Читать книгу The Brunellesci Baby - Daphne Clair - Страница 7

THE passport control officer quickly scrutinised the dark-haired, green-eyed young woman waiting at the other side of the desk.

She tensed, trying not to show apprehension as he returned his gaze to the photograph in the passport he held. Finally he said, ‘Liar.’

Her heart accelerated its beat and her cheeks flushed.

He looked up again. ‘Liar Cameron?’

Nearly fainting with relief, she said, ‘No, it’s Leeah.’ And more firmly, ‘My name is Lia Cameron.’

‘Sorry—Lia.’ He flipped over the page. ‘You’ve been to Australia before?’

‘Yes.’

The man stamped the page before handing back the passport with a grin. ‘You kiwis just can’t stay away, eh? Enjoy your holiday.’

Her knees shook as she proceeded to the arrivals hall and found the baggage carousel for the Auckland to Sydney flight. It wasn’t the first time ‘Lia’ had been mispronounced. A guilty conscience was responsible for her almost making a fool of herself back there.

When her suitcase appeared she lifted it off the carousel and flipped the label to check. Lia Cameron. ‘That’s me,’ she muttered aloud.

She took a bus to the Sunshine Coast, found a hotel and paid cash in advance for her room, not wanting to use her credit card.

Tomorrow she would hire a car and find the Brunellesci mansion. And Zandro Brunellesci.

Ice snaked down her spine. Alessandro Gabriele Brunellesci was a formidable foe, accustomed to crushing anything—or anyone—who got in his way. Including Lia.

Anger sharpened by grief dispelled the cold fear. Stress and tragedy had given her a strength she hadn’t known she possessed. Zandro would discover she couldn’t be crushed, bullied, and he wouldn’t find it so easy to get rid of her. Too much was at stake—a child’s whole life. The righting of a terrible wrong.

She couldn’t return to New Zealand until she’d done what she’d come here to do. And she would not go home alone.

The Brunellesci home was guarded by wrought-iron gates set in a high brick wall. Tall gum trees and silver birches screened the house, allowing through the iron bars only glimpses of mellow golden stone and big windows. There seemed to be a garage underneath that lifted the first floor enough to give the rooms a view over the wall to the sea, and a third level shaded a wide balcony.

After driving slowly past she parked a little farther along the broad street, in the shade of a tree overhanging the wall of another expensive-looking home. Across the road an expanse of dark, coarse grass was broken by more trees, and an awning sheltered a children’s play area from the Queensland sun that was still wintry-mild, as yet not holding the full force of the coming summer. Beyond the swings and slides and a jungle gym, a swathe of silvery sand was licked by milk-white tongues of foam edging the blue-green ocean.

Cars intermittently left the street or cruised into it. A young woman holding the hands of two small girls sporting identical blond ponytails emerged from one of the houses and crossed to the park.

Twins? But leaning forward with naturally quickened interest to peer through the windscreen, she saw that one was a little bigger than the other; perhaps a year or so separated them.

A sleek black saloon with tinted windows slid from between the imposing gateposts of the Brunellesci house. Impossible to see inside the car, or even guess if it held only the driver or had passengers.

People strolled down to the beach as the sun moved higher up the pale sky, but not many walked along the street.

This wasn’t getting her anywhere. She rummaged in her bag, donned wraparound sunglasses, then twisted her hair and piled it inside a wide-brimmed natural-straw hat that she pulled low over her forehead, and took a brand-new paperback book from the glove box.

There were wooden seats near the play area, back-to-back sets. She chose one facing the road and the wrought-iron gates of the Brunellesci house, pretending to read while watching the gates. The seat escaped the shade cast by the awning, and the morning sun gently warmed her shoulders, bared by the sleeveless cream shirt she wore with cotton shorts.

Still no sign of movement from the house. Then after some time a woman with a child in a pushchair emerged, accompanied by a tall, white-haired man walking with the help of a stick.

The gates slid open to let them through, and they paused at the edge of the pavement before crossing to the park and the play area, passing the young woman apparently absorbed in her reading.

They hadn’t even noticed her. Lowering the book to her lap with shaking hands, she took a deep breath, willing herself not to turn, not to give herself away. She could hear the woman’s voice, rising and falling in the exaggerated way people spoke to babies, and a brief, deep male rumble from the man, over a stream of happy babble from the child.

Her heart contracted. Feigning nonchalance, she stood up, closing the book, and without looking directly at them skirted the group and settled herself on the grass under a tree, her back against the trunk.

The old man leaned on his stick, watching while the woman pushed the child on a baby swing, not too high.

Small, round face shaded by a blue hat, chubby legs emerging from blue cotton overalls, clearly the little boy was enjoying himself. The sound of his delighted laughter carried on the clear air.

He’s being well cared for.

Maybe she should abandon her mission, leave. But the cowardly thought was quickly dismissed. One glimpse didn’t tell the whole story.

She turned her attention to the woman, probably in her mid-thirties, with a pleasantly attractive face framed by short brown curls, and a curvy but fit-looking body, the waist accentuated by a white belt about a plain green dress worn with white flat-heeled sandals. A nanny. Someone they’d hired to take charge of the baby.

When the child was lifted from the swing and the group went down to the beach she made herself stay where she was, then after a while get up and go back to the car, where she watched until they returned to the house and disappeared inside the gates.

After some time had passed with no further activity discernible she started the car, drove slowly by once more, then accelerated and turned a corner, taking a route that passed the rear of the mansion.

There were other homes backing onto it, but she glimpsed behind them the same high brick wall. Any thought of secretly making her way into the house was unfeasible. Not that she’d seriously considered that, knowing it was burglar-alarmed to the teeth.

At least now she knew where the baby was, that he hadn’t been sent off to some secret hideaway or remote country estate to be raised in isolation.

Time to consider her strategy.

The next morning she parked in the same place and waited. Again the trio of woman, elderly man and baby appeared. The woman carefully looked right and left and right. Her gaze seemed to linger on the parked car, and she turned to say something to the white-haired man before stepping onto the road with the pushchair.

Imagination, surely. But caution warned, Don’t be conspicuous. Stay in the car, out of sight.

The child was enjoying his swing. When the woman lifted him out he pointed to a low slide, and she took him to it and supported him as he swooped to the ground, then repeated the process. Each time he reached the bottom he clapped his hands together in gleeful approval.

His grandfather took a seat under the shade of the awning and placed the walking stick between his knees, a slight smile on his thin lips. For a man who had built an empire from nothing after entering Australia as a penniless Italian immigrant fifty-odd years ago, earning a reputation for drive and hard-nosed business practice equalled only by the son to whom he had passed the reins, he looked almost benign.

Tough, strong men, according to medical studies, grew mild in old age with the gradual loss of testosterone.

His son Zandro was in his early thirties, with a long way to go before that happened. Maybe old Domenico would be an easier target. And he must surely still have some influence with his son.

Intent on the group in the park, she hadn’t seen the big black car approach—so silently she didn’t hear it either until it swerved across the road and stopped in front of hers, nose to nose.

Immediately a man flung open the driver’s door and leapt out. Her heart plunged even before he’d covered the few strides to her side and hauled open the door. Her hand went to the ignition key in an automatic but futile attempt at escape.

Long, hard fingers closed about her wrist. She was jerked from her seat with no time to put up more than the feeblest resistance, and backed against the rear door, her assailant’s broad shoulders blocking her view.

The hand that wasn’t holding her wrist in an iron grip slammed down on the roof of the car, trapping her while fiery, obsidian eyes in a spare, strong face seared her with an expression at first suspicious, then disbelieving.

‘Lia?’ His voice was tempered steel in a velvet sheath.

She swallowed, in danger of melting under the gaze that now held a heat like banked coals. There was no mistaking who he was. ‘Zandro,’ she said.

Unlike the father he strikingly resembled, the younger Brunellesci showed no hint of benignity. Suffocatingly aware of his size, his physical power, the furious incredulity in his eyes, and her veins throbbing in the wrist encircled by his bone-breaking hold, she tried to gather courage to stand up to him.

Black brows snapped together. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’

Don’t crack. He’s only a man. ‘I’m not playing at anything.’ She thrust her chin forward. ‘Let go my wrist.’

Zandro Brunellesci blinked, thick dark lashes momentarily blanking out the fiery stare, and when they lifted, a faint surprise lit his eyes.

Lia had never directly challenged his authority, his right to do as he liked with her or any member of his family.

But this was another Lia, one who wouldn’t be pushed around, who knew what she wanted and had come to get it. Who’d refuse to take no for an answer, regardless of what it cost her—or him.

For a second longer he stared down at her, not moving, before abruptly releasing his hold, but his other hand didn’t leave the car roof and he still loomed over her.

Automatically she cradled her aching wrist with her free hand, then dropped them both to her sides, not wanting to show him any weakness.

To her surprise he reached down and took her hand, more gently this time, though firmly overriding her resistance.

He frowned down at the reddened skin, and she saw his mouth tauten, a sudden whiteness appear at one corner. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ he said, his voice altering to a low rasp. ‘I got a shock.’

‘You gave me one too,’ she said tartly. ‘Not to mention a bruise, probably.’

His remarkable eyes flashed as he let go her hand. A hint of puzzlement flickered across his face when she stared defiantly back at him. Again there was a change in the dark depths, a spark of something that caught her unawares and made her breath quicken.

Impatiently he shook his head, and shifted, bending to remove her car key from the ignition. He closed the door and, ignoring her protest, locked it, shoving the key into his pocket. ‘You’d better come to the house and get some ice on that.’ Once more he glanced at her wrist, then he laid a careful but compelling hand on her arm, just above the elbow.

Her instinct was to draw away, condemn his high-handedness and demand her key before driving off. But although it could hardly be called an invitation he was suggesting an entrée to the house, and expediency dictated she shouldn’t turn the offer down.

This confrontation had been inevitable sooner or later, and so what if she didn’t feel prepared for it right now? The fact was she never would be. She’d been procrastinating under the excuse of scouting the enemy territory and refining her plan. Now an unexpected opportunity had arrived she should grasp it with both hands.

Zandro’s fingers at her elbow seemed to emanate tongues of fire and her nerves were jumping. Strange sensations that she’d never felt before, but then she’d never before been in this situation. Normally a scrupulously honest person, she was about to embark on a reluctant deceit that it would take all her resolution and strength of mind to carry out.

It’s not too late, whispered a craven inner voice. She could still back out. Insist on leaving, take the first flight straight back to New Zealand.

She looked up at Zandro Brunellesci’s face, a face set like granite in an expression of controlled ferocity. Her heart quailed, and the words she’d been about to utter dried on her tongue. The man was frightening in his very restraint. But she’d faithfully, solemnly promised to go through with this. If she didn’t live up to that promise she would never forgive herself.

He locked his own car and she allowed him to guide her along the pavement. At the entrance to the drive a numbered keypad and a discreet microphone with a sign saying Press For Entry were fixed to one of the brick posts. But Zandro slid a hand into a breast pocket of the impeccable suit he wore and must have touched some remote-control gadget. The gates silently parted and he ushered her inside.

When the gates clicked shut behind them she shivered visibly, irrationally feeling that she was being locked into some kind of sinister prison.

‘Are you all right?’ Zandro paused under one of the trees, the softly twisting leaves overhead making moving patterns of sunlight that gleamed on his sleek, almost black hair. The question sounded grudging, reluctant.

‘Yes. It’s just coming from the sun into the shade.’

The broad tree-lined drive wasn’t very long and soon they were mounting stone steps beneath a cool overhang supported by substantial pillars.

Zandro punched numbers into another keypad by the heavy door and swung it open, then steered her across a tiled floor to a large, airy room furnished with dark-wood occasional tables and cabinets, and tapestry-fabric chairs. ‘Sit down, Lia,’ he said, halting at a deep, velvet-covered antique sofa. ‘I’ll get some ice.’

She wondered why he didn’t just summon a servant. Perhaps he didn’t want them asking how she’d been hurt; it could be embarrassing for him.

He was back quite quickly, carrying a bowl of crushed ice and a hand-towel which he fashioned into a cold compress. Then he knelt on the floor before her to wrap the cloth firmly about her wrist, tucking the end in to hold it.

‘You’re good at this,’ she said involuntarily, unable to hide her surprise.

‘I’ve dealt with sports injuries.’ He was on a level with her now, and only inches away as he looked up from his task, his gaze somehow distant despite his physical proximity.

She could see a few fine lines at the corners of his eyes, and the faint beard-shadow on his taut, closely shaved cheeks. A hint of some pleasant, woodsy scent came from him—aftershave or something like it. His hair was glossy black, with a slight wave. He’d removed his tie and opened the collar of his white shirt, revealing naturally olive skin. She found herself fascinated by the almost invisible beat of a pulse at the base of his throat.

Dragging her attention from it, she said, ‘You still play?’ Vaguely she recalled some mention of him having been a tennis champion in his earlier years.

‘Enough to keep me fit. Rest your arm here.’

He placed it on the arm of the sofa, but she immediately lifted it away to support it with her other hand. ‘I’ll make the upholstery wet.’

Zandro looked briefly nonplussed. With the kind of money his family had, she supposed a spoiled sofa would be a minor inconvenience. But he said, ‘I’ll fetch another towel.’

He brought a larger one and folded it so there was little chance of water seeping through. When he straightened from arranging it for her he stood regarding her with a penetrating stare before swinging away to sit in a chair facing her.

‘What are you doing here, Lia?’

She hesitated, moistening her lips. This was the point of no return. Her last chance to retreat, walk away. Steadying her voice with an act of will, she said, ‘I’ve come for my baby. To take him home.’

Zandro was so still, so expressionless, he might not have heard her. Seconds passed, and then an almost infinitesimal movement showed in his cheek, a slight tightening of the muscles in his jaw. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

Raising her chin a fraction, she fixed her gaze unwaveringly on his darkling one. ‘He belongs with…with me.’

Something glimmered in his shadowed, hostile eyes. ‘You think I’ll give him up to you, just like that?’

‘I’m his mother!’ Putting every ounce of conviction she could into her voice.

‘And I’m his legal guardian, committed to looking after his interests.’

The words sounded more suited to a business meeting than a discussion of a child’s needs. ‘You mean the interests of the Brunellesci dynasty.’

The resolute brows rose a scant millimetre. ‘I hardly think the family business qualifies as a dynasty.’

‘Isn’t Pantheon listed as one of the top ten richest Australian companies, worth how many millions? Or is it billions?’

His gaze sharpened. ‘Is that what this is about?’ The steel in his voice was unsheathed. ‘It isn’t your son you’ve come for, is it? Let’s dispense with the pretence, shall we?’

Her eyes widened, and her stomach made a sickening revolution. ‘How—’ she started to say weakly.

But he wasn’t listening. ‘You’re hoping we’ll pay you to go away again and leave him with us.’

The accusation stunned her at first. Then she shot to her feet. ‘That’s a foul suggestion! You’re even worse than I thought!’

He too stood up, meeting her hot-eyed gaze with a glittery stare. ‘I might return the compliment.’ A small pause, and then, ‘If I’m wrong, what do you really want?’

‘I told you! I want Dominic—I want…my son.’

‘You gave him up.’

A brutal reminder, further hardening her against him, if that were possible. ‘I wasn’t myself, didn’t know what I was doing.’

‘And,’ he inquired with deadly irony, ‘are you yourself now, Lia?’

Stupidly, the question sent her heart into a crazy, terrified revolution. She knew her face showed confusion, perhaps guilt, and he gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘Were you thinking of kidnapping Nicky? You’d never have got away with it.’

Nicky? Who…? After a moment light dawned. Dominic had acquired a nickname. ‘I wasn’t going to kidnap him!’ No need to tell him the idea had been briefly considered, and discarded.

‘So why lurk about watching the house?’

‘What makes you think I was?’ Neither confirm nor deny. That was safest.

He looked impatient. ‘My father and the nanny saw you yesterday, and she recognised the same car parked in the same place today. They thought your behaviour was suspicious, and called me.’

On a cell phone, she presumed. They hadn’t yet returned from the beach. ‘I wanted to be sure Dominic was still here. And being properly cared for.’

‘He’s had the best care possible,’ Zandro said.

‘The best that money can buy, you mean.’ Allowing her scepticism to show. ‘You hired a nanny.’

His head tilted slightly. ‘My mother is no longer able to keep up with a lively young child. And I have a business to run. Barbara is highly qualified and came from a very reputable agency. She’s extremely competent.’

‘A professional can’t afford to get too emotionally involved with her charges.’

‘A good nanny is better for a child than an incompetent mother.’

‘Incompetent?’ Her voice shook with anger.

He was looking austere again. ‘You know you were incapable of looking after a child, Lia.’

‘A temporary state!’ she argued. ‘That you took advantage of to snatch Dominic away!’

‘We took responsibility for a vulnerable member of our family. His safety and wellbeing was our first priority. He’s a Brunellesci, after all.’

‘He’s a Cameron!’

‘The fact that his father didn’t marry you is immaterial,’ Zandro said. ‘Rico’s name is on the birth certificate, and my parents have accepted Nicky as their grandchild.’

‘That doesn’t make him yours—or theirs.’ If the Brunellescis had charge of his upbringing, would they turn that laughing, innocent little boy into an unfeeling, hard-headed brute in a business suit, like his uncle and his grandfather? It didn’t bear thinking of. ‘A mother’s claim comes first.’ Rashly she added, ‘Any court would back that!’

‘The court would take into account the best interests of the child. A mother with a drug dependency who abandoned her baby isn’t a very trustworthy prospect.’

‘I don’t…’ She should probably have expected this, but she could feel herself shaking, and clenched her hands to hide it. ‘He wasn’t abandoned, and you’re wrong. I don’t have a drug dependency.’

‘You’re clean?’ He cast her a razor-edged look. ‘You look better,’ he conceded. ‘But how long can you stay away from the stuff?’

Her teeth snapped together. ‘I was never an addict. My mind was…was mixed up.’

‘That’s an understatement,’ he said dryly. ‘You hardly knew what day it was, and as for looking after a newborn baby—if I hadn’t stepped in Nicky would have been sent to a child welfare home.’

‘I was in shock! Grieving for your brother, my…my—’

‘Your lover,’ Zandro supplied.

‘The father of my child! The child you took away.’

After that, to Lia nothing had seemed to matter any more. She’d taken pills to ease the pain, to help her sleep, to blot out the world and its cruelty. Until time and emotion blurred and she was living in another dimension, a blessedly vague world where she felt nothing, remembered nothing, knew nothing except that she had to have more pills, and more…

‘I tried to help you,’ Zandro said.

A renewed flare of anger rose. She must stay calm, keep her wits about her. ‘I don’t recall that you ever offered help,’ she said flatly.

He looked exasperated, then almost weary. ‘I don’t suppose you recall much at all, zonked out of your skull as you were.’

A faint unease stirred deep down. Had things happened at that time that she didn’t know about?

Sounds at the front door interrupted them. It opened and there were voices in the hall.

Instinctively she turned her head, catching a glimpse of the nanny crossing the hallway, the baby in her arms.

Without thought she took a step towards them, but Zandro’s hand closed about her arm, and she halted, then pulled away from him.

The old man appeared, blocking her view, and came to a stop in the doorway of the room, leaning on his cane.

At the sight of her he straightened, and his expression turned icy. Shifting his gaze to Zandro, he said, his accent betraying his Italian origin, ‘What is that woman doing here?’

It felt like a slap in the face. Renewed antipathy surfaced as she squared her shoulders and confronted him. ‘I have a name, Mr. Brunellesci,’ she said. ‘Lia.’ She pronounced it like a challenge. ‘And a right to my son.’

‘You have no rights!’ He thumped his cane on the tiled floor. Stepping into the room, he waved the walking stick at her before using it to steady himself, his knuckles whitening. ‘How can you dare to come here again?’

‘Papa,’ Zandro interrupted, his voice quiet but authoritative, ‘don’t upset yourself. I’ll deal with this.’

The old man’s glare swivelled to his son. If Domenico had mellowed in old age it certainly wasn’t apparent now. Finally he nodded, perhaps satisfied that Zandro was as relentless as himself, and with a parting haughty scowl at the intruder and a muttered word that sounded like ‘Cagna!’ he turned and left the room, the muffled tapping of his stick gradually fading.

Zandro said, ‘Please sit, Lia.’

After a slight hesitation she did so, back straight, not sinking into the tempting softness. ‘What did he call me?’

Zandro remained standing. A movement of his hand dismissed her question. ‘It’s not important. How’s your wrist?’

Numbed. ‘I’m sure it will be all right.’ But she would retain the compress a little longer. He’d find it harder to throw her out while she still had it on. ‘Your father hates me.’

‘He loves Nicky.’

As if it followed logically. ‘Is it love?’ she queried. ‘Or possessiveness?’ Dominic, named after his grandfather at Rico’s wish, was the senior Brunellesci’s only grandchild, the sole member of the new generation. ‘You’re not married yet, are you?’ she asked Zandro. ‘If you have children, what happens to Dominic?’

He frowned. ‘He will still be Rico’s son, a Brunellesci. Nothing can change that.’

‘He’s my son, too. Nothing can change that.’

A flicker of acknowledgement momentarily lessened the chilly hostility in his eyes. Then his mouth hardened and the pitiless expression returned. ‘You relinquished your rights.’

‘You bullied me into signing those papers when I couldn’t stand up to you!’

‘Bullied?’ Reciprocal anger lit his eyes. ‘Bribery I’ll admit to, but bullying? I had no need to resort to that. You were only too happy to take the money and run.’

The accusation took her breath. She opened her mouth to deny it, then reminded herself to think before she spoke. Almost choking on the words, she said, ‘It had nothing to do with money! At the time it seemed the best thing for him. But there are more important things for a child than money and what it can buy.’

‘Agreed,’ Zandro said. ‘A family, for one thing.’

‘I’m his family!’

His mouth turned down in a sceptical sneer. ‘Forgive me if I find this sudden maternal concern difficult to believe.’

‘It’s not sudden at all! You don’t know how hard it was, how much heartbreak…’ She stopped there, her eyes stinging, and quickly turned her head, trying to stem the threatening tears, her teeth sinking savagely into her lower lip. Weeping in front of this unfeeling man was humiliating.

One tear escaped and unthinkingly she lifted her towel-encased arm to swipe at it, impatient with her own weakness.

The coldness of the compress helped her steady herself. When she returned her defiant gaze to him Zandro hadn’t moved, standing as though fixed to the floor, watching her.

He shifted then, a slight movement of shoulders, feet, and thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, examining her as if for flaws—she was sure he could find plenty.

Unexpectedly he said, ‘You have a case, I suppose—morally, if not legally. There will be conditions, but provided no harm comes to Nicky I’m willing to talk about visiting rights.’