“I’ll take responsibility for this,” Roxane said.
“We both will.”
Zito looked briefly dangerous. “If you think that I’m going to hand you money and leave you to it,” he said, “think again. You must know this changes everything.”
Her small laugh was slightly hysterical. “You don’t need to tell me that!” Already her life was in the process of turning upside down.
“You can’t be left on your own.”
“I’ve been on my own for over a year! I won’t be the first single mother.”
“You’re not a single mother! This child has a father.” With deceptive quiet, Zito added, “I won’t leave you to fend for yourself while you carry my child.”
Relax and enjoy our fabulous series about couples whose passion results in pregnancies…sometimes unexpected! Of course, the birth of a baby is always a joyful event, and we can guarantee that our characters will become dedicated parents—but what happens in those nine months before?
Share the surprises, emotions, drama and suspense as our parents-to-be come to terms with their new babies. All will discover that the business of making babies brings with it the most special love of all….
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The Riccioni Pregnancy Daphne Clair
The Riccioni Pregnancy
Daphne Clair
Readers are invited to visit Daphne Clair’s Web site at:
http://www.daphneclair.com
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER ONE
SHE was being followed. Silently, invisibly, but the prickling sensation at her nape and between her shoulder blades gave a primeval warning. Behind her the night hid a hunter.
She had walked down this narrow, sloping street hundreds of times, in daylight and darkness, and never been nervous. Until now.
The street lamps were obscured by trees that lined the narrow verge and cast deep shadows, wayward roots making treacherous humps and cracks underfoot. She should have changed her shoes before leaving work. The heels of her navy courts were high enough to be dangerous in the dark.
She tripped, let out a whispered exclamation, and cast a hurried glance over her shoulder, her heart accelerating.
Nothing. But it would be easy for anyone who didn’t want to be seen to dodge behind a tree or one of the parked vehicles along the street. Few of the houses had room for a garage. They’d been built huddled cosily together before the motor car became a way of life.
Instinct quickened her pace, one hand fumbling for a key in the bag that swung from her shoulder.
At her neighbour’s gate she paused, casting another glance behind her. Was the moving shadow under one of the trees a trick of the faint night breeze stirring the leaves in the inadequate lighting, or…?
Briefly she pictured herself pounding on the door, pleading for entry, saw the cheerful, phlegmatic Tongan family taking her in, sending out their muscular menfolk to deal with the lurking stranger. But no lights showed, no sound of the teenagers’ music videos or the adults’ rich, rapid voices floated into the street.
And what if she was mistaken? Fleeing some phantom attacker who didn’t exist?
Her own gate was only yards away, and the safety of her home, the two-storey cottage that recalled New Zealand’s colonial past.
Don’t run. A few quick strides, a practised fumble with the latch and then she was on the short brick pathway, the gate clanging shut behind her, the drooping leaves of the kowhai brushing the shoulders of her suit as her fingers closed at last on the key in her bag.
She was on the second of the three worn wooden steps to the tiny porch when the gate clanged again, and she whirled, backing up the last step as a tall male figure materialised, closing on her.
One high heel caught in a gap between the worn boards, and she lost her balance, flinging out a hand to steady herself and losing her grip on the key.
She grabbed at a painted post, heard the key clatter to the brick path, saw the dark bulk of the man’s wide shoulders as he stooped and picked it up.
There was no way she could get past him. She was trapped with a locked door behind her. And before her, a man with her key in his hand, already straightening.
She lifted her head, opened her mouth, drawing breath into her lungs ready to scream and hope someone would hear—someone who would help.
He took the steps in one stride, and a large, warm hand clamped over her mouth, strangling the sound at birth.
Smartly, viciously, she lifted her knee, but he was already behind her. She tried to bite, her teeth finding no purchase against the broad, suffocating palm. She kicked backward with a lethal heel but he was obviously prepared for the ploy and she found only empty air. Her elbow, aimed for his solar plexus, was caught in a hard hand that slid to her wrist, then his arm went around her, bringing her against an equally hard masculine body.
Then his breath was in her ear, his voice low, harsh. ‘Darling, don’t.’
Darling? Her whole body went rigid within the iron circle of his arm across her midriff.
Darling? Fury replaced fear.
Her temples throbbed as if her heart were sending all her blood there, and her limbs went hot and boneless. His imprisoning embrace slackened a fraction, and she used the moment to twist away and face him, her right hand swinging up with all her weight behind it, delivering a slap that resounded in the quiet street like a gunshot, the
