Pregnant With The Billionaire's Baby. Carol Marinelli
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craving he felt to hear her voice filled him with anger at himself along with a sense of helplessness he refused to give in to. He had been fighting the urge to sleep all night with her since the beginning. Never before had he been tempted not to be home in the morning for his son to wake up to because of a woman. He’d known giving in would come with a cost, but he had not expected it to be his sanity.
It had felt right taking her to his bed in the family home. Too right. Now he questioned his intelligence in doing so. For that insanely stupid choice had come at an emotional cost, as well, one he had no right to pay.
If he were a truly honorable man, he would let her go completely. He’d told himself so over and over again while in New York. What did it say for his inner strength that he could not do it?
Certainly it was nothing to be proud of.
Physically distancing himself from her was not the same as regrouped emotions, he had learned. His need to see her grew with each day even as he fought it. He might have won, but he hungered for not only the sound of her voice, but the shiver of her laughter and the feel of her skin. He was like a drug addict shaking for his next fix.
It would be a couple of days at least before he could go to her, too. Agonizing days if those in New York were anything to go by. But Gio had missed his papa and had to be Valentino’s first consideration.
Of course, if he left when his son was sleeping, Gio would be missing nothing.
The thought derailed from its already shaky tracks as he recognized the melodious laughter mingled with his mother’s voice coming from the terrace. He stood frozen, uncharacteristically unsure of what to do. No doubts about what he wanted to do. He wanted to see Faith. But what should he do?
His decision was taken from him by his mother’s voice. “Valentino, figlio mio, is that you?”
“Si, Mama. It is me.”
“Come out here.”
He had no choice but to obey. He might be thirty years old, but a Sicilian man knew better than to dismiss a direct command from his mother. It would hurt her and cause her distress. Hurting those he loved was something he avoided at all costs. Even when it was his peace of mind at stake, like now.
Walking out onto the terrace, he found not only his mother and Faith, but his father and Giosue as well.
His son jumped up from where he’d been dangling his feet in the water beside Faith and came running full tilt at Valentino. “Papa, Papa…you are home!”
“Si, I am home and glad to be here.” He swung his son high into his arms and hugged the wiggling, eight-year-old body to his.
“I missed you, Papa. Zio Calogero should not call you to New York.”
“Sometimes it is necessary, cucciola. You know this.”
His son ducked his head. “Papa! Do not call me that. It is a name for little boys, but I am big. I am eight!”
“Ah, but a man’s son is always his little one,” Rocco Grisafi said as he came and hugged both Valentino and Giosue. “Welcome home, piccolo,” his father said, emphasizing his point with a humorous glint in eyes the same color as Valentino’s.
It had been decades since his father had last called him that and Valentino laughed.
Giosue giggled. “Papa is bigger than you Nonno, how can he be your little one?”
Valentino’s father, who was in fact a head shorter than he, winked at his grandson. “It is not about size, it is about age, and I will always be older, no?”
“That’s right,” Valentino agreed. “And I will always be older than you,” he said as he tickled his swimsuit-clad son.
Giosue screeched with laughter and squirmed down, running to the pool and jumping in, his head immediately coming up out of the water. “You can’t get me now, Papa.”
“You think I cannot?”
“I know it. Nonna would be mad if you got your business clothes wet.”
That made everyone laugh, including Faith, drawing Valentino’s attention like a bee to a rose. Damn, damn, damn. She was beautiful, wearing a bright green top and matching pair of capri pants she had rolled up above her knees so she could dangle her feet in the water of the pool. Her gorgeous red hair fell loose around her shoulders and her sandals were nowhere to be seen.
Even his mother’s hug and greeting got only a portion of his attention as the rest of him strained toward the woman he wanted to take into his arms and kiss the daylights out of.
“So, I hear from my grandson that you and my dear friend are well acquainted already,” his mother said, finally garnering his whole focus.
Well versed in how his mother’s mind worked, he immediately went hyperalert to any nuance and ultra-cautious in his own reactions. She was on a kick to get him married and fathering more grandbabies for her. His argument that it was time for Calogero to do his duty by the family was met with deaf ears.
His mother wanted more grandchildren from Valentino. Full stop. Period.
And now she’d discovered he was friends with Faith.
He had to be very careful here. If his mother even got a hint of the intimate nature of his relationship with Faith, Agata Grisafi would have her oldest son married off before he could get a word in edgewise. “We’d met before, yes.”
“You’d met? I am sure your son said you were friends,” his mother chided with a gleam in her eyes, confirming Valentino’s worst fears.
He simply shrugged, confirming nothing. Denying nothing. Sometimes that was the only way to deal with his mother and her machinations. Deflection wasn’t a bad tactic, either, when he could get away with it.
He’d long ago acknowledged he never wanted to face his mother across a boardroom table. She made his toughest clients and strongest competition look like amateurs.
“More interesting to me is your friendship with her,” he said. “You rarely mention Faith.”
“You are joking me, my son. I talk about my dear friend TK all of the time.”
“Yes, but what has that to do with Faith?”
His mother’s eyes widened and she flicked a glance to the woman in question. Faith was not looking at them, but her shoulders were stiff with unmistakable tension. This grilling had to be causing her stress as well.
“You are not good friends, are you?” his mother asked, in a tone that said she no longer had any doubts about the superficial nature of their relationship.
Relieved, but unsure what had convinced her, he simply said, “We know each other.”
“Not very well.”
He shrugged again, but had a strong urge to deny what felt like an accusation. Though the words had been spoken in his mother’s normal voice, his own emotions convicted him.
Mama shrugged, looking smug, her expression that of a woman who knew what he did not. “Faith Williams is TK.”
“Your artist friend?” he asked in genuine shock. “I thought he was a man!”
“No, she is very much a female, as you can see.” The laughter lacing his mother’s voice did not faze him.
The memory of Faith saying maybe the woman in the statue on his dresser was letting go did. She was the artist of that particular piece of art. When she’d made the comment, she could have been hinting, but more likely she was exposing the true inspiration behind the figure.
Which meant what? That she had a son? “You did not tell me you had a child,” he said to her.
She stood up and faced him. “If you will recall, the father is holding the child,” she said, proving