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‘I am not in Italy.’
‘Then wh-where are you?’ she asked, but even as she asked it she knew what the answer would be.
‘I’m in the Hamble.’
A nameless dread crept over her. ‘What are you doing there?’
‘We’ll discuss that later,’ he clipped out. ‘I think we’d better meet for lunch, don’t you, Eve?’
It was one of his questions which wasn’t really a question at all, and Eve knew that there was only one answer which was acceptable to them both. For him, because he demanded it and she knew that he had the right to, and for her because her curiosity was roused. ‘Okay, I’ll meet you,’ she said slowly. ‘Where?’
‘I’ll meet you at the Fish Inn at one forty-five.’
‘One forty-five,’ she echoed.
The journey back seemed to take for ever, and Eve glanced at her watch. There wasn’t time to go home first, and besides—what would she go home for? It wasn’t like a normal lunch date with a normal man. She was pregnant and about to see the reluctant father. Not a lot of point prettying herself up. And suddenly Eve felt a pang. Luca was a formidable man.
So why the hell was he here?
The Fish Inn was the best restaurant in the village. Simply furnished, serving fresh food and with a stunning view over the harbour—people flocked from miles around to eat there. It was usually impossible to get a table at this short notice, but Luca had somehow managed.
He was already seated when she arrived and his tall, lean body unmistakable. His black hair was ruffled and he wore some beautiful cashmere sweater, the colour of soft, grey clouds, and her heart turned over at the sight of him.
And that is enough, she told herself. More than enough.
He stood up as soon as he saw her, his face looking brooding and shuttered and the dreamy feeling fled, leaving her with a faint feeling of unease.
From behind the lashed curtain of his narrowed eyes, he watc
hed her approach as if his life depended on it. Her face was blooming, he noted with approval, and her eyes were shining with life and with health. She wore dark trousers and a big, soft oatmeal-coloured sweater. Big as a man’s sweater, he thought viciously, and felt a stab of anger. But, big as it was, it could not disguise the definite swell of her belly and the anger transmuted into fierce and atavistic pride as he realised that the swell was part of him. His child in her belly. And, to his horror and shock, he felt the early, aching throb of desire.
‘Eve,’ he said.
He spoke pleasantly, but as he would to some casual acquaintance. It was as if they were oceans apart. There was no kiss on either cheek, no guiding of the arm to her seat. Nothing to treat her in any way as special. In fact, he seemed almost to recoil from her and she wasn’t quite sure why that should hurt as much as it did.
‘Luca,’ she said evenly, and sat down.
‘How formal we are with each other,’ he mocked softly. ‘Why, we speak as strangers, Eve. Who would know, to look at us—that we have made such beautiful love together, and that we have created a child which grows beneath your heart?’
His words were like weapons. The child beneath her heart. Didn’t that phrase mock her with the tantalising image of what it could have been like, if theirs were a normal, loving relationship? And, at the same time, didn’t it manage to emphasise just what little there was, or ever had been between them?
Was he trying to wound her, to pay her back?
How calm he looked today, light years away from the man who had stared at her in complete and utter disbelief when she had refused his offer to marry her.
‘I don’t want to marry you!’ she had declared. ‘You just want to use marriage to acquire me, and to acquire rights over our baby! Just as you would a business deal!’
He had neither denied nor confirmed it. Just given her a long, considering look and said flatly, ‘And that is your decision?’
‘It is.’
‘Then there is nothing more to be said, is there?’
And the finality of that statement had left her wondering why she hadn’t said the most sensible thing, such as: I’d like to think about it, or I’m not ruling anything out. Instead, she was aware that she had burnt her boats, until she reminded herself that her first assessment had been the correct one. She didn’t want to marry a man who didn’t love her.
With trembling fingers she shook out her linen napkin and laid it carefully over her knees, doubting that she would be able to eat a thing, not with those brilliant black eyes burning into her. But the action composed her, so that she was able to look up at him with a calm expression on her face.
‘So,’ she said equably. ‘You were going to tell me why you were here.’
