The Price Of A Dangerous Passion (Mills & Boon Modern)

by Jane Porter

  It was what it meant to be a Ricci. Passion. Perseverance. Commitment.

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHARLOTTE SLEPT BADLY, her sleep restless with dreams of Brando. Kissing him, making love with him...fighting with him, hiding from him, dreaming one dream after the other.

  And now he was back at her hotel, driving the same classic sports car he’d driven to her hotel last night. It was a sleek glossy black car, a collector’s car no doubt, a car that matched his sophisticated style and impossibly handsome face.

  “I left the roof up,” he said, “but if you prefer, I can put it down.”

  It was a beautiful early June day, the warm weather hinting at the summer heat to come. There would be no rain, nothing but gorgeous blue sky all day. “Is it too much trouble to put it down?” she asked.

  “Not at all. You won’t mind all the air?”

  “I’d like it. It might help blow the cobwebs out of my brain.”

  “You didn’t sleep well?”

  “I’m having a hard time adjusting to the time change. I don’t usually. Not sure what’s changed,” she said lightly.

  “I do,” he answered, “and I think you do, too. Maybe it’s time to stop pretending everything is ‘normal.’ Nothing is normal. Nothing will ever be quite the same again, either.”

  She stiffened, even as dread swept through her. What did he mean by that? It sounded so ominous, and yet Brando wasn’t negative, or pessimistic. Perhaps she was just overreacting. Perhaps her exhaustion was making her overly prickly. “There will certainly be some changes,” she answered, “but nothing problematic. Nothing I can’t handle,” she added.

  “That’s a good attitude,” he said.

  Charlotte fought the urge to scream. She was losing control, wasn’t she? It wasn’t her imagination. Brando was slowly seizing the upper hand, bit by bit, smile by smile, encouraging word by encouraging word.

  She’d come to Florence expecting tension, and drama, especially after the results of the paternity test came in, but Brando was anything but tense, or angry. He wasn’t cold or detached. He was kind...calm. Solicitous. He was managing her, versus the other way around, and that would end badly. She knew it’d end badly. She’d seen how he worked, and how he turned situations to his advantage.

  She should have had a better plan.

  She should have remembered how smart he was. How strategic.

  “I was worried about you flying at this stage of your pregnancy,” he added, his hand light on her back as he walked to his car, and yet the possession was clear. He was acting as if she was his, and the baby was his. He was acting as if they belonged to him. But they didn’t.

  She stepped away from him and gave him a pointed look. “No touching,” she said under her breath. “Remember?”

  “Cara, I do this for every little old lady, including my grandmother.”

  Annoyed, she bit her tongue and gave her head a short, sharp shake.

  “I might as well be a cane,” he added soothingly.

  She wasn’t soothed. Her nerve endings tingled. She felt hot all over, hot and incredibly aware of him, as well as aware of the night spent together. It wasn’t all that long ago. Just months ago. And it had been the most sensual, memorable night of her life, a night so full of passion and sensation that she didn’t think she’d ever be the same.

  She certainly didn’t think she’d have to be here, now, dealing with him.

  She’d allowed herself to do everything because she hadn’t thought she’d ever see him again...

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Why are you aggravated?”

  “I’m not aggravated. And I’m not a senior citizen, Brando, nor am I in need of assistance. I’m strong, and capable, and really happy not being helped,” she answered tersely, hating herself for wishing his hand would return to her lower back, wanting the press of his fingers against the curve of her spine. Her body felt even more sensitive now that she was pregnant, and for some reason her libido was even stronger than before. She dreamed erotic dreams at night. During the day, she found herself wanting more, fantasizing about making love, and since that wasn’t an option, she’d pleasured herself once, and the orgasm was so intense she’d worried that she might have hurt the baby, and so she hadn’t done that again...even though she still craved touch and sensation. Satisfaction.

  Brando opened the car’s passenger door, and she settled into the sports car’s low seat, feeling decidedly awkward. Her center of balance was changing, and her narrow skirt hindered her movement. Brando waited patiently, though, before closing the door behind her even as the hotel bell captain finished putting her bags in the trunk of the car.

  Brando then went to work putting the convertible top down, which required just a couple of adjustments on his part, and then he was done.

  “Was the international flight taxing?” he asked, returning to the driver’s side and sliding behind the steering wheel.

  He was dressed in a pale gray linen shirt and gray linen trousers, the shirt open at his throat, sleeves rolled back on his forearms. His throat and chest were tanned, the same burnished color of his arms. It took effort for her to focus on his words and not his lean, powerful body.

  “I flew business here so I had my legs up,” she answered, “and that definitely helped. But this is probably my last international trip until the baby arrives.”

  “Do you know if we’re having a boy or girl?” he asked, shifting into Drive and pulling away from the hotel to merge into traffic.

  She tensed all over at his use of we and she glanced at him, studying his profile as he focused on the congestion ahead caused by a truck delivering sleek modern leather couches to an interior design store. The truck was blocking a lane and drivers were honking. “Does it matter to you if I’m carrying a boy or girl?” she asked.

  “No.”

  She wasn’t sure she believed him. “Would you really love a daughter as much as the son?”

  “I might love a daughter more,” he said with a faint shrug.

  She didn’t know why but his words made her heart ache. Her father hadn’t been unloving, but he hadn’t been particularly affectionate, or attentive. She’d always thought if she was a horse he would have loved her more. He adored his horses.

  She’d once wanted to be adored. She’d wanted him to miss her the way he’d missed them when away for too long.

  He never did, though, and her mother had never really missed her, either, not even when she’d gone to Switzerland for boarding school.

  Charlotte had learned to fill her time, and she’d learned the art of distraction. Don’t think too much, don’t feel hardly anything. Work, focus, achieve.

  Those three things had become her mantra, and her mantra had made her successful.

  She could still be successful as a mother. She’d certainly be a more devoted parent than either of her parents. She’d make sure her child knew he or she was loved and wanted.

  Finally, Charlotte would have a family of her own. Finally, she’d have someone she could shower with love...

  “There are no disadvantages to being a girl.” Brando’s deep voice drew her attention.

  Charlotte glanced at him, heart suddenly too tender. “But there might be with a boy,” she said.

  He lifted a brow. “How so?”

  She adjusted her seat belt around her middle and tried to make herself more comfortable. The interior of the sports car was small and Brando was close, his hand resting on the stick shift just inches from her knees. She could smell whatever he was wearing—aftershave, cologne, body spray. It was light, and sexy and very masculine. Between his heady scent, and the warmth radiating off him, she felt painfully aware of him. “I don’t want to quarrel. I’m too tired today to quarrel—”

  “Why would we quarrel?”

  “Because if I’m carrying a boy, you might feel differently
about being...involved. It might influence you somehow.”

  “How so?”

  She swallowed hard. “This isn’t the best time. I don’t want to do this now—”

  “Do what? Discuss the future?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that’s why you’ve come to Florence.”

  “But you’re taking over, dictating everything—”

  “You’ve had six months to be in charge. It’s time I had a say, don’t you think?”

  She gritted her teeth, battling her anger, battling fear. She wasn’t just losing control, she’d lost it. She’d been a fool to come to Florence without a proper plan, a fool to think it’d go any other way. For a split second she wished she’d never come to Italy, wished she’d never told him about the pregnancy, but just as quickly as the thought came, she smashed it. It wasn’t right, or fair, not to Brando, and not to their child. Their child had a right to a father as much as a mother. “I hate this,” she whispered. “I hate all of it.”

  He said nothing for a long moment, his jaw hard, his eyes narrowed as he concentrated on the road. And then after an interminable silence, he said, “You hate me.”

  Her eyes burned. It hurt to swallow. “I don’t hate you.” Charlotte blinked back the sting of tears. “I hate that we’re going to be playing tug-of-war with our baby. I hate that he or she will never have what I always dreamed of—a stable, unified, loving family. A family that stays together, sticks together, through thick and thin.”

  Silence followed her words. Charlotte knotted her hands in her lap, feeling raw and exhausted. Was it only yesterday she’d arrived in Florence? Was it only yesterday she’d knocked on Brando’s door, feeling confident of her plans?

  “It doesn’t have to be acrimonious between us,” Brando said, breaking the silence. “There’s no reason we can’t be unified, and supportive of each other, and when the baby is with me, he or she will have a supportive and stable family. A loving family. The Riccis might argue over succession within the business—”

  “Might argue? Brando, you all hired me because your fights were making headline news.”

  He shrugged dismissively. “We’re Italian. We’re passionate.”

  “It’s more than being passionate. Your family is in the middle of a battle over leadership, and the Riccis don’t separate business from family. You might call yourself the Ricci family, but it’s truly about the Ricci business.”

  “Your point being?”

  “I don’t want my child to be dragged into that. I’d hate for our child to become part of that scramble for power and position.”

  “Any child of mine will automatically become of the Ricci family, and thus the Ricci legacy. Boy or girl, he or she will play a role in the family—”

  “Business,” she added.

  His broad shoulders shifted again. “You’re right, in my family, it is one and the same. Family. Business. We’re one family working together to succeed.”

  “Except you all weren’t working together. You were at odds with each other—”

  “We were, until you came along and helped shift the focus on what we weren’t doing right, onto what we were doing right. You helped us focus our vision, our mission and our internal communication.” He glanced at her, lips twisting. “We’re stronger than we were before, thanks to you.”

  His words gave small comfort. She put a hand to her taut belly, uneasy, and worried. “Will an American child be welcomed into your very Tuscan, old-world family?”

  “You’re not American. You’re British.”

  “I like living in America, though. I plan on remaining there, raising the baby there, so yes, the baby will be—”

  “No.”

  She stiffened at his brusqueness, and for a moment there was just silence before she said quietly, “You like America. You have many American friends, particularly in Napa Valley.”

  “Yes, I do, but I’ll never agree to my child being raised apart from me. That’s not even an option.”

  Her pulse kicked up a notch. “Since we’re being honest, tell me. What would you do with a small baby?”

  “The same thing you’d do.” He glanced at her, features hard. “I’m an uncle to a half-dozen nieces and nephews and we get together a lot. I’ve been part of their lives since they were born.”

  “Being an uncle isn’t the same thing as being a father. Parenting is full-time work—”

  “Which is why we should do it together, not forcing the baby to bounce between us.”

  “Well, the baby won’t be bouncing anywhere for quite some time. He or she will need to be with me since I’ll be nursing.”

  “I have no desire to separate the baby from you, but no Italian court will decide to give you custody based on breastfeeding.”

  She gripped her hands tightly together to hold back the whisper of panic. She hadn’t flown all this way to lose her child. She hadn’t begun this trip to be told she’d have only partial custody, either.

  In her heart, she believed that babies belonged with the mother. It was her mother who did all the heavy lifting when Charlotte was small. Well, her mother and the fleet of nannies and housekeepers who were employed to keep the family running.

  She blinked hard, fighting emotion she didn’t understand.

  He shot her a swift glance. “You should have come to me right away, you know. You should have told me the moment you knew you were pregnant. Instead you’ve had all this time to imagine life the way you wanted it to be, versus what it must be.”

  “You don’t have to want the baby,” she said under her breath.

  “But I do.”

  She turned away, glancing out at the river, and the light bouncing on the bridges and elegant historic buildings. “During the ultrasound, I was asked if I wanted to know the baby’s gender, and I said I didn’t, because it doesn’t matter if I’m expecting a boy or girl. I’m simply excited about being a mom, and the goal is a healthy baby.”

  “Agreed,” he said. “But that baby is going to need a family. A healthy family. Neither one of us can do that on our own.”

  Brando drove, concentrating on the road, and Charlotte watched the city suburbs give way to rolling hills of gold and green.

  For the next forty minutes, Brando drove the narrow, winding road that connected Florence to Siena, a road famous for its scenic beauty through hills and valleys dotted with villages and vineyards, while Charlotte admired the beautiful landscape. This was the renowned Chianti Valley, an area famous for its wines, olive trees and medieval villages.

  She knew about his estate, but had never been there, and she was curious about the undulating hills, and the picturesque villages, each with its own bell tower rising above tiled roofs.

  They were between villages when a tire blew in a loud pop and the sports car pulled sharply right. Brando slowed, and parked on the shoulder of the road, before climbing out to inspect the damage.

  “It’s just the tire,” he said, opening her car door to speak to her. “Stay put. I can change it while you’re in there.”

  She watched him roll his sleeves higher on his arms. His arms were sculpted of corded muscle. His skin the loveliest shade of bronze. “I heard it was dangerous to do that,” she said, remembering how his shoulders had been equally powerful, and his torso endless lean muscle.

  “You’ll be safer in the car than standing on this narrow road.”

  “But what about you?” she asked, shading her eyes to look up into his face.

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me. You’re the one I’m worried about.” He closed the door firmly and she turned in her seat to watch him go to the boot and pull out the spare tire, the jack and tools.

  He made changing it look effortless—well, except for the part where he lay on the ground, partway under the car to check the jack’s position, and then he was out again and th
e car was up, the lug bolts off, tire swapped, lug bolts replaced and car back down. Brando stowed the flat tire, dusted himself off and returned to the driver’s seat, flashing her a wry smile. “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long,” he said.

  His olive cheeks had a dusky flush and his eyes were bright from exertion, but he looked sexier than ever, and she thought a man who knew how to do things with his hands was incredibly appealing.

  “That was impressive,” she said, smiling at him as he buckled his seat belt.

  “You must be easily impressed, then.”

  “Actually, I’m not. I have very high standards.”

  He shot her an amused glance. “Then how did I get you into my bed last New Year’s Eve?”

  It was her turn to blush, and she felt herself go hot all over. “Can we blame the champagne?”

  “You weren’t drinking that night. Everyone tried to hand you a glass of something. You refused.”

  “I rarely drink.” She wrinkled her nose. “It’s not that I don’t like alcohol, but I’m a control freak.”

  “I see. You lost control, hated yourself for it and then promptly ghosted me.”

  “I didn’t ghost you.”

  “What would you call it, then? No calls, no emails, no communication?”

  “We didn’t have sex to start a relationship. We had sex because we were attracted to each other and we were curious to see if it would be good.”

  One of his black brows lifted mockingly. “I hadn’t realized I’d left you disappointed.”

  “You didn’t. You know that night was incredible. But it wasn’t something that we could do again. I was hired to work for your family, not bed the rebel son.”

  “I’m no longer the rebel son. I’ve become the good son.”

  “Then why do Enzo, Marcello and Livia all work together at the Ricci headquarters in Florence and you have your own office? And why are they no longer involved in the wineries, and you alone manage that arm of the Ricci business?”

  He shrugged. “Because I have an affinity for the land, and they don’t.”