Again, like a blow to her chest, his resemblance to Ben impacted through her. Ben was fair, and this man was dark, but the features were so similar.
Fear and shock buckled her again.
What if this was Ben’s father?
Her stomach churned, his heartbeat racing. Desperately she tried to calm herself.
Even if he’s Ben’s father he can’t take him from me—he can’t!
Faintness drummed through her. Her hand clung on to the back of the kitchen chair for strength.
‘You are shocked.’ The deep, accented voice did not hold reproof any more, but the dark eyes were looking at her assessingly. As if he were deciding whether she really was shocked.
She threw her head back.
‘What else did you expect?’ she countered.
His eyes pulled away from her and swept the room. Seeing the old-fashioned range, the almost as old-fashioned electric cooker, ancient sink, worn work surfaces and the scrubbed kitchen table standing on old flagstones.
‘Not this,’ he murmured. Now there was disparagement clear in his voice. His face.
The face that looked so terrifyingly like Ben’s.
‘Why are you here?’ The words burst from her.
The dark eyebrows snapped together. So dark, he was, and yet Ben so fair. And yet despite the difference in colouring, the bones were the same, the features terrifyingly similar.
‘Because of the boy, obviously. He cannot remain here.’
She felt the blood drain from her.
‘You can’t take him. You can’t swan in here five years after conceiving him and—’
‘What?’ The single word was so explosive that it stopped Lizzy dead in her tracks.
For one long, shattering moment he just stared at her with a look of total and utter stupefaction on his face. As if the world completely and absolutely did not make sense. Lizzy stared back. Why was he looking at her like that? As if she were insane. Deranged.
‘I am not Ben’s father.’
The words bit from him. Relief washed through her, knocking the wind out of her. The terror that had been dissolving her stomach—the terror that, for all her defiance, this man invading her home had the power to take Ben from her, or at the very least to demand a presence in her son’s life—the fear that had gripped her since she had seen the startling resemblance in their faces, began to subside.
‘I am Ben’s uncle.’ The words were flat. Irrefutable. ‘It was my brother, Paolo, who was Ben’s father. And, as you must know, Paolo—like your sister Maria, Ben’s mother—is dead.’ Now his voice was bleak, stark.
Lizzy waited for the flush of relief to go through her again. The man who had got her sister pregnant was dead. He could never threaten her. Could never threaten Ben. She should feel relief at that.
But no such emotion came. Instead, only a terrible empty grief filled her.
Dead. Both dead. Both parents. And suddenly it seemed just so incredibly, blindingly sad. So cruel that Ben had had ripped from him both the people who had created him.
‘I’m…I’m sorry,’ she heard herself saying, her throat tight suddenly.
For just a moment the expression in his eyes changed, as if just for the briefest second they were both feeling the same emotion, the same grief at such loss. Then, like a door shutting, it was gone.
‘I’ve…I’ve never known who Ben’s father was.’ Lizzy’s voice was bleak. ‘My sister never regained consciousness. She stayed in a coma until Ben was full-term, and then—’ She broke off. Something struck her. She looked at the man who looked so much like Ben, who was his uncle. ‘Did…did you know about Ben?’
The brows snapped together. ‘Of course not. His existence was entirely unknown. That might seem impossible, given the circumstances of his parents’ death, which seem to have concealed even from you the identity of his father. However, thanks to the mercenary investigations of a muck-raking journalist, about which thankfully I have been recently informed, his existence is unknown no longer. Which is why—’ his voice sharpened, the initial impatience and imperiousness returning ‘—he must immediately be removed from here.’ His mouth pressed tightly a moment. ‘We may have located you ahead of the press, but if we can find you, so can they. Which means that both you and the boy must leave with us immediately. A safe house has been organised.’
‘What journalist? What do you mean, the press?’
A frown darkened his brow.
‘Do not be obtuse. The moment the boy’s location is discovered, the press will arrive like a pack of jackals. We must leave immediately.’
Lizzy stared uncomprehendingly. This was insane. What was going on?
‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this. Why would the press come here?’
‘To find my nephew. What do you imagine?’ Impatience and exasperation were snapping through him.
‘But why? What possible interest can the press have in Ben?’
He was staring at her. Staring at her as if she were completely insane.
Across the hall, Ben’s piping voice came from the living room, talking about his trainset.
‘This is the level crossing, and that’s the turntable.’
His voice faded again.
The man who was Ben’s uncle was still staring at her. Lizzy started to feel cold seep through her.
‘We haven’t done anything.’ Her voice was thin. ‘Why would any journalist be interested in Ben? He’s a four-year-old child.’
That look was still in his eye. He stood, quite motionless.
‘He was born. That is quite enough. His parentage ensures that.’ Exasperated anger suddenly bit through his voice. ‘Surely to God you have intelligence enough to understand that?’
Slowly, Lizzy took another careful step backwards. She did not like being so physically close to this man. It was overpowering, disturbing. Her heart was hammering in her chest.
What did he mean, Ben’s parentage? She stared at him. Apart from his being so extraordinarily, devastatingly good-looking, she did not recognise him. He looked like Ben, that was all. A dark version. Very Italian. He must be quite well-off, she registered. The four-by-four was a gleaming brand-new model. And he was wearing expensive clothes; she could see that. He had the sleek, impeccably groomed appearance of someone who wore clothes which, however deceptively casual, had cost a lot of money. And he had that air about him of someone who was used to others jumping to do his bidding. So he could easily be rich.
But why would that bring the press down in droves? Rich Italians were not so unique that the press wrote stories about them.
