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Only a few months ago she’d believed she was in love with Vito and it hadn’t been anything like this—this muddled and scary maelstrom of emotions that was plaguing her right now.
It had been calm and comfortable. She’d admired him for the way he had supposedly been struggling to make his way in the world, and she’d worried about him—whether he was working too hard, getting enough sleep, enough to eat. She’d liked it when he’d said she was beautiful, that he loved her and wanted her, and she’d looked forward to their marriage with a warm, contented feeling, because ever since she could remember she had longed for the day when she would have her own home, her own young family.
So what was love? she asked herself scornfully. A wildly beating passion that turned your guts to water and your brains to porridge? Or a fond contentment? It couldn’t be both. So perhaps it was neither. Perhaps it didn’t really exist outside romantic novels and soppy films!
Getting hot and bothered, Portia told herself that her hormones were playing up. They did, didn’t they, after you’d had a baby? That was something she could cope with—wild and muddled emotions because all those hormones were going haywire. They’d settle down sooner or later.
But she wasn’t sure about that, not sure at all, when Lucenzo said in that shiver-making dark velvet voice of his, ‘I did knock—quietly—but you couldn’t have heard. I didn’t want to wake the baby if he was sleeping.’
Just his presence made the air around her tingle, hum with a strange prickly tension. She couldn’t believe that it wouldn’t affect Sam, make him wake up bellowing, but he was still sleeping in his gauzily draped crib, flat on his back with his little arms above his head, his almost transparent eyelids gently closed. Peaceful, innocent, tender.
And Lucenzo was watching him. There was a look on his face that made her heart turn over and a lump jump into her throat. A look that was full of wonder all mixed up with something that looked like pain.
Portia drew air into her cramped lungs, swallowed the awkward lump in her throat and asked thickly, ‘Did you want something?’
He turned slowly, as if reluctant to drag his eyes away from the sleeping infant, and when he looked at her his face had been wiped of that puzzling expression. Just blank and remote. His voice was cool as he said quietly, ‘A message. Through there?’
He swung his back to her, his shoulders broad and intimidating beneath the silk fabric of his shirt. She followed on leaden legs as he walked through into her sitting room by the door at the far end of the light and airy nursery, glad beyond all reasonableness that he hadn’t chosen the other one—the door to her bedroom.
But he wasn’t about to jump on her; he’d spelled that out earlier. He deeply regretted those few minutes of passion. He was probably afraid she was about to jump on him—hence that coldly impassive, keep-your-distance expression!
He was all wound up; she could see that. His wide shoulders were rigid, the broad chest that tapered to his slim, flat waist, the narrow hips, the long legs planted firmly apart—all practically screamed tension. Or was it simply wariness?
He could be justifiably wary of her after she’d tried to rip his clothes off! The thought was deeply embarrassing, not to mention depressing.
Hoping she didn’t look as bad as she felt—as if she’d been discovered committing some particularly heinous crime—she closed the door to the nursery behind her and asked, ‘What message?’ Not one he would take any pleasure in relaying, by the looks of him!
‘Lorna is to accompany you to Firenze—Florence—in the morning. Alfredo will drive you. You are to choose new clothes.’ He stuffed his hands into the side pockets of his trousers as Portia’s brows drew together in a frown and her small rounded chin jutted out at a mutinous angle.
‘I don’t want new clothes. I can’t afford them and I won’t accept charity.’
Lucenzo sighed. He might have expected this. The woman he had first thought her to be would have jumped at the chance of a whole new wardrobe of designer gear, no expense spared. But the Portia he had come to know over the last few hours, whose story of what had happened between her and his half-brother he believed implicitly because it
rang so true, wouldn’t take hand-outs.
She had very little in the way of personal possessions, and those she did have looked as if they belonged in a jumble sale. But she had her pride and he respected her for that.
Changing his approach, careful not to make it too personal, he said gently, ‘Father and Nonna have been putting their heads together.’ He attempted a smile. ‘And when they do that, most sensible people run for cover!’
His stab at a smile went unanswered. Portia, he decided, had developed a decidedly stubborn light in her eyes. She had his respect for that, too. But he agreed with every word his father and grandmother had said on the subject—though he could hardly tell her as much, not after those moments of madness this morning. It would imply a degree of intimacy that had to be avoided at all costs.
He tried again. ‘You must know that Father already regards you as one of the family, and he and Nonna have decided—’ he tried to give the impression that he was searching his memory for the exact words ‘—that such a pretty young thing deserves the kind of clothes that will do her justice.’
‘Oh, goodness!’ Portia’s eyes went wide and her soft lips parted. How could anyone think she was pretty when she was only very ordinary? Vito had called her beautiful but she had been right not to believe him, especially as she now knew everything he’d ever said to her had been a pack of lies!
Lucenzo forcibly ground his teeth together, to stop himself blurting out what he felt. She suddenly looked so bewildered, so achingly vulnerable, it was all he could do to prevent himself from reaching out, from touching her, from telling her to believe it. ‘Pretty’ was too tame a word. She was an incredibly sexy woman!
But telling her that would be as good as letting her know that she had this strange ability to turn him into an echo of his half-brother—all rampaging male lust! Just looking at her made everything that was male in him stand to attention. That silky blond hair falling around her face, soft strands sticking to her forehead because of the heat, her huge grey eyes water-clear and strangely innocent, her too-small T-shirt clinging to the bountiful perfection of her breasts, her tiny waist, the curve of her hips that made him think of feminine fecundity and all that implied—
Closing his eyes briefly, he drew in a sharp breath and managed, ‘Lorna knows the best shops, knows where the family holds accounts. Please try to accept this gift my father wants to make. Be gracious about it. It would give him so much pleasure to spoil you a little.’ And it would ease his own conscience a little, too. So far, apart from his father, the Verdi family had given her nothing but grief.
Portia shifted uncomfortably. When he put it like that she was tempted to comply, if only to humour Eduardo of whom she was already very fond.
But she pointed out honestly, ‘It would be such a waste. I won’t be here long enough to get much wear out of smart new Italian clothes, and they sure as anything wouldn’t fit in with my lifestyle back home!’ Then, seeing his impressive jawline go as hard as a rock, Portia mumbled doubtfully, ‘Though I suppose they could be left here and I could wear them when I bring Sam back to visit his grandpa.’
The reminder that she was still intent on leaving hit him like a blow to the stomach, emptying his lungs of air. But it was nothing personal. It couldn’t be. Hadn’t he already decided to take off himself in the not-too-distant future?
He simply wanted what was best for all of them. His father had livened up considerably since meeting Portia and his grandson, and, despite his former opinions, Portia and her little son needed the support of the family. They were entitled to it, after all. Baby Sam was Vito’s son.
