The Italian's Baby Bargain

Chapter Six

‘LISTEN, Em, I should be making a move.’

‘Now! But it’s still early,’ Emma protested, raising her voice above the gentle buzz of conversation and the music supplied by a string quartet from the local music college. ‘What have you done to your hair?’ she added, looking at the skewed knot on the top of her friend’s head.

Sam, whose efforts to repair the damage had been severely hampered by shaking hands and a need to mouth You idiot at her reflection in the powder room mirror every two seconds, ignored the question.

‘I want to get back before it gets dark.’ Sam felt guilty when her friend’s face dropped, but stuck to her guns. She was pretty sure that if called upon to make polite small talk with Alessandro she might make a total fool of herself. Whether this would involve slapping him or begging him to kiss her was a matter she didn’t want to think too hard about!

‘I thought you were staying with your mum and dad tonight?’

That was before one of your guests kissed me and I kissed him back. ‘Change of plan.’ She flashed a smile. Her guilt injected a couple of extra million volts into it.

Emma took in the brilliance and grinned back. ‘What’s his name? Do I know him? Are we talking husband material?’

An image of Alessandro’s dark, devastating features flashed into Sam’s head. Anything less like husband material would be hard to find. Some women would just look, but there would always be those ready and willing to lead him astray.

She wasn’t saying being totally gorgeous to look at automatically made a man incapable of fidelity, but it would take a woman who was supremely confident in herself to be able to take the covetous stares of other women in her stride.

The woman who married Alessandro would have to be a supremely confident creature or totally gorgeous—probably both. In short the female equivalent of him.

‘I had a phone call…publisher…’ She shrugged.

Emma looked dissatisfied by her response, but beyond subjecting her friend to an uncomfortably searching look made no further protests beyond, ‘Well, you definitely can’t go without saying goodbye to Paul. When last seen,’ she revealed with a smile, ‘he had retreated with half the other men to the Orangerie. I think they’re talking cricket.’ She rolled her eyes.

‘Lead on,’ Sam said, picking up her handbag and following her friend down the plush carpeted corridor that led to the Orangerie. Emma’s husband, Paul, and half a dozen of the other male guests were indeed there, but they weren’t talking cricket. They were huddled in one corner displaying varying degrees of horror and discomfort as they watched the object responsible for the ear-splitting din that Sam had heard halfway down the corridor.

When Sam had last seen the blond-haired three-year-old he had been enchanting the adults with his sunny smile and a lisping rendition of a nursery rhyme. Now he was lying in the middle of the floor, his red tear-stained face contorted with fury, as he screeched and drummed his heels on the floor.

On seeing his wife, Paul Metcalf hurried across. ‘Thank God you’re here, Emma. It’s Harry. Simon got a call, and he asked me to keep an eye on Harry for a minute.’

‘How long,’ Emma asked, wincing as the toddler hit a high note, ‘has he been like that?’

‘It feels like hours,’ her harassed husband responded dourly.

Emma exchanged glances with Sam. ‘I think he needs his mum. Do you know where Rachel is, Sam?’

Sam shook her head. ‘Shall I go and look for her?’

Despite the fact that Rachel, whose father was the local vicar, was a couple of years older than both herself and Emma, the three girls had always been inseparable. And, unlike many childhood alliances, theirs had not fizzled out when they reached adulthood and went their separate ways. Rachel, who combined a career in banking with being wife to a very dishy New Yorker, had asked Sam to be godmother to Harry, her firstborn. When she had uprooted and followed her husband to the States the previous year both Sam and Emma had visited, but had been delighted when Simon’s firm had decided to resettle them in London.

Paul caught Sam’s arm. ‘No, you stay here. I’ll go,’ he offered eagerly, before his wife told him very firmly to stay put.

Sam paused before going to console her godson, her amused glance sliding around the group of men. ‘Didn’t it occur to any of you lot to do anything for the poor little mite?’

‘Have you seen the state of him?’ her indignant host demanded, speaking on behalf of the other men present. ‘There is enough chocolate cake on that kid to feed the five thousand, and I’m wearing my best suit. And,’ he added, eyeing the flailing legs, ‘the “poor little mite” has a kick like a mule.’

‘Wimp!’ his wife retorted scornfully.

‘This situation obviously calls for the female touch,’ Paul observed with dignity. ‘Either that or a good child psychologist,’ he added under his breath.

Emma caught his arm. ‘You think so?’ she said. ‘Look at that,’ she invited, venting a loud, incredulous laugh as she nodded towards the prone toddler. ‘He doesn’t seem too bothered about getting his suit dirty. My God—this is marvellous!’

Along with Paul, Sam turned in time to see a tall, elegant figure squat down beside the screaming youngster. She watched in total amazement as Alessandro, balancing on his heels and appearing totally unfazed by the pandemonium or the risk to his designer suit, began to talk casually to the screaming toddler.

‘The man has guts—I’ll give him that.’ Paul’s brows knitted as an expression of horror spread across his face. ‘Our sweet little Laurie is never going to do anything like that, is she…?’

Ignoring her husband’s worried enquiry, her fascinated gaze trained on the man and baby, Emma said knowledgeably to Sam, ‘It’s a cultural thing. Mediterranean men have no problem showing affection to babies and children—unlike our homegrown variety…’ she added, directing a scornful sniff towards her spouse.

Alessandro carried on talking as he loosened the knot on his tie. Sam was too far away to make out what he was saying, but the child obviously could, and it appeared to have an immediate and nothing short of magical effect on the distraught youngster.

‘My God!’ Emma breathed, as the child’s cries became noticeably less strident, then faded totally. ‘What is he saying, do you suppose?’ she wondered in an awed undertone.

The child lifted his tear-stained face towards Alessandro and chuckled.

Sam didn’t respond. For some insane reason, when she saw Alessandro respond to the child with a smile that made him look relaxed and at least ten years younger, she got an empty, aching feeling in the pit of her stomach.

‘Come!’

Responding to Alessandro’s imperious command and to his open arms, the toddler climbed into them without a moment’s hesitation and wound his grubby hands around the man’s neck.

There were several gruff murmurs of appreciation as Alessandro got to his feet.

The genuine quality of Alessandro’s smile became—to Sam’s mind, at least—forced when he noticed her. Sam, the lapel of her criminally unattractive suit clasped in one hand, expelled a gusty breath and tried to act as if every nerve in her body wasn’t screaming.

Beautiful man…baby…the whole thing was so painfully clichéd she would have to be a total idiot to fall for it. But falling she was…Oh, what is wrong with me? I must be one of those women who are only attracted when there’s no chance of their feelings being returned, she decided. Even if in this case they were shallow and lustful. A shrink would have a field-day dissecting my twisted psyche.

‘That,’ declared Emma, walking up to Alessandro and ruffling the toddler’s blond hair, ‘was very impressive. I’m glad I invited you now.’

Alessandro’s dark eyes creased at the corners as his smile warmed the dark depths. Sam, whose nerve-endings were twanging like an overstrung guitar, knew that if he ever smiled at her that way she was in deep trouble. And you’re not now?

‘You weren’t glad before?’

‘You were welcome as Kat’s big brother before, and now you’re welcome because you are a brave and resourceful man who laughs in the face of danger.’

‘It’s always nice to feel welcome,’ Alessandro responded, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes briefly flickering in Sam’s direction.

Sam, her heart thudding wildly in her chest, pretended not to notice.

‘Shall I take Harry?’

Emma didn’t argue when he shook his head and said, ‘Harry would like to find his mum, and if the route should take us anywhere near ice cream this would not be a bad thing.’

Sam looked at the smear of chocolate down his cheek, at the sleek hair ruffled by childish fingers, and her indignation escalated. Alessandro looked so damned relaxed and at ease with a grubby, cranky kid on his hip…How dared he slip out of the hedonistic playboy role she had assigned him?

‘No idea where Rachel is,’ Emma admitted. ‘But as for the ice cream, I’ll get that for you myself…’

At that moment Rachel, wrapped in her habitual air of unruffled serenity, walked into the room. She took in the situation at one glance.

‘I take it from the glazed looks that you have been treated to one of Harry’s grade A tantrums? Goodness, Harry,’ she reproached, as her son wrapped his arms limpet-like around her neck, ‘you’ll put Aunty Sam totally off having children,’ she observed, flashing Alessandro a warm smile as the transfer of grubby child was smoothly completed. She arched an enquiring brow as she lifted her eyes to the tall Italian. ‘It looks like I have you to thank Mr Di Livio…’

Alessandro gave a self-deprecating shrug. ‘Not at all. Harry and I were just becoming acquainted and discovering a mutual fondness for ice cream. Now, if you’ll excuse me…Oh, and ladies…’ the voltage of his smile switched up several notches as he added firmly ‘…it’s Alessandro.’

‘If you don’t have children,’ Emma called after him, ‘it will be a total…no, a criminal waste!’

Without breaking stride Alessandro flung her an attractive grin over his shoulder. ‘I am not married.’

‘Where were you three years ago?’

‘Being cited in a divorce case,’ Sam muttered. Did Marisa Sinclair, who had lost both her husband and her lover, regret her affair? Sam wondered. Or did she consider it a price worth paying?

‘Sam, how could you? I’m sure he heard you,’ Emma remonstrated as the tall, dark-headed Italian vanished from view.

Sam gave a defensive shrug. ‘What if he did? And what do you mean, how could I? You don’t like him.’

Rachel stood looking bewildered by this uncharacteristic display of childish venom. ‘Did I miss something?’

‘Sam doesn’t like the gorgeous Alessandro,’ Emma explained.

Rachel laughed as she expertly wiped excess chocolate from around her son’s mouth. ‘That much I had gathered. Well,’ she conceded, ‘he’s not the sort of man who inspires liking, is he?’ She gave a naughty grin and added, ‘Personally, I think he’s rather sweet.’

‘Sweet?’ Sam echoed, staring at her friends as though they’d lost their minds. ‘He’s not sweet,’ she hissed. ‘He’s a snake!’

Emma and Rachel looked at their normally good-natured friend in amazement. ‘What has the poor guy done to you?’ Emma asked.

Goaded, Sam yelled, ‘The poor guy kissed me!’

Sam registered the identical looks of shock closely followed by delight that spread across her friends’ faces, and with a groan closed her eyes. ‘Pretend I didn’t say that,’ she begged, knowing there was little to no chance of her plea being heeded.

‘You and Alessandro…’ Emma drew a shuddering breath. ‘Wow!’ she gasped enviously. ‘I’m assuming that he is a very good kisser. How could a man who looks like that not be…?’ she concluded logically.

‘He,’ snipped Sam crossly, ‘would be the first person to agree with you.’

Emma looked totally unperturbed by the loathing in Sam’s retort. ‘I sort of thought he would be…I bet he’s something in bed.’

‘Don’t look at me!’ cried a pink-cheeked Sam, flinging up her hands in exasperation as she gazed balefully at her best friends. ‘I’ve no intention of finding out.’

Rachel grinned. ‘Well, I call that mean. You’re a free agent, and what have Emma and I got left except enjoying a sex life vicariously through our friends? And, let’s face it, Sam, so far your love life has not exactly been any compensation.’

‘So sorry,’ Sam drawled. ‘Look, you two,’ she added uneasily, ‘you’re not going to make a big thing out of this, are you? It was nothing…absolutely nothing.’

‘Nothing that’s got you pretty hot under the collar…Oh, all right,’ Rachel placated as Sam gave a frustrated groan. ‘We’ll be the souls of discretion,’ she promised, miming a zipping motion across her lips, as she winked at Emma.

By the time Sam had extracted the spare tyre from her boot she had been supplied with ample evidence that the age of chivalry was dead and buried. The only attention her plight had gained so far had been honks on the horn from several lorries. She had been trying to figure out which way up the jack went for five minutes when a car actually pulled up. Her knowledge and interest in cars was, to put it mildly, limited. The one that had drawn up was big and black and to her uneducated eye looked expensive.

Brushing her drenched hair from her eyes, she peered through a sheet of rain which was falling horizontally…If it wasn’t a man behind the wheel it was a very large female.

Just my luck!

A woman would have been much less likely to dish out patronising stuff about clueless female drivers in this situation, and with a woman she wouldn’t have had to worry about the sleaze factor. Oh, well, she thought, giving a stoical shrug. This was a situation that called for a lot of smiling and teeth-gritting, and if necessary the defending of her virtue…that was if she wanted to get back to town before she drowned—and she did.

And when you thought about it, it was her own fault. If she didn’t want to be treated like a stereotypical helpless female she should have picked the car maintenance evening class and given Italian Summer Cooking a miss.

Knowing your way around a risotto is not going to get you home, Sam…so smile nicely and book in to the next car maintenance class.

‘Hello, there—’ Sam broke off, her jaw dropping as she identified her rescuer. ‘You!’ she ejaculated in disgust.

It was definite. Fate was having a laugh at her expense!

‘This is your spare wheel…?’ Alessandro pulled up the collar of his jacket and with his toe nudged the tyre, where it lay on the ground.

‘Go away!’ Sam snarled from between gritted teeth.

The broad shoulders lifted in one of his inimical shrugs. ‘As you wish.’

Sam watched as he turned and began to walk back to his car. Almost bursting with indignation, she ran after him. ‘You’re just going to leave me like this?’ she yelled.

He stopped and turned. ‘Was that not what you wanted?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re such a creep!’ she declared forcefully, then added, ‘And don’t think I’m not perfectly capable of putting on my own tyre.’

‘Not that tyre.’

‘Yes, that tyre.’

He shook his head and looked so smug that she wanted to scream. ‘That tyre has no tread.’

She looked at him blankly.

‘It is illegal.’

A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. ‘It looks fine to me,’ she muttered mutinously.

‘It is useless—actually, worse than useless. Because in this weather the only place it will get you for sure is the nearest casualty department.’

‘You’re exaggerating,’ she charged.

He gave another of his magnificently expressive shrugs. ‘It’s your neck.’ Halfway through turning, he swung back. His eyes slid down the pale column of her throat before he added harshly, ‘I suggest, if you feel unable to accept my help, that you ring the nearest garage.’

Sam bit her lip. She knew the admission was going to make her look even more of an idiot than she already did as she fished her phone from her pocket and grunted, ‘My battery is low.’

He released a long hiss of irritation and wrenched open the door of his own car. ‘Get in—I will give you a lift.’

Sam, who had been looking wistfully at the luxuriously upholstered interior, stiffened at the terse invitation. There was a militant glitter in her aquamarine eyes as she released a scornful laugh. ‘You think I’d get into a car with you…?’

‘Don’t you think it is a little late to display caution?’ His nostrils flared as his eyes swept across her upturned features. ‘I find it staggering,’ he revealed, in a voice that suggested he was trying very hard not to yell, ‘that an apparently intelligent female should act with such wanton disregard for her personal safety.’

‘What do you mean?’ No man had a right to look that good with his hair plastered to his skull…but she was forgetting it wasn’t just any skull—it was the perfect variety. God, she thought, it would be so much easier not to loathe the wretched man if you could discover one minor imperfection.

‘Dio…!’ he gritted. Muttering under his breath in angry Italian, he let his head fall back, revealing the strong lines of his supple brown throat. Then, as she stared through the rain and the mesh of her spiky lashes, he dug both hands into his drenched sable hair and pulled it back in a way that sent water streaming down his olive-skinned face and neck.

Sam, unable to tear her eyes from the spectacle—which oughtn’t to have been erotic but was—felt things move deep inside her. Unspecified, but deeply disturbing things. She reluctantly recognised that something far more worrying than the rain was responsible for the drowning, breathless sensation she was experiencing as she watched the water glide over his smooth brown skin.

Alessandro’s head came up, and guiltily her eyes dropped.

Jaw clenched, he glared at her downbent head. ‘You have been standing at the side of a lonely road, fluttering your eyelashes…’

The injustice of this harsh accusation brought her head up. The first thing her distracted gaze lighted on was the silvered drops of rain trembling on the tips of his own preposterously long eyelashes.

Eyelash-fluttering would get him further than it would me, she thought.

‘I haven’t…’ Her voice faded away as her eyes connected with his.

‘And,’ he continued, once she had lapsed into silence, ‘inviting the attention of any psychopathic lunatic who happens to drive by. You either have an unhealthy addiction to danger or you have no sense of self-preservation whatever. I suspect both,’ he concluded grimly.

The awful part was, he had a point. ‘Well, I’d prefer to get into a car with a psychopath than you!’ she blurted out childishly. Then, lowering her eyes, she added in a small voice, ‘Could I use your phone?’

At that moment another articulated truck went by and blasted its horn.

Alessandro followed the vehicle with his eyes until it vanished from view over the brow of the hill. When he turned his attention back to her his jaw was set and his eyes held a steely look of determination.

‘Get in!’

His attitude did not suggest compromise, but she’d try anyway. She looked at his mouth, and her defences slipped just enough to let through one forbidden thought. I kissed that.

If she got into that car who was to say she wouldn’t repeat the performance? Chance would be a fine thing. She took a deep breath and told herself sternly that thinking that way was going to get her into trouble.

‘If you would just let me use your ph—’

‘Get in, or I will put you in,’ he interrupted, not sounding like a man with kissing on his mind. ‘I have no intention of being interviewed by the police as the last person who saw you alive.’

Sam paled a little at the image his brutal words conjured. ‘There’s no need to be so dramatic.’

Ignoring her scornful complaint, he swivelled his eyes significantly towards the door of the car. ‘I do not have all day.’

Sam hesitated. ‘You wouldn’t…?’ Their eyes met and she gulped. He would.

I need therapy, she decided, appalled by the gut-tightening excitement in her belly. When did I turn into the sort of woman who gets turned on at the idea of being man-handled? Her eyes ran up the long, lean length of the man who stood there radiating impatience, and she thought, Not any man.

With as much dignity as a person who was literally dripping could muster, she arranged herself in the front seat as he stood and watched. His expression suggested that the outcome had never been in question.

Did people always do what he wanted? she wondered as she snuggled down into the cream leather upholstery. She looked blankly at the hand he’d inserted.

‘Keys…I need to lock up your car. Not that it would be the car of choice for most self-respecting car thieves,’ he said, sliding a contemptuous look towards her ancient Morris Traveller.

‘It’s a classic,’ she said, dropping the keys into his palm. ‘And it has character.’

‘It’s a heap. And it doesn’t go,’ he contradicted, before slamming the door.

Cocooned from the rain and wind, the quiet interior of the car felt like the eye of a storm. Despite the relative warmth, she shivered as she became conscious of the clammy coldness of layers of drenched clothes against her skin.