Modern Romance April 2019 Books 5-8. Chantelle Shaw
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and world-famous pieces of art hanging from the walls. Mondrian, Dali and—of course—Picasso. She stared at the bright modernist piece with a growing sense of awe.
‘Amelia?’ he repeated. ‘Are you okay?’
She blinked, her nausea nothing to do with the baby in that moment so much as the enormity of what she’d done. Marriage to Antonio was one thing, but until she’d stepped into his lavish home and been confronted with the sight of millions of pounds’ worth of artwork within the hallway alone, she hadn’t completely grasped what she was doing: the world she was moving back into.
‘I’m fine,’ she lied. ‘Just hot.’ And it was a hot day, stiflingly so, but the house itself was perfectly climate controlled. Other urges were responsible for the heat that ran rampant through her veins...
‘Come, have a seat,’ he urged, gesturing deeper into the house. Three steps led down into a sunken living space that showed views of the park they’d driven alongside. The windows were floor to ceiling and several of them slid to open completely, so that the enormous terrace beyond could become a part of this room with ease.
The sofas were white leather, large and soft. She sank into one and wished she hadn’t because it was comfortable and she didn’t want to be at ease. She needed to keep her wits about her.
Antonio disappeared, then returned a moment later with a bottle of ice-cold water. ‘Drink this,’ he said, handing it to her.
‘Yes, sir,’ she couldn’t resist clipping back, diminishing his act of concern to one of dictatorialism.
He crouched down in front of her and, God help her, her eyes fell to his powerful haunches and the way the fabric of his trousers strained across them. He’d discarded his jacket somewhere, presumably in the kitchen or wherever he’d pulled the water bottle from, so her eyes roamed upwards, to the flat tightness of his stomach and, finally, up to his face. He was watching her but his expression gave little away.
‘Do you have any idea how much you’re worth?’
The question surprised her. She brushed it aside. ‘Not precisely.’
He arched a brow, as though he couldn’t believe this, and then shook his head. ‘A small fortune. No, a large fortune. You were worth millions of pounds before you married me, and now? Do you not see that there is some risk you have to accept with being so financially advantaged?’
‘I don’t consider my finances an advantage,’ she said seriously.
‘Obviously, to have been earning a pittance working as a teacher.’
‘How do you know what I earned?’ she asked, lifting a brow.
‘Do you think teachers’ salaries are secret?’
She shook her head. ‘It was more than enough to live on.’
At this, he regarded her through veiled eyes. ‘So you chose not to access your vast trust fund?’
Feeling that there was more weight to the question than was obvious, she stuttered, ‘W-why does that matter?’
‘I’m curious as to why anyone would turn their back on a life of such privilege.’
She considered not answering him, but hadn’t she been the one to insist they go into this marriage with the aim of making it work? And didn’t that involve, at some point, opening the lines of communication? Besides, her feelings were no huge secret. ‘I didn’t want money to define me,’ she said gently. ‘I...found...people treat you differently when you’re an heiress.’ Her smile was grim. ‘I didn’t like that.’
His eyes roamed her face and she hated that he seemed to be reading her as one might a book. But after a moment he straightened, standing and holding a hand down to her. ‘You experienced this when your mother died? And you went to live with your father?’
He wasn’t touching her and yet his proximity was doing crazy things to her body. She was breathless and her tummy kept flopping, as though she’d crested over the high point of a rollercoaster. She nodded, not sure her voice wouldn’t shake if she spoke.
‘But money is just a part of who you are.’
She cleared her throat. ‘The most important part, to many people.’ Her lips twisted. ‘Money, shares—even my marriage comes down to what I own, not who I am.’
At that he frowned, just an infinitesimal flicker of his lips, but he said nothing to dispute her summation. How could he? It was the truth.
‘Do you feel up to finishing the tour?’
She sipped her water and nodded. ‘Yes. I don’t suppose you’ve had a map printed?’ she said, only half joking. The place really was enormous.
‘You’ll get the hang of it,’ he promised, holding a hand out to her. She put hers in his and he pulled her from the sofa. His fingers curled around hers and the pulse that had already been frantic went into overdrive. At this height, her gaze dropped to his lips and her mouth was dry as memories slammed into her from all angles.
‘There are three bedrooms on this level,’ he said, apparently oblivious to the tension that was zipping through Amelia. He gestured to their left as he guided her through the living space. Another step down and they were in yet another entertaining area, this time with a grand piano polished to a high sheen and panoramic views of the city in the distance. ‘One can be for the nanny, and the other will be set up as a daytime nursery for the child.’
His words landed against her like little thuds. ‘What nanny?’
He frowned. ‘The child’s nanny.’ And at her darkening look he grimaced. ‘There is no need to pull that cross face. I haven’t hired anyone—you can do that. I’m simply saying this is where she will be accommodated. The third room along has its own kitchen and bathroom and is perfect for a live-in position.’
‘Why in the world do you think I’d want to hire a nanny?’
He stopped walking, releasing her hand so he could thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘Seriously?’
‘Yes, seriously.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Did I ever say or do anything that implied I mightn’t want to raise my child?’
‘You will be raising him,’ Antonio said with a frustration that belittled Amelia’s feelings and caused anger to surge defensively through her, even when she knew she was possibly being a little over-sensitive. ‘But you’ll have help. Help for sleepless nights, help for long days, help with feeding or if the baby is restless or ill. Help, Amelia, is not the end of the world.’
‘You sold me on this marriage by claiming you’d be a hands-on father and you’re already trying to outsource the raising of a baby who hasn’t even been born yet!’
He expelled a hiss of impatience. ‘I am doing no such thing,’ he said. ‘A nanny just makes sense. When you go to work, who do you imagine will look after our child?’
‘Work?’ She blinked at him, the question so surprising it took her a moment to frame any kind of response.
‘Yes, teaching. I presume you will want to return to work when our baby is older?’
‘I...’ A frown crossed her face. ‘I thought you wouldn’t want that.’
Now it was Antonio’s turn to look confused. ‘Why?’
Good question. ‘Because you’re...you. And I guess I thought you’d want me to be home with the baby, you know, being a mother...’
‘You will still be a mother, I imagine,’ he said, arching a single brow ‘And I do not care if you work or not. My assumption was based on what I thought your preference would be. It’s not a reflection of my wishes.’
‘So you don’t want me to work?’
‘I just said I don’t care either way,’ he said with the