Читать книгу Brazilian Nights - Сандра Мартон, Carol Marinelli - Страница 17

IF THERE was one thing all the Orsini brothers knew, it was that no one walked a straight path through life.

There were sideroads and missteps, deep currents that threatened to suck a man under, chasms that might take a lifetime to bridge.

All the Orsinis had experienced those things.

It was how Rafe had ended up in the Army, Nick in the Marines, Falco in Special Forces. It was how Dante had found himself in the far reaches of Alaska, doing dangerous work in the oil fields. It was, in the end, how all four of them had returned to New York, taking one hell of a deep brotherly breath and invested everything—Nick’s and Rafe’s savings, Falco’s poker winnings and Dante’s fat oil field paychecks—in what had eventually become one of the most successful private investment firms in the world.

Chasms. Deep currents. Put bluntly, jumping in with your eyes closed.

That was what Dante was thinking Monday morning, as he shaved.

He’d done that this weekend. Bringing Gabriella and Daniel to New York was one thing. Moving them into his life was another. And, yeah, he had done that, changing a guest room into a nursery, moving Gabriella from the guest suite into the master suite. She’d protested, come up with all kinds of reasons it was a mistake, and maybe because a tiny piece of him worried she might be right, he’d swept her into his arms, kissed her concerns away and switched her clothes, her makeup, all her stuff, from her room to his.

Chasms and currents, all right. And, sure, sometimes you didn’t make it, but sometimes you did. And when you did…Dante smiled, turned on the water, cupped it in his hand and rinsed away the last dollops of shaving cream.

When you did, man, life was terrific.

He reached for a towel, dried off as he looked around his bathroom. A day ago it had been an austere male kingdom. Nothing on top of the long marble counter except his shaving brush, an electric razor he hardly ever used, a plain comb and brush. Everything else was in the deep drawers of the vanity. Now, little glass vials and jars, a perfume bottle, a mother-of-pearl-backed hairbrush and half a dozen other things stood on the countertops.

He ran a fingertip lightly over the hairbrush where a few strands of gold glittered among the soft bristles.

It was Gabriella’s stuff. He loved seeing it here and wasn’t that a hell of thing coming from a guy who had to count to ten if some woman left a tube of lipstick behind?

But Gaby was not “some woman.” She was…she was special. Beautiful. Bright. Sexy. It had rained yesterday and they’d ended up spending most of it before the fireplace, reading the Times, tackling the crossword puzzle together. The baby, Daniel, lay on the antique Rya rug between them, cooing and smiling, kicking his arms and legs, suddenly sobbing as if his small heart would break.

“What?” Dante had said, panicked.

“He’s hungry,” Gabriella had replied, smiling, and she’d nursed him right there, sitting in the curve of Dante’s arm, and what he’d felt, watching the baby at the breast of his woman, had almost overwhelmed him.

It had been her turn to look at him, raise her eyebrows and say, “What?”

“Nothing,” he’d told her, because what happened to him when he saw her nurse the baby was too much to put into words.

Their baby.

Daniel was his.

He knew it, had known it from the start. There was no question about it. That path, the one that led through life, was, for once, straight as an arrow. He and Gabriella had been lovers, he’d made her pregnant and absolutely the road was straight…

Straight as the road that ended at a house surrounded by a white picket fence, a station wagon, a dog and a cat and…

“Dante?”

A light tap at the door startled him.

“Yes,” he said. His voice sounded strange, even to him, and he cleared his throat and tried again. “Yes. Okay. Just give me a couple of minutes.”

“I have a quick question.”

“Yeah, well, like I said, can you wait a minute?”

Merda. He winced as the impatient words left his lips.

“Never mind. I didn’t mean to disturb you—”

Ah, God, he was worse than an idiot, he thought, yanking the door open, reaching for Gabriella and drawing her into his arms even as she turned away.

“How could you ever disturb me?” he said gruffly.

“No, really, it is all right.”

The hell it was. He’d hurt her; he could see it in her eyes.

“Confession time,” he said, cupping her face, tilting it to his. “I am not a morning kind of guy.”

The faintest of smiles tugged at the corners of her lips. “You were always a morning kind of guy,” she said softly. “And you just proved it again a little while ago.”

He grinned at the compliment. “Being that kind of morning guy is easy.”

Her smile dimmed just a little. “I’m sure.”

“Hey.” Gently he threaded his fingers through her hair. “Maybe you need to know I’ve never asked a woman to move in with me until now.”

Her eyes searched his. “Is that what you’ve done? Asked me to move in?”

That straight path, leading to that white picket fence, that house…

Dante blanked the picture from his mind. “Yes,” he said, and kissed her.

Long moments later she sighed. “I know I had a reason for coming in here.”

“Mmm,” he said, slipping his hand down the back of her jeans.

“I know what it—Dante. How can I think if you…if you—”

“You have,” he said solemnly, stilling the motion of his hand, “one minute for thinking.”

“I’d like to tell Mrs. Janiseck to add baby cereal to her shopping list. The doctor in Bonito said I could add it to Daniel’s diet when he seemed ready, and—”

“So tell her.”

“Well, I was going to but she’s your housekeeper and—”

“You don’t have to clear things with me, honey. Just tell Mrs. Janiseck whatever you want to tell her. Come to think of it…” He took his wallet from the back pocket of his trousers, slid out a credit card and pressed it into her hand. “I should have thought of this sooner.”

“No. I cannot permit you to—”

“And I cannot permit you to argue with me,” he said gently. “The card is yours, Gabriella. Buy whatever you like. For the baby, for yourself. Whatever you need or want.”

She looked at the card, then at him. “A loan, then. Until I am back on my feet.”

He didn’t want her on her feet, he wanted her in his bed, he thought, and felt heat sweep through his body.

“What?”

“Nothing. You and Mrs. Janiseck doing okay?”

“Oh, yes. She’s wonderful.”

Wonderful, indeed. His housekeeper hadn’t so much as blinked at finding a woman and baby in his life; if anything, she’d seemed delighted.

“She has a niece, did you know that?”

“No. No, I didn’t.”

“Stacia. She is studying to be a teacher. She’s been an au pair the last few summers. Mrs. Janiseck says she’s excellent with babies. She suggested she could stay with Daniel—when I am out on interviews.”

This entire conversation was starting to sail over his head.

“Interviews?”

“Yes. I telephoned my old agent and asked him to see if he can get me some work. Why are you frowning? I need work, Dante. I have no money and…and I already owe you a fortune.”

He supposed she did need to work. Not to repay him for anything; he’d never take a dime from her, but instinct told him not to tell her that just now. But, yes, she needed to work for the same reason he did, for the fulfillment of it—except, she could feel all that, the fulfillment of just being with him. He was sure of it because it was how he felt, being with her, and what in hell was he doing, heading for the office after only a handful of days alone with his Gabriella?

“I have,” he said, “a brilliant idea.”

She gave a soft laugh. “Such modesty.”

“We’ll tell Mrs. Janiseck we’ll hire Stacy—”

“Stacia.”

“We’ll ask Stacia if she’d like to be Daniel’s nanny. I’m sure we can work out a schedule flexible enough to suit her.”

“Yes, but—”

“But,” he said solemnly, “you can’t afford it.”

She flushed. “No. I can’t.”

“Well, you won’t have to. See, I’ll employ her, not you.”

“I cannot impose on you this way, Dante.”

“I need the tax break,” he said, lying with aplomb. Who even knew if a nanny’s wages were deductible? More to the point, who gave a damn?

“So many tax breaks,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “The fazenda, a nanny—”

His mouth captured hers. His hand delved deeper, cupping her bottom, seeking her sweet heat. She caught her breath, rose to him, wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Dante,” she whispered, her lips an inch from his, “we have to talk.”

He answered by scooping her into his arms, saying to hell with the office and carrying her back to bed.

An hour later he phoned his AP, told her he wouldn’t be in for the week.

“Still out of town,” she said, because he was using his cell and one of the best things about cells was that they didn’t give away your location. “Want to give me an alternate phone number or stay with your mobile?”

“The mobile,” he said casually.

It wasn’t as if he were avoiding telling her he was home. Or telling his brothers. It was just that he didn’t feel like explaining things just yet to them or, God forbid, his sisters and his mother. The situation—that word again—was still complicated. While he worked things out, it was probably best to keep the news about Gabriella and the baby to himself.

A man was entitled to privacy, wasn’t he? Besides, he hadn’t taken any time off in months.

He asked Mrs. Janiseck to invite her niece over for an interview. Stacia showed up late morning. She was charming; she had great references and when she took Daniel from Gabriella’s arms, he gave her a solemn look and said, “Ba-ba-ba-ba!”

“Oh, he’s babbling,” Gabriella said happily. “Right on time!”

Dante felt like asking why babbling was such a big deal. He did it all the time—but he had a feeling the three women would have given him the kind of look a man did not want women to give, so he nodded wisely.

“Such a big, beautiful boy,” Stacia cooed.

He could actually see the tension ease from Gabriella’s shoulders.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he said softly. “How about we go out for lunch?”

“Do, please,” Stacia said. “That will give Daniel and me time to get acquainted.”

Gabriella and Stacia talked about diapers. About formula. About a zillion things until, finally, Mrs. Janiseck clucked her tongue and shooed Dante and Gabriella gently out the door.

“Just go,” she said softly. “Enjoy being together.” And to Dante’s amazement, she rose as high as she could in her sturdy black orthopedic shoes, grabbed his face, hauled it down to hers and planted a kiss on his cheek.

It was the kind of perfect fall day that made New Yorkers forget the hot, sticky summers and the bone-chilling winters when the snow turned into gray slush. Arms around each other, Dante and Gabriella strolled through Central Park.

She commented happily on everything. Babies. Runners. An elderly couple holding hands. People walking, and being walked by, their dogs. There was no need to ask his Gaby if she liked dogs. By the time she’d stopped to pet at least a hundred of them—okay, a slight exaggeration but not by much—by then, even he could tell that she didn’t like dogs, she loved them.

When she got to her feet after a conversation with a miniature schnauzer, Dante asked the obvious question.

“Did you have a lot of dogs when you were a kid?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Oh, I never had a dog.”

It was his turn to look surprised. “No dogs? On that big ranch?”

She gave a little shrug. “My father did not like dogs.”

“Why not?”

Another little shrug. And, perhaps, a tiny hesitation. And then, “He just did not like them.”

Something was up. Her English was taking on that just-learned-it nuance. Dante took her hand, decided to take the conversation in a new direction.

“I wanted a dog like crazy when I was growing up.”

She smiled at him. “But your mother said no, no dogs in an apartment.”

Had he never told her he’d grown up in a house? There was an awful lot they didn’t know about each other, he thought, lacing their fingers together.

“I grew up in a house. A pretty big one, in the Village.”

“But still, no dog?”

He shrugged. “Mama was convinced dogs would give us germs.”

“Mama,” Gabriella said, smiling.

“We’re Sicilian.” Dante grinned. “Calling her anything else might have won me a smack.”

“And your father is Papa?”

His smile disappeared. “I never call him Papa, or Dad, or anything but Father.”

“Hey. I’m sorry I—”

“No.” He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the palm. “You have a right to ask. The thing is, he’s…he’s—”

“Old-fashioned?”

“Old-country.” A deep breath. She would surely know some of this from having read it in the papers; she’d even tossed that famiglia insult at him, but talking about it—that was something he never did. “Remember that Marlon Brando movie? My old man’s kind of like that. The head of what he likes to refer to as a big company but in reality—”

“Dante.” Gabriella stepped in front of him, laid a hand on his chest. “I don’t care what he is,” she said softly. “I am simply grateful that he gave you life.”

Could you really feel your heart lift? The answer seemed to be yes, and right there, under the arch in the Ramble, he took Gabriella in his arms and kissed her.

Where else to take her for lunch on such a glorious day but The Boathouse?

It was early autumn but the temperature was in the low 70s, the sun was bright. Perfect for dining on the outdoor terrace beside the Central Park boat lake.

There were no tables available—but, yes, of course, there was a table for Mr. Orsini. Gabriella sat back, watching the turtles sunning themselves on a rocky outcropping. He ordered for both of them. Tuna Niçoise for her—he remembered she loved it—and a burger, well-done, for him.

“And a bottle of Pinot Grigio,” he added, remembering she loved that, too, but she shook her head, glanced at the waiter, blushed and told Dante, in a low voice, that she couldn’t drink because alcohol wouldn’t be good for the baby.

The waiter gave a discreet smile. “Sparkling water, perhaps,” he said, and Dante said yes, that would be fine.

The bottle of water arrived, along with glasses filled with ice and slices of lemon. Dante reached for Gabriella’s hand.

“I wish I’d been with you when you were pregnant,” he said softly. “And when you delivered. You shouldn’t have been alone.”

Gabriella shook her head. “I told you, I wasn’t alone. Yara was there.” She paused. “And my brother.”

Dante watched her face, the sudden play of emotion in her eyes. “You know,” he said carefully, “you never talk about him.”

“There isn’t much to say.” Her voice trailed off; her eyes met his. There was a sudden fierce glow in them. “He is dead, but I suppose you know that.”

“Sweetheart. I didn’t want to make you sad. If you don’t want to tell me—”

“He died of AIDS.” The glow in her eyes grew even more fierce. “He was a good man, Dante. A wonderful brother.”

“I’m sure he was,” Dante said gently.

“Our father despised him.” She gave a bitter laugh. “But then, he despised me, too. My brother, because he was gay. Me, because I killed my mother.”

“Gaby. Honey—”

The waiter arrived with their lunch. They fell silent until he’d left. Neither of them reached for a fork. At last Gabriella picked up her story.

“She died in childbirth, and our father said it was my fault.” Dante clasped her hand; she gave his a tight squeeze. “I know how wrong that is now, but when I was a little girl, I believed it. Anyway, just about the time you and I—about the time we stopped seeing each other—”

“The time you found out you were carrying my baby,” Dante said gruffly.

Another nod of her head. “Sim. My father wrote to me, a very conciliatory letter asking me to return home. He was getting old, he said, it was time to mend our relationship, he said…” She swallowed dryly. “So, considering that…that I wanted to leave New York, I went home. But he had lied to me. He was dying. He had no money—my father was a very heavy gambler. He needed someone to take care of him.” She shrugged. “So I did.”

“Ah, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. You needed someone to take care of you and instead—”

“I did not mind. There are things one must do in life.” She lifted her head and smiled, though now there were tears in her eyes. “And a good thing came of it. I told my father I would only stay with him if he permitted my brother to move back in. Arturo was ill by then.” She swallowed hard. “So Arturo and I were together again. It was wonderful. We talked and laughed and shared memories—and then my father died.” Her voice broke. “And before very long, so did Arturo. And while I was still mourning him, Andre Ferrantes came to the door to tell me the bank was going to foreclose on Viera y Filho—my father had named the ranch at my brother’s birth, you see, long before he could have known Arturo would be gay. And Ferrantes said—He said—”

Dante stood, pulled back her chair and kissed her. Then he drew her to her feet, dropped some bills on the table and led her from the terrace toward the door.

“How romantic,” he heard a woman say.

And he thought, Wrong.

This, whatever was happening between them, was far more complicated than romance. It was…it was—

He clasped Gabriella’s hand and hurried her from the park.

At home again, they checked on the baby.

He was sound asleep, his backside in the air.

Mrs. Janiseck left. So did Stacia. Dante took Gabriella out on the terrace. They sat close together on a love seat, his arm curved around her in the warm sun, surrounded by Izzy’s flowers.

He told her all about his life. Things he’d never told anyone. His confused feelings for Cesare. His love for his brothers. For his sisters. He told her how lost he’d been at eighteen, how filled with rage because he had a father whose idea of famiglia had little to do with the family sitting around a dinner table and everything to do with some alien family whose existence periodically brought reporters and photographers and cops to the door.

He told her how directionless he’d been, how his brothers had said enlisting in one of the armed services would give his life structure—and how he’d known, instinctively, he needed the opportunity to find that structure in a different way.

He picked up her hand, kissed her fingertips and explained that he’d found it in Alaska, risking his not-so-precious neck in the oil fields, hiking alone whenever he could in the wilderness, camping out and watching the northern lights, listening to the mournful howl of the wolves until, at last, he’d seen his anger at life for the pettiness it was.

“So I flew home,” he said. “To New York. And my brothers were starting to feel as directionless as I’d felt, now that Nick was out of the Marines, Rafe out of the Army and Falco was out of whatever in hell they had him doing in Special Forces.”

And, he said, they spent hours talking. Planning. Ultimately pooled their savings and their areas of expertise in finance, where they all had done well in school and, in Falco’s case, at the poker tables.

“Orsini Investments took off,” he said. It still was doing well—an understatement, really, making their investors happy despite the slowed economy.

And finally he told her why he’d gone to Brazil, Cesare’s bizarre request—and then the truth that he’d kept from facing.

He had gone there knowing he would not leave without searching for, and finding, her.

When he fell silent, Gabriella smiled, though her cheeks were damp with tears.

“Dante,” she whispered, “Dante, meu querido…”

He drew her into his lap. They kissed. And touched. And when that was no longer enough, he took her to his bedroom, undressed her as slowly as if he were unwrapping a perfect gift.

An eternity later, with her lover still deep inside her as she lay sated in his arms in the afterglow of their passion, Gabriella finally faced the truth.

No matter what happened, she would always be in love with Dante Orsini.