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“Cara. Are you all right?”
“Yes. Of course. I’m—”
“Doctor? Is my wife well?”
“She is fine, Principe.”
“The baby, too?”
“The baby, too.”
“You are sure?”
The doctor smiled. “I am sure.”
“And what must we do to keep things that way?”
“The usual, Principe. A healthful diet. Exercise. No caffeine, no cigarettes.”
“That’s it?”
The doctor spread his arms wide. “Si. That is it.”
Nicolo cleared his throat, the memories of the night and the morning suddenly vivid.
“And, ah, and what of, ah, what of restrictions on, ah, on her activities?”
Aimee blushed. The doctor hid a grin. “If you refer to sex—”
“Si.”
“Sex is a perfectly healthy activity.”
Nicolo clasped Aimee’s hand. “What else should we know?”
“In a few weeks, we will do some tests—we do them for all pregnant women,” the doctor added quickly, when Nicolo paled. “It is, how does one say it? Pro forma. Ultrasound. Blood work. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“You are sure?”
“I am quite sure.”
Moments later, on the sidewalk, Aimee stopped and turned to Nicolo.
“I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of the doctor,” she said quietly, “but—but if you wish, they could do an additional test. For DNA. To prove to you that this baby is—”
Nicolo drew her close and silenced her with a kiss. “There is nothing you need prove to me, cara,” he murmured. “We have agreed to tell each other only the truth, si?”
“Si. Yes. But if—”
“No lies,” he said softly. “Not between us. Not ever.”
He bought her more clothes than she could wear in a lifetime and when she whispered that it was a waste of money because, soon, she wouldn’t fit into any of them, he held a quiet conversation with one of the shop assistants, who looked at Aimee and smiled.
“We will take all this,” Nicolo said, gesturing to the stacks of trousers and sweaters, dresses and gowns Aimee had tried on.
Then he whisked her back into his car, to an elegant boutique that specialized in fashions for expectant mothers.
“I’ll never wear all these things,” Aimee said as the new pile of garments grew larger.
