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Brando misread her contemplative mood as fatigue, and insisted he leave for the night so she could get some sleep. “The nurse knows to call me if you want anything, or if you suddenly crave gelato, or if you’re wide awake in the middle of the night and just want to talk.”
She smiled crookedly. “I can call you just to chat?”
“If you’re lonely or bored, have the nurse call me, and I will keep you company on the other end of the line.”
“And if I wanted you to come back and keep me company here?” she asked.
“I’d get dressed and come straight away.”
“What if I wanted you to stay here with me tonight?” The words popped out before she’d thought them through.
“Do you want me to? I’ve been told the little couch makes into a bed.”
She eyed the small couch and then looked at him. He was over six feet two, and his shoulders were wider than the sleek Italian sofa. “You wouldn’t be comfortable.”
“I don’t mind, not if it’d give you peace of mind.”
She tried to picture him sleeping so close to her, his big body sprawled out, just the way he’d slept with her during their night together when they’d finally stopped touching and kissing and tasting—
“No, I wouldn’t sleep a wink,” she answered. “Go home and come back tomorrow...if you have time.”
“Cara, I have nothing but time.” He leaned over the bed, kissed her brow and then a fleeting kiss on her lips. “Can I get you anything before I leave?”
And suddenly, just like that, she didn’t want him to leave.
Not just now, but ever.
The simmering feelings she’d had for him six months ago had become a fireball, exploding to life.
“No,” she said, hating the thickness in her throat, and the aching pang in her heart. “I’m good. Go home, sleep well. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Easier said than done, Brando thought, back at his elegant town house in the converted palace. He wandered through the second floor and then up to the third floor, which was his private office suite. Sitting down at his desk, he sorted through mail that had been left for him by his assistant, and documents requiring signatures. He signed where necessary and then leaned back and stared across the room, to the summer sky just now going dark.
He thought of nothing and everything, of Charlotte in the hospital bed, and the ultrasound earlier where he saw his son for the first time, the baby so tiny, but also so very perfect. Brando knew he would do whatever he had to do to ensure his son’s safety, as well as his future. What mattered now was Charlotte and the baby. Everything else was secondary.
His phone pinged with an incoming text. He looked at it immediately, in case it had to do with Charlotte. Instead it was a text from Louisa.
Hello, handsome. I’m free now. Are you?
Brando picked up the phone and texted back.
Sorry, no.
He thought for a moment, before sending another swift text.
I enjoyed our time together, but I am no longer single. Ciao e abbi cura di te.
Goodbye and take care.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BRANDO WAS BACK at the hospital in the morning and Charlotte was sitting up in bed, looking anxious and restless when he arrived. “What’s wrong?” he asked, leaning over to greet her with a kiss on her forehead.
“I need my phone, and my computer. I can’t work without them.” She gestured to the short stack of magazines on the bedside table. “The nurse brought me fashion magazines this morning but I don’t want to read them. I need to check in with my clients—”
“Easy, slow down,” he said, checking his smile as he pulled a chair close to the side of the bed. “You’re supposed to be resting, not stressing out.”
Charlotte drew a deep breath. “I know, and I agree. But I feel naked without my phone, and it’s even worse not having a phone or computer. I’m not used to being completely out of touch.”
“Do you want me to have someone drive them up from the castello? I can.”
Her brow furrowed. “Am I going to be here long?”
“I don’t know. That’s something we’ll have to ask the doctor when he makes his rounds this morning.”
She was silent a moment and then nodded. “Obviously if me being here is the best thing, then I should be here. I just would feel better being here if I had my vanity bag, and briefcase with laptop, phone and chargers.”
“I’m worried work will create stress for you, though.”
“I’d be more stressed not being able to communicate with my clients.” She hesitated. “I’ll let them know I’m taking the next week or two off and will be in touch soon. I’d feel better about that than just not answering emails.”
“Agreed.”
She looked at him, brows still knitting together, expression still troubled. “I’m not flying anytime soon, am I?”
“I think it would be incredibly risky.”
“I do, too.” She looked past him to the window with its view of the city and the hills that framed the capital of Tuscany. “I don’t want a repeat of yesterday.”
“Neither do I.”
“I was terrified.”
He saw her bring her hands together, fingers laced tightly against the white hospital covers, and he reached out and covered her clenched hands with one of his. “Everything is good,” he said quietly, firmly, determined to keep her calm. Relaxed. The baby needed her to be still, and relaxed.
“For now,” she said, a catch in her voice. She glanced up at him, blue eyes shining with a film of tears. “But I can’t stop thinking about the what-ifs. What if I’d been on the plane? What if I’d been going through customs at the airport? What if—?”
“But you weren’t. You were with me, and we got you here quickly and the doctors were able to stop labor.” He squeezed her hands. “And it wasn’t all bad. Yesterday we saw the baby and he’s healthy, and beautiful—”
She snorted. “I wouldn’t go so far as to describe him as beautiful. I’m sure he will be—”
“He was beautiful to me. My son. Our son.” Brando’s voice deepened. “It’s a miracle. I wasn’t expecting a family and yet suddenly I have one, and I vow to take care of you both, always. Forever.”
He hoped his words would reassure her, but instead tears trembled on her lashes before falling.
She pulled her hands free to wipe them away. “I hate crying,” she said hoarsely. “Please don’t mind me.”
His chest squeezed, and he felt a peculiar pang near his heart. “You don’t have to be an island,” he said carefully, not wanting to upset her. “It’s okay to have feelings and cry. Italian women are passionate, and emotional, but those emotions do not make them weak. Emotions are what make us strong.”
She swiped beneath her eyes, drying them. “You seem to understand women quite well.”
“Somehow you manage to make that sound like a criticism.”
“In so many ways you seem so perfect, but then you don’t want serious relationships. You aren’t married—”
“If I was married, we wouldn’t be here today. I would have never had that night with you.”
She gazed up at him from beneath wet spiky lashes. “Lots of men have affairs.”
“Are you thinking of that survey from a number of years ago that said in Italy, most affairs started in the office?”
“No, but interesting.” Two bright spots of pink colored her cheeks. “I just know my parents divorced over affairs, and it was a problem between my mom and her last husband.”
“I don’t condone affairs. And I don’t know if my father ever had an affair, but he cherished my mother, and taught his sons to protect your family at all costs, and you can’t protect your family if you’re damaging the marriage.”
“So when you marry, you won’t have one?”
