Secret Love-Child: Kept for Her Baby / The Costanzo Baby Secret / Her Secret, His Love-Child. Catherine Spencer
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