lifted her hand to knock again, but the door swung open before she could rap a second time. A tall thin elderly man stood in the doorway. Shadows stretched behind him. From the doorstep, the space appeared cavernous, with a glinting of an ornate chandelier high overhead.
She looked from the grand light fixture to the elderly man. He wore a plain dark suit, a very simple suit, and she suspected he wasn’t family, but someone who worked for the Marcellos. “Signor Marcello, per favore,” she said calmly, crisply, praying her Italian would be understood. She’d practiced the phrase on the flight, repeating the simple request over and over to ensure she could deliver the words with the right note of authority.
“Signor Marcello non è disponibile,” he answered flatly.
Her brows furrowed as she tried to decipher what he’d said. Non was not. Disponibile could mean just about anything but she sensed it was a negative, either way.
“È lui non a casa?” she stumbled, struggling to remember the words, not at all sure she was getting the tense right, or the correct words, never mind the words in the proper order. Her little phrase book only gave her so many options.
“No. Addio.”
She understood those words. No, and goodbye.
She moved forward swiftly before he could close the door on her, using her low-heeled boot to keep the door ajar.
“Il bambino Michael Marcello,” she said in Italian, before switching to English as she thrust the infant into the old man’s arms. “Please tell Signor Marcello that Michael will need a bottle when he wakes.”
She drew the diaper bag strap from her shoulder and set the bulging bag down on the doorstep at the man’s feet. “He will also need a diaper change, probably before the bottle,” she added, fighting to keep her voice even, almost impossible when her heart raced and she already itched to reach out and wrench the baby back. “Everything he needs is in the bag, including his schedule to help him adjust. If there are questions, my hotel information is in the bag, along with my cell number.”
And then her voice did break and her throat sealed closed and she turned away, walking quickly before the tears could fall.
It’s for Michael, she told herself, swiping tears as she hurried toward the canal. Be brave. Be strong. You’re doing this for him.
The baby wouldn’t be away from her for more than a few minutes because she fully expected Giovanni Marcello to come after her. If not now, then surely at her hotel, which was less than five minutes away by water taxi, as she’d left all her contact details in the diaper bag.
And yet, every step she took carried her farther from the palazzo and closer to the water taxi waiting for her, and now with Michael out of her arms, she felt hollow and empty, every instinct in her screaming for her to turn around and go back and have this out with Giovanni, face-to-face.
But what if Giovanni refused to come to the door? How was she to force Giovanni out for the necessary conversation?
The old man shouted something, his voice thin and sharp. She didn’t understand, but one word did stand out. Polizia. Was he threatening to call the police? She wasn’t surprised if he was. It’s what she’d do if someone just abandoned a six-month-old infant to her care. Numb and heartsick, she kept her focus on the water taxi tethered in the canal. The driver was watching her and she waved, signaling that she was ready to go.
Seconds later, a hand seized her upper arm. The fingers gripped her tightly, the hold painful. “Ouch!” Rachel winced at the painful hold. “Let go.”
“Stop running,” the deep male voice ground out, the voice as hard as the punishing grip, his English perfect with just the slightest accent.
She turned around, the persistent wind having loosened dark strands from her ponytail, making it hard to see him through the tangle of hair. “I’m not running,” she said fiercely, trying to free herself, but he stood close, his grip unrelenting. “Can you give me some space, please?”
“Not a chance, Miss Bern.”
She knew then who this tall man was, and a shiver raced through her as she pushed long strands of hair behind her ears. Giovanni Marcello wasn’t just tall, he was impressively broad through the shoulders, with thick black hair, light eyes and high cheekbones above a firm, unsmiling mouth. She’d seen pictures of him on the internet. There weren’t many, as he didn’t attend a lot of social events like his brother Antonio had, but in every photo he was elegantly dressed, impeccably groomed. Polished. Gleaming. Hard.
He looked even harder in person. His light eyes—an icy blue—glittered down at her and his strong, chiseled features were set. Grim.
She felt a flutter of fear. It crossed her mind that beneath the groomed exterior was something dark and brooding, something that struck her as not entirely civilized.
Rachel took a step back, needing her distance even more now.
“You said you weren’t running,” he growled.
“I’m not going anywhere, and there’s no need for you to be on top of me.”
“Are you unwell, Miss Bern? Are you having a breakdown?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because you’ve just abandoned a child on my doorstep.”
“He’s not being abandoned. You’re his uncle.”
“I strongly suggest you retrieve the child before the police arrive.”
“Let the police come. At least then the world will know the truth.”
He arched a black brow. “So you are unwell.”
“I’m perfectly well. In fact, I couldn’t be better. You have no idea how difficult it has been to locate you. Months of investigation, not to mention money I couldn’t afford to spend on a private investigator, but at least we are here now, face-to-face, ready to discuss new responsibilities.”
“The only thing I have to say to you is collect the child—”
“Your nephew.”
“And return home before this becomes unpleasant for everybody.”
“It’s already unpleasant for me. Your help is desperately needed.”
“You, and he, are not my problem.”
“Michael is a Marcello. He’s your late brother’s only child, and he should be protected and provided for by his family.”
“That is not going to happen.”
“I think it will.”
His eyes narrowed, the icy blue irises partially hidden by dense black lashes. “You are deliberately trying to provoke me.”
“And why not? You’ve done nothing but irritate and provoke me for the past few months. You had many opportunities to reply to my emails and phone calls, but you couldn’t be bothered to reach out, so now I’m returning to you what is yours.” Which wasn’t actually true—she wasn’t leaving Michael here, but she
