was an honourable man who would never have turned his back on his child.’ He frowned as a thought occurred to him. ‘When was Gino born?’
‘The seventh of June. He’s ten months old now.’
‘Pietro was very ill by June of last year, and he died in August,’ Raul told her flatly. ‘An inoperable brain tumour had been diagnosed the previous October and it grew rapidly. Did you know about his illness?’ he asked Libby sharply.
She shook her head. Pietro must have fallen ill soon after her mother had returned from the Mediterranean cruise she had won. The cruise on which Liz had fallen in love with a gorgeous Italian, she had confessed to Libby, with a faintly embarrassed smile after all she had said over the years about the unreliability of men and the foolishness of losing your heart to one.
Liz had been devastated when she had heard nothing more from Pietro after the cruise—especially when she’d discovered that she had conceived his child. ‘I’ve done it again, Libby,’ she’d said tearfully, when she had emerged from the bathroom clutching a pregnancy test. ‘I trusted a man and now I’m left with his baby—the same as happened with your bloody father. You’d think I’d have learned that all men are selfish bastards, wouldn’t you?’
Libby had hated Pietro for hurting her mum, but according to Raul his father had returned to Italy from the cruise to learn that he was terminally ill. Perhaps he hadn’t felt able to confide such devastating news to Liz, she thought, her heart aching for her mother and the man she had loved. When Liz had written to her lover to tell him of Gino’s birth Pietro had been weeks from death, and maybe hadn’t had the strength to reply. But surely the fact that he had included Liz and Gino in his will meant that he had cared for her mum after all?
Gino had been sitting quietly in her arms, but now he began to cough again, his chest heaving with the effort. ‘I thought you said he was due some medication?’ Raul commented, his frown deepening. He had as much experience of children as he had with aliens from another planet, but this baby sounded seriously unwell.
‘He is.’ Concern for Gino overrode Libby’s reluctance to invite Raul up to the flat. ‘You’d better come up,’ she muttered.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Raul demanded when they reached the first floor landing.
Libby paused with her hand on the living room door. ‘He had an illness called bronchiolitis, which is fairly common in babies, but he developed pneumonia and was very unwell. He was in hospital for a few weeks and now he can’t seem to shake off this cough. The doctor said that the living conditions here don’t help,’ she confessed, recalling how the GP in the village had warned her that the mildew growing on the damp walls of the flat produced spores which Gino inhaled and were the worst thing for his lungs.
She pushed open the door, and stifled a groan at the scene of chaos that met her. Raul Carducci’s unexpected visit had made her forget the disaster that had occurred the previous evening, when the bulge in her bedroom ceiling had given way and rain water had gushed through. Luckily, her friend Tony had been there. They had been sharing a bottle of wine while Libby had talked over her financial worries and the likelihood that she would have to close Nature’s Way, and together they had grabbed her belongings and carried them into the sitting room, out of the deluge that had flooded her room. Tony had managed to block the hole to stop any more water pouring through, but he’d got soaked to the skin and had had to change into the sports gear that he kept in his car.
Her canvases were stacked against the sofa and her clothes heaped on the floor. Her underwear was on top of the pile, Libby noticed, flushing with embarrassment when she saw Raul’s eyes rest on the numerous pairs of brightly coloured knickers. He glanced slowly around the room and she knew he was taking in the peeling wallpaper and the blue mould which had appeared on the wall again, despite the fact that she constantly scrubbed the area with fungal remover.
There had been so sign of damp when she and Liz had viewed the shop and flat the previous spring. Then, the place had seemed bright and airy, newly decorated, and with the windows flung open to allow the sea breeze to drift in. It was only during the wet winter that Libby had realised the rooms had been wallpapered to hide the patches of mildew.
She was irritated by the expression of distaste on Raul’s face. It was clear from the superb quality of his clothes that he was very wealthy, and no doubt his home in Italy was a palace compared to the flat, but it was all she could afford—and actually even that was doubtful, she realised dismally when she remembered the letter from the bank that had informed her they would not increase her overdraft.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ she muttered. ‘My bedroom was flooded last night and we piled all my things in here.’
‘We?’ Raul looked pointedly at the baby in Libby’s arms.
‘My friend Tony was here.’ She followed Raul’s gaze to the three empty wine bottles and two glasses on the coffee table, and watched his expression change from distaste to disapproval.
‘Looks like you had quite a party,’ he drawled.
Surely he didn’t think they had got through three bottles of wine in one evening? ‘Tony works in a bar and he brings me old wine bottles. I decorate them with decoupage and sell them at craft markets,’ she explained. ‘I’m an artist, and so is Tony,’ she added, when Raul said nothing, just studied her with cool disdain in his eyes. Rebellion flared inside her. Why on earth did she feel she had to explain herself to this arrogant stranger?
Gino was wriggling to be set down. Libby’s arms felt as though they were about to drop off from holding him and, distracted by Raul’s brooding presence, she lowered the baby onto the floor and hurried into the tiny adjoining kitchen to fetch his medicine.
Gino immediately crawled over to the coffee table and reached towards one of the wine bottles. Raul grabbed him seconds before he pulled the glass bottle down on his head. The flat was a death-trap, he thought disgustedly as he swept the baby into his arms and stepped over the piles of junk on the floor to stand by the window. And there was an unpleasant musty smell in the room—caused, he guessed, by the fungus that was sprouting on the walls.
What was Elizabeth Maynard thinking of, bringing up her son in such appalling conditions? A pair of men’s jeans was hanging over a chair, and he wondered if they belonged to the barman-cum-artist Tony, who had been here the previous night. Was he her lover? And, if so, what role did he have in Gino’s life? Was he a stepfather to the child, or did Gino have a variety of ‘uncles’?
Raul frowned, deeply disturbed by the idea. He knew what kind of woman Libby was: a lap-dancer and apparently an artist—or perhaps she meant artiste, he mused derisively. One thing was for sure. The sort of men who frequented strip-clubs were not likely to be suitable father figures for her baby. He pushed away the thought that his father had presumably met Libby at a club. He didn’t want to think of Pietro like that. It sullied his memory. But, like it or not, his father had had an affair with Libby and she had borne him a child.
He looked down at Gino and was once more startled by the strong resemblance the baby had to Pietro. Gino’s hair was a mass of tight curls, as his father’s had been, and his big brown eyes had the same amber flecks. Pietro would have adored his baby son, Raul acknowledged. But Pietro had been dying when Gino had been born, and he had never seen his child. Raul could not understand why Pietro had not confided in him. All he could think was that his father had been ashamed of his relationship with a lap-dancer who was forty years younger than him. Perhaps he had suspected that Libby was a gold-digger, and that was why, in an effort to protect Gino, Pietro had stipulated that his infant son must spend his childhood at the Carducci family home.
It
