Postcards From Rome: The Italian's Pregnant Virgin / A Proposal from the Italian Count / A Ring for Vincenzo's Heir. Lucy GordonЧитать онлайн книгу.
But then there was the small matter of his parents. And his parents were never actually a small matter.
He imagined that—regardless of the circumstances—they would be thrilled to learn that they were expecting a grandchild. Really, they would only be all the happier knowing that Ashley was out of the picture.
But Esther was most certainly a problem he would have to solve.
With great reluctance, he picked up his phone and dialed his mother’s number. She picked up on the first ring. “Renzo. You don’t call me enough.”
“Yes, so I hear. Every time I call.”
“And it is true every time. So, tell me, what is on your agenda? Because you never call just to make small talk.”
He couldn’t help but laugh at that. His mother knew him far too well. “Yes, as it happens, I was wondering if you had any plans for dinner.”
“Why yes, Renzo. I in fact have dinner plans every day. Tonight, we are having lamb, vegetables and a risotto.”
“Excellent, Mother. But do you have room at your table?”
“For?”
“Myself,” he said, amused at his mother’s obstinance. “And a date.”
“Dating already. So soon after your divorce.” His mother said that word as though it were anathema. But then, he supposed that was because for her it was.
“Yes, Mother. Actually, more than dating. I intend to introduce you to my fiancée, Esther Abbott.”
The line went silent. That concerned him much more than a tirade of angry Italian ever could. Then, his mother spoke. “Abbott? Who are her people?”
He thought of what she’d said about the mountain cabin her rather larger-than-usual family lived in, and he was tempted to laugh. “No one you would know.”
“Please tell me you have not chosen another Canadian, Renzo.”
“No, on that score you can relax. She is an American.”
The choking sound he heard on the other end of the line was not altogether unexpected. “That,” she said finally, “is even worse.”
“Even so, the decision is made.” He considered telling her about the pregnancy over the phone, but decided that it was one of those things his mother would insist on hearing about in person. She did like to divide her news into priorities like that. She had never gotten over Allegra’s pregnancy news filtering back to her through the gossip chain.
“So very typical of you.” There was no real condemnation or venom in her tone. Though, the simple statement forced him to think back to a time when it had not been true. When he had allowed other people to force his hand when it came to decision making. He tried very hard not to think about Jillian. About the daughter who was being raised by another man. A daughter he sometimes caught glimpses of at various functions.
Just one of the many reasons he worked so hard to keep his alcohol intake healthy at such things. It was much better to remember very little of it the next day, he found.
He had been sixteen when his parents had encouraged him to make that decision. And since then, he had changed the way he operated. Completely, utterly. He was not bitter at his mother and father. They had pushed him into making the best decision they could see.
And hell, it had been the best decision. He had proved that fifty times over in the years since. He had not been ready to be a father. But he was ready now.
“Yes, I am typical as ever. But will we be welcome at your table tonight, or not?”
“It will be an ordeal. We will have to purchase more ingredients.”
“When you say ‘we,’ you mean your staff, whom you pay handsomely. I imagine it can all be arranged?”
“Of course it will be. You will be there at eight. Do not be late. Because I will not wait, and the one thing you do not want, Renzo, is for me to be one glass of wine ahead of you.”
He felt his mouth turn upward. “That,” he said, “is very true, Mother, I have no doubt.”
He disconnected the call. Then, he made another call to the personal stylist his mother had used for years, asking that she clear her schedule and bring along a team of hair and makeup artists.
He was not sure if Esther had enough raw material to be salvageable. It was very difficult to say. The women whom he involved himself with tended to be either classic, polished pieces of architecture, or new constructions, as it were. He had no experience with full renovations.
Still, she was not unattractive. So, it seemed as though he should be able to fashion her into something that looked believable. The thought nearly made him laugh. She was pregnant. She was pregnant with his child. And while it may take a paternity test on his end to prove that to the world—or his parents—they would never ask for a test to prove maternity.
Therefore, by that very logic, people would believe their connection. But he would like to make it slightly easier.
When he went downstairs and found her sitting in the dining area, on the floor by the floor-to-ceiling windows, her face tilted up toward the sun, a bowl of cereal clutched tightly in her hands, he knew that he had made the right decision in bringing in an entire team.
“What are you doing?”
She squeaked, startling and sloshing a bit of milk over the edge of her bowl, onto the tile floor. “I was enjoying the morning,” she said.
“There is a table for you to sit at.” He gestured to the long, banquet-style piece of furniture, which had been carved from solid wood and was older than either of them, and was certainly more than good enough for this little hippie to sit and eat her cereal at.
“I know. But I wanted to sit by the window. And I could have moved a chair, but they’re very heavy. And I didn’t want to scuff the tile. And anyway, the floor is fine. It’s warm from the sun.”
“We are going to my parents’ house for dinner tonight,” he said, because it was as good a time as any to broach that subject. “And I trust you will not sit yourself on the floor then.” The image of her crouched in a corner gnawing on a lamb shank was nearly comical. That would upset his mother. Though, seeing as she had been prewarned that Esther was an American, she might not find the behavior all that strange.
He regarded her for a moment. Her hair was caught up in that same messy bun she’d had it in yesterday, and she had traded her black tank top for a brown one, and yesterday’s long, flowing skirt for one in a brighter color.
She frowned, her dark brows locking together. “Of course not.” He had thought her face plain yesterday, and now, for some reason, he thought of it as freshly scrubbed. Clean. There was something... Not wholesome, for this exotic creature could never be called something so mundane, but something natural. Organic. As if she had materialized in a garden somewhere rather than being born.
Which was a much more fanciful thought than he had ever had about a woman before. Typically, his thoughts were limited to whether or not he thought they would look good naked, whether or not they would like to get naked with him, and then, after they had, how he might get rid of them.
“Good. My parents are not flexible people. Neither are they overly friendly. They are extremely old, Italian money. They are very proud of their lineage, and of our name. I told them that we are getting married. And that you’re American. They are amused by neither. Or rather, my mother is amused by neither, and my father will follow suit.”
Her dark eyes went round, the expression on her face worried. It was comical to him that she might be concerned over what his parents thought. Someone like her didn’t seem as though she would concern herself with what other people thought.
“That doesn’t sound like a very pleasant evening,” she said, after a long pause.
“Oh,