The Italian's Demand. SARA WOOD
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looked wary, his eyes narrow and glinting with troubled lights as they searched hers.
‘What do you mean? Is he ill? Physically harmed?’ he fired harshly, startling her.
‘No! He’s physically perfect.’ She winced at the pressure of his hands. ‘Please! You’re hurting me!’
‘Forgive me!’ His body, his grip, relaxed. ‘I do apologise. I was upset. Worried. In my anxiety I didn’t realise what I was doing.’
Gently he rubbed her arms where his fingers had clamped so tightly but she could see that his thoughts were elsewhere.
And she was glad, because she had shuddered at his touch. The strain of the moment was making her super-sensitive—just when she wanted to be cool and composed.
‘You unnerved me,’ he said shortly. ‘For a moment, I feared the worst.’
‘Please don’t worry. He’s gorgeous,’ she assured him. ‘But… Look. Go and see him. Then let me talk to you!’ she begged.
He frowned, then shrugged. ‘All right. Anything. We’ll talk. Briefly. I have a flight booked.’
Verity suppressed a moan. A flight! Not with Lio in tow, she vowed. She’d make sure of that. But at least he’d agreed to listen to her. She had the chance to persuade him that whisking his son off to Italy would be a terrible mistake.
‘Thank you!’ she whispered.
To her dismay she felt her legs buckle. Vittore drew her close again. For a moment she let her head rest against his solid chest, glorying in the protection of his embrace. Men had held her before, but only because they wanted to kiss her. No one had ever wrapped her in their arms and soothed her with stroking fingers, as Vittore was doing now.
Not even her adoptive mother.
Being cherished—however briefly—was a wonderful revelation. She could get addicted to it. But she knew she had to pull away.
‘I’m a fool. Sorry to be so feeble,’ she mumbled, not daring to meet his eyes. Embarrassed, she pushed back her hair and said jerkily, ‘And now I’ve made your shirt wet.’
‘It’ll dry.’
‘I’m usually strong and positive,’ she hastened to explain, absently taking his handkerchief from his top pocket and dabbing at the shirt aimlessly. Till she felt the warmth of his chest beneath, the strongly beating heart beneath her resting fingers. And stopped suddenly. Tucking the hanky back, her face scarlet with confusion, she added without thinking, ‘But…I’m so worried about Lio!’
Vittore’s eyes narrowed in shock. ‘Why?’
Oh, help! she thought, with a silent groan at her stupidity. She’d meant to tell him in a calm and rational way so that he realised she wasn’t making a drama out of nothing.
‘I don’t know where to start. It’s a long story—’ she began hesitantly.
‘Cielo! All these hints, these warnings… Where is he? Show me at once!’ he ordered grimly, on the edge of another explosion.
Somehow she pulled herself together. Squeezed enough air into her lungs to whisper a ‘follow me’, and to get her up the stairs. Guided him to the open nursery door.
‘There,’ she said shakily.
‘Thank you,’ he grunted.
He inclined his head with a sharp jerk to accompany his thanks but didn’t immediately go in. Wide-eyed and distressed, she stared while he stood as still as a statue, the slight shaking of his hand on the door jamb the only indication that he was under considerable strain. And then, squaring his shoulders, he walked into the half-darkened room.
Shaking like a leaf, Verity watched from the doorway. And her entire body weakened as he slowly moved forwards, his eyes intent on the sleeping Lio, every line of Vittore’s body revealing how deeply he must have yearned for this very moment.
‘Lio!’ he whispered on a zephyr breath. His lips parted, his rapt face showing the bitter-sweetness of anguish and joy. ‘Piccolino,’ he murmured tenderly. ‘My little one. Ecco Papa! Daverro…you are so beautiful!’
Tentatively he reached out and touched the side of the cot as if it were made of beaten gold. She could see that he was studying Lio with the kind of detailed attention that only a doting relative would display.
Her heartbeats thundered in her ears. She knew what he was doing. Many a night she’d done the same—and for him, this was the first time he’d seen his son since…her forehead wrinkled in deep thought. Since Lio was about three months old, she estimated. How awful! What a nightmare he’d suffered.
Yes. She’d been right. Every hair of Lio’s gorgeous white-blond head was being meticulously recorded and mentally stored as if Vittore feared his son might be snatched from his grasp again and he’d have to rely on memory alone.
Now the bold sweep of the baby’s brow and the honey-gold skin which was so flawless and kissable. The heavily lashed eyes—black lashes, extraordinarily, probably inherited from Vittore. That dear little mouth, button nose and stubborn chin—oh, so horribly stubborn!
One dimpled hand had flung itself on the wafer-thin pillow in abandon, the fingers curled loosely. She saw Vittore eyeing it fondly, longingly, swallowing as he pushed back his emotions.
Her eyes filled with tears and hot prickles of heat came with them. He would love Lio. How could he do otherwise? It was a wonderful moment, she told herself. A father bonding with his son.
But a nasty little voice inside her scuttled around, wishing that Vittore hadn’t given a damn, had never come, never been enchanted by the most beautiful baby in the whole wide world.
Because Lio mustn’t be parted from her. Not for a long time. His emotions were too fragile. He needed stability and reassurance, not strangers, strange surroundings, the confusion of the incomprehensible words of another language.
So…what was she to do?
Quietly Vittore sank to his knees and reached out, very delicately, to the half-curled fist. Lio’s fingers instinctively closed around Vittore’s hand and he let out a jerk of breath as if that small and relatively insignificant action had seared his heart and branded him forever as a worshipper at Lio’s feet.
It all but broke her heart, too. Watching Vittore so openly adoring his son was one of the most touching and painful things she’d ever witnessed. And she couldn’t bear to stay any longer.
Out on the landing, she mopped at her tears and tried to organise her wayward lungs again so that she wasn’t having to deal with the huge, irregular sobs that hurtled up into her throat and leapt out, taking her unawares.
‘He’s…more beautiful…than I remember. Has grown…so much…’
Vittore’s strangled sentence and mangled words suggested that he, too, had almost lost the power of speech. Knowing she’d crack up if she looked at him, she nodded and gave a quick jerk of her head to invite him downstairs.
They went down very slowly, in total silence. But she felt overpowered by his tension. It clawed at the air, suffocating her with its electrical charge, crushing what little energy she had left. She wanted to howl.
‘Drink?’ she croaked, when they had fetched up in the drawing room.
‘Whisky,’ he husked back. And then barely recognisable came, ‘Thanks.’
Hardly able to stand, she poured two stiff measures, spilling some on the tray. And felt she could down both drinks. Without a word, without meeting his eyes, she handed him the glass. Her hand was shaking. To her amazement, so was his.
Startled, she looked up and felt every part of her body go into meltdown. She’d never seen a man looking radiant before. It was…utterly irresistible, his smile just heart-wrenchingly blissful. Her head seemed to spin.
He