up—as women like her could—without a backward glance, without a second thought as to how he would feel all the time he was growing up. Whether he was well. Being kindly treated. Happy.
As he held back for her to precede him through the automatic door into the terminal, he wondered if perhaps he was being too hard on his brother’s widow. After all, she had agreed to come, which was more than he had expected, he conceded with a grim compression of his mouth, and she would naturally want to try to win Giorgio’s trust in the only way she probably knew how.
The journey in the private jet was a far from relaxed one for Libby, sitting there uncomfortably aware of Luca’s darkly brooding older brother in the seat opposite.
He had made small talk with her at first about inconsequential things, controlling the conversation, taking the lead. Then he spent the rest of the time working on his laptop on the narrow table in front of him, his ebony head bent, his mind anywhere but with Libby, who sat gazing at the rain streaming down the small round window beside her, listening to those deft, dark fingers moving with surprisingly alacrity over the keys.
‘Do you want anything?’ he asked when a pretty stewardess came and enquired if she could bring them some refreshment, glancing up at Libby in a way that made her stomach flip.
Only for these nerves to stop plaguing me! she prayed silently, shaking her head. She couldn’t eat or drink. Not now. Not when she was only a couple of hours away from seeing her baby again.
‘It might be some time before you get another chance.’ Romano’s expression held a surprising degree of concern. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ Libby replied tightly, but couldn’t tell him that she was too knotted up inside to swallow a thing.
What would Giorgi look like? she wondered, fearful of being rejected. He wouldn’t remember her, but would there be a bond there? A tug of something he’d recognise? Would he take to her? Or would she just be a total stranger walking into his life?
A cold, sick fear trickled through her as she considered the alternative. It would be his birthday in less than three weeks. Was he old enough yet to have begun to despise her for what she had done? And if he was, would he ever forgive her? Judge her less harshly if he knew how much she had wanted to see him? How hard she had tried—and how many times—only to be denied access on every occasion?
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