Italian Mavericks: Carrying The Italian's Heir. Tara PammiЧитать онлайн книгу.
on the man whose baby she was carrying. A man whose reputation had been plastered all over the tabloids in recent weeks, one of the world’s most eligible and debauched bachelors. He was far from ideal father material, but she couldn’t deny him the knowledge that he was going to be a father—much less deny her child the right to a father.
She watched him as he prowled around his office, oblivious to the fact that the coffee he evidently needed was ready. He looked as immaculately stylish as he had the night of the party. The only difference was the hint of stubbly shadow at his jaw and the lines of tension on his face, which stirred her sympathy. But she couldn’t let sentiment get in the way. Not now she knew exactly who she was dealing with.
‘I think we both know how.’
She couldn’t believe the seductive purr which wrapped around those words as she looked at him, wondering just what kind of effect this man still had on her. Her heart raced wildly and her stomach somersaulted. She wasn’t at all convinced it was just her nerves at the situation. It was the darkly passionate man she’d lost her virginity to—Dante Mancini. A playboy and exceedingly proud of it, if the article she’d stumbled across in Celebrity Spy! was to be believed.
‘What I mean is how, when you allowed me to believe that the protection I wanted to use wasn’t necessary?’ His words were slow and his accent heavy, as if he couldn’t take in what she’d told him—or the implications.
Yes, that was the question she’d asked herself as she’d done the first pregnancy test—and the second. It had changed to the question of how she could have been so stupid as she’d done a third, and by the time she’d torn the packaging from the fourth and final test it had changed to words she never usually used, followed by panic at what she was going to do.
Being a single mother was not what she wanted. She’d grown up with a doting father and had always wanted that for her children. And now she was pregnant with this man’s baby.
‘In case you weren’t aware, I had never been in such a situation with a man before. I assumed when you mentioned protection that it had been dealt with.’ She hurled the words at him, furious at herself but even angrier that he’d balked at taking such responsibility.
He walked towards her, suspicion in his dark eyes, and she fought hard against the memory of them being full of desire for her, full of need for her and overflowing with passion. It had been a moment out of time that she’d wanted to remember for ever. Now, thanks to the legacy of that night, she had no choice.
‘And how do I know you didn’t go straight from my bed to that of another man? How do I know the baby you claim to carry is mine?’
She gasped in shock at his fiercely cold words. She’d played out many scenarios in her head over recent weeks, but none had been as brutally attacking as this. In a spur-of-the-moment decision she’d booked a ticket to Rome, because all she’d wanted to do was tell him, face to face, that he was going to be a father. She’d never anticipated anything more. The close bond she’d had with her father had made it impossible for her to do anything else but tell Dante Mancini personally. She’d foolishly believed that he’d want to know that those wonderfully passionate few hours together had created a new life. His child.
How wrong she’d been.
Defeat washed over her, followed by tiredness. She hadn’t even booked a hotel. Once she’d made up her mind all she’d wanted was to get to Rome as soon as possible and to do what she considered the right thing before her confidence deserted her.
‘There are tests that can determine such things.’ She ploughed her fingers into her hair, pulling it off her face, holding it before letting it fall back. She was too tired to deal with this now. She’d felt sick for the duration of the flight, going over and over how to tell him. Trying to second-guess his reaction.
‘Then there will be a test carried out as soon as it is safe to do so.’
The harsh words focused her mind acutely.
‘I have no intention of taking your word for such a claim.’
‘In that case you may be interested to know it can be done in a few weeks’ time.’ She couldn’t help the rush of triumph as he glared at her. Had he expected her to flounder, to back away and leave without fighting her corner—her child’s corner? As the battle of what to do had waged in her mind she’d done her research on the internet, and she knew that, within two weeks if he demanded it, she could confirm that he was the father.
He moved towards her—so close that she could see the flecks of black in the caramel-brown of his eyes, almost obliterating their colour. She could also detect the faint hint of alcohol and wondered if he had left another woman’s bed that morning, after a night of sex and champagne like the one they’d shared. The thought sickened her and nausea rushed over her again. Her knees threatened to buckle as the reality of her shattered and foolish dreams sank in.
‘You sound very convinced that the child is mine.’
He sounded indifferent to her distress, his accent intensified, and being so close to him brought back memories of their night together, increasing the almost overwhelming nausea. She gathered herself quickly. She couldn’t break down now. Not here. Not in front of him.
‘You are the only man I have ever slept with. That night we spent together was totally out of character for me.’ She pushed down her reasons for acting on the undeniable attraction which had sparked so outrageously to life between them. She’d tried to continue working, but with his hot gaze all but stripping her naked right there in the middle of the party it had been almost impossible.
‘So why did you do it?’
He walked slowly round her and she turned, needing to keep him firmly in her line of vision, and inwardly she cursed the lack of sight in her left eye that she’d been born with. She wanted to tell him to stand still, but she hated people knowing, and thanks to the operation she’d had as a child and the contact lenses she wore there wasn’t any need to explain endlessly any more.
She took a deep breath. Honesty was the best way, and if he wanted to know why she’d gone hand in hand with him to his hotel room she would tell him. ‘It was the first anniversary of my father’s death, and I guess I wasn’t my normal self.’
His penetrating gaze slid down her body and she swallowed down the nerves that were threatening to get the better of her. ‘And is this your normal self?’
‘Yes,’ she snapped, hurt by his scathing tone.
She knew she looked nothing like the woman he’d taken to his hotel room. Not only that, she knew she was far from the self-assured woman who’d carried out her job dressed up to the nines in borrowed clothes and fresh out of the beauty salon. That woman had been so far removed from who she really was it was almost laughable—except Dante Mancini didn’t look the least bit amused.
‘Va bene. That can easily be sorted.’ He reached towards her and pushed her hair back from her face so gently it might almost have been an intimate and loving gesture—almost.
Shocked by the heat of his fingers as they grazed her face, she stepped back. ‘What do you mean, that can easily be sorted?’
‘The woman I met in London exists. She was very real as she smiled at me, enticing me with her beautiful green eyes. She was also very real as I undressed her, kissed her and made love to her.’
She bit down on the urge to tell him that woman had never really existed. That night she’d been someone else, driven by the need for physical contact and the spark of sexual attraction which had exploded as they’d first made eye contact. Since that night she’d lost her job because of her dalliance with a client and discovered that she was pregnant. The woman he remembered would never be able to exist again. Already she’d changed.
‘That may be so, but I have no intention of being that woman again. All I came here to achieve was making you aware of the fact that you are to be a father.’ Inwardly she cursed her impulsiveness at coming to Rome. What had she been thinking? That love