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Jesus.
Was this the definition of a cad? Was a guy who slept with two different women within a couple of weeks a self-serving SOB?
No. No, of course not.
He was a bachelor.
He had not made any promises to either one.
The very definition of bachelorhood was that a man wasn’t committed to one single female. He could date as many women as he liked. Sleep with as many as he liked. No promises asked, none given.
A logical conclusion except occasionally, in the middle of the night, when he found himself wondering if it would seem quite that logical or convenient if the women didn’t live on separate continents.
Finally, after almost two months of more sleepless nights than could possibly be good for a man, he faced reality.
He could sleep with both women or with neither woman.
They didn’t know about each other, but he did. It was—it was an uncomfortable feeling, kind of the old sailor-with-a-girl-in-every-port thing, except he wasn’t a sailor, he was a major on the staff of a general, and if he kept his nose clean, he’d sooner or later have an eagle on his shoulder.
Halvorson made it clear that he was moving up and moving fast.
He’d write to Connie. Phone Angelica. Or phone Angelica and write to Connie. It’s been fun, he’d say, but—
But what?
Nothing he could say would make either woman happy.
A mess.
This was a mess, and he’d have to deal with it soon—but first, there was the move to the Netherlands, where they all had to settle into their new offices. He had more and more responsibility, too; Halvorson relied on him for virtually everything.
He put off writing the notes. Making the phone calls.
Another couple of months went by.
“Take a week off, my boy,” Halvorson said, and winked. “I might just have a surprise for you when you get back.”
A promotion.
John knew it.
He was excited as he considered where to spend that week. The Canaries? Morocco? And then he thought, dammit, he had a handsome place in Sicily; there was no reason to stay away.
He could make his position clear to Angelica in person. Or maybe he’d be lucky. Maybe she hadn’t put anything more into their wild week together than it deserved.
An air force jet took him to Palermo, where he’d garaged his Ducati.
It was a glorious day; he rode fast, the wind in his face, his thoughts already miles ahead, imagining what it would be like to see Angelica again.
Would she be pissed off at his months of silence? Would she rant and rave? Would she be involved with someone else? Or would she tumble into his bed again?
She’d tumble, he decided.
She definitely would. And what could be wrong with one last tumble?
He was feeling pretty good by the time he reached his place. He parked the bike and then, whistling happily, he went up the old stone steps to the front door, key in hand…
Except, he didn’t need the key.
The front door flew open.
“Brutto figlio di puttana bastardo,” Angelica snarled, and launched herself at him, arms out, hands fisted.
He had no time to react.
She punched him in the jaw. Punched him twice, bam-bam, left hand-right hand.
Johnny staggered back, but not from the blows.
He staggered because even a fool like him could see that his Sicilian spitfire was hugely pregnant.
CHAPTER TEN
JOHNNY WILDE STOOD on the rocky cliff overlooking the sea behind his Sicilian vacation home.
Vacation home?
He almost laughed.
Prison was more like it.
The woman he’d taken to his bed for one exciting, sex-filled week a handful of months ago was carrying his child.
His child.
Maybe.
Johnny frowned and made his way slowly down the cliff to the narrow strip of sand below.
Was it his? A lot of time had gone by. Angelica liked sex, and there were lots of young men in this village, lots of older ones, too.
And she was hardly a nun…
“Shit.”
She’d been a virgin when he met her. If she’d wanted to screw around, she’d have done it by the time she came to him on that beach.
“Face it,” he mumbled as he kicked a small sea-polished stone into the water. “The kid is yours.”
His.
A child.
A responsibility.
And what could he do about it?
“Nothing,” he said.
Was he in such bad shape that he was talking to himself?
He knew Angelica would never consider ending the pregnancy. He wasn’t even sure he’d want her to end it. He had no particular religious leanings, but snuffing out a small life just because it was inconvenient…
Inconvenient?
It was a death knell.
Once word got out, his career would be over. No question about that. If he was very, very lucky Halvorson might let him resign. If he wasn’t lucky…
Johnny shuddered.
Disgraced. His reputation. His name.
Alden’s name.
Which was nuts.
This wasn’t about his brother, it was about him, but if things had gone the way they should have, if Alden had become an officer…
There had to be a way out of this situation. There had to be!
Right. There was. Marriage. A wedding band on his Sicilian mistress’s finger. Then he could take her with him to the Netherlands. To Halvorson.
General, I’d like you to meet my bride.
My bride-from-the-back-of-nowhere. My bride who speaks Sicilian, not Italian. My bride who mops up pasta sauce with chunks of bread she’s torn from the loaf with her hands and yes, that might be sexy and cute in a rustic setting, but it sure as hell wouldn’t go over big in an embassy ballroom.
Johnny sat down in the sand and buried his face in his hands.
>
Angelica didn’t even know he was in the army. She knew nothing about him. She’d asked, just once, what he was doing in Italy and he’d told her he worked for his government. When she’d tried to ask more, he’d kissed her and said he really couldn’t talk about his job.
“Ah,” she’d said in a sexy purr, “you are my James Bond.”
He’d laughed and said no, not very likely, and she’d put her mouth to his ear and whispered how exciting it was to sleep with a spy…
Johnny sat up straight. A spy. A secret life. A story woven from a cobweb of deceit.
“Gianni?”
He looked up. Angelica had come down the rocky cliff to the beach. They’d made up a couple of days ago; she’d apologized for calling him names and he’d apologized for not having been in touch—he’d invented some stupid story about being away on hush-hush government business—and they’d avoided the topic of her pregnancy altogether.
It couldn’t be avoided any longer.
Not with that great big belly hanging out in front of her.
She looked—she looked beautiful.
Her hair was a ribbon of dark silk in the hot glow of the sun; her eyes were wide and filled with despair.
An emotion he could not identify twisted inside him.
Jesus.
It was desire.
A month ago, a couple of days ago, if anyone had asked him if he could be turned on by a pregnant woman he’d have roared with laughter.
But he was turned on. She was incredibly lovely and the life in her belly was his.
“Gianni. Il mio cuore. What are we going to do?”
He reached for her hand, tugged her onto his lap, wrapped his arms around her.
“What does your nonna say about this??”
He had not thought to ask her until now; he watched as her mouth trembled.
“She is gone,” she whispered. “She became ill and—and she is gone.” She crossed herself. “It is for the best. If she had known… The disgrace…”
Later, he would chastise himself for having made the decision without thinking it through—just as he would also remind himself that it was the only decision possible.
“How would she have felt if she knew you were going to be my wife?”
She turned her face to his. “What?”
“I want you to marry me, Angelica. I want you to be my wife.”
