meet his eyes. Embarrassed, she pushed back her hair and said jerkily, ‘And now I’ve made your shirt wet.’
‘It’ll dry.’
‘I’m usually strong and positive,’ she hastened to explain, absently taking his handkerchief from his top pocket and dabbing at the shirt aimlessly. Till she felt the warmth of his chest beneath, the strongly beating heart beneath her resting fingers. And stopped suddenly. Tucking the hanky back, her face scarlet with confusion, she added without thinking, ‘But…I’m so worried about Lio!’
Vittore’s eyes narrowed in shock. ‘Why?’
Oh, help! she thought, with a silent groan at her stupidity. She’d meant to tell him in a calm and rational way so that he realised she wasn’t making a drama out of nothing.
‘I don’t know where to start. It’s a long story—’ she began hesitantly.
‘Cielo! All these hints, these warnings… Where is he? Show me at once!’ he ordered grimly, on the edge of another explosion.
Somehow she pulled herself together. Squeezed enough air into her lungs to whisper a ‘follow me’, and to get her up the stairs. Guided him to the open nursery door.
‘There,’ she said shakily.
‘Thank you,’ he grunted.
He inclined his head with a sharp jerk to accompany his thanks but didn’t immediately go in. Wide-eyed and distressed, she stared while he stood as still as a statue, the slight shaking of his hand on the door jamb the only indication that he was under considerable strain. And then, squaring his shoulders, he walked into the half-darkened room.
Shaking like a leaf, Verity watched from the doorway. And her entire body weakened as he slowly moved forwards, his eyes intent on the sleeping Lio, every line of Vittore’s body revealing how deeply he must have yearned for this very moment.
‘Lio!’ he whispered on a zephyr breath. His lips parted, his rapt face showing the bitter-sweetness of anguish and joy. ‘Piccolino,’ he murmured tenderly. ‘My little one. Ecco Papa! Daverro…you are so beautiful!’
Tentatively he reached out and touched the side of the cot as if it were made of beaten gold. She could see that he was studying Lio with the kind of detailed attention that only a doting relative would display.
Her heartbeats thundered in her ears. She knew what he was doing. Many a night she’d done the same—and for him, this was the first time he’d seen his son since…her forehead wrinkled in deep thought. Since Lio was about three months old, she estimated. How awful! What a nightmare he’d suffered.
Yes. She’d been right. Every hair of Lio’s gorgeous white-blond head was being meticulously recorded and mentally stored as if Vittore feared his son might be snatched from his grasp again and he’d have to rely on memory alone.
Now the bold sweep of the baby’s brow and the honey-gold skin which was so flawless and kissable. The heavily lashed eyes—black lashes, extraordinarily, probably inherited from Vittore. That dear little mouth, button nose and stubborn chin—oh, so horribly stubborn!
One dimpled hand had flung itself on the wafer-thin pillow in abandon, the fingers curled loosely. She saw Vittore eyeing it fondly, longingly, swallowing as he pushed back his emotions.
Her eyes filled with tears and hot prickles of heat came with them. He would love Lio. How could he do otherwise? It was a wonderful moment, she told herself. A father bonding with his son.
But a nasty little voice inside her scuttled around, wishing that Vittore hadn’t given a damn, had never come, never been enchanted by the most beautiful baby in the whole wide world.
Because Lio mustn’t be parted from her. Not for a long time. His emotions were too fragile. He needed stability and reassurance, not strangers, strange surroundings, the confusion of the incomprehensible words of another language.
So…what was she to do?
Quietly Vittore sank to his knees and reached out, very delicately, to the half-curled fist. Lio’s fingers instinctively closed around Vittore’s hand and he let out a jerk of breath as if that small and relatively insignificant action had seared his heart and branded him forever as a worshipper at Lio’s feet.
It all but broke her heart, too. Watching Vittore so openly adoring his son was one of the most touching and painful things she’d ever witnessed. And she couldn’t bear to stay any longer.
Out on the landing, she mopped at her tears and tried to organise her wayward lungs again so that she wasn’t having to deal with the huge, irregular sobs that hurtled up into her throat and leapt out, taking her unawares.
‘He’s…more beautiful…than I remember. Has grown…so much…’
Vittore’s strangled sentence and mangled words suggested that he, too, had almost lost the power of speech. Knowing she’d crack up if she looked at him, she nodded and gave a quick jerk of her head to invite him downstairs.
They went down very slowly, in total silence. But she felt overpowered by his tension. It clawed at the air, suffocating her with its electrical charge, crushing what little energy she had left. She wanted to howl.
‘Drink?’ she croaked, when they had fetched up in the drawing room.
‘Whisky,’ he husked back. And then barely recognisable came, ‘Thanks.’
Hardly able to stand, she poured two stiff measures, spilling some on the tray. And felt she could down both drinks. Without a word, without meeting his eyes, she handed him the glass. Her hand was shaking. To her amazement, so was his.
Startled, she looked up and felt every part of her body go into meltdown. She’d never seen a man looking radiant before. It was…utterly irresistible, his smile just heart-wrenchingly blissful. Her head seemed to spin.
He loved Lio desperately. Wanted him more than ever. She felt terrible. This would be so painful.
‘Please. Sit down,’ she whispered.
And took a huge gulp of her drink. At the moment he was in Paradise. She’d ruin that for him. He wasn’t going to like this. Her legs shook. He was powerful. Dominant. A man of power. He wouldn’t take kindly to being thwarted. And he might ride rough-shod over her argument, dismissing her pleas and going his own sweet way.
Liquid slopped over her fingers. She dumped her glass on a small table before it slipped from her boneless fingers.
Dear heaven. She must convince him. Where to start?
In his own happy world, clearly deeply content with life, Vittore folded himself elegantly into the opulent sofa and crossed one long leg over the other.
‘I presume it’s you who has been looking after Lio,’ he murmured. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. He produced a dazzling smile, fed by the rapture in his heart. ‘I am eternally grateful to you,’ he said softly, his pleasure all the more poignant because she would be the one who would dash his hopes and turn that smile to tight-lipped fury. ‘You can be assured that I will show my gratitude with a generosity that—’
‘No! I don’t want money! I don’t want your gratitude!’ she cried frantically,
