Hot-Blooded Italians: Sicilian Husband, Unexpected Baby / A Tainted Beauty / Marriage Scandal, Showbiz Baby!

CHAPTER EIGHT

EMMA spent a long, sleepless night—wondering how she could have been so stupid as to let herself be seduced by Vincenzo and lay herself open to all kinds of misinterpretation. She knew what his whole crazy, Sicilian attitude towards women was like. He would have considered her to have behaved wantonly—hadn’t that much been obvious in the icy way he had looked at her? From the way he had dropped his hands from her body as if he had been holding something dirty and contaminated?

He clearly felt nothing but contempt for her, and if she continued to behave in a way which would only increase that view, then she was just weakening her own position.

Because she should never for a moment forget who she was up against; a man who represented the full might of one of the richest and most powerful families in Sicily. She had seen the light of battle flare in his black eyes—and Emma wasn’t stupid. She had something which Vincenzo had yearned for all his adult life—his son and heir—and if they were no longer together as man and wife, then wouldn’t he go all out to try to win custody?

As the pale light of dawn crept through the curtains she pulled the duvet close round her shivering body wondering how she could ever have been so naïve not to have anticipated this. Had she thought when she first went to him that Vincenzo might behave like a civilised human being—when he had never behaved with a shred of civility in his life? Because everything was black and white in Vincenzo’s world. Women were sluts or they were virgins. Mistresses or wives. And she was never going to be able to change that.

So what would he do next?

As she climbed wearily from her bed, she tried to put herself in the mindset of her estranged husband. Would he try to prove her as an unfit mother? Would he attempt to use against her the very thing that she had gone to him for help with?

Pulling on a pair of old jeans and the thickest sweater she could find, Emma washed her face and hands and then went into the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee before Gino awoke.

He slept later than usual. Which was absolutely typical, she thought. The one time she could have had a bit of a lie-in and here she was—prowling around the cottage, her nerves stretched tight as an elastic band, unable to settle to anything until at last Gino woke and she was able to hug his warm little body close to her.

She was mashing up some banana for his breakfast when the doorbell rang and she suddenly realised that she hadn’t even brushed her hair properly. Still, at least Vincenzo wouldn’t think that she was going on an all-out effort to…to… Emma frowned. How had he put it? To use her pale sorcery. But that was the trouble with Vincenzo—even when he was insulting you, he put it in such a way that it made you want to melt when you thought about it afterwards.

So don’t think about it, she told herself fiercely as she pulled open the door, her defensive expression dying when she saw it was Andrew standing there, a bowl of eggs in his hand and a rather rueful expression on his face.

‘Morning, Emma,’ he said gruffly, holding the bowl out. ‘I’ve brought you these. One of the farmers sent them over and I thought you might like them.’

Emma blinked. ‘Oh. Well, thanks, Andrew—how lovely. We’ll have them for tea.’

He was looking rather pink about the ears. ‘Er, is it all right if I come in for a minute?’

Surreptitiously, Emma glanced at her watch. It was still before nine—Vincenzo was unlikely to turn up this early. And even if he did, she was separated from him, wasn’t she? She happened to have a life—and that life didn’t include him or his old-fashioned view on how she should live it.

‘Of course,’ she said brightly. ‘I’m just about to feed Gino—do you want to put the kettle on and we can have a cuppa?’

He filled the kettle up and then turned to her, shifting from one foot to the other as if he were standing on something hot. ‘It’s just that I feel bad about announcing a rent increase when I know you can’t really afford it. So why don’t we forget we ever had that conversation?’

Emma blinked. ‘Forget it?’

‘Sure. After all,’ he continued, with a shrug, ‘you’re a good tenant—and the place is pretty ropey, really. You can carry on as you were, Emma—I shan’t mind.’

Emma turned her grimace into a smile as she poured out two steaming mugs full of tea and handed him one and then sat down to start feeding Gino. If only he had told her this before—then she needn’t have ever gone to Vincenzo, cap in hand and asking for some kind of divorce settlement.

But that wasn’t really true, was it? She had needed to speak to Vincenzo some time and maybe the rent increase had just brought matters to a head. She couldn’t keep running away from him all her life, burying her head in the sand and avoiding the inevitable—because it had been inevitable that Gino would one day meet his father.

But at least Andrew’s words had taken the sting and the urgency out of her situation. Removed that terrible, tearing feeling of panic.

‘That’s very sweet of you, Andrew—and I appreciate it.’

‘No. Don’t mention it,’ he said gruffly, stirring his tea for a moment before looking up, his eyes curious. ‘One of the groundsmen said there was a big car here last night.’

Emma’s paused, the banana midway to Gino’s mouth, before he grabbed for the spoon himself. ‘Is there something written into my tenancy agreement which forbids that?’ she questioned lightly as she helped him spoon it in.

‘Of course not. It’s just that you don’t often have visitors, and I—’ His head jerked up.

Gino’s squawk from the high chair meant that Emma hadn’t heard the knock at the door until it was repeated loudly—and so she barely noticed that Gino was shoving a fistful of pureed banana into her hair.

‘There’s someone at the door,’ said Andrew unnecessarily.

She wanted to tell him to leave—to spirit him away, or smuggle him out of the back door, until she realised that she was thinking like a madwoman. Hadn’t she vowed to be strong? So stop acting as if you’re doing something wrong. Andrew was her landlord and he had a perfect right to be here.

She pulled the door open to find Vincenzo standing there and her heart leapt in her chest. For this was a casual Vincenzo—a different creature entirely from the office billionaire who had seduced her so effectively yesterday. Today he was dressed in dark jeans and a dark jacket. An outwardly relaxed Vincenzo—and somehow all the more dangerous for that. Like a snake asleep in the sun who, when disturbed, would lift its head and stare at you with its deadly and unblinking eyes.

‘Good morning,’ she said, thinking that the very greeting was a complete fabrication—because what was good about this particular morning?

He didn’t acknowledge the welcome—his gaze instead flicking over her shoulder to survey the scene behind her. The baby sitting in a high chair, surrounded by mess—his attention caught by the noise at the door—and he was staring directly at Vincenzo, his dark brown eyes huge in his face.

Vincenzo felt a hot, almost painful curve around his heart as he stared back at the little boy with the same fascinated interest. But he was inhibited from doing what he really wanted, which was to walk straight over there and to pluck him out of the high chair, because there was a man—yes, a man—sitting in Emma’s kitchen with his feet underneath her table and drinking a cup of tea. What was more, he had not risen to his feet as one of Vincenzo’s employees would have done.

‘And who the hell are you?’ he demanded icily.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Andrew.

‘You heard me. Who are you and what are you doing here, in my wife’s kitchen?’

‘Your wife?’ Andrew jumped to his feet and turned to Emma—his expression one of dismay and accusation. ‘But you told me your husband wasn’t on the scene any more!’

‘Oh, did she?’ came the dark, silky question from the other side of the room.

This was like a bad dream, thought Emma. She swallowed. ‘I think perhaps it’s best if you go now, Andrew.’

Andrew frowned. ‘You’re sure you’ll be okay?’

It was sweet of him to have asked—but, with a slight feeling of hysteria, Emma wondered what solution her landlord was about to offer to help get her out of this situation. Throw the simmering Sicilian off the premises perhaps—when he looked like some dark and immovable force? She managed a smile. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said reassuringly.

An awkward kind of silence descended while Andrew let himself out of the front door and the moment it had closed behind him Vincenzo turned to her, his face a study in repressed fury.

‘You have been sleeping with him?’ he demanded in a low voice, aware that there was a child in the room.

Angrily, she flushed. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think that he does not look man enough to cope with your voracious sexual appetite, cara—although it might explain why you were so unbelievably hot for me.’ His black eyes scorched into her. ‘But you haven’t answered my question.’

‘Of course I haven’t been sleeping with him,’ she breathed, hurt and indignant and shaking. But he had now turned away—as if he couldn’t care less what the answer was. As if asking it had been nothing but careless sport designed to embarrass and humiliate her. And he had managed, hadn’t he? Achieved just that with flying colours.

Instead, he was walking towards the high chair, where Gino was still staring up at him with the engrossed attention which an eager member of the audience might give to a stage hypnotist.

He stood looking down at him for one long, immeasurable moment while his heart struck out a hard and heavy beat. ‘Mio figlio,’ he said eventually in a voice which was distorted with pain and joy. ‘My son.’

Inwardly, Emma flinched at the raw possession in his voice even as she marvelled that Gino—her son—was not backing away from Vincenzo, the way he usually did with strangers.

But Vincenzo is not a stranger, is he? He is as close a blood relative as you are. And maybe Gino recognises that on some subliminal level.

‘Vene,’ Vincenzo was saying softly, holding out his hands. ‘Come.’

To Emma’s astonishment, the baby blinked and played coy a couple of times—leaning back against the plastic chair and turning his head from this way to that as he fixed Vincenzo with a sideways glance. But Vincenzo didn’t push him, just continued to murmur to him in the soft, distinctive Sicilian accent until at last Gino wriggled a little and allowed Vincenzo to scoop him out of the high chair and into his arms.

Gino was letting someone he’d only just met pick him up and cuddle him! Emma’s world swayed. She felt sick, faint and, yes…jealous. That Vincenzo should so effortlessly win the affection of everyone he wanted. ‘He…he needs a wash,’ she said shakily, blinking her eyes furiously against the sudden prick of tears, barely able to believe what she was witnessing.

There was a pause as Vincenzo flicked his gaze over her. At her matted hair and pale face—broken only by two spots of colour at the centre of her cheeks. At the faded jeans and bare feet—worn with a bulky sweater, which so cleverly concealed the petite curves which lay beneath.

He did not know of another woman who would dare to appear before him in such a careless state, and when he looked at her objectively, it was hard to believe that she was his wife. And yet those big blue eyes still had the power to kick savagely at his groin. To twist him up inside. ‘And so do you, by the look of it,’ he bit out.

Knowing that she was about to cry, Emma fled into the bathroom—locking the door behind her—and turning on the shower to drown the muffled sound of her shuddered breathing. She let the water cascade down onto her face to mingle with her tears as her troubled thoughts spun round like a washing machine. What had she done? What had she done? Opened the floodgates to Vincenzo’s involvement—not just in her life, but in the life of Gino, too. And he had come rushing in with a great dark swamp of power and possession.

At least there was enough water in the antiquated tank for it to be piping hot—and as she washed the banana out of her hair it struck her that for once she was not running against the clock. She normally showered while Gino was sleeping, and often the water was tepid.

Of course, in her distress she hadn’t brought a change of clothes in with her. So she wrapped herself in the biggest bath towel and wound a smaller one around her damp hair and self-consciously walked back through to reach her bedroom, steeling herself to see Vincenzo in her sitting room. But he hadn’t even noticed her come in. He had other, far more important things on his mind.

Still carrying Gino, he was walking around the small room, stopping to peer at small objects—a photo of her mother here, a little clock she’d inherited there. And all the while he was speaking softly to Gino in Sicilian, and, directly afterwards, in English. And Gino was listening, fascinated—occasionally lifting his chubby little finger to touch the dark, rasping shadow of his father’s jaw.

He’s teaching him Sicilian, Emma realised, acknowledging the sudden bolt of fear which shot through her. But standing wrapped in a towel was no way to remonstrate with him, even if remonstration was an option—which she guessed it wasn’t, not really.

Black eyes looked up over the silky tangle of Gino’s head and met hers and he found anger vying with desire. But there was a child in his arms, a child who would be confused and frightened by any display of anger, and so Vincenzo forced himself to ask her a cool question. ‘Good shower?’

‘Lovely, thank you.’

He held her gaze as he let desire in. ‘Icanimagine,’ he said softly, eyes now drifting to the soft swell of her breasts visibly curving beneath the thin material of cheap towel.

Now she was shivering with more than cold and Emma turned her back on him, hating the mixed messages he was sending out to her and the way they were making her feel. It was as if he wanted to weaken her in every way he could—first, by being proprietorial with Gino and then by that unspoken, sensual scrutiny. She felt in a complete muddle—as if the Emma of yesterday had disappeared and now a stranger had taken her place.

She dressed quickly, choosing a pair of clean jeans and a different sweater; her normal, daily, practical and presentable uniform, which never in a million years could be described as flattering. But Emma was glad. She was unwilling to ‘dress up’—to look as if she might be trying to make an impression on him. Or have him accuse her of playing the temptress again.

Only when she’d brushed her hair and given it a quick blast of the dryer did she take in a deep breath and go back into the sitting room, where Vincenzo was now standing with his back to her, holding Gino and looking out down the garden at the spreading chestnut tree, as she herself had done a million times before.

Gino heard her first, for he turned in his father’s arms and then gave a little squawk and began to wriggle towards her and Emma held out her arms and took her son, burying her face in his curls to hide the great rush of unknown emotion which was threatening to swamp her.

His arms empty without the baby’s warm weight, Vincenzo walked back towards the window, his heart beating very loud and very strong, more shaken than he had anticipated. And when he turned to look at Emma, to look at her cradling the child in what he considered to be a completely over-the-top way, his mouth hardened.

She glanced up, trying to read his expression but failing as she encountered a stony black gaze which gave absolutely nothing away. But why should that surprise her? Apart from those first few, heady months—when they had been rocked by the power of sexual attraction masquerading as love—she never had been able to tell what was going on in that head of his. He didn’t ever tell her. He didn’t do confidences, he’d once told her. As if talking about feelings made a man look weak.

‘Do you have any coffee?’ he questioned unexpectedly.

She felt wrong-footed. ‘Probably not the kind you’re used to. I keep it in the fridge,’ she said, and then pointed at one of the kitchen cupboards. ‘There’s a cafetiere in there.’

‘So you have not adopted the foul, instant-coffee habit of your countrymen,’ observed Vincenzo caustically as he began to set about making a pot with the air of a man to whom the kitchen was unfamiliar territory.