The Spaniard's Baby Bargain

She met the query head-on. “Such as?”

“Marriage.”

“Doubtful. Why repeat a mistake?”

“We agree Christina needs a mother. I’m proposing you take on that role.”

It got her attention, as it was meant to do. “As my wife,” Manolo added, to clarify any misunderstanding.

She just looked at him. “You’re insane.”

“Am I?” He trapped her gaze.

Lovers and friends. Just the mere thought of having him as a lover sent her emotions spiraling out of control.

HELEN BIANCHIN was born in New Zealand and travelled to Australia before marrying her Italian-born husband. After three years they moved, returned to New Zealand with their daughter, had two sons then resettled in Australia. Encouraged by friends to recount anecdotes of her years as a tobacco sharefarmer’s wife living in an Italian community, Helen began setting words on paper and her first novel was published in 1975. An animal lover, she says her terrier and Persian cat regard her study as as much theirs as hers.

The Spaniard’s Baby Bargain

Helen Bianchin

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

MANOLO paid the cab driver, collected his valise, and mounted the few steps to the main entrance of his harbour-front mansion set high in Sydney’s suburban Point Piper.

The front door opened before he could extract his keys.

‘Good evening, Manolo. Welcome home.’

Some welcome, he qualified silently. His home in an uproar, the third nanny in as many months about to walk, and, God help him, a media journalist and cameraman due to descend in less than an hour to begin a weekend documentary he’d agreed to do over a month ago.

‘Santos,’ he acknowledged to the ex-chef who’d served as his live-in factotum for several years, and offered a grim smile as he entered the spacious foyer. ‘What in hell happened this time?’

‘Little Christina is teething,’ the manservant relayed. ‘The nanny resents her own lack of sleep.’

Manolo raked restless fingers through his hair. ‘Where is she?’

‘Packing,’ Santos declared with succinct cynicism.

‘You’ve arranged a replacement?’

‘Tried to. Unfortunately our record with nannies elicited the response the agency has no one sufficiently qualified to fill the position until next week.’

‘Mierda.’ The oath escaped with soft vehemence.

Santos lifted one eyebrow. ‘My sentiments exactly.’

He’d deal with it. Have to. There was no other option. ‘Maria?’ The house-cleaner came in five days a week, but left each day at four to care for her large family.

‘She assures she can give an extra few hours to help out.’

‘Any messages?’ It was merely a general query, for anything important reached him via cellphone or email.

‘I’ve put the mail and messages in the usual place. Dinner will be ready in half an hour.’

Time to shave, shower, dress, then eat before he was due to greet the media crew. But first he needed to see his young daughter, deal with the departing nanny.

He stifled a grimace, and resisted the temptation to roll his shoulders. Hell. The last thing he felt like doing after a long international flight was to exchange small talk with a media representative.

What on earth had possessed him to agree to this personal profile documentary in the first place? Ah, yes, the stipulation it would showcase his favourite charity. Plus the fact the interview would be conducted by Ariane Celeste…a petite ash-blonde woman in her late twenties, whose television persona intrigued him.

The nanny was on her way down the wide curving staircase as he reached the first step, and he paused, waiting for her to draw level.

She was young, too young, he decided as he viewed her set features. ‘Would a bonus persuade you to stay on until I can arrange a replacement?’

‘No.’

He could press the point, imply she was obligated to give a week’s notice, redress his legal right as an employer…but dammit, he wasn’t sure he wanted someone harbouring unwillingness and resentment to care for Christina. ‘Santos will order a cab. My cheque will be sent to the agency.’

‘Thanks.’

Her brief, almost impolite response incurred a dark glance from Santos, which Manolo met and dismissed in silence as he turned and ascended the stairs.

The volume of his daughter’s voice increased as he reached the upper level, and a hand closed over his heart and squeezed a little as he entered the nursery.

The small face was red with the force of her cries, the dark hair damp from exertion. Worse, she’d soiled her nappy, and her legs were pumping in active protest.

‘Por Dios.’ The soft imprecation brought a second’s silence, followed immediately by louder cries that rapidly dissolved into hiccups.

‘Shh, pequeña,’ he soothed as he lifted her from the cot and cradled her close. ‘Let’s tend to you, hmm?’

With competent movements he did just that, trying to coax the distress from those tear-filled dark eyes.

His, he accepted silently. But unmistakably the child of his late wife…a woman who’d connived to bear his name by fair means or foul. And had succeeded, he determined grimly, by deliberately tampering with a prophylactic so she could fall pregnant with his child.

It didn’t sit well, even now, that the sole reason for the pregnancy had been to extract a large financial settlement from him and a meal ticket for life.

The thought of a child of his being a victim of its mother’s scheming was unconscionable. He’d made Yvonne a handsome offer her avaricious mind wouldn’t refuse. Subject to his paternity being proved by DNA, they’d enter the shortest marriage in history to give him legal parental rights, she’d agree to give up the child into his sole custody, then he’d initiate divorce proceedings.

All tied up in a legal contract, on which she had signed her name with a speed that had sickened him.

If there was such a thing as divine justice, he reflected, Yvonne had reaped it. A month after Christina’s birth he’d been in New York when he received the news Yvonne had died in a fatal car accident late at night after attending a party. The man with her had shared a similar fate.

He’d taken the next flight home and picked up the pieces, dealt with the media rumours, a departing nanny and employed another.

The second of four in five months, he conceded with grim cynicism. The longest any one of them had stayed was seven weeks.

The small babe in his arms gave a shuddering cry and latched onto her tiny fist.

‘Hungry, pequeña?’ Her needs held importance over his own, and he crossed to the large storage cabinet, opened it, checked the small refrigerator, witnessed several bottles of made-up formula and breathed a sigh of relief.

A minute in the microwave, and the temperature was right.

He sank into the rocking chair and began feeding his daughter…not a moment too soon, given the desperation with which she took the bottle.

‘Need any help?’

Manolo met Santos’ measured gaze, lifted one eyebrow in silent cynicism, and offered with droll humour, ‘What do you suggest?’

They shared a long history and unconditional trust. A friendship, despite the employer-employee relationship, that went back to the days when he’d become streetwise from an early age in a tough New York neighbourhood where self-survival was a priority. It wasn’t a youth he was particularly proud of, but one that had shaped him into the man he was today.

Hard-edged, ruthless, a risk-taker who’d worked in three jobs, studied, and existed on minimum sleep to gain millionaire status in his early twenties. Something he’d multiplied almost a thousand-fold over the past fifteen years.

No one dared toy with him without paying the price. Love wasn’t an emotion he had been familiar with during any part of his life.

Manolo checked his watch and suppressed a grimace. Fifteen minutes to shave, shower and eat wasn’t enough. So he’d be late.

‘I’ll welcome the media duo when they arrive, show them to their rooms, offer them a drink,’ Santos declared smoothly. ‘That’ll allow you a timely entrance.’

Home security was a necessary addition to any rich man’s property, but the high, elaborate wrought-iron gates attached to equally high concrete walls, the mounted surveillance camera…

Overkill, or did Manolo del Guardo have reason for such hi-tech protection?

‘Who is this guy? Croesus?’

‘Not quite.’

‘Done your homework, huh?’ came the nonchalant response as the car drew to a halt in front of the imposing gates.

‘Can you recall a time when I didn’t?’

Ariane knew exactly who Manolo del Guardo was. She’d compiled a file on him. Together with a detailed list of questions…some of which, she conceded, were guaranteed to evoke a strong, even heated response.

However, that was the purpose of her interview. To dig beneath the surface and provide an insightful and, at times, provocative look at the lives of those who had risen to notoriety and fame.

Not necessarily together, but in the case of Manolo del Guardo there was a connection to both.

‘OK,’ Tony initiated as he undid his safety belt. ‘Let’s go do this.’

State-of-the-art security, Ariane corrected as she observed Tony present his ID tag and driver’s licence for verification.

She was aware of a disembodied voice seconds before Tony slid in behind the wheel, then the gates opened with electronic precision.

Summer daylight-saving allowed a view of the curved driveway with its magnificent floral borders, lush, manicured lawn, sculpted shrubs and topiary.

A beautiful foreground to showcase the del Guardo mansion, Ariane conceded, suppressing her surprise. Information she’d gleaned revealed Manolo del Guardo had bought the property for its panoramic view of the Sydney harbour, gutted the existing home, and rebuilt.

A château, designed in the classical French Napoleonic style, she perceived, and not something reflecting his Spanish roots.

She would kill to capture it on film. Except one of the stipulations set down in granting this documentary was no external photographs of the house were to be shot. Internal only, and/or featuring the view, with the proviso each shot required Manolo del Guardo’s approval.

Who did he think he was? God?

‘Where,’ Tony attempted mildly as the SUV slowed to a crawl close to the main entrance, ‘do you suggest I should park?’

At that moment the huge, elaborately carved double wooden doors swung open and a formally attired manservant descended the few steps.

‘Good evening. My name is Santos.’ The voice was clipped and bore a slight accent. ‘If you would drive to the service entry.’ He indicated the direction with a sweep of his arm. ‘You’ll find the door unlocked. I’ll meet you there. You can unload your gear and store it in the storage room.’

Without a further word he retraced his steps and closed the massive front doors behind him.

‘Should we assume we’ve been subtly made aware of our place?’ Tony arched as he eased the SUV round the side of the house.

It took only minutes to transfer their equipment indoors, then, overnight bags in hand, they followed Santos through to the main foyer.

Priceless travertine marble floors, expensive oriental rugs, objets d’art, original oil paintings, luxurious furnishings, high vaulted ceilings, a breathtaking crystal chandelier, and a wide curving double staircase leading to an upper gallery level. The balustrade was a work of art in itself, its black wrought-iron filigree pattern capped by dark mahogany.

No doubt all the rooms reflected similar accoutrements, and Ariane complimented his taste…or should that be his interior decorator?

‘I’ll show you to your rooms,’ Santos informed as he proceeded towards the staircase. ‘Mr del Guardo will meet with you in fifteen minutes.’ He indicated an open doorway to his left. ‘Please assemble in the informal lounge.’

Formal, informal…casual living? It figured in a mansion this size.

Assemble? There were only two of them, for heaven’s sake…hardly a media horde.

The stair-treads were marble, extending onto a tiled foyer and a circular gallery.

Private quarters to the right, guest suites to the left?

The reverse, she determined as she followed Santos to a suite that topped any luxury hotel accommodation.

Muted pastels blended to perfection, exquisite mahogany furniture, sage-green carpet. A large bed, small desk, telephone, television.

Tony’s suite was situated close by, and equalled her own, although the colour scheme employed various shades of coffee and cream.

‘I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable.’

Tony’s soft whistle of appreciation resulted in a wry smile from Manolo del Guardo’s factotum. ‘I’ll leave you to confer and unpack. Refreshments will be served in the informal lounge.’

‘All this,’ Tony said quietly as soon as Santos had disappeared out of earshot, ‘screams serious money.’

‘The early gathering of which is shrouded in mystery,’ Ariane reminded.

‘A fact you intend to uncover?’

‘If I can.’ She checked her watch, and spared the cameraman a faint smile. ‘Eleven minutes, and counting. See you in ten.’

Unpacking wasn’t an issue, for she travelled light, necessities scaled down to the minimum, and as to freshening up…a quick glance in the en suite mirror revealed her hair was tidy, the soft colour on her lips intact.

The muted burr of her cellphone triggered the usual stab of irritation. Right on time, she perceived grimly, as the call went to message-bank.

Common sense warned she should ignore it. Advice given by her lawyer, endorsed by the legal court, and enforced by the restraining order in place against a man who’d succeeded in making her life a living hell through his delusional psychotic behaviour.

A man who’d kept such traits well-hidden during their brief courtship, she reflected, remembering vividly when they had begun to emerge on their honeymoon.

His desire for children had matched her own. What she hadn’t expected was the level of his disappointment when she didn’t immediately fall pregnant. He had belittled her ability as a lover, damned her with harsh accusations as to her possible sterility…a fact soon endorsed by the medical professionals.

Roger’s physical rage at the diagnosis was the last straw, and Ariane had packed her belongings, moved into an apartment, and begun divorce proceedings.

Instead of removing her from the line of fire, it had pitched her right into it as her life became a nightmare, with confrontations, abusive calls…

Calls which had continued with sickening regularity over time, despite a divorce decree, which merely heightened Roger’s refusal to move on.

Fat chance, she reflected grimly.

Admittedly the confrontations had subsided, but the text messages were a constant, despite her changing her cellphone number numerous times, opting for private listing, yet still he managed to bypass her security measures.

On this occasion the text message was brief, in the shorthand favoured by seasoned SMS users, but nevertheless it sent a chill shiver down her spine.

He knew where she was, who she was with, and the duration of her stay. How? Almost as soon as she asked herself the question, the answer followed…it wouldn’t be too difficult if he employed devious means and managed to bypass the television company’s security.

Something Roger could manage with one hand tied behind his back.

‘Ready?’

The sound of Tony’s voice intruded, and she offered him a slight smile, then collected a slim briefcase. ‘Yes.’

The job at hand demanded her concentration, and she preceded the cameraman into the hallway, choosing a leisurely pace to the head of the staircase before descending to the ground floor.

‘To the right,’ Tony indicated, and she sent him a nod in acknowledgement.

‘Got it.’

Focus, she demanded silently as she switched mind-set and summoned a polite, businesslike smile.

Manolo del Guardo.

She’d seen photographs of the man in newspapers and the social pages of glossy magazines. Read his official biographical details, and scraped the surface of the unofficial.

Yet nothing prepared her for the man’s physical presence.

Or for her own reaction to him.

Tall, with the build of a warrior…albeit a well-dressed one in dark trousers and an equally dark shirt. Hand-tooled shoes, unless she was mistaken, an expensive watch visible beneath rolled-back cuffs.

Dark, well-groomed hair, dark, almost black eyes, and broad sculpted facial features that owed much to his Spanish heritage.

And something else she couldn’t define. A man who’d seen much, weathered more, and developed an impenetrable barrier against any intrusion in his personal life?

Whatever, he resembled a predator indolently at ease. A dangerous one, she perceived, and she fought off the chill shiver threatening to slip down her spine as he moved towards her.

‘Ariane Celeste.’ It seemed important to get the first word in ahead of him. She summoned a brisk smile as she indicated the cameraman at her side. ‘Tony di Marco.’

She extended her hand, and resisted the temptation to hold her breath as he took it firmly within his own, held, then released it before extending the courtesy to the cameraman.

The sizzling heat fizzing through her veins came as a surprise. Accompanied by sensation spiralling from deep within, the combination wasn’t something she coveted, and she deliberately banked it down, capped it, and adopted her usual businesslike façade.

‘I’d like to thank you for inviting us into your home.’

One eyebrow slanted in musing query. ‘The proposal was your own.’ The words held an intonation that was pure New York.

Statistics revealed he’d been born to a single mother in the Bronx who raised him until his mid-teens, when cancer claimed her, leaving him to survive alone.

His success story was legend. His philanthropist interests well-tabled. In his late thirties, he owned homes in various capital cities around the world. Including Sydney, which for the past five years he’d chosen as his base.

‘One you agreed to,’ Ariane responded with polite civility, and glimpsed his faint smile.

‘There were conditions, if you recall?’

‘Of course. I intend to abide by them.’

Manolo del Guardo inclined his head, then he swept an arm towards a clutch of buttoned leather chairs. ‘Please, take a seat. Can I offer you something to drink? Alcohol, coffee, tea?’

Coffee, definitely. The aroma of an expensive fresh brew teased her senses. ‘Coffee, black,’ she requested. ‘One sugar.’

‘Ditto,’ Tony added.

Manolo del Guardo’s dark gaze speared her own, and her chin tilted fractionally. ‘I’ll reserve the alcohol for tomorrow evening,’ she ventured sweetly. ‘I may need it by then.’

Was that a glimmer of a smile, or did the edge of his mouth merely effect a faint twitch?

‘You anticipate I’ll be a difficult subject?’

Oh, he was smooth. Too smooth. And three steps ahead of her.

‘It’s my job to provide an interesting, informative and thought-provoking documentary detailing your rise through the ranks to highlight the man you’ve become today.’

‘Thirty minutes in the life of…’ he indicated. ‘Edited from twenty-four hours of film?’

He did cynical amusement well. But then, so did she. ‘I would hope to wrap it up in twelve.’

Manolo del Guardo poured the coffee, added sugar, and handed them out, then he took a chair opposite.

‘Perhaps, Ariane, you will provide me with an overview of the questions you intend to ask?’

The sound of her name on his lips caused goose-pimples in the most unlikely places. For heaven’s sake, she mentally chastised in self-disgust. Get a grip.

With deliberate control she extracted two printed copies from her briefcase, handed him one, attached her copy to a clipboard, then sat with pen poised.

‘A verbal overview, Ariane.’

There they were again…more goose-pimples. How would he react if she dismissed convention and called him Manolo?

Damn him. If he was needling her… ‘You prefer the informality of a first-name basis?’ She could play, too.

‘As we’re going to be in each other’s company fairly constantly over the next two days, relaxed informality will ease any subsequent tension, don’t you think?’

Yeah, right. No one relaxed in the presence of a predator, animal or human. And instinct warned Manolo del Guardo was dangerous in either guise.

‘It’s my understanding you were given a written overview prior to agreeing to the documentary.’ She tempered her words with a conciliatory smile. ‘However, I’m quite willing to recap.’

Which she did, with a succinct professionalism that didn’t falter. When she was done, she met his studied gaze with equanimity. ‘Is that sufficiently extensive?’

‘Yes. For now.’ He rose to his feet in one fluid movement. ‘If you’ll excuse me? I have matters to attend to. Please help yourself to more coffee. Feel free to enjoy television in the entertainment room situated in the room adjoining this. There is a selection of DVDs, or cable if you prefer.’ He inclined his head to Tony, then turned towards Ariane and lingered a little long. ‘Santos will serve breakfast at eight.’

He moved from the room with the ease of a man in command of the situation.

Dangerous, Ariane accorded silently. Definitely dangerous.

‘Do you imagine that gives us carte blanche?’

Tony, ever the satirist.

‘You’re kidding, right?’ Ariane crossed to the chiffonier. ‘More coffee?’ She refilled her cup, added sugar, and turned to face the cameraman.

She’d worked with him on various assignments in the past, and they’d formed an easy camaraderie that had its base in friendship and a mutual respect for each other’s talent.

‘No, thanks.’ He checked his watch. ‘Anything you want to go over before we hit the sack?’

Ariane surveyed him over the rim of her cup. ‘I want this to be hard-edged, not a piece of condescending fluff,’ she specified, and glimpsed his faint smile.

‘You don’t do fluff.’

No, she didn’t. What was more, she’d earned a reputation for being able to dig deep and get the facts.

So why did she have this niggling feeling it would be Manolo del Guardo who controlled the interview, and not her?

She finished her coffee and returned the cup and saucer to the chiffonier.

‘OK, let’s get an early night.’ Tomorrow she needed to be bright-eyed and mentally alert.

Instinct warned parrying words with Manolo del Guardo would be the antithesis of a walk in the park.

So, she’d go over her notes one more time, explore a few angles and fine-tune some of the questions.

Ariane preceded Tony from the room and walked at his side as they ascended the stairs to the upper floor.

‘See you at breakfast.’ Tony offered a slow smile as they paused outside their adjacent suites. ‘Relax. It’ll be fine.’

She shot him a quizzical glance. ‘Breakfast?’

The smile widened. ‘Sleep well.’

Usually she did, but a leisurely shower followed by an hour with her notes did little to ease the faint edge of tension, and she switched off the bedside lamp in a determined bid to gain a good night’s rest.