Escape for Easter: The Brunelli Baby Bargain / The Italian Boss's Secret Child / The Midwife's Miracle Baby. Trish MoreyЧитать онлайн книгу.
not knowing what to do until he suddenly reached out and pulled her into his side.
‘You’ll get cold over there, angel.’ He pulled the cover up over her and pulled her head onto his chest. ‘Sorry, I haven’t slept in days, but I will now. Don’t go anywhere.’
As she lay in his arms and listened to him breathing deep and steady she remembered overhearing a friend say something after she had just ended a particularly turbulent relationship.
‘Sex is not the cure, it’s the drug and it’s often worse than the disease that was there to begin with. It’s better to be lonely than need anyone that much.’
It had not made sense to Sam at the time, but now it did. She hadn’t felt lonely before, she hadn’t felt her life was missing any vital ingredient, but now she did.
She lifted her chin. She was a grown-up; she was going to move on; she wasn’t going to have her life defined by one chance meeting—and one deeply flawed, charismatic, fascinating man.
But there seemed no point moving on until the storm did the same.
Now, twelve weeks later, Sam could marvel at her naivety when she had thought moving on would be that simple. One experience had taught her that it was easier said than done especially when she had a constant reminder of that man and that night.
She sighed, pressed a hand to her stomach and thought of how much she would love this baby, no matter what.
‘I said, lady, you might as well get out and walk from here. This traffic is not going to move.’
Sam looked at the taxi driver, her blank gaze slowly clearing from her face. ‘Th-thank you,’ she stuttered, reaching in her bag for her purse.
The ability of the past to drag her back in this way was something she had to resist. It was totally pointless to revisit it and a mistake to assume any closeness to the man because they had shared one night.
She might have lain in his arms and laid her head to his heart while he slept, but he remained a total enigma. She still didn’t have a clue what went on in his head, but maybe that was for the best. They belonged in different worlds.
She told herself she was glad that he had rejected the chance to take any role in his child’s life. At least that meant she could keep him out of hers and out of her head too, she decided, pinning on a bright upbeat smile.
‘Keep the change,’ she said to the taxi driver as she handed him some money before vanishing into the mass of other pedestrians. Today had been a big mistake, but she was over it, and him, already.
CHAPTER SIX
SAM glanced at her watch before she knocked on the door of the editor’s office—damn!
It was ten minutes after the time Eric Gibbs had said he wanted her to meet him. Eric was well known for two things: his beard, which made him look like an avuncular Father Christmas, and his almost paranoid aversion to being kept waiting by anyone.
He had been known to walk out on Hollywood royalty because they were late and she wasn’t a famous actor or a diva, she was a very junior journalist whose temporary contract was just coming to an end.
It was a nail-biting place to be for anyone who had her share of insecurities—which Sam did.
A few weeks earlier being offered this contract had been the focus of all her ambitions, and the possibility that the man himself might be about to offer it to her would have had her in a state of feverish anticipation.
Now, when financial security mattered more than ever, Sam knocked on the door feeling oddly detached.
The chances were this was nothing to do with her contract at all. Eric Gibbs had more important items on his agenda than the contracts of very junior members of his staff. On the two occasions they had met face to face he had got her name wrong, though she’d been told not to take that personally. Apparently Eric was not good with names and called everyone from royalty to government ministers ‘mate’.
But if it wasn’t the contract what else could explain this abrupt summons on her day off? She might have had more of a clue if her mental discipline hadn’t disintegrated. She couldn’t string two thoughts together without Cesare muscling his way into her head.
‘Get over him, Sam!’ she counselled herself sternly. If he didn’t want anything to do with this baby, that was his loss. She frowned, lifted her chin and said ‘His loss!’ just as the office door opened. ‘S-sorry,’ she muttered, blushing to the roots of her hair.
‘I said come in.’
‘I didn’t hear, I’m…’
‘Never mind. Sit down…I’ll get straight to the point.’
He did and Sam listened, the knot of anxiety in her stomach having grown into a gaping chasm by the time he had finished speaking.
‘So you’re sacking me?’ It was a shock—more than a shock. She was insecure, but she was not delusional—she knew she was good.
The editor’s direct gaze wandered in the direction of the potted plant on the filing cabinet. ‘We have to let you go. Sorry and all that.’
Sam got to her feet struggling for dignity. It was hard when her knees were shaking so hard. ‘Not as sorry as me.’
‘Of course, we’ll give you excellent references.’
‘What have I done wrong?’
‘This isn’t about you, it’s about… Damn them!’ he growled, slamming his fist down on the desk causing a pile of papers to slide to the floor.
Sam watched the inexplicable display of anger, but it didn’t have the power to touch her. She was numb.
‘It’s about organisational changes.’
Sam accepted the vague explanation with a shrug. ‘I’ll take my things with me, shall I?’
‘No hurry…no hurry,’ Eric said, looking awkward as he gave her shoulder a squeeze.
Sam managed to collect her things without bumping into anyone she knew. She was halfway home before the anger kicked in and she was articulate after the fact. A hundred things she knew she should have said—haughty, cutting things—popped into her head. By the time she reached her bedsit the anger had given way to misery, self-pity and tears that blinded her as she pushed the key into the door and let herself in.
She dropped the things she was holding onto the floor and flung herself headlong on the sofa.
They had been sitting in the stationary car for half an hour before Paolo, sitting in the driving seat, spoke up.
‘There is a lady coming, petite, she has red hair and she’s crying.’
The last comment was the clincher.
‘She is going into the building.’ The thickset Italian continued speaking in his native tongue.
‘We will follow her,’ Cesare said, trying not to think about the tears. This was a situation where the ends definitely justified the means.
Paolo responded with an affirmative grunt, but expressed no surprise at the announcement. He had worked for Cesare for ten years and the role required flexibility. He waited until Cesare had slid from the back seat and then placed a light guiding hand unobtrusively on his employer’s elbow as they walked towards the building the woman had gone into.
‘It is the fifth floor, flat 17b.’
Was she weeping in flat 17b?
Cesare’s expression hardened into a mask of resolution as he continued to refuse to acknowledge his guilt, and the part he had played in her tears.
‘The lift is out of order, sir,’ Paolo said in a tone that suggested this did not surprise him.
‘The building does not meet with your approval?