to her sunny-tempered little boy, that he was now in his room for a “time-out,” when he should have been enjoying himself?
She knew what. He needed a full-time mother, and she couldn’t give him one. And the fact that she was doing the best she could under trying circumstances did nothing to ease her conscience. Something had to change, and fast, but what—and how?
Pouring a fresh cup of coffee, she paced the confines of her kitchen and considered her options. She could hire extra staff for her business and spend more time at home with her son. But not only was good help hard to find, it didn’t come cheap, and money was a perennial problem. Had been ever since Joe died and her credit rating had hit the skids because of the debts he’d run up on their jointly held accounts.
Shortly after his death, the bank had foreclosed on their mortgage and she’d lost the house. She’d been forced to leave the upscale suburban neighborhood with its acred lots and treed avenues, where Matthew had been born and just about everyone else on the street had young families. Had had to trade in her safe, reliable car for a twelve-year-old van, large enough to hold her catering supplies, certainly, but with such a history of abuse that she never knew when it might let her down. In a bid to avoid bankruptcy, she’d cut all her expenses to the bone, yet had to splurge on supplies to give her fledgling catering company a fighting chance of success.
But although she might be the one caught in a vicious financial bind, in the end, Matthew was the one paying the real price, and how high that price might go didn’t bear thinking about.
We don’t have fun together anymore, she thought sorrowfully. I used to play with him. Sing to him. Make him laugh. Now I make him cry, and I can’t remember the last time I really laughed until my stomach ached.
She used to do other things, too, like look forward to tomorrow, and wring every drop of enjoyment out of life. Now she woke up and wondered how she’d get through the day. She was afraid all the time, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
What sort of message did that send to Matthew?
Our children are the innocents, Raffaello Orsini had said last night.
Raffaello Orsini… Even the silent mention of his name was enough for him to fill the house with his invisible presence; his implacable logic.
Think about your boy….
What’s wrong with a binding contract to improve our children’s lives…don’t they deserve it?
Involuntarily her glance swung to the table in the dining nook where she’d tossed the envelope he’d given her. Exercising a mind of their own, her feet followed suit. She sat down. Picked up the envelope. Dared to examine its contents.
She discovered pictures of a villa, its rooms cooled by whirring fans and dressed in soothing shades of oyster-white and dove-gray and soft blue. Original oil paintings hung on its walls, antique rugs covered its pale marble floors, elaborate wrought-iron grilles accented its elegant curved windows, and frescoes its high domed ceilings.
Lindsay’s kind of house: spacious, airy and charming. And outside its ancient stone walls, palm trees and flower beds filled with vivid color, and emerald-green lawns as smooth as velvet, and a distant view of turquoise seas.
Slowly Corinne lifted her gaze and looked at her present surroundings, at the place Matthew called home. The town house was too old to be sought after, and not nearly old enough to be chic. The rooms were poky and, on days like today, dark; the walls so paper thin that, at night, she could hear Mr. Shaw snoring in bed, next door.
She thought of Matthew being confined to a square of patio barely large enough to hold a sandbox, and much too small for him to ride his trike. She remembered last summer when Mrs. Shaw had vehemently accused him of kicking his soccer ball and breaking the plastic planter holding her geraniums. “Keep that brat on his own side of the property,” she’d snapped.
Corinne thought of his never having play dates because no other children lived close by. Of his constantly being told not to make noise because he might disturb the neighbors. Little boys were supposed to make noise. They were supposed to run and play themselves into happy exhaustion. But his life was bound by other people’s rules and expectations to the point that he was like a tender young plant, so deprived of light and water that it couldn’t thrive.
Viewed from that perspective, Lindsay’s request no longer seemed quite as far-fetched as it had upon first reading. “A business proposition, pure and simple, devised solely for the benefit of your child and mine,” Raffaello Orsini had called it.
If, as he’d maintained, emotion wasn’t allowed to enter the picture, could they make it work? And if so, what would it be like to look forward to tomorrow, instead of dreading what it might bring? For that matter, when was the last time she’d looked forward to anything except getting through each day the best way she knew how?
The question brought her up short. With an attitude like hers, was it any wonder Matthew misbehaved? Her own disenchantment had spilled over onto him. But now, suddenly, the power to change all that lay within her grasp.
Horrified, she realized her resolve to turn down Raffaello Orsini’s proposal was weakening, and as if to drive the final nail in the coffin of her resistance, one last photograph fell out of the envelope and held her transfixed. Unlike the others, it had nothing to do with luxury or locale. This time, the camera had recorded the face of a little girl.
Although the date in the corner showed the picture had been taken within the last six months, the face was Lindsay’s all over again. The vivacious smile, the eyes, and the dimples were hers. Only the hair was different; darker, thicker, springier.
I’m trusting you with my daughter’s life, Corinne… having you to turn to would give her the next best thing to me….
Corinne traced a fingertip over the delicate features of the girl in the photograph. “Elisabetta,” she breathed, on a soft sigh of defeat.
Patience was not his strong suit, at least not when it came to matters of business. And the proposal he’d put before Corinne Mallory last night was entirely concerned with business. Surely a woman of reason could quickly ascertain that the pros vastly outweighed the cons? Yet here it was, almost four o’clock, and still no response from her.
Deciding he’d waited long enough, he picked up the phone. Then, about to punch in her number, he abruptly changed his mind, called the hotel’s front desk instead and ordered a car and driver. Slightly more than an hour later, with daylight fading fast, he was at her town house.
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