushed lines past the park. She would be able to see it if she got up and walked across the Persian rug to the huge Georgian windows that looked over the private garden to the road and the park beyond. There were no noisy neighbours here, no litter on the pavements, no faulty lights in the shared hallway or damp on the walls.
Here, the scent of money hung in the air—more pungent than the fragrant bursts of lilies dotted in vases along the hallway.
She didn’t bother to look round when Raffaele entered, but she felt his presence and became alert, alive. And hated herself for it.
‘I had a word with the doctor. Everything seems to be well.’
The quiet, low voice. The slightest Italian accent. Utterly enigmatic.
She rolled onto her side so she didn’t need to look at him.
‘I’ve printed some of the scans of the bambino,’ he said, ignoring her. ‘It makes it all seem even more real.’
She knew exactly what he meant. The last scan she had seen had been weeks and weeks earlier. A tiny bundle—all head and little limbs. Today’s scan was incredibly clear and in colour—every detail somehow conveying the proud, quiet dignity of their baby boy. There was no doubt he looked like his father. But she wasn’t going to acknowledge that to him. The less she could share with him the better. They weren’t some happy little family, cooing over their growing baby together. They were at war, no matter how he tried to dress it up.
She stared through the panes of glass to the bare branches of the trees that screened the house from the road. Trees that children could climb...
‘Did you grow up here?’ she said suddenly. ‘You and Salvatore?’
He paused.
‘Not Salvatore, no. This house belonged to my mother. It was held in trust for me until I was twenty-one. We spent most of our time at the villa in Rome before I went to school, but Christmas was always here in London. Why do you ask?’
She sat up on her elbows, glanced over her shoulder to where he stood, framed in the doorway, exuding that magnetic something that drew her to swing her legs to the ground and move closer to him.
‘It occurred to me that you might have been growing up here while I was five miles away across town. And how different our lives must have been.’
She didn’t mean to let bitterness glaze her words but it did, and the taste seeped into the air between them.
‘I hear what you’re saying. And I’m the first to admit that I had privilege, cara. But would I rather have had my own mother and father alive and live in poverty with them? Yes, I would.’
If he’d slapped her she couldn’t have felt his reproach more sharply.
‘I’m sorry. I never thought of it like that before. Of course you must have missed your own parents.’