Modern Romance March 2019 5-8. Dani Collins
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‘But there is help there ready and waiting if you change your mind. I know I’m probably wasting my breath, but you have nothing to prove. Everyone can see you put the baby above everything else.’ How many men would see that as a problem? An image of some future lover being jealous of Jamie drew his dark brows together in a frown.
‘But you can accept help. You don’t have to be a wonder woman or too tired and worn down to do fun things with the baby.’
Was he telling her that she looked worn down or she wasn’t fun, or both?
‘Or I could help?’ he heard himself say.
The offer made her smile. ‘Do you know one end of a nappy from the other?’ she asked, ignoring the fact that a few weeks back she hadn’t either. It was quite nice to feel superior for once. ‘Stick to what you’re good at.’
‘I’m good in bed, or so someone told me not so long ago.’
The blush on the outside was visible but it was the heat deep down inside that was more of a problem for Flora, who brought her lashes down in a protective shield, but not before Ivo had seen the aching longing reflected in the blue depths.
Inhaling through his flared nostrils, he fought to leash his libido. In another woman he might have imagined the look of silent yearning was a calculated seduction technique, but Flora didn’t have a clue what she was doing, or what power she was wielding.
It made her a very dangerous woman.
‘Do you really think this is an appropriate moment for that sort of...?’
The striking contrast between the silent sensual message of her eyes and the prim, prissy delivery drew a laugh from his throat. ‘Thing?’ he suggested. His shoulders lifted in an expressive shrug. ‘You could be right.’
She decided one concession deserved another. ‘Maybe another pair of hands would be useful. Ones who know what they’re doing, that is.’
* * *
The girl who delivered her meal gave a shy smile as she placed the tray down on the table on the balcony.
‘Nanny Emily says you need the calories, that you’re too stick thin. Me, I think you have a lovely figure,’ she added daringly, straying from the party line.
‘Thank you.’
Flora lifted the silver dome. Whatever was in the herby tomato sauce smelt good. She looked at the label on the wine bottle beside the single glass; presumably Nanny Emily saw nothing wrong in being drunk in charge of a baby.
And it would have taken a brave person to argue with the woman who radiated a reassuring sense of calm and spoke fluent Italian with a Yorkshire accent, which was fascinating to listen to.
She had made the day a lot easier but Flora had insisted that she take the night shift, rejecting the offer of a night nanny.
Finding it weird and a little worrying how quickly she had accepted the existence of night nannies and night nurseries, she had not objected when Nanny Emily had had a bed made up for her on the day-bed in the nursery.
She ate her lonely supper, picking at the food and allowing herself one glass of the really excellent red, which might have been a mistake because she found her thoughts veering towards self-pity. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t got plenty of practice eating alone, and Nanny Emily had offered to stay and keep her company.
Only it wasn’t Nanny Emily she was imagining sitting opposite her in the empty chair.
She shook her head, tossed back the dregs of the wine and wandered back to the bedroom. The whole place was wired for sound; she’d have heard Jamie if he’d cried, but she went to check on him anyway. He was fast asleep, his poor little nose bright red, but when she touched the back of his neck he seemed cooler.
She adjusted the speed on the cooling fan and went over to the neatly made up bed. She didn’t bother undressing, even though someone had brought night clothes from her room. Instead she lay on top of the covers intending to just rest her eyes.
* * *
Apparently, his grandfather hadn’t been sleeping. His valet, a sombre-faced little man who’d been with his grandfather for ever, had to know something was wrong and yet when he asked him what he was doing standing in the corridor at one o’clock in the morning, the man had replied with no expression at all that his master had locked him out, as though it was the most normal thing in the world—it probably was for him.
‘I’m just waiting to see if—’
Ivo shook his head. ‘You go to bed and I’ll check if he wants anything.’
‘I need to put his clothes out for tomorrow.’
‘Go to bed.’
The door was locked, but Ivo found his way in via a side door that led directly to the study. The study was empty but what seemed significant to Ivo was the debris of paper spread across the desk. He’d never seen that desk without neat piles and sharpened pencils in neat rows.
The TV was blaring in the drawing room but it too was empty. He eventually found his grandfather sitting on a stool in the bedroom, staring out into middle distance.
‘Not sleeping.’
Salvatore didn’t seem to find it strange to see his grandson standing there. ‘Can’t seem to these days. I think,’ he added in a conspiratorial tone, ‘they put something in the water. I’m seeing the baby tomorrow. Have they arrived?’
‘Yes, Grandfather, they have. The baby has a cold.’
‘Don’t call the doctors, they’re damned quacks.’
Ivo’s knuckles turned white as he clasped them in front of himself. This was the man who had always seemed like a giant to him growing up, feared, but respected. To see him reduced to this was more than heartbreaking; it was tragic, it was cruel.
There were still people who clearly respected him, perhaps even loved him—what else but love would make someone carry on serving him with unquestioning loyalty?
The man they were loyal to was vanishing.
‘How about you go to bed?’
It was an hour and a half later before Ivo finally left; his grandfather was asleep and Ivo knew he couldn’t offload the responsibility that was his. He needed advice from people who knew about this evil disease.
He needed... He walked past the corridor that led directly to his own suite.
The lights in the nursery were turned down low when he entered. He walked over to the cot where the baby lay and then past it to the day-bed where Flora, fully clothed, lay sleeping.
He stood there for a while looking down at her, conscious of the ache located in his chest as he studied her sleeping face, the delicate contours and fine bones. Her beauty was compelling, the misleading fragility rousing protective instincts even though he knew she was a lot tougher than she looked.
Something inside him responded to her beauty the way it had from the first moment he’d seen her. He’d been as powerless to control it then as he was now, as he felt the swell of a nameless emotion build in his chest.
A shudder passed through him.
What the hell are you doing here, Ivo?
He was in no mood to analyse; emotionally drained dry by the encounter with his grandfather, he was operating on autopilot. Instinct had brought him here and the same instincts kicked in now.
The day-bed was narrow but he slipped into the narrow space beside the wall, slid a hand under her waist and pulled her back into him. Her soft body adjusted into his angles as she turned her head, her eyes opened and she saw him.
‘Ivo!’ Her voice, thick with sleep, was barely more than a husky whisper.
He put a finger to her lips and whispered, ‘Hush.’