out a glass to her, his eyes commanding, willing her to take it. ‘Your gin and tonic,’ he said. ‘Drink it.’
His voice was low, with a rough edge. He took her arm and led her to a couch, where she wrapped both her hands about the glass he had pressed on her. It was cold, ice clinking as her hands trembled.
Of course Dominic didn’t recognise her. Her head knew that but unthinking instinct, the primal tug of a bond he couldn’t be expected to sense, and which had taken her unawares, had led her to make that futile gesture.
Zandro didn’t say I told you so. He sipped from his beer and told her, ‘Nicky’s often shy with new people at first. But curiosity will get the better of him.’
As if to reinforce the remark, the baby turned his head until one eye could find her. When he saw her looking back at him he immediately hid his face again.
Zandro laughed, but she didn’t join in. Her throat hurt too much.
She hadn’t known she would feel such emotion, like a warm flood tide. Children had been something she’d vaguely looked forward to in the future, before she found out about Dominic. The sensation on finally being confronted with a living, breathing baby had been something of a shock. He’d instantly become a person—a tiny person who was her responsibility. Someone she must love and care for.
Again she vowed to do that, to make any sacrifice he needed from her.
Mrs Brunellesci was looking down at him, stroking a heavily veined hand over the soft curls, murmuring something to him in Italian.
She loves him.
The thought was like a cold shower. She ought to be glad, even grateful. If Zandro saw Dominic as a responsibility, an obligation, and the old man regarded a grandson as some kind of insurance for the future of his company, at least one member of the family had given the baby genuine affection. And he loved, trusted his grandmother.
But I have to take him away.
Doubt entered her mind, whispering like a malevolent goblin. Is it fair? Can you do that to him—to her? Should you? Her stomach made a sickening revolution.
The gin was blessedly steadying. Zandro had been quite heavy-handed with it, light on the tonic.
Mrs Brunellesci asked in a heavily accented voice, ‘Your room, is all right, Lia?’
Trying to smile, she said, ‘Yes, fine. Thank you for letting me stay.’
‘Zandro says you wish to know your son. He says you have a right.’
He did? Her gaze went involuntarily to him. Again she could feel that indefinable masculine charge that seemed to hum around him.
A muffled thump drew her attention to his father. Domenic stood scowling, leaning on his stick with both hands, and as she watched he lifted it a little and brought it down again with another thump.
Zandro got up. ‘Please sit, Papa, and I’ll get you another drink,’ he offered, guiding his father to a chair.
Domenico shook him off, saying something explosive in Italian before sinking into the armchair.
Apparently unruffled, Zandro grinned, and fetched a glass of rich red wine for his father, who accepted it with a grunt and continued to scowl while he drank it.
Zandro didn’t sit down again, prowling about the room while he finished off his beer, then placing the empty glass on the drinks cabinet.
Dominic lifted his head at last from his grandmother’s protection and looked around. He wriggled down from her lap, sliding to the floor, and then on hands and knees made a beeline for his uncle.
Zandro bent as the baby drew near, picked him up and swung him high, big hands firmly holding the little boy’s body under his gleefully waving arms. Dominic giggled, and Zandro smiled up at him. He lowered the child into his arms and unselfconsciously kissed a fat cheek.
It was astonishing. Nothing in what he’d said had hinted at genuine fond feelings for his nephew.
Dominic raised a hand to pat his uncle’s face, poking a finger into his mouth. Zandro growled, pretending to relish the finger, making smacking noises with his lips, and again the baby giggles pealed.
This wasn’t as she’d assumed it would be. She felt oddly panicky.
Zandro, the baby still in his arms, strolled over to her, taking his time. He sat beside her, settling Dominic on his knees.
The baby stared solemnly at the other occupant of the sofa and Zandro said softly, ‘Nicky—this is your mother.’
‘Ma?’ He turned to his uncle again.
‘Mother,’ Zandro said. ‘Mo-ther. Mamma.’
‘Ma-ma.’ Dominic giggled some more, then struggled upright to stand on the man’s knees, exploring his face with inquisitive fingers. He lost his balance and Zandro caught him, settling him again.
This time the little boy regarded the strange woman for longer, and finally stretched out a hand. She lifted her own and he curled his around two fingers with a surprisingly strong grip. Something happened to her heart—as if those baby fingers had squeezed it too.
The nanny appeared in the doorway and briskly entered the room. ‘Time for bed?’ she said, spying her charge, and Dominic dropped the fingers he held, wriggled from Zandro’s hold and took off towards his grandmother.
The nanny snatched him into her arms, laughing, and held him while Mrs Brunellesci gave him a kiss, then Domenic did the same.
Zandro stood up as they approached him. ‘Barbara,’ he said, ‘this is Lia Cameron, Nicky’s mother. Barbara Ayreshire, Lia.’
The woman looked only slightly surprised, perhaps already forewarned. ‘Hello.’ She smiled. ‘He’s a bonny boy, isn’t he?’
‘Yes.’ Impossible to say any more, although she ought to congratulate the woman on how well Dominic had been looked after, tell her she was pleased, thankful.
But she couldn’t do it. Rage and resentment surfaced. It wouldn’t be fair to take it out on Barbara, who was only doing—and doing well—a job that she was paid for. A job that should have been done for nothing but love, by Dominic’s own mother.
Barbara Ayreshire joined them as they sat down to dinner, placing a baby monitor on the long sideboard. She was at Domenic’s right, beside Zandro, while the elder Brunellescis took the head and foot of the table. Which left a chair on Domenic’s left for Lia.
She was conscious throughout the meal of the old man’s unbending demeanour, although he poured wine for her and passed her butter and salt; and of Zandro sitting opposite her, his nearly black eyes enigmatic when they clashed with hers and held them for moments at a time.
Refusing to lower her gaze, to meekly accept she was an unwelcome spectre at the feast and pretend she wasn’t even there, she stared back at him each time until someone claimed his attention, or the housekeeper laid another dish in front of him and he turned to thank her.
Mrs Brunellesci occasionally addressed a remark to Lia in her richly
