The Italian's Pregnant Virgin

by Maisey Yates

  “So very typical of you.” There was no real condemnation or venom in her tone. Though, the simple statement forced him to think back to a time when it had not been true. When he had allowed other people to force his hand when it came to decision making. He tried very hard not to think about Jillian. About the daughter who was being raised by another man. A daughter he sometimes caught glimpses of at various functions.

  Just one of the many reasons he worked so hard to keep his alcohol intake healthy at such things. It was much better to remember very little of it the next day, he found.

  He had been sixteen when his parents had encouraged him to make that decision. And since then, he had changed the way he operated. Completely, utterly. He was not bitter at his mother and father. They had pushed him into making the best decision they could see.

  And hell, it had been the best decision. He had proved that fifty times over in the years since. He had not been ready to be a father. But he was ready now.

  “Yes, I am typical as ever. But will we be welcome at your table tonight, or not?”

  “It will be an ordeal. We will have to purchase more ingredients.”

  “When you say ‘we,’ you mean your staff, whom you pay handsomely. I imagine it can all be arranged?”

  “Of course it will be. You will be there at eight. Do not be late. Because I will not wait, and the one thing you do not want, Renzo, is for me to be one glass of wine ahead of you.”

  He felt his mouth turn upward. “That,” he said, “is very true, Mother, I have no doubt.”

  He disconnected the call. Then, he made another call to the personal stylist his mother had used for years, asking that she clear her schedule and bring along a team of hair and makeup artists.

  He was not sure if Esther had enough raw material to be salvageable. It was very difficult to say. The women whom he involved himself with tended to be either classic, polished pieces of architecture, or new constructions, as it were. He had no experience with full renovations.

  Still, she was not unattractive. So, it seemed as though he should be able to fashion her into something that looked believable. The thought nearly made him laugh. She was pregnant. She was pregnant with his child. And while it may take a paternity test on his end to prove that to the world—or his parents—they would never ask for a test to prove maternity.

  Therefore, by that very logic, people would believe their connection. But he would like to make it slightly easier.

  When he went downstairs and found her sitting in the dining area, on the floor by the floor-to-ceiling windows, her face tilted up toward the sun, a bowl of cereal clutched tightly in her hands, he knew that he had made the right decision in bringing in an entire team.

  “What are you doing?”

  She squeaked, startling and sloshing a bit of milk over the edge of her bowl, onto the tile floor. “I was enjoying the morning,” she said.

  “There is a table for you to sit at.” He gestured to the long, banquet-style piece of furniture, which had been carved from solid wood and was older than either of them, and was certainly more than good enough for this little hippie to sit and eat her cereal at.

  “I know. But I wanted to sit by the window. And I could have moved a chair, but they’re very heavy. And I didn’t want to scuff the tile. And anyway, the floor is fine. It’s warm from the sun.”

  “We are going to my parents’ house for dinner tonight,” he said, because it was as good a time as any to broach that subject. “And I trust you will not sit yourself on the floor then.” The image of her crouched in a corner gnawing on a lamb shank was nearly comical. That would upset his mother. Though, seeing as she had been prewarned that Esther was an American, she might not find the behavior all that strange.

  He regarded her for a moment. Her hair was caught up in that same messy bun she’d had it in yesterday, and she had traded her black tank top for a brown one, and yesterday’s long, flowing skirt for one in a brighter color.

  She frowned, her dark brows locking together. “Of course not.” He had thought her face plain yesterday, and now, for some reason, he thought of it as freshly scrubbed. Clean. There was something... Not wholesome, for this exotic creature could never be called something so mundane, but something natural. Organic. As if she had materialized in a garden somewhere rather than being born.

  Which was a much more fanciful thought than he had ever had about a woman before. Typically, his thoughts were limited to whether or not he thought they would look good naked, whether or not they would like to get naked with him, and then, after they had, how he might get rid of them.

  “Good. My parents are not flexible people. Neither are they overly friendly. They are extremely old, Italian money. They are very proud of their lineage, and of our name. I told them that we are getting married. And that you’re American. They are amused by neither. Or rather, my mother is amused by neither, and my father will follow suit.”

  Her dark eyes went round, the expression on her face worried. It was comical to him that she might be concerned over what his parents thought. Someone like her didn’t seem as though she would concern herself with what other people thought.

  “That doesn’t sound like a very pleasant evening,” she said, after a long pause.

  “Oh, evenings with my parents are never what I would call pleasant. However, they are not fatal.”

  “I have an aversion to being judged,” she said, her tone stiff.

  “Oh, I quite enjoy it. I find it very liberating to lower people’s expectations.”

  “You do not,” she said, “nobody does. Everybody cares about pleasing their parents.” She frowned. “Or, if not their parents, at least somebody.”

  “You said yourself, you left your parents. And that they weren’t happy with you. Obviously, you don’t worry overly much about pleasing your parents.”

  “But I did. For a long time. And the only reason I don’t now is out of necessity. I mean, I would’ve never had any freedom if I hadn’t let go of it.”

  There was a strange feeling in his chest, her words catching hold of something that seemed to tug on him, down deep.

  About freedom. About letting go.

  “Well, on that same subject, there is some work to be done if we are going to present you at dinner tonight.”

  “What sort of work?” She looked genuinely mystified at that statement, as though she had no idea what he might be referring to.

  As he stood before her in his perfectly pressed custom suit, and she sat cross-legged on the floor looking like she would be more at home at a Renaissance fair than in his home, it occurred to him that she really was a strange creature. The differences between the two of them should be obvious, and yet, she did not seem to pick up on them on her own. Or rather, she didn’t seem to care.

  “You, Esther.”

  “What’s wrong with me?”

  “What did you plan on wearing to dinner tonight?”

  She looked down. “This, I suppose.”

  “You do not see perhaps a small difference in the way that you are dressed, compared with the way that I am dressed?”

  “Did you want me to wear a tux?”

  “This is not a tux. It’s a suit. There is a difference.”

  “Interesting. And good to know.”

  He had a feeling she did not find it interesting at all. “I have taken the liberty of having some clothing ordered for you.” He lifted his hand and looked at his watch. “It should be here any moment.”

  Just then, his housekeeper came walking into the room, a concerned expression on her face. “Mr. Valenti, Tierra is here.”

  His stylist went by only one name. “Excellent.”

  “Should I have her meet you upstairs with all of her items?”

  “Yes. But in Esther’s room, if you don’t mind.”

  Esther’s eyes widened. “What exactly are you providing me with?”

  “Something that doesn’t look like it came out of the bottom of a bargain bin at some sort
of rummage sale for mismatched fabrics.”

  She frowned. “Is that your way of saying there’s something wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  “No. My way of saying that is to say what you’re wearing isn’t suitable. Actually, it’s perfectly suitable if you intend to continue to wait tables at a dusty bar crawling with tourists. However, it is not acceptable if you wish to be presented to the world as my fiancée, and neither is it acceptable for you to wear on the night you are to meet my parents.”

  At that, his housekeeper’s face contorted. She began to speak at him in angry, rapid Italian that he was only grateful Esther likely wouldn’t be able to decode. “She is pregnant with my child,” he said. “There is nothing else to be done.”

  She shook her head. “You have become a bad man,” she huffed, walking out of the room. That last part she had said in English.

  “Why is she mad at you?”

  “Well, likely because she thinks I impregnated some poor American tourist while I was still married. You can see how she would find that upsetting.”

  “I suppose.” She blinked. “But doesn’t she work for you?”

  “Luciana practically came with the house, which I purchased more than a decade ago. It’s difficult to say sometimes who exactly works for whom.”

  She frowned. “And now what? You’re going to...buy me new clothes?”

  “Exactly. And take your old clothes and burn them.”

  “That isn’t very nice.”

  He raised his brows, affecting his expression into one of mock surprise. “Is it not? That is regrettable. I do so strive to be nice.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Don’t snarl at me,” he said. “And, remember, you have to pretend to be my fiancée. In front of Luciana, and in front of Tierra.”

  She scowled, but allowed him to direct her up the stairs, depositing her cereal bowl on the dining room table as she went. He watched the gentle sway of her hips as she began to ascend the staircase. When she was in motion, her clothing seemed less ridiculous. In fact, the effect was rather graceful.

  There was an otherworldly quality to her that he couldn’t quite pin down. Something that he had difficulty describing, even to himself. She was very young, and simultaneously sometimes seemed quite old. Like a being who had been dropped down to earth, knowing very little about the customs of those around her, and yet, somehow knowing more than any human could in a lifetime.

  And that was fanciful thinking that he never normally allowed himself.

  So instead of that, he focused on the rounded curve of her rear. Because that, at least, he understood.

  When they reached the bedroom, the stylist had already unveiled a rack of clothing. She was fussing around with the hanging garments, smoothing pleats and adjusting the long, complicated skirts on the various gowns.

  “Oh, my,” she said, turning and getting her first look at Esther. “We do have our work cut out for us.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  FOR THE NEXT two hours, Esther was pulled, prodded, poked with pins and clucked at. Well and truly clucked at. As though this woman, Renzo’s stylist, was a chicken. And as though Esther was a naughty chick rather than a woman.

  Renzo had left them to it, and she was thankful. Since the moment he had walked out, the other woman had begun stripping Esther’s clothes off her body and forcing new undergarments, new dresses and new shoes onto her.

  Esther had never felt fabrics like this. She had never seen styles like this on her spare curves. She had been all about experiencing new things since she had left her home, but she hadn’t gotten around to the clothing and makeup. Or hair. That all required a disposable income that she simply didn’t possess. She was more concerned with keeping food in her belly. And clothing herself in the basics, rather than exploring the world of fashion.

  But now she felt as though she had been well and truly educated in which colors looked best on her, which shapes best suited her figure. Of course, most of it had happened in abrupt Italian that Esther could understand only parts of, but still. She could see herself.

  In fact, right at the moment, she couldn’t take her eyes off herself. She was wearing a dark green gown that had little cap sleeves and a plunging V neckline that showed off acres of skin around her neck and down farther. The kind of daring look that would never have been allowed in her family home.

  The skirt was long, falling all the way down to the tops of the most beautiful pair of shoes Esther had ever seen. Of course, they were also the tallest pair of shoes she had ever worn, and she had serious doubts about her ability to walk in them.

  Somewhere in the middle of the clothing frenzy, two men had arrived to work on her hair and makeup. And work they had. Her hair was tamed into a sleek, black curtain, a good half a foot cut off the near-unmanageable length.

  Her eyes, which she had always thought were almost comically large, didn’t look comical now. Though, they still looked large. They had been rimmed with black liner, the corners of her eyes highlighted with gold. They had brushed something onto her cheeks, too, making them glow. And her lips... A bit of pale, burnished orange gloss colored them, just slightly, highlighting them, just enough.

  She looked like a stranger. She couldn’t see so many of the defining features of her face, not the way she usually did. Those dark circles that had permanent residence beneath her eyes were diminished, her nose somehow appearing more narrow, her cheeks a bit more hollow, thanks to a technique they had called contouring.

  And then there was her body. She had never thought much about it. She didn’t have overly large breasts, and for convenience, she typically opted not to wear a bra, sticking to plain, high-necked tops in dark colors that she always hoped concealed enough.

  Even though this gown still didn’t allow for a bra, it created an entirely different effect on her bustline than the simple cotton tank tops she preferred. Her breasts looked rounder, fuller, her waist a bit more dramatically curved, rather than straight up and down. The shape of the skirt enhanced the appearance of her hips, making her look like she almost had an hourglass figure.

  It was strange to see herself this way. With all her attributes enhanced, rather than downplayed.

  The bedroom door opened and she froze when Renzo walked in. She felt hideously exposed in a way that she never had before. Because for the first time in her life she was aware that she might look beautiful, and that there was a man who was most certainly beautiful looking her over. Appraising her as he might a work of art.

  “Well,” he said, turning his focus to the team of people who had accomplished the effect, and away from her, “this is a very pleasant surprise.”

  “She is a dream to dress,” Tierra said. “Everything fits so nicely. And that golden skin of hers allows her to pull off some very difficult colors.”

  “You know all of that is lost on me,” he said. “However, I can see that she is beautiful.”

  Warmth flooded her. Such a stupid thing. To feel affected by this charade. But she wasn’t entirely sure if she cared at all that it was a charade. What did it matter, really? Even playing a game like this was new. Feeling like she was the center—the focus—of male attention was something that she had scarcely gotten around to dreaming about.

  She had been grappling with freedom. Both the cost of it and the gains. With who she wanted to be, apart from everything she’d been taught. Apart from the small rebellions she’d waged hidden in the mountains behind her house, listening to contraband music while reading forbidden books.

  To find it especially appealing to link herself up to a man, even in a temporary way. But now, beneath Renzo’s black gaze, she found something deliciously enticing in it.

  A swift, low kick of temptation hit her hard, making it difficult for her to breathe. And she couldn’t even quite work out what the temptation was. It reminded her of walking past the bakery down in the town she’d grown up adjacent to, and seeing a row of sweets that looked delicious. Treats she knew she wouldn’t be a
llowed to have.

  That same feeling. Of wanting, feeling empty. Of that intense, unfair sense of deprivation that always followed.

  Except, no one controlled her life now. If she wanted a cake, she could buy it and then she could eat it.

  Which made her deeply conscious of the fact that if she wanted Renzo, she supposed she could have him, too.

  But for the love of cake, she didn’t know what she would do with him. Or what he would do with her if she reached out and tried to get a taste.

  She took a deep breath, craning her neck, straightening her shoulders and doing her best to make herself look even more statuesque. She didn’t know why. Maybe to inject herself with a little bit more pride, so she wasn’t just standing there being subjected to the judgment of every person in the room.

  It was so strange being the center of attention like this. She wasn’t entirely certain she disliked it.

  “That dress is spectacular. However, it is a bit too formal for dinner,” Renzo said, sitting down in one of the armchairs that were placed up against the back wall. “What else is there?”

  “Oh,” Tierra said, turning around and facing the rack, pulling out a short, coral-colored dress that Esther had tried on earlier. “How about this?”

  Renzo settled even deeper into the chair, his posture like that of a particularly jaded monarch. “Let’s see it.”

  “Of course.”

  Esther found herself being turned so that she was facing away from Renzo, and then she felt the zipper on the gown give. She gasped, then froze, not quite sure what she was supposed to do next. If she should protest the fact that she was being undressed in front of a man who was a stranger to her, or if that would ruin the charade.

  And then it didn’t matter, because the green dress was pulling down at her feet, and her bare back and barely covered bottom were now fully exposed to Renzo.

  “Very nice,” he said, his voice rough. “Part of the new wardrobe?”