The Italian's Demand. Sara Wood
months of deprivation. He wanted his child and had been without him too long.
‘For the love of heaven!’ he groaned contrarily.
How could he wait? How long did it take most women to undress, shower, choose something suitable… Hell. Hours, usually.
Suddenly incapable of remaining still, he began to loose off some of the energy that seemed to be stored in his body by striding up and down. Astonishingly, his mind had leapt away from Lio and had focussed on the woman who’d ignited his consciousness, imagining her in a room upstairs, peeling off that dress…
Per l’amor del cielo! What was he? Some sort of sex maniac that he should be distracted by a fabulous body at a time like this? It was true she was beautiful. Luscious. Perfect skin, incredible eyes, a mouth that had been made for kissing. And she was fiery. Passionate and apparently very caring.
He allowed himself a wry smile. No wonder she’d made such an impression on him! It was because his feelings were all over the place, his needs raw and hungry. He’d be more in control once he’d seen Lio. More tranquil.
‘Avanti!’ He muttered impatiently. Come on!
He had a child to hold and love, bags to pack, a flight to catch. A son to take home.
From the upstairs bedroom, the trembling Verity furtively observed Vittore as he fumed his way up and down beside the burglar-proof railings. Once he stopped and looked up at the spikes at the top and seemed to contemplate climbing over, but he then thought better of it and resumed his furious prowling, for all the world like the caged tiger he’d mentioned.
She gulped, her eyes wide with dismay. Never in the whole of her life had she seen anyone so angry. He simmered like a rumbling volcano about to erupt and devastate the countryside around.
Her heart thudded loudly. Vittore wouldn’t meekly go away when she explained that Lio oughtn’t to leave her. He’d never understand. She knew that he didn’t have an ounce of sensitivity in the whole of his body.
The nausea clawed at her stomach again. It looked horribly likely that she’d lose Lio. This was a situation she hadn’t expected, not in a million years.
She would never have given her heart so completely if she’d thought Vittore might turn up. Wouldn’t have allowed Lio to regard her as the centre of the universe. It would devastate her if Lio left. And how would he ever recover?
‘Oh, God!’ she whispered, appalled by the terrible dilemma.
This was Vittore’s child. But Lio was far too disturbed to be put in his father’s care. Verity held her stomach, willing herself not to be sick. She had to get through this, had to succeed, for Lio’s sake.
Her brain whirled with questions. Linda had lied when she’d said that Vittore was dead. Why? Had she run away? And if so, why? What kind of ogre was Vittore? Or was it his persistent infidelity that had been too painful to bear? Linda had been scathing about his womanising.
Verity took a good, hard look at him. Not that she didn’t know already how sensual he was, the kind of man who’d attract women like flies to his web.
That athletic and muscular body was packed with sexual impulses—which had, she could have sworn, been zapped at her once or twice. She’d certainly found herself reluctantly wilting under the intensity of his hot, sultry eyes. He even moved with a sexy fluidity that had made her knees go weak.
His air of sophisticated, man-of-the-world confidence was very appealing. Vittore’s hair was glossy; smooth and neat, now he’d swept back that poet’s lick back from his forehead. And he probably made good use of those melting chocolate eyes that had expressed several emotions in the short time they’d talked; flashing with tenderness, anger and longing.
She groaned in despair. It seemed that he wanted his child badly. Whether that was just a male need for a son and heir, or for a more profound and worthy reason, she didn’t know.
Linda’s boasts about their lifestyle could have been true. Clearly he was rich and successful, which meant he was used to getting whatever he wanted. She knew he headed the family textile business, with masses of exclusive outlets all over the world. So we’re talking about dynasties, she mused gloomily.
Even if she hadn’t seen the Mantezzini name above adverts for impossibly glamorous and expensive clothes, she could have recognised his wealth in the cut of his quiet, classy, soft-textured suit. It fitted him like a glove and had obviously been hand-made. Shoes, too. Probably the cream shirt and expensive silk tie had been laboured over with loving care as well. Yes, the playboy Italian looked groomed to the last immaculate inch.
Smelling of money. Smelling gorgeous, as a matter of fact, drat him! She scowled. He’d give Lio a fabulous life—far better in material terms than the one she’d envisaged for them. No doubt Lio would take over the business eventually. What a future.
But would her nephew have what truly mattered: total, unconditional love? She went cold, envisaging the kind of loveless existence she’d been subjected to at home. Without her friends at school, she would have been utterly miserable.
And who would offer Lio a mother’s love? Would he find an ever-changing string of women in his father’s bed? And…would he be farmed out to nannies and be visited by his father only at teatime?
Her fists clenched. That wouldn’t be good enough! Bewildered, frightened little Lio needed affection and love like a fish needs water. And he needed Vittore’s rotten kind of fathering like a hole in the head.
But…what was she going to do? Start a siege? And look what a bag of nerves she was! She was trembling all over!
Time she dived into a warm shower. And found the courage to persuade Vittore that he couldn’t take Lio away right now.
She dared not fail. Her stomach lurching uncomfortably, she checked that Lio was all right. Looking down on his sweet face, her heart somersaulted at the thought of the next hour or so which would decide his fate as well as hers. Her finger stroked his fair cheek.
‘Oh, Lio,’ she whispered brokenly. ‘I love you so very much!’
A sob escaped in a wobbly kind of sound through her trembling lips and she hurried to peel off her sopping wet dress. Shakily she stepped into the shower, where tears mingled with the water that poured over her head and where all the daisy petals from that lovely, blissful afternoon were swept away, to sit in a limp and miserable heap blocking the shower drain.
Still only half-dry, her hair wrapped in a virgin white towel, she wriggled into the first pair of briefs that came to hand and yanked what she thought was her cotton turquoise dress from the wardrobe, her fingers shaking so much she could hardly cope with the tiny buttons which ran from neckline to hem.
Too late, she discovered it was a similar one of Linda’s: too late, too short and too tight, she thought moodily, diving for the buttons in order to take it off again. Just then, the gate buzzer rang shrill and loud, and she jumped, fearing that Lio would wake.
‘Damn whoever forgot to make you waterproof!’ she muttered, glaring at the ruined entry phone remote control which she’d flung on the bed. ‘Where were you when I needed you?’ she demanded.
The wretched thing might have let Vittore in without any further risk of awakening the sleeping Lio. As it was, Vittore had apparently decided to lean on the buzzer till she answered and it was screaming through the silence of the house like a banshee.
And so, barefoot and muttering all the rude words she knew, she hitched up the pelmet skirt to hip level and hurtled down the stairs to punch in the code that opened the gates. Remembering, of course, to snuggle the skirt back as far as it would go—which wasn’t far. Not that she cared.
All she could think of was that Vittore could destroy her happiness and turn a bewildered, distressed child into a total wreck. Her heart leapt erratically, her mind focussed only on Lio. His interests came above everything else.
Wiping her clammy hands on her hips, she opened the front door and