a clenched fist. His lower lip stood out as he walked across to his father and repeated his demand.
‘I want a drink—’
‘Please,’ his father inserted automatically.
Dear God, how heavily had she slept? How many other people were asleep in the house?
‘You’re not Aunty Lucy!’ The child directed an accusing look Miranda’s way from eyes that were, she saw immediately, the same unusual piercing blue as Lucy Fitzgerald’s, his hair was as dark as his father’s, the rosy-cheeked, sun-kissed face feature for feature a childish version of the older man’s.
It looked as if Gianni Fitzgerald really was who he said he was and also some things he hadn’t said he was! Things like married and a father.
Admittedly these were not necessarily the first things that someone said when they woke up and found themselves in bed with a stranger. Nevertheless, on behalf of women who might be interested, and she was guessing there might be more than two or three, a man who was spoken for in her opinion should wear a wedding ring.
Her glance flickered towards his long, brown tapering fingers. He had the hands of a musician or an artist; they were ringless.
Despite the fact that she knew she could now relax—this really had been what he claimed, a mistake, and even if it hadn’t been, a man intent on violent crime did not in general bring his child along—Miranda found herself clutching the blanket tighter. She no longer thought she needed to protect her virtue from a dangerous lunatic, but she might still die, only now from sheer embarrassment!
‘No, I’m not, I’m Miranda … Mirrie.’ She forced a smile for the child. ‘And you’re …?’
‘Careful there, champ,’ Gianni said, reaching out a hand to steady his son as he climbed up onto the bed. ‘This is Liam. Miranda …?’ Dark head tilted a little to one side, he studied her as though deciding if the name fitted; after a moment he nodded approval, so presumably it did.
Miranda turned her head away, aware that his scrutiny had brought a bloom of awareness to her cheeks. She had never encountered a man who had the trick of making the most innocent gesture … intimate.
‘Hello, Liam.’ Her smile faded and her green eyes acquired an unfriendly frost as they moved towards his father. ‘You didn’t tell me you weren’t alone.’
Gianni’s ebony brows arched sardonically. ‘Is that your version of, “I’m sorry, Gianni, I can see now that you were telling the truth—it was a genuine mistake”?’
‘Me apologise to you!’ The words were startled from Miranda.
‘Well, you did assume some very unpleasant things and I have provided you with a dinner-party story that will just give and give.’
She tried not to smile at his martyred expression. The only thing that made his arrogance tolerable—almost—was the fact he appeared to have a disarming sense of humour.
‘I think,’ she replied with dignity, ‘that I had some justification … like waking up and finding you in my bed …?’ As for sharing this incident for the amusement of her friends, Miranda could not at that moment conceive of circumstances when she’d feel like sharing this story.
‘I was mildly surprised myself, but I gave you the benefit of the doubt. Innocent until proved guilty is my motto.’
‘Well, don’t worry, you’re quite safe from me,’ she told him with a sniff before adding crossly, ‘Didn’t it occur to you to explain who you were right off and mention that you had your son with you?’
‘I didn’t get much opportunity.’
‘I’m very, very thirsty,’ the child, who was trying to run up and down the bed, complained. ‘And I want to go home. I want Clare—she always leaves me a glass of water by my bed in case I get thirsty in the night.’
Who was this Clare? Miranda wondered. And where was the child’s mother?
‘Clare isn’t here.’ Not the best decision he’d ever made, but then hindsight was a marvellous thing. ‘It’s just you and me.’ Piece of cake, Gianni—those words were really coming back to haunt him.
‘She’s here.’
The child waved a hand towards her, and Miranda took an involuntary step forward in alarm.
‘He’s going to fall,’ she warned, holding her breath as she watched the dark-haired boy sway precariously as he ran up and down the bed, coming close to the edge. His father did nothing. ‘Shouldn’t you …?’ She lifted her eyes to Gianni’s face and as she encountered a distinctly hostile expression her voice faded.
Gianni’s square jaw had tightened several notches in response to an attitude that he had plenty of experience of, an attitude that never failed to get under his skin. He was in a position to know that being female did not necessarily make a person a childcare expert and having a Y chromosome did not make him utterly clueless.
‘He’s not going to fall.’ Gianni’s confident pronouncement coincided with his son landing on his bottom on the polished boards.
With a cry Miranda moved in to help but the boy’s father, who had responded with much quicker instincts and a lot more agility, had dropped to a crouch beside the boy, hiding him from her view.
He might be pretty clueless about long journeys with a child prone to car sickness, Gianni reflected, but at least he did know enough to keep anxiety out of his voice as he asked lightly, ‘Are you all right—hurt anywhere?’
Liam was inclined to laugh off bumps and bruises unless he picked up on an adult’s anxiety—then things could tip over into hysteria.
There were tears in the limpid blue gaze that lifted to his father. Gianni smiled reassuringly and ran his hands lightly down his son’s body to check for any obvious injuries.
The boy blinked several times and bit his wobbling lip before he shook his head and said, ‘I’m fine … Fitzgeralds are tough.’
Gianni patted his son’s shoulder and gave a thumbs-up sign as he rose to his feet. ‘Good man.’
Miranda, who had watched the revealing interchange with a disapproving frown, was forced to swallow to clear the emotional lump in her throat when the boy returned the thumbs-up gesture and beamed with pride as he struggled valiantly to his feet.
This was a very appealing kid who obviously wanted to please his father, who was clearly a paid-up member of the macho ‘boys don’t cry’ school of thought.
She just hoped for this child’s sake that his mother provided a softening influence. If ever I have a son, she thought fiercely, I’ll teach him that a boy is allowed to have feelings. He’s allowed to cry.
‘You haven’t said I told you so yet.’ Gianni turned his head and arched a sardonic brow. Caught unawares, Miranda found herself pinned by a heavy-lidded cynical stare.
‘I haven’t said big boys don’t cry either,’ she fired back, unable to totally shake the illogical feeling that those mocking eyes could see right into her head.
One
