Italian Mavericks: Expecting The Italian's Baby. Andie Brock
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move past it and him. She knew how special last night had been and recognised the danger of souring future relationships by subjecting them to death by comparison. The idea of becoming the dating equivalent of a soccer-team star, who got to be thirty and still considered the winning goal he scored in high school the pinnacle of his life, filled her with horror.
And now he was standing there and the lie was cruelly exposed. Her protection was stripped away and the truth was looking at her through his eyes, his beautiful eyes.
Time was not a factor. His simply wasn’t a face you forgot. Each angle and plane of his face, the subtle shading of his deep voice, the scent of his skin...it was imprinted, indelibly imprinted.
‘Very few people can carry off the open-mouthed look.’
Lara closed her mouth with an audible snap.
‘I didn’t say you were not one of them.’ To his mind Lara Gray could not look anything less than luscious if she spent a day trying.
‘I don’t understand what this little stunt is meant to achieve. Actually,’ she said, lifting a hand to ward off any potential glib or even outrageous explanation, ‘don’t bother. I don’t want to know. Maybe you’ve got nothing better to do with your time, but I have.’
‘You’re not even slightly curious to find out why I tracked you down?’
‘No,’ she lied.
His sardonic disbelieving smile made her grind her teeth.
‘I don’t want to talk to you.’
He shook his head in sympathy. ‘I’d prefer to take you to bed too but—’ He stopped, a rumble of laughter vibrating in his chest as he registered the blush on her face that continued to deepen. ‘Let’s go somewhere you can cool down.’
She ignored his hand and tucked her own firmly behind her back. ‘I am not going anywhere with you. I have no idea what this is about, but my flight could be recalled at any moment and I need to be there.’ She didn’t have the money for another ticket.
‘Relax, you’ll hear from the bar when it’s called.’
‘But—’
‘If you miss it I’ll provide alternative transport.’
‘Oh, really? I suppose you have your own private jet?’
‘Yes.’
Her jeering mockery faded. ‘I’ve no idea why you’re acting like some weirdo stalker, but if you have actually got something to say to me you can say it here.’
‘And have you pass out on me? You’re pale as a ghost. Did you have lunch?’
‘I don’t pass out.’
‘Or breakfast?’
Her stomach gave a loud rumble and, ignoring his grin, she muttered, ‘All right, a coffee.’
* * *
Raoul led her to a table in a corner of the crowded bar-lounge, looking out of place among the groups of cheerful tourists. Without waiting for him to pull out her chair, she sat down.
Raoul shrugged, walked around to his side of the table, and before he had taken his seat a waitress was there, eager to please.
‘Coffee. Grazie... Lara?’
‘Just a coffee for me.’
He responded in Italian this time and the girl bustled away after delivering a melting smile. ‘I ordered you sandwiches.’
‘Why did you ask if you were going to ignore me?’
A moment later, the waitress returned with their drinks and a plate of sandwiches, which she put in front of Lara, who picked one up. It would be churlish to waste good food just to prove a point.
She took a couple of bites; the slices of smoked salmon were interlaced with cucumber. ‘So what is this about?’
‘I have a proposition to put to you.’ He saw her face and sketched a smile. ‘Not that sort of proposition.’
Knowing her face was burning, she stirred her coffee and slung him a look of lofty disdain. ‘I can’t imagine I’d be interested in any sort of proposition you made.’
Unless it involved taking me to bed. She guiltily pushed the thought away and dug her even white teeth into the softness of her full upper lip, focusing on the pain, not on the ache low inside her.
‘My grandfather is dying.’
Lara’s eyes flew to his face. Her wary antagonism was crushed under a wave of inconvenient empathy. He looked as composed as he sounded, but she could intuitively sense the writhing emotions behind his mask.
She didn’t know what she’d expected to hear but it hadn’t been this. ‘I’m sorry.’
His glance stilled on her face and she looked back at him through green eyes soft with sympathy. She hid behind a tough-cookie attitude and he could see why; it was inevitable that individuals who emoted that much frequently got taken advantage of.
Wasn’t that what he was doing?
He shook off the moment of uncharacteristic doubt. He was not using emotional manipulation. This was a business deal, not a conventional one, admittedly, but he wasn’t appealing to her soft heart, just her pragmatism.
‘So am I.’ He leaned back in his seat, his chest lifting as he exhaled and admitted, ‘I’ve not really got used to the idea yet.’
‘Has he been ill long?’ she asked quietly. She’d been a child when she’d lost her father but that had been sudden. Was it worse, she wondered, to know it was coming?
At least then you got the chance to say goodbye— something she’d always wished she’d been able to do.
‘He’s never been ill—at least, if he was I don’t remember it.’ His voice drifted away as he sat there seemingly lost in his own thoughts.
‘Are you very close?’
He seemed to consider the question. ‘He was more of a father to us than our father ever was.’
‘So you have brothers and sisters...?’ Maybe it was the lone-wolf thing he had going on that had made her assume he was an only child or even that he had emerged fully grown with designer stubble and a macho ego!
‘I had a brother, Jamie.’
‘Sorry,’ she said again. His body language made it obvious that he wasn’t comfortable with discussing personal matters, which begged the question, why was he? Raoul did not strike her as the sort of person who did anything without a reason.
‘I’m not telling you this because I’m canvassing the sympathy vote. The fact that I’m the last Di Vittorio standing is relevant.’ Perhaps he ought to tell her that people around him had a tendency to drop like flies, but on balance he decided this might not be a vote winner.
He paused and appeared lost in thought again as Lara, curious despite her determination not to be, sat there willing him to continue.
‘Family matters to my grandfather. He feels strongly about continuity, about living on in his children, passing on his genetic blueprint through the generations, a form of immortality, I suppose. When I was married he assumed that I would provide the next generation.’
‘You’re divorced?’
‘My wife died. There were no children.’
His voice was a little dead as he gave her the information, just the bald facts that probably hid a world of pain.
‘What is this about?’
‘My grandfather’s dying wish.’
‘Which is...?’ she prompted.
‘To have his name live on in my child.’