Читать книгу Brazilian Nights - Сандра Мартон, Carol Marinelli - Страница 14

DANTE stood on the wraparound terrace of his two-story Central Park West penthouse, a cup of rapidly cooling coffee in his hand.

Was it possible he’d been away from New York for only two days?

It felt more like weeks.

Either autumn had suddenly overtaken the park or he simply hadn’t noticed it, now that the leaves of the maples, oaks and sycamores far below were turning rich shades of crimson, brown and gold. Up here the mums and asters and who-knew-what-else his sister Isabella had planted in big redwood tubs had burst into vivid bloom.

Izzy would be thrilled.

She’d planted them last spring. Even when she was a kid, she’d loved to dig around in the dirt. Cesare would spend hours in the fenced-in yard behind the house in the Village, planting, then feeding and watering his annual crop of tomatoes. Izzy would accompany him, down on all fours tending the scraggly daisies that seemed the only flowers hardy enough to survive the Manhattan air. Now, all grown up, she’d taken one look at Dante’s terrace after he’d bought the penthouse, gotten a dreamy look and said she could just imagine how perfect some plantings would be here, and here, and here….

So he’d let her poke and plant, he’d teased her like crazy and the result had been a summer of roses and daffs and other stuff, and now here came autumn.

His first reaction, seeing the blaze of color this morning, was to grab the phone, call her and say, “Hey, Iz, so maybe playing in the dirt isn’t such a bad thing.”

“It’s called gardening, you idiot,” Iz would say, and laugh.

Except, he couldn’t tell her.

She’d want to come by, and how could he let that happen because if she did stop over, if any of his family did, how in hell would he explain the woman and baby living in the guest suite? Would he say, “Hi, good to see you and by the way, this is Gabriella—no, I don’t think I ever introduced you to her before, Mama, and oh, by the way, this is her baby who might, emphasis on the ‘might,’ also be mine and yeah, that ‘might’ is important because somehow or other, I blew straight past the whole DNA/blood-test/paternity-test thing…”

Right. That would work out just fine. His mother would pass out, his sisters would shriek, his brothers would tell him he was an idiot, and his father would laugh and say that obviously, the trip to Brazil had not taught him anything about negotiating.

Dante took a long breath.

Maybe the problem was he’d come up against someone who was a hell of a lot better at negotiating than he’d ever been.

He raised the coffee cup and drank. Maybe caffeine would help. God knew, something had to. What in hell had he been thinking yesterday? Better still, had he really convinced Gabriella to come north…or had she played her role so well that she’d convinced him to ask her to do it?

At this point he honestly didn’t know.

The only certainty was that yesterday’s brilliant plan was clearly today’s potential disaster. Either he’d been manipulated big-time or he’d lost his sanity. However he looked at it, the truth was that he didn’t have any idea how he could have thought bringing her and the kid home with him would be a good idea.

How could it be?

The only positive thing was that nobody knew about this mess. And he had to keep it that way until it was resolved. Not easy, considering the presence of the woman and child sleeping in the guest suite, but if he moved fast, he could do it. Nobody even knew he was back. His office didn’t expect him for a couple more days. Neither did his brothers. He’d given his housekeeper a few days off because he hadn’t known exactly how long he’d be gone; he’d told his driver the same thing. The night doorman had been on duty, ditto the concierge, but why would anybody question them?

At least he had some breathing room.

As for why he’d acted so foolishly…he had no ready answer. Maybe he’d been punchy from lack of sleep. From all the flying back and forth. From the shock of seeing Gabriella again. From looking at a baby and being told it was his.

Dante slugged down more of the coffee and shuddered. It was cold, oily and acrid but he drank it with grim determination. He’d brewed the pot hours ago, knowing he needed the jolt, trying to come up with a plan. Gabriella, thanks for small favors, was still sleeping. She and the baby. At least, he assumed they were because there hadn’t been a sound from the guest suite. He’d taken her there as soon as they’d stepped from his private elevator and there hadn’t been a whisper from it since.

Not that they’d exchanged so much as a word during the flight home.

“There’s a small room in the rear of the plane, senhor,” the attendant had told him in hushed terms when she saw Gabriella board with a swaddled infant in her arms. “The lady might find it more comfortable.”

That was where Gabriella had spent the entire flight, curled up on a sofa in that room, the kid asleep in a contraption that looked more like the kind of pack frame he’d used hiking in Alaska than a thing meant for carrying a kid but, hey, what did he know about babies?

Nada, he thought grimly, niente, zip. He didn’t have one fact in his head about babies beyond that they were small. And that was how he’d always liked it. He’d never been one of those guys who got off thinking about someday having children. Truth was, he always had to fake it when somebody showed him baby pictures. You had to say something, he understood that, and his standard response was “Cute,” accompanied by a big smile, the same as he’d done that day in the lobby.

Was it his fault children, especially babies, looked pretty much alike? Or that they didn’t much interest him at this point in his life? Someday, maybe, but surely not yet.

Which led to the distinct possibility that he might have moved too quickly in this entire situation, and yes, that was absolutely the word for it even though he knew better than to use it again with Gabriella.

Simply put, he’d made an enormous mistake.

The plan he’d started with—sitting down with Sam Cohen, arranging for paternity tests and, if they panned out, establishing the necessary trust funds—had been the right one. So what if the bank had sold Viera y Filho to Ferrantes? A ranch, as Sam had so reasonably pointed out, was just a ranch. He could have found another place for Gabriella, left her there while he flew home and arranged all the rest. She’d have been safe from Ferrantes, safe from poverty…

And five thousand miles from him.

A muscle knotted in his jaw.

A little distance between them would have had nothing to do with his Doing The Right Thing. There was no reason for her to be here where he could see her face. Smell the unique delicacy of her perfume. Know that she’d spent the night just down the hall from his bedroom…

“Dammit,” he muttered, and strode from the terrace into the living room.

That was precisely the kind of crap that had brought him to this point. How could a man cling to reason when a woman who had once shared his bed sighed as he kissed her? How could he think straight when she returned his kisses as if she’d been aching for them? That had always been one of the things that had gotten to him about her, the way she’d made him feel as if he was the only man who’d ever mattered. That he was important to her.

That she’d been becoming important to him.

Dante snorted as he dumped the rest of the coffee into the kitchen sink.

Why think about all this stuff again, especially since it was ridiculous? She was beautiful and bright; they’d had fun together and she was amazing in bed. End of story.

That she could still affect him, still push the right buttons, was not good. Dante narrowed his eyes.

Responding to his kisses even as she faced him with apparent defiance, holding herself aloof even as she trembled in his arms, insisting she wanted nothing from him after saying her son was his…

Just look where that had landed him.

He’d left here a couple of days ago to deal with a problem of his father’s. Instead, he’d found himself facing a problem of his own—a potentially life-changing problem he had to confront head-on. He dealt with problems every day of his life. It was how he’d helped make Orsini’s into a world-class investment firm that remained respected and rock solid even in the current economic nightmare.

He’d aced Financial Analysis 101. So, how come he’d made such a muck-up of Real-Life Analysis, Grade School Level?

It was time to start making some intelligent moves, starting with settling Gabriella and the kid elsewhere. The real estate agent who’d got him this place understood his tastes, his needs; the guy’s firm was a high-end operation that understood the importance of discretion. That would be step one. Find her a place to live. Someplace within hailing distance but not where anyone would stumble over her.

He thought about that for a moment. To someone not familiar with the circumstances, a set-up like that would look as if he were trying to deny the ramifications of the situation.

Ridiculous.

He was just doing what he should have done in the first place. Behaving intelligently. Sam Cohen would surely agree. Not that he’d involve him until he had the move in motion, otherwise he’d have to admit Sam had an ass for a client.

Dante smiled thinly. He’d call Sam later today, set up an appointment, arrange for the necessary tests, for temporary financial support, long-term if that proved necessary because hadn’t he finally faced the fact that anything was possible?

For no discernible reason, an image of Gabriella flashed before him.

Her wide eyes. Her lovely mouth. Her smile. And, though it wasn’t something one could see, her honesty all the time they’d been together, starting the first time he’d phoned.

“It’s Dante Orsini,” he’d said, and then, because the need to see her had been near all consuming, he’d skipped the niceties and gone straight to the point. “I’ll be there at eight, to take you to dinner.”

“Did I miss something?” she’d said, with a little laugh. “When, exactly, did you ask me out?”

“I didn’t,” he’d replied bluntly. “Why would I ask you for something we both want?”

He’d heard the catch of her breath. And then she’d said, “Yes.” Just that one word, that “yes,” delivered in such a low, sexy voice that it had filled him with heat.

She was into honesty from the small things to the big ones. She’d told him she was a Jets fan when he said he was into the Giants. He’d mentioned his preference for the Giants to an endless stream of women and every last one had quickly said wasn’t that nice because she loved them, too, and that included the ones who probably couldn’t tell a football from a volley ball.

She ate with gusto, packing away a loaded-with-everything hot dog at a Yankees game, warning him she knew no bounds when it came to lobster and proving it by finishing every bite at The Boathouse, ending with butter on her chin that he’d just had to kiss away.

She was upfront about everything.

Especially in bed.

Her passion, her arousal, her eagerness when he touched her, when he tasted her breasts, when he put his mouth on that perfect bud between her thighs, all of it so real, so sweet, so amazing it shook his world.

And when she responded, when she caressed him, put her hands and mouth on him…

“Dammit,” he growled.

None of that meant he should believe this child was his without proof, he thought coldly.

First things first. Shower. Phone that real estate agent. And then tap politely at Gabriella’s door, tell her he’d been thinking things over and that he’d come up with a workable plan.

He felt better already.

Showered, shaved, dressed in faded jeans and a navy T-shirt, Dante headed for the kitchen.

He’d lost track not only of days but of hours. All that going back and forth had confused his internal clock. Was it time for breakfast? Lunch? Dinner? He didn’t know and didn’t much care. He was hungry, was all he knew; his stomach was growling. He’d had a sandwich on the plane but that seemed a long time ago. Gabriella hadn’t eaten at all. During the flight, the attendant had said she’d checked and both Gabriella and the baby were sleeping. He’d thought about going back there, just to see how things were, but if Gabriella was asleep…

Okay. So maybe the truth was, he hadn’t been ready to talk to her. Not then.

But he was ready now.

So, he’d cook something for the two of them.

He frowned as he opened the fridge. The shelves were pretty empty except for the requisite things. Eggs. Bread. Butter. A container of light cream that passed the sniff test. An unopened quart of milk. There was a wedge of cheddar in the cheese keeper on the door. He wasn’t the world’s best cook but he could put together a cheese omelet, make some toast, a pot of coffee. As for the baby…

What did babies that small eat? Formula? Little jars of vile-looking, strange-colored food? Not that it would be his problem. Gabriella had filled a big carry-on with what she’d called baby stuff. She surely had food for the kid inside it.

He took out the eggs, the milk, the butter, the cheese—

And hesitated.

Come to think of it, how come it was so quiet? He’d been up and pacing around for hours. He figured Gabriella was exhausted, but still, what about the kid? When his sister Anna was a baby, she’d cried nonstop.

For no good reason the skin on the back of his neck prickled. He shut the refrigerator door and headed up the stairs.

Nothing. No sounds at all drifting down the wide hall.

He paused at the guest suite. “Gabriella?” He moved closer to the door. Tapped at it. “Gabriella?” No answer. “Gabriella,” he said loudly, and then he said to hell with it, turned the knob and stepped inside.

The curtains in the sitting room were drawn. Beyond, the bedroom door stood open. He walked toward it.

The baby lay on the bed, surrounded by pillows. He was on his belly, his rump up in the air, head to the side and part of his fist jammed into his mouth. He was sound asleep and…Dante frowned. Hell. The kid was that all-purpose word. Cute. A cliché but accurate. The kid was so small, the bed so big…

Dante cleared his throat. He hadn’t come up here to look at babies, he’d come to check on Gabriella. Obviously, she was in the bathroom.

Oh, hell.

The bathroom door was shut but the sound of someone being sick traveled straight through it. “Gabriella?” he said, hurrying to the door. “Are you sick?”

“Dante.” Her voice was weak. Frighteningly weak. “Don’t come in. I have a bug. The flu—”

He could almost feel the blood draining from his face. He wasn’t good at this, either. Somebody throwing up…

Gabriella groaned. Retched. He didn’t think, didn’t hesitate; he flung the door open and stepped into the room. His Gabriella was hunched over the toilet, her hair streaming down her back, her body trembling. He cursed, ran to her and clasped her shoulders from behind.

“Sweetheart. Why didn’t you ask me to help you? I’ll get a doctor—”

“Go away. I don’t need—”

She retched again. His hands tightened on her. He could feel her shaking; she was wearing a nightgown and she was soaked straight through with sweat. His heart turned over.

“Gaby. Honey, what can I do to help?”

What could he do? If she hadn’t felt as if she were dying, Gabriella would have laughed. What he could do was disappear. This was not what a woman wanted, to have a man see her like this. Sweaty, disheveled—and throwing up everything, starting at her toes.

Pain fisted in her belly and she bent over and gave herself up to the spasm. By the time it ended, she was swaying on her feet. Dante cursed softly, drew her gently back against him. Go away, she thought desperately, just go away.

But his body felt so good against hers. Strong. Hard. Comforting. Shivering, icy cold, she let his warmth seep into her.

“Gaby?”

His voice was filled with alarm. She wanted to reassure him that she’d be okay, that she’d come down with whatever had sickened Yara the week before, but it happened again, the wave of agonizing nausea, and she gagged, leaned forward and vomited.

When she straightened up this time, she knew the spasms were over.

“I’m okay now,” she said weakly.

She reached out to flush the toilet but Dante did it instead. She felt her face fill with heat. Deus, the embarrassment of it! That he should see her like this, desperate and all but helpless when she prided herself on her independence, when it was, she knew, one of the things that had drawn him to her.

Not that she cared about that anymore; it didn’t matter if he was drawn to her or not. Still, it was—it was—

“Here,” he said gently.

He brought a cup of water to her lips. She wanted to tell him she didn’t need his help, but that would have been a lie. Instead, she sipped the cool liquid, rinsed her mouth, spat it out. She did it twice and then he eased her onto the closed toilet and washed her face with a soft, damp washcloth.

“Better?”

She nodded. “Yes. Thank you. But really, you can go now. I’ll be—”

“Do not,” he said quietly, “tell me what I can do, Gabriella.” He bent, lifted her in his arms and carried her into the bedroom. “I know exactly what I can do. What I’m going to do. And it starts with putting you to bed and calling the doctor, whether you like it or not.”

“No. I do not need—”

She followed his gaze to the bed, sighing with relief when she saw that Daniel had slept through it all.

Dante headed for the door.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll come back for the baby after I get you settled.”

“But—”

Arguing was pointless. She knew that. Once Dante made up his mind to do something, nothing would deter him. She had no choice but to loop her arms around his neck and give in as he carried her down the corridor. When he shouldered open a door and she saw that he had brought her to his bedroom, sick as she was it sent a little thrill of recognition through her. She had not been here in a very, very long time but it looked the same. Big, masculine. A perfect reflection of the man who had once been her lover.

He carried her to the bed. His bed. As he eased her back against the pillows, she thought of how many times he had done that in the months they’d been together.

“Dante. Wait…”

Too late. He was gone, returning seconds later with Daniel in his arms. Her heart skipped a beat. Her son, in his father’s powerful arms. The sight made her throat tighten. He gave Daniel to her while he arranged a pair of big, upholstered chairs so they faced each other, their soft, high arms forming the walls of an improvised crib. Then he took the still-sleeping baby from her, laid him gently in the improvised crib and covered him with a cashmere throw.

“Okay?” he said softly, looking at her.

Gabriella smiled. “Perfect. Thank you.”

He nodded. His gaze swept over her; his dark eyebrows drew together. “You’re soaked.”

She looked down at herself. Her cotton nightgown, plastered to her skin with sweat, She flushed, slipped under the duvet and drew it to her chin. The bed smelled of Dante: masculine, clean…wonderful. She looked up, ready to tell him she couldn’t stay here but he was gone again. Of course. She felt her color deepen. He had done all she could possibly expect and more, held her while she was violently ill, taken care of the baby…

“Sit up.”

She raised her head in surprise. His voice was gentle; he had a bowl of water, a towel and one of his T-shirts in his hands.

“Dante. Really—”

“Gabriella,” he said softly, “really. Just relax, sweetheart, and let me take care of you.”

No, she thought, no, she could not do that. Not even for these precious moments. She could not permit herself to fall under his spell again; it would break her, if she did. He was kind, he was generous, he was the most gorgeous man she had ever known, but there could never be more to it than that.

The cloth stroked lightly over her face. It felt wonderful. His nearness to her felt wonderful. Sighing, she closed her eyes and gave in. Let him bathe her face, her throat. Let him push aside the straps of her damp nightgown, run the warm cloth lightly over her shoulders, her arms…

The upper slope of her breasts.

His hand slowed. His breath quickened. So did hers. Her eyes flew open. Her lover’s face was all harsh planes and angles, his pale-blue eyes blazed with flame.

“Gaby,” he said hoarsely.

He had never called her that until today. There was something incredibly intimate in it. And when his hand paused, cupped her breast, she cried out at the pleasure of his touch. She was going to die from this. From wanting him. Needing him. Aching for him.

He said her name again, brushed his thumb across her nipple, erect under the nightgown. He bent toward her, closer and closer—

A thin wail broke the silence. It was Daniel. Her son’s cry grew stronger.

“The baby,” she whispered.

Dante drew back. His hand fell away from her; he was all business now.

“Lift your arms,” he said briskly, and when she did, he pulled the nightgown over her head, his gaze never dropping below her arms and face, and replaced the gown with the T-shirt. By the time she’d finished easing it down her body under cover of the duvet, he was leaning over her with the baby in his arms.

She reached for her son. Daniel was kicking and crying as if he had not nursed at her breasts only three hours ago. She smiled at her little boy, tugged down the loose neckline of the T-shirt and brought him to her breast. She did it without thinking; she had nursed him from the day of his birth, completely unselfconsciously…

But not in front of the man who had given her baby to her.

Dante made a soft sound. A groan. She looked up. His gaze was fixed on the baby, on his small hand against her breast, his small mouth at her nipple. A sensation so powerful it made her tremble swept through her. She whispered Dante’s name. His eyes met hers; he groaned again, bent to her, cupped her face and took her mouth in a hot, hungry kiss.

And then he was gone.