Читать книгу One Kiss in... Paris - Robyn Grady - Страница 16

“Tell me more about France.”

At the sound of Bailey’s voice filtering though the predawn mist, Mateo lifted his head off the pillow and dropped a kiss on her silky crown.

They’d made love well into the night. The first time had been incredible. Incomparable. But over far too quickly. The second time they’d slowed down enough to thoroughly explore each other’s bodies and share their most intimate needs. The third time they’d come apart in each other’s arms might have been the best … the time when he’d truly begun to see that this joining meant more than simply great sex. The connection they shared, the amazing way they fit, was special.

That didn’t mean he’d changed his mind about getting serious. About settling down. Invariably marriage meant children. Children of his own. But his practice was his life. He’d put all he had into doing his best and building a home that was his. He had everything he needed. Everything and more. He felt secure, and that was life’s most valuable gift.

If he were to become a husband … a father … well, he couldn’t think of a more vulnerable place to be. There were concerns over the complications in the womb, worry about childhood disease, not to mention the fact that in this world he had no living family now, other than Mama. If fate stepped in and left his child without parents …

Mateo swallowed against the pit formed in his throat.

This is why he never let himself analyze relationships too deeply, particularly following the “after all she could get” Linda incident. He was a man of influence and means who could choose what course his life should take. Tonight he’d chosen to act on the undeniable chemistry he shared with Bailey. Given she’d asked about France a moment ago, he hoped they could continue to enjoy the attraction a while longer. For however long it might last.

Nestled in the crook of his arm, she twined to rest her chin on her thatched hands, which lay on one side of his chest.

“What’s it like?” She asked, looking beautifully rumpled and sleep deprived but content. “Everyone seems to love Paris. Did you ever get into the city when you were young?”

“As a child?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I didn’t know Paris existed.”

She sat up a little, bracing her weight on an elbow as she searched his eyes in the misty light. Outside, the morning sun peeked over the distant rise, painting a translucent halo around her head.

Her voice softened when she asked, “Were you very lonely there? At the orphanage, I mean.”

Mateo’s jaw tensed. His first instinct was to push her question aside. If anyone, including Alex or Natalie, brought up his childhood, he rarely gave away too much. The past was past … even if it was never forgotten.

But lying here with Bailey after the extraordinary night they’d shared, he felt closer to her this minute than anyone he’d known. That shouldn’t be. He’d loved and respected Ernesto. He adored Mama. He had friends he would do anything for and, he was certain, vice versa.

And yet, he couldn’t deny it. Whatever drew him to Bailey Ross was a force unto itself. He wanted to share more than his bed with her tonight. He wanted to open up … at least this once.

“I wasn’t lonely,” he began. “I had many friends and adults I knew that cared for us all.” He thought more deeply and frowned. “I did feel alone, which is different, but I was too young to understand why. I never knew my parents. No one explained about the ‘who’ or the ‘when.’ I didn’t realize a life outside the orphanage existed until my fifth birthday.”

Sitting up, she wrapped the sheet around her breasts, under her arms. “What happened on your birthday? I don’t suppose you had a party.”

“From what I can recall, the day was pleasant enough. Everyone sang to me after lunch. I got a special dessert along with two friends I picked out.” He searched his memory and blinked then smiled. “I received a gift. People from town donated them. I tore open the paper and found a wooden train. Green chimney,” he recalled. “Red wheels. I thought I was made.” But his smile slipped. “Then my best friend said he was going away. That a mother and father were taking him home.”

Bailey tucked her knees up and hugged her sheet-clad legs. “It mustn’t have made sense.”

He flinched at a familiar pang in his chest and for a moment he wanted to end that conversation and talk about the France people found in travel books. The “gay Paree” with which Bailey would identify. But she wasn’t listening to this story to snatch some voyeuristic thrill. He saw from her unguarded expression that she wanted to learn more about the man she’d made love with tonight. He wanted to learn more about her too. So, to be fair, he took a breath and went on.

“I knew some children were there with us, then, suddenly, they weren’t. No one spoke about it, or if they did, I didn’t have the maturity to latch on and work the steps out. But this time, with Henri, I began to see.”

“You realized something was missing.”

He nodded.

Yes, missing. Exactly.

“From a second-story window,” he said, “where the boys slept, I watched Henri slide into a shiny white car and drive away with two people, a man and woman. I shouted out and waved, but he didn’t look up. Not until the last minute. Then he saw me. I think he called out my name, too.”

With her blue eyes glittering in the early dawn light, she tipped nearer and held his arm.

“Oh, Mateo … that must have been awful.”

Not awful. “Eye-opening. Unsettling. From then on I was more aware of others leaving. More aware that I was left behind. I tried to find him a few years back. It would be great to see him again. Hear if his memories match mine.”

Henri had been his first friend.

Mateo touched the scar on his upper lip—the one he’d received when Henri had thrown a ball too hard and he’d missed catching it—then, dismissing the pang in his chest, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for the water decanter. After pouring two glasses, he offered her one.

She drank, watching him over the rim of her glass.

“How did Mama Celeca find you?” she asked, handing the empty glass back.

“Not Mama. Ernesto.” He took another mouthful and set both glasses down. “Years before, he’d been in love with a woman who’d carried his child. A friend, returning from France, let Ernesto know he’d heard that Antoinette had given birth in a town called Ville Laube and had offered her baby boy up for adoption there. Ernesto flew straight over. He found the orphanage his friend had described but not his boy.”

Clutching the sheet under her chin, Bailey sagged.

“I thought you’d say that you were Ernesto’s child.”

“Not through blood. But apparently my parents were Italian, too. I was left there when I was three, but I don’t remember any life before the orphanage.”

She shifted and he waited until she’d settled alongside of him.

“One day after Henri had gone,” he went on, “I saw this sad looking man sitting alone in the courtyard under a huge oak. His hands were clasped between his thighs. His eyes were downcast. When I edged closer, I saw they were bloodshot. He’d been crying. I knew because some times in the mornings I had bloodshot eyes too.”

His throat closed as the memory grew stronger and flooded his mind with a mix of emotions, sounds and smells from the past. The scent of lavender. The noise of children playing. The deepest feeling that, if only he knew this sad man, he would like him.

But, “I didn’t know why the man was unhappy. I had no idea what to say. I only knew I felt for him. So I sat down and put my hand over his.”

Mateo looked across. In the growing light, he thought he saw a single tear speed down Bailey’s cheek. Ironic, because after that day he couldn’t remember ever crying again.

“And he took you home,” she said.

“Home to Italy, yes. And later here to Australia.”

“So Mama Celeca isn’t your real grandmother?”

“She’s always treated me as though she is. She accepted me from the moment Ernesto brought me back to Casa Buona. I helped Ernesto in his office during the day and hung out with Mama in the kitchen in the evenings.”

“Where she taught you to cook.”

Remembering the aromas and Mama’s careful instructions, he smiled and nodded. “The old-fashioned way.”

“The best way.” She turned more toward him. “Did Ernesto find his boy?”

“No.” And that was the tragedy. “Although he never gave up hope.”

“Did he ever marry?”

“Never. He died two years ago.”

“I remember. Mama told me.”

“He wanted to be buried back home. Mama was heartbroken at her son’s death, but that, at least, gave her a measure of comfort.” He voiced the words that were never far from his heart. “He was a good son. A good father. Last year I had a call from a woman, Ernesto’s biological son’s widow. After he’d been killed in a hit-and-run, she’d found papers from the orphanage that helped her track Ernesto down. She’d wanted him to know.”

She lowered her head and murmured, so softly, he barely heard. “Is all this why Natalie thinks you might bring home a child from France one day?”

“Adoption rules were more flexible in the country back then.”

“You’d have no trouble proving you could care for a child. I haven’t known you long but I know you’d make a good father … like Ernesto.”

A knot twisted in his chest. Sharp. Uncomfortable. He’d already explained.

“I’m too busy for a child.” He looked inside and, flinching, admitted, “Too selfish.”

When his temple throbbed, he turned to plump up his pillow. They ought to get some sleep, Bailey especially.

They lay down again, front to front, curled up tight. Mateo was drifting when she murmured against his chest.

“When are you expected in France?”

“Next week.”

“I told Natalie I’d start work for her in two days’ time.” She lifted her head to glance out the window at the ever-rising sun. “Make that tomorrow.”

Mateo was suddenly wide awake. If Bailey was thinking about changing her mind and coming with him.

“Natalie won’t hold anything against you for taking a week off.”

In fact, he was sure she’d be happy at the news. Natalie made no secret of the fact that she would love to see her husband’s best friend settled with someone nice. Not that that was in the cards.

She snuggled into him more. “I’d feel as if I were copping out.”

“Visiting the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, perhaps. But the orphanage?” He skimmed a hand down her smooth warm arm. “It’s not a cop-out.”

After several minutes, her breathing grew deeper and he thought she was finally asleep. He was letting oblivion overtake him too when she spoke again.

“Mama’s right.”

He forced his heavy lids open. “About what?”

She rubbed her cheek against his chest and murmured in a groggy voice, “You are a good man.”