Читать книгу Secret Love-Child: Kept for Her Baby / The Costanzo Baby Secret / Her Secret, His Love-Child - Catherine Spencer - Страница 15

WHO the hell is he, Lucia?…The man who drove you to a breakdown when he left you.

For the first few spinning seconds she hadn’t been able to understand what had happened. Ricardo’s sharply snapped questions made no sense. She couldn’t understand where they came from or why he was even asking them. But then, slowly, reluctantly, she looked back over the conversation and realised the train of thought that Ricardo had been following, the conclusions he had jumped to.

He thought that she had had the breakdown after she had left the villa. He really believed—the only way he could possibly see it happening—was that she had run off with another man, leaving him and Marco behind in her determination to start a new life with her lover—his rival.

And then he believed that when that lover had walked out on her, leaving her as she had left him, then and only then had Lucy had the breakdown she had talked about.

‘You think that…’

She had stiffened in his arms, pulling away from the warmth and support of his body. And just the tiny movement seemed to take an inordinate amount of effort, bring with it a wrenching pain that was out of all proportion to the distance she put between the two of them.

‘You really believe that the only reason I could possibly leave Marco was because there was another man!’

Ricardo didn’t need to answer. It was there in his eyes, stamped into the lines of his face. Suddenly, disturbingly, she was seeing her erratic behaviour through his eyes. The excessive spending, the way she had disappeared for most of the day, with no explanation. Had he really thought that she was meeting someone else? That she was having an affair? The thought that she might have put him through that made her shiver inwardly. How could she blame him for thinking so badly of her if that was what he had suspected?

‘I can see now that the way I behaved might have made you think that,’ she admitted shakily. ‘And you don’t know how much I regret it if it did. But you have to believe me—there never was anyone else.’

She saw his frown, the way his dark eyes dropped to lock with her own clouded gaze.

‘Then why…’

‘I wasn’t ill—didn’t break down after I left here.’

Though leaving Marco had been the last straw. The one that had broken this particular camel’s back and driven her in despair and desperation to find a doctor.

‘You’re saying…’

Ricardo’s face changed as realisation dawned. This time his eyes went to the cot where Marco still slept, then came back to her.

‘Are you telling me that it was post-natal depression that caused your breakdown? That was why you left?’

Lucy could only nod, her throat too clogged for speech. It was impossible to read the rush of feelings that flashed in Ricardo’s eyes, but she saw the questions there and straightened her spine, waiting for them to come. And now he was the one to move away, putting more distance between them.

‘That was like no depression I’ve ever seen.’

‘No,’ Lucy admitted.

She couldn’t hold it against him that he hadn’t recognised what even she hadn’t known. She had had the doctor to explain it to her. Ricardo had been looking in from the outside.

When he had been there, which wasn’t often.

‘You were out all the time. Spending money like water.’

‘I know—I was hyper. Manic.’

Post-natal psychosis, the doctor had called it. Not just depression but the more severe form of the illness, which had literally driven her almost out of her mind. So much so that she had been unable to think straight enough to recognise what was happening to her.

It hadn’t helped that her relationship with her own mother had been so difficult. The only time that Janet Mottram had shown any real interest in her daughter had been when she had used the child as a pawn in her personal battle with her exhusband. And, looking back, Lucy knew that what she had feared most was being as distant and unloving a mother to Marco as Janet had been to her.

And, without anyone to confide in, she had been trapped with her own thoughts. Thoughts that had so frightened and appalled her that there was no way she could have admitted them to Ricardo.

So she had put on a front. A cold, distant front that had driven him away from her even more. And she had succeeded so much better than she could have hoped. From the time that Marco had been born, she and Ricardo had barely spoken to each other. It had been what she wanted but at the same time it had added to the aching inside her, creating a spiral of despair from which she had felt that she would never break free.

‘You bought clothes, perfume—clothes you never wore when you were with me.’

And he had thought that she had bought them to make herself look good for someone else.

‘All that spending—it was just an attempt at distraction. I didn’t even want the clothes half the time.’

And the other half she had wanted them to boost her image, to make Ricardo look at her with the desire he had once shown her. But it had seemed that the women she had overheard had been right. She was not the sort of wife who could hold a man like Ricardo. A man who didn’t do commitment. Who was used to having his pick of the most glamorous, most sophisticated women of the world.

If only he would speak—say something. Anything, other than subjecting her to the dark, silent stare that seemed to want to probe right into her eyes, burn its way into her head.

‘Heaven knows what you must have thought of me!’

‘It was only what I expected,’ Ricardo stated flatly. ‘Normal female behaviour. Every woman I’ve known has been out for what I could give her. Why should you be any different?’

How could she fight such cynicism? She hadn’t been able to do so when they had been together, so why should anything be different now? Besides which the thought that she still hadn’t told him absolutely everything, that there were still things she was holding back, things she could hardly bear to think of herself, sat like a leaden weight in her heart, closing off her throat so that there was no way she could make herself speak.

‘And you are well now?’ he asked, an edge to his voice that she couldn’t interpret and she felt too emotionally adrift even to try.

‘The doctors say I am,’ she managed stiffly. ‘They think all should be well and that I’m not likely to relapse. I would never have come back here if I’d thought…’

‘I believe you,’ Ricardo said when her voice broke too much for her to go on. He was still so very distant, his deep-set eyes hooded and hidden, but his tone gave her a little cause for hope.

‘So if you could see your way to letting me spend some time with Marco…’

And, just at that moment, with amazing timing so that it was almost as if he had heard his name spoken, in the other room the baby stirred and started to whimper faintly, still half asleep.

‘Marco…’

Instinct drove Lucy to her feet but she was only halfway there when realisation struck and she froze, grabbing at the settee arm for support as she looked back at Ricardo, meeting the deliberately blanked out expression in his narrowed gaze.

‘I…I’m sorry…’

She regretted that as soon as she’d said it. She wasn’t sorry at all for reacting automatically to the sound of her child’s cry. She might not have been the best mother in the world—she knew she hadn’t—but that didn’t mean that her maternal instincts had died, swamped by the tidal wave of foul stuff that that rushed over her in the depths of those darkest days. After all, she’d only left because of what she was afraid of. Because of the fear that she might do something dreadful to her little boy. That was those mother’s instincts working overtime, not losing their way. And now she was doing exactly the same—responding to the way that her baby most needed her.

The memory of that cry had never left her. In her sleep she would hear it and come jerking awake, sitting up in a rush, eyes wide with horror and fear, needing to find Marco…and knowing he wasn’t there. That had been the worst, the most terrible moment of all. The thought that somewhere her baby was crying and she couldn’t go to him.

Here and now, she could respond to his call. But at the same time she didn’t quite dare to. Not with Ricardo watching and not knowing how he would react if she followed her instincts. He had sworn that she would never take the baby from him, so would he let her comfort the little boy—or would he grab at her arm, to hold her back? Or would he, worst of all, wait until she was at the cot’s side, about to take her son into her arms and then snatch the little boy away from her—so near and yet so desperately far again.

‘I doubt that you’ll understand…but…’ Her voice trailed off as she met the burning darkness of his eyes, felt herself flinch under their scorching force.

From the other room came a second more wakeful cry, louder this time, drawing Lucy’s eyes in a glance of yearning anxiety towards the door.

‘I’ll call the nanny,’ Ricardo said and the words brought back such a rush of memory that it pushed her response from her mouth before she had had a moment to consider if it was wise.

‘No!’ she said sharply. ‘No nanny! Not now.’

‘You were happy enough to leave him in her care before.’

‘Did you give me any choice?’ Lucy flung at him. ‘Did you even discuss it with me? No—you made a unilateral declaration that Marco was going to be looked after by a nanny. It may be the way you were brought up—the norm in your wealth driven world to have your children farmed out to the hired help, but it wasn’t what I wanted.’

‘I had no intention of having him “farmed out”,’ Ricardo snapped coldly. ‘And it certainly wasn’t the way that I was brought up. My mother barely had enough money to feed and clothe me, never mind hire a nanny.’

‘Then why did you hire one for Marco? Did you think I wasn’t good enough to look after your son, the precious Emiliani heir?’

She didn’t believe that his eyes could close up any more, or become any more opaque, but it was like looking into the immovable face of a statute. One that was carved from cold, hard marble.

‘That was never my aim,’ he said at last and if a statue could have spoken then it would have had just that same stiff, icy voice. ‘If you want the truth, I was fool enough to think that you might appreciate some help.’

That cold comment twisted a knife in Lucy’s already tender conscience. She’d been so caught up in her own misery that she’d never looked at it from this angle. Now she was forced to face the fact that her own lack of self-esteem had turned what had been an attempt to do the right thing into the exact opposite.

‘I’m sorry…’ she began but as she spoke Marco whimpered again.

‘Your son needs you,’ Ricardo said.

‘What?’

She hadn’t quite caught what he had said. Or, if she had, then she wasn’t at all sure that she could possibly have heard right.

‘Your son needs you,’ he repeated, calm, coldly controlled and totally unmistakable this time. ‘You had better go to him.’

She knew that look, that assessing scrutiny. He was testing her again. But which was the right way to react? How could she prove herself to him? And just what did he want her to prove?

She could only go with her instincts. There was no way of second-guessing him.

And, as the whimper turned into a wail and then an outraged cry, she was left with no choice. She no longer gave a damn what Ricardo thought or felt. It was what Marco needed that mattered. She was out of the sitting room in a rush, bending down over the cot before Ricardo could say a word. And she knew that if he had spoken, if he’d tried to stop her, then she would have ignored him completely.

‘Hush little one…it’s all right. Mu…’

Her throat closed over the words, choking them off. How could she call herself ‘Mummy’ after all that had happened? Marco would never understand—and would he even let her touch him?

Painfully aware of the way that Ricardo had moved to the doorway, one strong hand resting against the wood of the frame, she could feel the burn of his eyes in her back as she reached in and scooped up the little boy, lifting him gently. He was so much bigger than the last time she had held him that she felt the unexpected weight of him in contrast to then. That dreadful time when she had felt that she had to give him one last hug, in spite of the fears that were whirling in her head, telling her that she wasn’t safe with this precious child. That she had no idea just what she might do.

‘Careful, darling…’

Was it just the unfamiliar voice, or would she be completely fooling herself to think that the baby recognised her somehow? Lucy’s heart clenched sharply as the little boy’s big dark eyes opened wide to stare into her face, his wails and his whole body stilling as she lifted him so carefully.

‘That’s better, isn’t it?’

She prayed that he wouldn’t feel the way she was trembling all over. That the twisting of her nerves wouldn’t communicate itself to him and upset him all over again. She also hoped that Ricardo wouldn’t see the fear in her eyes, the determined effort she was making to hide the way she was feeling and misinterpret it as something else.

‘Now, let’s see…’

Adjusting the baby in her arms, she caught a telltale whiff that left her in no doubt of something that needed dealing with. She didn’t have much experience of caring for her child, but this was something practical she’d done for him, even in the short weeks she’d been with him.

‘Oh, so that’s the problem! Let’s see…’

A swift glance around made it clear just where the changing mat and all the things necessary for cleaning and changing a nappy could be found and she moved towards it, taking Marco with her. She was determined not to look in Ricardo’s direction, knowing he was still watching her like a hawk. No doubt just waiting for her to make a mistake, show some hesitation. Something he could criticise. Something he could hold against her.

Well, not this time, Signor Emiliani. She almost laughed as she laid Marco on his back on the brightly coloured changing mat. This was something she knew how to do.

‘Let’s get you cleaned up…’

Unfastening the sleep suit, removing the dirty nappy, cleaning, was the work of moments. And she enjoyed it—doing this simple task for her baby. Even when Marco waved his arms and legs wildly in the air, wriggling so that it was a struggle to get the nappy on and fastened, she couldn’t hold back the soft chuckle of appreciation of his life and energy. Forgetting about the dark, watchful man behind her, she bent her head and blew a loud raspberry on his exposed stomach, revelling in its soft roundness, the uncontrollable giggles that burst from him in response.

Perhaps with Marco at least things could come right. Maybe in time she could make up to him for the way she had left him. If Ricardo gave her that time, she was forced to add as a movement behind her told her that her husband had left his watching position and come closer.

‘That’s you done,’ she said, pretending she hadn’t noticed, determined to ignore him as she fastened the baby’s clothes, lifted him carefully, cradled him against her shoulder. ‘Now, let’s see…’

‘Give him to me.’

She’d been expecting it but still it was like a blow to her heart. She’d known he wouldn’t give her free rein with the baby, that he was just watching and waiting…

Instinctively her arms tightened around the sturdy little body. Every part of her wanted to shout no, to refuse to hand him over. But she knew she had to think of Marco. She must not upset him. And yet she couldn’t just give in to Ricardo’s demand.

‘This isn’t fair,’ she said, keeping her voice as calm and as quiet as she could manage as she swung round on her heel, turning to face the big dark man behind her.

Over Marco’s soft dark head she faced the baby’s father with rejection sparking in her eyes.

‘You let me hold him, come close to him—the next moment you take him from me. It’s cruel and…’

‘I’m not taking him from you,’ Ricardo stunned her by saying. ‘It’s midday. Marco usually has something to eat around now.’

A wave of his hand indicated the padded high chair close at hand.

‘Why don’t you put him in there?’

The slight emphasis on that you brought a stinging reproach that she had to admit to herself she deserved. The sharp reminder of just how little she knew about Marco’s life and routine twisted a cruel knife in her heart.

‘I’m sorry.’

Moving rather clumsily as she adjusted to the unfamiliar weight of her son in her arms, she tried to put Marco into the high chair. Luckily, he seemed prepared to help her and, obviously recognising that this meant food was on its way, began banging on the tray with an enthusiastic hand, slapping his palm on to the surface.

‘Da!’ he said excitedly, waving the other hand wildly in the air. ‘Da!’

He was too young to be talking properly yet, Lucy told herself, fighting with the twist of misery that sound brought her. And, besides, having only ever been spoken to in Italian, Marco was unlikely to be trying to form the word ‘Daddy’. But it was another way of bringing home to her how much she had lost by being away from him at this important stage of his life. The pain that cut at her had her digging her teeth down hard into the softness of her lower lip as she fought with the tears that burned at the back of her eyes.

Ricardo bent to wipe the high chair’s tray, receiving enthusiastic pats on his face from his son as he did so. Careful cleaning of those grasping fingers followed.

‘Here—give him this…’

Ricardo passed her a sliced banana on a plate.

‘Just put it onto the tray and let him help himself.’

The small domesticated tasks, the time taken to feed the baby, brought a new and unexpected peace between them. Ricardo passed her the food that the nanny had left prepared and Lucy put it before the little boy, some of the tension seeping from her face, a light switching on in her eyes.

Had he been mistaken or had there been the glisten of tears in those eyes just a moment before? Ricardo found himself wondering. And did she know what it did to him to see the way that her sharp white teeth had dug into the pink softness of her lower lip as she had looked down at their little boy?

He had lost any ability to read her expression, thrown off balance by what he had just learned. He had trusted her once and that had had such shocking repercussions that he had vowed never to do so again. But this was very different. Vicious guilt clawed at him at the thought that his already hardened prejudice against her might have blinded him to the truth, driving him to misinterpret her behaviour after Marco’s birth.

He should wait and watch, see what happened, he resolved in the same moment that another more primitive response shook his mental balance even harder.

Dio santo, but he had had to fight with himself not to react on the most basic instinctive level. Every male impulse had urged him to reach out for her and pull her to him. To kiss away the imprint of her teeth in her flesh and soothe it with his tongue. He wanted to taste her again, know the soft sweetness of her mouth, explore the moist interior and kiss them both to the verge of oblivion.

He wanted to tangle his hands in the golden fall of her hair and hold her just so—exactly where he could kiss her hardest, strongest, with the deepest passion.

But there was something else he wanted too. Something that combined with the sensual hunger, taking it and twisting it brutally inside him until, looking across at her, he had to push his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans against the temptation to use them in another, very different way.

She was looking down at Marco, laughing softly as the little boy squished his banana in his hand, obviously revelling in the mess he was making and the feel of it between his fingers. And Marco was watching her, his wide smile a beam of delight as he held up the sticky mess for her to see.

A child and his mother. That was what a stranger looking in through the wide open French windows would see in the scene before them. A child and his mother enjoying the moment, sharing the experience of food and fun, while the father, the husband, looked on and laughed with them.

A family.

That was how it should be. It was why he had married her, after all. Because his child, unlike Ricardo himself, his mother before that, should have two caring parents. And, having seen Lucy with Marco, having heard her story, how could he refuse her—and Marco—that in the future? He had to let her back into their son’s life.

And back into his?

The cold stab of anger at the thought was like a blade of ice between his ribs, making him clench his teeth tight against it.

He couldn’t blame her for the way she had run out on her marriage if she had been as ill as she had described. The evidence of her feelings for Marco were there before him in a natural warmth that no one could mistake. But where did that leave their marriage?

Was Marco truly all she had come back for or was there more to it than that? She needed money, obviously, because she had admitted that she had none now. So was she back, looking for the means of support that he as her wealthy husband was obliged to provide? Did she really just want to be with her son or was the fact that she was Marco’s mother still her key to the luxurious lifestyle for which she had married him?

‘Oh, Marco! What a mess!’

Lucy’s voice, soft and warm with amusement, broke into his thoughts, shattering them and sending them spinning off onto another tangent entirely. As she bent her head, leaning down towards the little boy, laughing again as he reached up and smeared the fall of her hair with banana, he found that he was once more seeing the scene as someone else might see it.

That person would see a happy family. Not knowing the events that had torn the little group apart, they would assume it was still the perfect setting in which to bring up the little boy.

Which it was. Or once had been.

He had wanted a family for his child. Still wanted it more than he could say. And if he played his cards right then there was a way that he could still make it come true for the future. For Marco.

And if there were other reasons—private reasons—for him wanting to keep things the way they had been, could he admit them, even to himself? He had no wish to let anyone know the way that, after just twenty-four hours, he was once more fighting the irresistible, burningly sensual passion that Lucy’s slender beauty had always been able to arouse in him. And certainly he was damned if he was ever going to let Lucy begin to suspect that those feelings were there. Sex and money had been the reasons why they had gone into this marriage that was not a marriage in the first place. And sex and money had been the things that had torn it apart too. Those two dangerous elements had ruined his past. He was not going to let them ruin his future too.

She seemed to have been honest with him. And she truly seemed to want to be back with Marco, for the baby’s sake, not for anything she could get out of this, but her concern could easily be faked. Could he really trust her with his beloved son’s future? Why should she be so very different from the other women in his past?

The only way to be sure was to test her sincerity one more time. To make absolutely sure that her reasons for being here were as she claimed. He would offer her the sort of deal that, if she was lying, would surely tempt her into showing her true colours. And the way she responded would tell him all he needed to know.

But if he could get what he wanted out of this situation—if he could keep her here, for Marco’s sake, on the terms that suited him—then he would do just that.