The Latin Lover's Secret Child. Jane Porter
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the top of her glossy head. “I’m staying, Ana.” He whispered the words in her ear. “I promise.”
Lucio became conscious that they were still standing on the front steps of the villa with Renaldo. A woman in a white uniform hovered on the other side of the door. Everything was so public, he thought. Nothing was ever private anymore.
“Now can I come in, Ana?” he asked, tipping her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Will you let me come inside, and take my coat off, and just be with you?”
Ana’s heart melted at the warm intensity in Lucio’s dark eyes. This was the way he used to look at her, this was the way he used to love her. With so much passion. And so much conviction. This was the Lucio who was going to take her away.
“Yes.” She slid her hands into his, happiest when touching him. “Come inside, but I warn you, this place is just the kind of house you hate.”
“It’s not so bad,” he answered, his voice almost strangled.
She saw his mouth tighten. She knew he preferred simple things and this villa was typical of the Galván’s aristocratic lifestyle. “It is. It’s pretentious. Packed with antiques and knickknacks and expensive art. But we don’t have to stay here much longer.”
He let her lead him through the long entry. “And where would we go?”
Ana wanted to shrug, answer something light and frivolous. But she didn’t feel light on the inside. She felt wild, driven. Obsessed.
“Ana?” he gently prompted.
She balled her hands into fists. “I want him back. I need him back.” Her voice dropped. “Oh Lucio, I have to get him back.”
Lucio’s brow furrowed. His dark eyes met hers. “Who, Ana? Who are you talking about?”
“The baby.”
“What baby?”
She pressed her fists to her chest, trying to contain her fear. “Our baby.”
Gingerly he reached out to touch her cheek. “Ana, there is no baby. You miscarried.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did. We don’t have children.”
She hated the rush of wild emotion. “We do. We have a boy.”
“Negrita, listen to me—”
“How can you not remember?” She searched his face, searched for a sign, some light, a hint of recognition. “Lucio, what’s wrong with you? You have to find our baby. You have to rescue our baby.”
Lucio couldn’t answer. He didn’t know how. His hand fell from her face.
It was worse than the doctor had said, he thought. Far worse. The doctor had said prepare yourself, but how to prepare oneself for this?
Lucio swallowed the lump filling his throat, struggling to come to grips with the shock. This wasn’t Anabella. This couldn’t be Anabella.
And then she whimpered softly. “Could we sit down?” she asked, her voice growing hoarse. “Somewhere dark, please.”
He immediately reached for her. “Your head hurts.” He lightly touched her forehead with his fingertips. She felt cool and yet just the touch of his fingers to her temple made her wince.
He glanced up, saw that the nurse had quietly materialized. “The nurse is here—”
“I’m fine. Really. I just need to sit.” But she was flinching at the sound of her own voice and her shoulders arched, rising towards her ears.
Lucio couldn’t bear for her to suffer, and she was suffering. He took her hand in his. Her pain was like a live thing and it spread through her hot and consuming. He felt it in her skin, in her pulse, in her mind.
He swung her into his arms and carried her up the stairs to her bedroom. “There must be something they can do, something they can give you,” he said, carrying her to her bed and setting her down on top of the burgundy silk coverlet.
Ana rolled over onto her side. “I don’t want anything.” She looked up at him and her eyes were dark. “The medicine makes me sleepy, and I can’t sleep right now. I have to think—”
“How can you think when your head hurts so bad?”
“But I have to. I have to get ready to go for him.”
Him. Not this crazy mumbo jumbo again. Lucio suppressed a sigh, feeling as if he’d stepped into a dense fog. But he had to find his way clear. He had to find a way to help her.
Crossing the floor, Lucio went to the window and drew the drapes to cut the glare. “Better?” he asked as the spacious bedroom darkened.
“Much.” She managed a small smile but he felt how her body seemed to shimmer with a ceaseless, restless energy.
He returned to her side and sat down, next to her on the bed. She pressed her face to his thigh, her hand covering his knee. “Stay,” she whispered, sagging against him, part fatigue, part relief.
“Of course.”
“And you’re not angry?”
She was so tired, he thought. The wild horse had nearly trampled her down. He smiled at her a little, still calming, reassuring. “Why would I be angry? You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“But the baby—” She broke off, shook her head and looked at him with fear, with need, with painful vulnerability, but there was something else in her eyes now. Trust.
It was as if the last five years had fallen away and she was a child again, the seventeen-year-old he’d met who craved love.
He stroked her long hair back from her face. “I would never be upset with you about losing the baby. I promise, Ana.”
Grateful tears burned her eyes and she nestled closer, feeling his warmth, letting his heat creep into her. “I can’t believe you’re really here,” she whispered. She carried his hand to her cheek, and held it as if it were a life preserver in the middle of the sea. “It’s like a dream.”
He sat with her until she slept, and once he was sure she was peacefully sleeping, he headed to the door but once there, he couldn’t make himself leave. He stood in the doorway of her darkened room and looked at her where she lay curled on her side.
He could just make out her profile in the dim light. Her face was as perfect as it ever had been—fine, straight nose, slightly turned up at the end, full mouth, firm chin, high cheekbones and wide brow—but it wasn’t her beauty that moved him. It was just being back here, being so close to her again and after all these months, after all this time when he’d thought he was reconciled to living without her, he found himself burning with emotion.
Burning with need.
What the hell had happened to them? Where had everything gone wrong?
Suddenly Lucio resented Ana’s illness and helplessness, resented the fact that she didn’t remember—couldn’t remember—while he felt everything.
He felt the anger, the guilt, the sense of betrayal. He felt loss and grief and rage because dammit, he’d wanted this to work. He’d given everything to their relationship and why hadn’t it been right?
Worst of all, he still missed her so much. Physically missed her. He missed holding her, feeling the shape and weight of her, missed her softness against his body. And it hurt, too, that she’d been the one to say enough, to say she’d had all she wanted, all she needed, and now she was ready to move on with the rest of her life.
What was the rest of her life?
What was his?
Shaking his head, he left her room and quietly closed the door behind him. The nurse was seated in a chair outside Anabella’s room and she looked up at him as he passed. “Everything