Читать книгу Secret Heirs Collection - Кейт Хьюит, Коллектив авторов - Страница 70

RENZO INSISTED ON a honeymoon—cutting through Darcy’s automatic protests when she went downstairs the following morning to find him in the throes of planning it. As she glanced at the road map he’d spread out on the dining-room table, she told him it would be hypocritical; he said he didn’t care.

‘Maybe you’re just doing it to make the marriage look more authentic than it really is,’ she observed, once she had selected a slice of warm bread from the basket. ‘Since we haven’t actually consummated it.’

‘Maybe I am,’ he agreed evenly. ‘Or maybe it’s because I want to show you a little of my country and to see you relax some more. You slept well last night, Darcy.’ His black eyes gleamed but that was the only reference he made to their chaste wedding night, though she felt a little flustered as his gaze lingered on the swell of her breasts for slightly longer than was necessary. ‘And we can consummate it anytime you like,’ he said softly. ‘You do realise that, don’t you?’

She didn’t trust herself to answer, though her burning cheeks must have given away the fact that the subject was very much on her mind. Sharing a bed so he could keep an eye on her was more straightforward in theory than in practice. Because a bed was a bed, no matter how big it was. And wasn’t it true that at one point during the night her foot had encountered one of her new husband’s shins and she’d instinctively wanted to rub her toes up and down his leg, before hastily rolling away as if her skin had been scorched?

She told herself their situation was crazy enough but at least she was in full control of her senses—and if she had sex with him, she wouldn’t be. And she was afraid. Afraid that the pregnancy was making her prone to waves of vulnerability she was supposed to have left behind. Afraid he would hurt her if he saw through to the darkness at the very core of her. Because something had changed, she recognised that. He was being gentle with her in a way he’d never been before. She knew it was because she was carrying his baby but even so… It was intoxicating behaviour coming from such an intrinsically cold man and Darcy might have been bewitched by such a transformation, had she not instinctively mistrusted any type of kindness.

But she couldn’t get out of the ‘honeymoon’ he was planning and perhaps that was a good thing. It would be distracting. There would be things to occupy them other than prowling around their beautiful rented villa like two wary, circling tigers, with her terrified to even meet those brilliantine black eyes for fear he would read the lust in hers and act on it…

So she packed her suitcase with the warm clothes which had also been purchased from Nicoletta’s boutique and Renzo loaded it into the back of his sports car. The air was crisp as they drove through the mountains towards Italy’s capital, the hills softly green against the ice-blue sky as the powerful car swallowed up the miles. They stopped in a small, hilltop town for an early lunch of truffled pasta followed by torta della nonna and afterwards walked through narrow cobbled streets to the viewpoint at the very top, looking down on the landscape below, which was spread out like a chequered tablecloth of green and gold.

Darcy gave a long sigh as her elbows rested on the balustrade and Renzo turned to look at her.

‘Like it?’ he questioned.

‘It’s beautiful. So beautiful it seems almost unreal.’

‘But there are many beautiful parts of England.’

She shrugged, her eyes fixed on some unseen spot in the distance. ‘Not where I grew up. Oh, there were lots of lovely spaces in the surrounding countryside, but unless they’re on your doorstep you need funds to access them.’

‘Was it awful?’ he questioned suddenly.

She didn’t answer immediately. ‘Yes,’ she said, at last.

He heard the sadness in that single word and saw the way her teeth chewed on her bottom lip and he broke the silence which followed with a light touch to her arm. ‘Come on. Let’s try and get there before it gets dark.’

She fell asleep almost as soon as she got in the car and as Renzo waited in line at a toll gate, he found himself studying that pale face with its upturned freckled nose. Her red curls hung over one shoulder in the loose plait she sometimes wore and he thought that today she looked almost like a teenager, in jeans and a soft grey sweater. Only the bump reminded him that she was nearly twenty-five and soon going to have his baby.

Could they make it work? His leather-gloved fingers gripped the steering wheel as they moved forward. They had to make it work. There was no other choice, for he would not replicate his own bleak and fatherless childhood. He realised how little she’d actually told him about her own upbringing, yet, uncharacteristically, she had mentioned it today. And even though that haunted look had come over her face, he had found himself wanting to know more.

Wasn’t that his role now, as husband and prospective father—to break the ingrained rules of a lifetime and find out as much about Darcy as possible? And wasn’t the best way to do that to tell her something about him—the kind of stuff women had quizzed him about over years, to no effect. Because communication was a two-way street, wasn’t it? At least, that was what that therapist had told him once. Not that he’d been seeing her professionally. To him she was just a gorgeous brunette he’d been enjoying a very physical relationship with when she’d freaked him out by telling him that she specialised in ‘family therapy’ and he could confide in her anytime she liked. His mouth thinned. Maybe he should have taken her up on her offer and gathered tips about how to deal with his current situation.

Darcy woke as they drove into the darkening city whose ancient streets were deeply familiar to him from his own childhood. Taking a circuitous route, Renzo found himself enjoying her murmured appreciation of the Campidoglio, the Coliseum and other famous monuments, but he saw her jaw drop in amazement when he stopped outside the sixteenth-century palazzo on the Via Condotti, just five minutes from the Spanish Steps.

‘This isn’t yours?’ she questioned faintly, after he’d parked the car and they’d travelled up to the third floor.

‘It is now. I bought it a couple of years ago,’ he replied, throwing open the double doors into the main salon, with its high ceilings, gilded furniture and matchless views over the ancient city. ‘Although the Emperor Napoleon III happened to live here in 1830.’

‘Here? Good grief, Renzo.’ She stood in the centre of the room, looking around. ‘It’s gorgeous. Like…well, like something you might see in a book. Why don’t you live here? I mean, why London?’

‘Because my work is international and I wanted to establish a base in London and the only way to do that properly is to be permanently on-site. I don’t come back here as often as I should, but maybe some day.’

‘Renzo—’

But he cut her off with a shake of his head. ‘I know. You want to talk—but first you should unpack. Get comfortable. We need to think about dinner but first I need to do a little work.’

‘Of course,’ she said stiffly.

‘Come with me and I’ll show you where the main bedroom is.’

Down a high-ceilinged corridor she followed him to yet another room which defied expectation. The enormous wooden bed had a huge oil painting on the wall behind it, with elaborate silk drapes on either side, which made it seem as if you were looking out of a window onto mountains and trees. Darcy blinked as she stared at it. How am I even here? she wondered as she unwound the soft blue scarf which was knotted around her neck. She looked around the room, taking in the antique furniture, the silken rugs and the priceless artwork. Yet this staggering display of a wealth which many people would covet had little meaning for her. She didn’t want things—no matter how exquisite they were. She wanted something which was much harder to pin down and which she suspected would always elude her.

She showered and changed into a cashmere tunic with leggings, padding barefoot into the salon to see her new husband at his computer, the familiar sight of one of his spectacular designs dominating the screen. But despite her noiseless entrance he must have heard her because he turned round, those dark-rimmed spectacles on his nose giving him that sexy, geeky look which used to make her heart turn over.

Still did, if she was being honest.

‘Room to your satisfaction?’ he questioned.

‘Bit cramped, actually.’

He gave the glimmer of a smile. ‘I know. Makes you claustrophobic. Hungry?’

‘After that enormous lunch?’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Funnily enough, I am.’

‘Good.’ His gaze roved over her, black eyes gleaming as they lingered a little too long. ‘Looks like you have some catching up to do. You need to put some meat on those bones.’

She didn’t reply to that. She wasn’t going to tell him that she felt all breasts and bump. She wanted to tell him not to look at her body any more than was absolutely necessary.

And yet she wanted him to feast his eyes on it all day and make her glow inside.

‘We could eat out,’ he continued. ‘I could take you to Trastevere, where you can eat some real Italian food and not something designed to try to appeal to an international palate. Or…’

She raised her eyebrows questioningly. ‘Or?’

‘We could order in pizza.’

‘Here?’

‘Why not?’

She shrugged as she stared through an arch to see a long, softly polished dining table set with tall silver candelabra. ‘It seems way too grand.’

‘A table is there to be used, Darcy, no matter what you’re eating.’

It seemed decadent to find themselves there an hour later sitting on ormolu chairs, eating pizza with their fingers. As if they had broken into a museum and had temporarily set up home for the night.

‘Good?’ questioned Renzo as she popped the last piece of anchovy in her mouth and licked bright orange oil from her fingers.

‘Heaven,’ she sighed.

But it still seemed like a dream—as if it were happening to someone else—until they returned to the main salon and he asked her if she wanted mint tea. She didn’t know what made her ask if he had hot chocolate and was surprised when he said he’d find out—and even more surprised when he returned a few minutes later with a creamy concoction in a tall mug. A potent memory squeezed at her heart as she took the drink from him—perhaps it was the sweet smell of the chocolate which made the words slip out before she could stop them.

‘Wow! I haven’t had this since…’

She caught herself on but it was too late.

‘Since when?’

She kept her voice airy. ‘Oh, nothing to interest you.’

‘I’m interested,’ he persisted.

She wondered if the shaky way she put the mug down gave away her sudden nerves. ‘You’ve never been interested before.’

‘True,’ he agreed drily. ‘But you’re carrying my baby now and maybe I need to understand the mother of my child.’

And Darcy knew she couldn’t keep avoiding the issue—just as she knew that to do so would probably intrigue him. Even worse—it might make him start to do his own investigative work and then what might he discover? Her heart sank. She knew exactly what he would discover. He would discover the reason for the deep dark shame which still festered inside her. She stared at the cooling chocolate, wishing she could turn back time and that this time he wouldn’t ask. But you couldn’t turn back time. Just as you couldn’t hide everything from a man who was determined to find out.

‘It sounds so stupid—’

‘Darcy,’ he said, and his voice sounded almost gentle.

She shrugged. ‘The chocolate reminded me of going out to a café when I was a little girl. Going to meet some prospective new foster parents.’

The image came back to her, unbearably sharp and achingly clear. She remembered strawberry-covered cakes gleaming behind glass frontage and the waitresses with their starched aprons. It had been one of those awkward but hopeful meetings, with Darcy’s social worker the referee—observing the interaction between a little girl who badly needed a home and two adults who wanted to give her one. They’d bought her hot chocolate in a glass mug, topped with a hillock of whipped cream and a shiny cherry on top. She’d stared at it for a long time before she could bear to disturb its perfection and when she’d drunk from it at last, the cream had coated her upper lip with a white moustache and made everyone laugh. The laughter was what she remembered most.

‘Foster parents?’ prompted Renzo, his deep voice dissolving the image.

‘I didn’t have the most…stable of childhoods. My mother was seventeen when she was orphaned. The roads were icy and her father took the bend too fast. They said he’d been…drinking. The police knocked at her door on Christmas Eve and said she’d better sit down. She once told me that after they’d gone she looked at the Christmas tree and all the presents underneath it. Presents which would never be opened…’ Her voice trailed off. It had been a rare moment of insight and clarity from a woman whose life had been lived in pursuit of a constant chemical high. ‘And it… Well, it freaked her out.’

‘I’m not surprised. Did she have any relatives?’

Darcy shook her head. ‘No. Well, there were some on the west coast of Ireland but it was too late for her to get there in time for the holiday. And she couldn’t face intruding on someone else’s Christmas. Being the spectre at the feast. Being pitied. So she spent the holiday on her own and soon after she went to Manchester with the money she’d inherited from her parents but no real idea about a career. In fact, she had nothing to commend her but her looks and her new-found ability to party.’

‘Did she look like you?’ he questioned suddenly.

‘Yes. At least, at the beginning she did.’ Darcy closed her eyes. She’d seen pictures of a feisty-looking redhead with green eyes so like her own. Seen her tentative smile as that young woman cradled the infant Darcy in her arms. She didn’t want to tell Renzo what had happened to those looks—not when she couldn’t bear to think about it herself. ‘Before the drugs took hold. I was first taken into care at the age of two and I stayed there until I was eight, when my mother went to the courts to try to “win” me back, as she put it.’

‘And did she succeed?’

‘She did. She could put on a good performance when the need arose.’

‘And what was that like—being back with her?’

Darcy swallowed. How much could she tell him? How much before a look of disgust crossed his face and he started to worry whether she might have inherited some of her poor mother’s addictive traits—or the other, even more unpalatable ones? ‘I’ll leave that to your imagination,’ she said, her voice faltering a little. ‘She used me to interact with her dealer, or to answer the door when people she owed money to came knocking. There’s nothing quite like a child in an adult’s world for throwing things off balance.’

‘And were you safe?’ he demanded.

‘I was lucky,’ she said simply. ‘Lucky that some kind social worker went over and above the call of duty and got me out of there. After that I went to the children’s home—and, to be honest, I felt glad to be there.’

Not safe. Never really safe. But safer.

‘And what did you do when you left there?’

‘I came to London. Went to night school and caught up with some of the education I’d missed. It’s why I ended up waitressing—nobody really cares if you’ve got a GCSE in Maths if you can carry a tray of drinks without spilling any.’

There was no sound in the room, other than the ticking of some beautiful freestanding clock which Darcy suspected might have been in place when Napoleon himself was living there.

‘So…’ His voice was thoughtful now; his black eyes hooded. ‘Seeing as so much of your childhood was spent with people making decisions for you, where would you like to live when our baby is born, Darcy?’

Not only was it not the reaction she’d been expecting, it was also the most considerate question anyone had ever asked her and Darcy was terrified she was going to start blubbing—an over-the-top response from someone who’d experienced little real kindness in her life. But she needed to keep it together. She’d been given enough false hope in life to build Renzo’s offer up into something it wasn’t.

‘I would prefer to be in England,’ she said slowly. ‘Italy is very beautiful and I love it here but I feel like a foreigner.’ She forced a laugh. ‘Probably because I am.’

‘My apartment in Belgravia, then?’

She shook her head. ‘No. That won’t do. I don’t really want to go back there.’

He looked faintly surprised, as she supposed anyone might be if their new wife had just rejected a luxury apartment worth millions of pounds. ‘Because?’

Should she tell him that she felt as if she’d lived another life there? She’d behaved like someone she no longer recognised—with her balcony bras and her tiny panties. She’d been nothing but his plaything, his always-up-for-it lover who was supposed to have been expendable before all this happened. How could she possibly reconcile that Darcy with the woman she was now and the mother she was preparing to be? How could she bear to keep reminding herself that he’d never planned for her to become a permanent fixture in his life? ‘It’s not a place for a baby.’

He raised his dark eyebrows. ‘You’re not suggesting we decamp to that tiny cottage you were renting in Norfolk?’

‘Of course not,’ she said stiffly. ‘I think we both know that wouldn’t work. But I would like to bring up the baby away from the city.’ She licked her lips and her tongue came away with the salty flavour of capers. ‘Somewhere with grass and flowers and a park nearby. Somewhere you can work from, so it doesn’t necessarily have to be a long way out of London, just so long as it’s green.’

He nodded and gave a small smile. ‘I think we can manage that.’

‘Thank you.’

Hearing her voice tremble, Renzo frowned. ‘And you need to get to bed. Now. You look washed out.’

‘Yes.’ Awkwardly, she rose to her feet and walked across the room, feeling the soft silk of a Persian rug beneath her bare feet. But despite her initial reservations at having told him more than she’d ever told anyone, Darcy was amazed by how much lighter she felt. And she was grateful to him, too—stupidly relieved he’d managed to keep his shock and disgust to himself because most people weren’t that diplomatic. All she wanted now was to climb into bed and have him put his arms round her and hold her very tight and tell her it was going to be all right. She closed her eyes. Actually, she wanted more than that. Could they be intimate again? Could they? Hadn’t that book on pregnancy explained that sex in the latter stages was perfectly acceptable, just as long as you didn’t try anything too adventurous?

For the first time in a long time, she felt the faint whisper of hope as she brushed her teeth, her hands wavering as she picked up the exquisite silk nightgown she’d worn on her wedding night, feeling the slippery fabric sliding between her fingers. It was beautiful but it made her feel like someone she wasn’t. Or rather, somebody she no longer was. Wouldn’t it be better to be less obvious if she wanted them relaxed enough to get to know one another again? Shouldn’t it be a slow rediscovery rather than a sudden wham-bam, especially given the circumstances in which they found themselves?

Pulling on one of Renzo’s T-shirts, which came to halfway down her thighs, she crept beneath the duvet and waited for him to come to bed.

But he didn’t.

She tried to block the thoughts which were buzzing in her mind like a mosquito in a darkened room, but some thoughts just wouldn’t go away. Because apart from that very public kiss when he’d claimed her as his bride, he hadn’t come near her, had he? And something else occurred to her, something which perhaps she had been too arrogant to take into account. What if he no longer wanted her? If he no longer desired her as a man was supposed to desire a woman.

Tossing and turning in those fine cotton sheets, she watched the hand of the clock slowly moving. Soon her heart rate overtook the rhythmical ticking. Eleven o’clock. Then twelve. Shortly before one she gave in to the exhaustion which was threatening to crush her and Darcy never knew what time Renzo came to bed that night, because she didn’t hear him.