Читать книгу Sicilian Millionaire, Bought Bride - Catherine Spencer - Страница 7

CHAPTER THREE

SHE FLUNG HIM a baleful look and tried to return the envelope to him, but the wretched thing fell open and released its contents, which slithered in disarray over the leather upholstery. By the time she’d scooped them up, the door had clicked shut and the car was moving smoothly into the downtown traffic.

Wearily—she seemed to have been fighting one thing or another ever since the evening began, starting with Matthew’s tantrum at once again being left in Mrs. Lehman’s care—Corinne stuffed the photographs into her purse. Just because Raffaello Orsini had decreed that she should accept them didn’t mean she had to look at them, did it? She’d send them back to him by courier tomorrow, along with her rejection of his proposal.

When the limousine driver at last dropped her off at the entrance to the town house complex, she knew a sense of relief. It might not be much by most people’s standards, especially not the obscenely rich Mr. Orsini’s, but it was home, and all that mattered most in the world to her lay under its roof. Hugging her coat collar close against the freezing night air, she hurried to her front door, her heels ringing like iron on the concrete driveway she shared with her neighbors.

Once inside the house, she realized at once that it was too quiet. As a rule, Mrs. Lehman watched television in the family room adjoining the kitchen, and being a little hard of hearing, turned up the volume. But tonight, she met Corinne in the tiny entrance hall, her own front door key in her hand, as if she couldn’t wait to vacate the premises. In itself, this was unusual enough, but what really dismayed Corinne was the dried blood and ugly bruise already discoloring the baby-sitter’s cheekbone, just below her left eye.

Dropping her purse on the floor, Corinne rushed forward for a closer look. “Good heavens, Mrs. Lehman, what happened? And where are your glasses? Did you fall?”

“No, dear.” Normally the most forthright of women, she refused to meet Corinne’s gaze. “My glasses got broken.”

“How? Oh…!” Sudden awful premonition sent Corinne’s stomach plummeting. “Oh, please tell me Matthew isn’t responsible!”

“Well, yes, I’m afraid he is. We had a bit of a run-in about his bedtime, you see, and…he threw one of his toy trucks at me. It was after ten before he finally settled down.”

Corinne felt physically ill. She’d spent the evening being wined and dined with the very best, by a man she’d never met before, and for what? A proposition so absurd it didn’t merit a second thought. And meanwhile, her son was abusing the kindness of the one woman she most relied on to help her out when she needed it.

“I hardly know what to say, Mrs. Lehman. An apology just doesn’t cut it.” Then, biting her lip at her poor choice of words, she examined the cut more closely. It had stopped bleeding and didn’t appear to be deep, but it must be sore. “Is there anything I can get for you? Some ice, perhaps?”

“No, dear, thank you. I’d just like to get to my own bed, if you don’t mind.”

“Come on, then. I’ll walk you home.” Taking her arm, Corinne steered her gently to the door.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Corinne. It’s only a few yards. I can manage by myself.”

But Corinne waved aside her objections. Frost sparkled on the path, and she wasn’t taking a chance on the poor woman slipping and breaking a hip. Enough damage had been done for one night. “I insist. And tomorrow, Matthew and I will be over to see you—after I’ve dealt with him, that is.”

She barely slept that night for worrying. What if Mrs. Lehman’s injury was worse than it looked, and she suffered a concussion? Lapsed into a coma? What if her sight had been damaged? She’d claimed not to have a headache, had seemed steady enough on her feet during the short walk to her front door and had no trouble inserting the key in the lock, but she was well into her seventies and at that age…

Aware she was letting her imagination run riot, Corinne focused on the underlying cause of so much angst. What was happening to her son, that he would behave so badly? A “run-in,” Mrs. Lehman had called it, but in Corinne’s estimation, broken glasses and a black eye amounted to a lot more than that.

Yet if she was brutally honest with herself, she shouldn’t be altogether surprised. Lately she’d come close to a few such “run-ins” herself. How did she put a stop to them before they escalated beyond all control and something really serious happened?

Finally, around four in the morning, she fell into an uneasy sleep riddled with dreams in which all the town houses in the complex fell down. Mrs. Lehman rode away in a big black limousine with every stick of her furniture piled next to her on the backseat. Corinne fought her way out of the rubble that she’d once called home, to look for Matthew who was lost, and came face-to-face with Raffaello Orsini shuffling a deck of playing cards. “This is all your house was made of, signora,” he said, fanning them out for her to see. “You have nothing.”

She awoke just after eight, her pulse racing, to find that some time while she slept, Matthew had left his own bed and now lay curled up beside her, safe and sound, and such a picture of innocence that her heart contracted in her breast.

She loved him more than life; too much, she sometimes thought, to be a really effective disciplinarian. When things went horribly wrong, as they had last night, the full brunt of being the only parent weighed heavily on her conscience. Yet she knew that, had he lived, Joe would have sloughed off his share of that responsibility, just as he had every other. He’d been no more cut out for fatherhood than he had for marriage.

Dreading the morning ahead, she inched out of bed, showered and dressed in comfortable fleece sweatpants and top, and went down to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Should she make her son pancakes, as she’d promised, she wondered, or would that be condoning his bad behavior? Did his transgression justify her breaking her word? Did two wrongs ever make a right?

She was still debating the matter when Matthew came downstairs, trailing his blanket behind him, and climbed up on the stool at the breakfast bar. He looked such a waif, with his hair sticking out every which way, and one side of his face imprinted with the creases in his bedding, that her heart melted.

Okay, pancakes but no blueberries, she decided, pouring him a glass of juice. And for her, coffee, very strong. She needed a jolt of caffeine to drive the gritty residue of too little sleep from her eyes and give her the boost she needed to face what lay ahead.

Overnight, the sky had turned leaden. A persistent drizzle shrouded the trees in mist and reached its damp aura past the ill-fitting window over the sink to infiltrate the house. Next door, Mrs. Shaw screeched for Mr. Shaw to come and get his oatmeal before it grew cold. In Corinne’s own kitchen, Matthew, also out of sorts from too little sleep, stabbed his fork into his pancakes and spattered himself with syrup.

Steeling herself to patience, she waited until he’d finished his meal before tackling him about the previous night. As she expected, the conversation did not go well.

“I don’t have to,” he said, when she scolded him for not obeying Mrs. Lehman. “She’s not my mommy. She’s silly.” Then, sliding down from the stool, he announced, “I’m going to play with my trains and horses now.”

Swiftly Corinne corralled him and hauled him back to his seat. “You most certainly are not, young man. You’re going to listen to me, then after you’re dressed, we’re going next door and you’re going to tell Mrs. Lehman you’re sorry you hurt her.”

“No,” he said, aiming a kick at her shin. “You’re silly, as well.”

Barely nine o’clock, and already time-out time, she thought wearily. But when she went to take him back to his room, he turned limp as a piece of spaghetti, slumped on the floor and burst into tears. He was still screaming when the doorbell rang. Leaving him to it, Corinne trudged to answer.

Mrs. Lehman stood outside, her eye almost lost in the swelling around it, her bruise a magnificent shade of purple. “No, dear, I won’t come in, thank you,” she said in response to Corinne’s invitation. “I’m going to stay with my married daughter, to give her a hand with the new baby, and she’ll be here any minute to pick me up.”

“That’s nice,” Corinne said, hardly able to look at the poor woman, her face was such a mess. “But you should just have phoned, Mrs. Lehman, instead of coming out in this weather. And if you’re worried about looking after Matthew, please don’t be. Business is always slow in January, and I’m sure I can—”

“Yes, well, about that. I’m afraid I won’t be looking after him anymore, dear, because I’m not going to be living next door much longer. My daughter and her husband have been after me for months to move in with them, and I’ve decided to take them up on it. That’s why I came over. You’ve always been very kind to me, and I wanted to tell you to your face. And give you back your key.”

“I see.” And Corinne did, all too clearly. The episode last night had been the last straw. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Lehman,” she said miserably. “I feel as if we’re driving you out of your home.”

“Oh, rubbish! The plain fact is, there’s nothing to keep me here since I lost my husband, and I’ve been ready for a move for some time now. And truth to tell, even if I wasn’t, I couldn’t have continued baby-sitting your boy much longer. He’s got more energy than he knows what to do with, and I’m past the age where I can keep up with him.” A wry smile crossed her face as Matthew’s wails echoed through the house. “Anyway, I’d better let you get back to him. From the sound of it, you’ve got your hands full this morning.”

Just then, a car drew up outside her door. “There’s my daughter now, and I’ve still to pack a few things to see me through the next day or two,” she said, and thrust a slip of paper in Corinne’s hand. “Here’s what you owe me. Just drop a check in my mailbox, and I’ll collect it when I come to get the rest of my stuff.” She bathed Corinne in a fond, sad smile. “Goodbye, dear, and all the best.”

Corinne watched as the daughter climbed out of her car. Heard the younger woman’s shocked exclamation at the sight of her mother. Saw the outraged glare she directed at Corinne. Never more ashamed or embarrassed than she was at that moment, Corinne slunk back inside the house, shut her own front door and retraced her steps to the kitchen.

She found Matthew quite recovered from his tantrum and happily playing with his trains and horses. She wished she could leave it at that, let last night’s incident go and just move on. But young though he might be, he had to be held accountable for his actions. And if she didn’t teach him that, who would?

Sighing, she waded in to what she knew would be a battle royal. Tried reason in the face of defiance; calm in the midst of storm. Nothing worked. He resisted her at every turn, flinging himself on the floor, giving vent to his frustration at the top of his lungs.

He broke her heart with his tears and anger. What had happened to her sunny-tempered little boy, that he was now in his room for a “time-out,” when he should have been enjoying himself?

She knew what. He needed a full-time mother, and she couldn’t give him one. And the fact that she was doing the best she could under trying circumstances did nothing to ease her conscience. Something had to change, and fast, but what—and how?

Pouring a fresh cup of coffee, she paced the confines of her kitchen and considered her options. She could hire extra staff for her business and spend more time at home with her son. But not only was good help hard to find, it didn’t come cheap, and money was a perennial problem. Had been ever since Joe died and her credit rating had hit the skids because of the debts he’d run up on their jointly held accounts.

Shortly after his death, the bank had foreclosed on their mortgage and she’d lost the house. She’d been forced to leave the upscale suburban neighborhood with its acred lots and treed avenues, where Matthew had been born and just about everyone else on the street had young families. Had had to trade in her safe, reliable car for a twelve-year-old van, large enough to hold her catering supplies, certainly, but with such a history of abuse that she never knew when it might let her down. In a bid to avoid bankruptcy, she’d cut all her expenses to the bone, yet had to splurge on supplies to give her fledgling catering company a fighting chance of success.

But although she might be the one caught in a vicious financial bind, in the end, Matthew was the one paying the real price, and how high that price might go didn’t bear thinking about.

We don’t have fun together anymore, she thought sorrowfully. I used to play with him. Sing to him. Make him laugh. Now I make him cry, and I can’t remember the last time I really laughed until my stomach ached.

She used to do other things, too, like look forward to tomorrow, and wring every drop of enjoyment out of life. Now she woke up and wondered how she’d get through the day. She was afraid all the time, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

What sort of message did that send to Matthew?

Our children are the innocents, Raffaello Orsini had said last night.

Raffaello Orsini… Even the silent mention of his name was enough for him to fill the house with his invisible presence; his implacable logic.

Think about your boy….

What’s wrong with a binding contract to improve our children’s lives…don’t they deserve it?

Involuntarily her glance swung to the table in the dining nook where she’d tossed the envelope he’d given her. Exercising a mind of their own, her feet followed suit. She sat down. Picked up the envelope. Dared to examine its contents.

She discovered pictures of a villa, its rooms cooled by whirring fans and dressed in soothing shades of oyster-white and dove-gray and soft blue. Original oil paintings hung on its walls, antique rugs covered its pale marble floors, elaborate wrought-iron grilles accented its elegant curved windows, and frescoes its high domed ceilings.

Lindsay’s kind of house: spacious, airy and charming. And outside its ancient stone walls, palm trees and flower beds filled with vivid color, and emerald-green lawns as smooth as velvet, and a distant view of turquoise seas.

Slowly Corinne lifted her gaze and looked at her present surroundings, at the place Matthew called home. The town house was too old to be sought after, and not nearly old enough to be chic. The rooms were poky and, on days like today, dark; the walls so paper thin that, at night, she could hear Mr. Shaw snoring in bed, next door.

She thought of Matthew being confined to a square of patio barely large enough to hold a sandbox, and much too small for him to ride his trike. She remembered last summer when Mrs. Shaw had vehemently accused him of kicking his soccer ball and breaking the plastic planter holding her geraniums. “Keep that brat on his own side of the property,” she’d snapped.

Corinne thought of his never having play dates because no other children lived close by. Of his constantly being told not to make noise because he might disturb the neighbors. Little boys were supposed to make noise. They were supposed to run and play themselves into happy exhaustion. But his life was bound by other people’s rules and expectations to the point that he was like a tender young plant, so deprived of light and water that it couldn’t thrive.

Viewed from that perspective, Lindsay’s request no longer seemed quite as far-fetched as it had upon first reading. “A business proposition, pure and simple, devised solely for the benefit of your child and mine,” Raffaello Orsini had called it.

If, as he’d maintained, emotion wasn’t allowed to enter the picture, could they make it work? And if so, what would it be like to look forward to tomorrow, instead of dreading what it might bring? For that matter, when was the last time she’d looked forward to anything except getting through each day the best way she knew how?

The question brought her up short. With an attitude like hers, was it any wonder Matthew misbehaved? Her own disenchantment had spilled over onto him. But now, suddenly, the power to change all that lay within her grasp.

Horrified, she realized her resolve to turn down Raffaello Orsini’s proposal was weakening, and as if to drive the final nail in the coffin of her resistance, one last photograph fell out of the envelope and held her transfixed. Unlike the others, it had nothing to do with luxury or locale. This time, the camera had recorded the face of a little girl.

Although the date in the corner showed the picture had been taken within the last six months, the face was Lindsay’s all over again. The vivacious smile, the eyes, and the dimples were hers. Only the hair was different; darker, thicker, springier.

I’m trusting you with my daughter’s life, Corinne… having you to turn to would give her the next best thing to me….

Corinne traced a fingertip over the delicate features of the girl in the photograph. “Elisabetta,” she breathed, on a soft sigh of defeat.

Patience was not his strong suit, at least not when it came to matters of business. And the proposal he’d put before Corinne Mallory last night was entirely concerned with business. Surely a woman of reason could quickly ascertain that the pros vastly outweighed the cons? Yet here it was, almost four o’clock, and still no response from her.

Deciding he’d waited long enough, he picked up the phone. Then, about to punch in her number, he abruptly changed his mind, called the hotel’s front desk instead and ordered a car and driver. Slightly more than an hour later, with daylight fading fast, he was at her town house.