One Night: Sizzling Attraction: Married for Amari's Heir / Damaso Claims His Heir / Her Secret, His Duty. Annie WestЧитать онлайн книгу.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      THE ROOM WAS EMPTY. Everything was gone. Nothing to identify who might live in this tiny little house in Rome. No toys to show that a child played here. No pots or pans in the kitchen to prove that there was a mother who lived here. A mother who had cooked dinner every night, regardless if the meal was comprised of the most modest portions.

      Even the blankets that were usually fashioned into a nest in the corner of the living area were gone.

      And there were strangers standing there. Strangers who were smiling although there was nothing to smile about.

      His toys were gone.

      But worst of all, his mother was gone.

      No matter how many times he asked where she was, no one would answer. He asked until he was hoarse, until his voice was gone, and still there was no answer. Only smiling, and strange assurances that everything would be fine, when he knew nothing would ever be fine again.

      The room was empty, and he couldn’t find anything that he needed.

      * * *

      Rocco woke up, his body drenched in sweat, his heart hammering so hard he feared it might burst through his chest. His bedroom was, of course, not empty. He was sleeping on a king-size bed with lush blankets and pillows covering every square inch. In the corner, he could see his dresser, and mounted to the wall the flat-screen TV. Everything was here, just as it should be.

      Most importantly, he was not a small crying child. He was a man. And he was not helpless.

      Yet for some reason, in spite of the realization that he had been having his usual dream, the unease didn’t let up. His chest still felt as though it was being squeezed tight, a large hand wrapped around his throat.

      He got out of bed and walked over to the bar that was next to the door. He needed a drink, and then he could go back to sleep.

      He flipped on the light and reached for a bottle of Scotch, pouring himself a generous amount, his hands shaking. As he lifted the glass to his lips, he replayed the dream in his mind. And suddenly the face of the child changed. It wasn’t him any longer, but a child with her mother’s defiant expression and wavy black hair.

      He swore and slammed the glass down onto the bar top. There was no reason for him to take part in the life of the child Charity was carrying. The odds that she was truly pregnant were slim. The odds that she was carrying his child slimmer still. It was a tactic to use him. She was a con woman, just like her father, and he knew it.

      Yes, she had been a virgin, he knew that, too. But perhaps she had not been. Perhaps it was all part of her elaborate ruse. He couldn’t be sure.

      He should forget this. Forget she had ever come to see him. It would be easy for him to send a certain amount of money to her every month, money he would never even look at. She would be cared for, as would the baby, and he could go on as he always had.

      Yet again, his mind was filled with large, sad brown eyes.

      He looked down into the Scotch as though it betrayed him, then lifted the glass and hurled it at the wall, watching it shatter. It left a dark blot behind, a spray of liquid clearly visible, and shards of glass on the floor. He didn’t care.

      And he shouldn’t care about Charity Wyatt and the baby she might or might not be carrying.

       You would abandon your child? Is this what you have become?

      He did not hear the questions in his own voice, but a voice from far in the past. His mother. Who had left luxury with his father to give birth to him. Who had, before that, sold all of her jewelry, all of her clothes. A mother who had worked nights at a factory, walking a dangerous route home in the early hours, alone.

      His mother had given her all, until she had lost her life in pursuit of caring for him.

      And he was going to leave his child with nothing more than an automatic deposit once a month.

      He ignored the uncharacteristic guilt that wound itself around his lungs, making it difficult to breathe. He didn’t believe in guilt. It was useless. It accomplished nothing. He believed in action.

       So take action.

      What action could he take? Would he keep the child for himself? Take Charity as his wife? Make a family with the woman who had defrauded him out of a million dollars?

      The woman who had tested his control and found it wanting?

      Unacceptable.

      All of it. He owed her nothing. He didn’t even owe her child support all things considered. He was still half convinced she had his money tucked away somewhere. A million dollars of his ferreted away into an account to use at her discretion.

      In truth, he was being generous offering her anything.

      Yes, he was generous.

      He took another glass from the bar and poured himself more Scotch. He would not think of this again. He would place his assistant in charge of arranging Charity’s medical appointments. She would receive the best care available. Another token of his generosity.

      He had made the right decision. And he would not question it again.

      He downed to the rest of his Scotch and went back to bed.

      * * *

      Charity felt like hell. She had for the past two weeks. Everything she ate seemed to disagree with her, and she had no energy at all. She had missed so many shifts at the restaurant that her financial situation was getting dire.

      But, the unavoidable fact was that nobody wanted a clammy, pale waitress serving them food.

      And today was her first official doctor’s appointment that had been arranged at the clinic chosen by Rocco. It was a strange thing, going to a clinic that had been selected by the man who was so intent on keeping himself separate from all of this.

      Well, she was willing to bet that Rocco himself hadn’t actually selected the clinic. More likely he had had his assistant do it. Which, actually sat a bit easier with her.

      The place was certainly upscale, a far cry from the free clinic where she’d gone to get her blood work done in the early stages of the pregnancy. Instead of plastic chairs, cracked tile floors and water-stained ceilings there was plush carpet, a comfortable seating area designed to look more like the living room of a nice home and chilled bottles of water offered upon entry.

      It was amazing what could be achieved with a little bit of money. Or a lot of money, in this case. She could almost see why her father was so driven to join the elite class and enjoy the fruits of their labor.

      Of course, Charity had discovered that it wasn’t really worth the risk. Too little too late, however.

      “Ms. Wyatt?” A woman poked her head through one of the doors that partitioned the waiting area off from the patient rooms.

      Charity picked up her water bottle and stood, following the woman back to a scale, where her weight was taken, then to a restroom, where a sample was taken. And from there, to one of the little rooms that had a white gown neatly folded on a chair and a large cushioned exam table at the center.

      “The doctor will be in to see you shortly. Remove your clothes, and put the gown on,” the woman said.

      Charity nodded, feeling slightly numb again. The baby stuff was all fine in theory, but when things got real like this she started to retreat inside herself again.

      She went through the motions, removing her clothing, putting the thin nondescript gown on. She sat on the table, her hands folded in