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“The baby,” she whispered.
Dante drew back. His hand fell away from her; he was all business now.
“Lift your arms,” he said briskly, and when she did, he pulled the nightgown over her head, his gaze never dropping below her arms and face, and replaced the gown with the T-shirt. By the time she’d finished easing it down her body under cover of the duvet, he was leaning over her with the baby in his arms.
She reached for her son. Daniel was kicking and crying as if he had not nursed at her breasts only three hours ago. She smiled at her little boy, tugged down the loose neckline of the T-shirt and brought him to her breast. She did it without thinking; she had nursed him from the day of his birth, completely unselfconsciously…
But not in front of the man who had given her baby to her.
Dante made a soft sound. A groan. She looked up. His gaze was fixed on the baby, on his small hand against her breast, his small mouth at her nipple. A sensation so powerful it made her tremble swept through her. She whispered Dante’s name. His eyes met hers; he groaned again, bent to her, cupped her face and took her mouth in a hot, hungry kiss.
And then he was gone.
CHAPTER NINE
THE baby nursed until Gabriella was certain she could almost feel his little tummy rounding under her hand. She shifted him to her shoulder, gently patted his back and was rewarded with a contented burp.
“That’s my boy,” she said softly. He gave her a happy grin and she laughed and played a round of I-See with him, forgetting everything for a few happy minutes. Her aching head and bones, her unsettled stomach…
Her unsettled life.
Daniel seemed to sense her change in mood. His dark, winged brows drew together. His sculpted lips turned down. His features were such a perfect duplication of Dante’s…
Gabriella swallowed hard. “It’s all right, bebι,” she crooned. “Mama loves you. She’ll always love you.” She touched the tip of her finger to his nose. “We’ll be fine, you and I. Just wait and see.”
The baby’s expression softened. He smiled. Yawned. Yawned again, and Gabriella scooted down in the big bed, holding him securely in the curve of her arm. In a few seconds he was fast asleep.
The flight, the change in routine, had tired him.
She looked at the thick, dark lashes that lay against his cheeks, noting again that he was the very image of his father. When her boy grew up, he and Dante would be mirror images.
Mirror images no one would see.
Dante had made it sound as if she and Daniel were to be part of his life, but she knew better. It wasn’t that he’d lied but that he’d spoken under stress. He was, at heart, a decent man and he’d reacted with gallantry to her circumstances.
Reality had come after they’d boarded the plane. It had not been difficult to see. He had become distant. When the flight attendant suggested she and Daniel might be more comfortable in the small private room at the rear, Dante had said that was an excellent idea. It was, in a way. It had meant she could nurse the baby, change him, rock him to sleep in her arms without any distractions, but still…
Foolishly enough, she’d thought Dante might at least spend some time with her and the baby, but he had not entered the little room, not even once. It wasn’t as if he’d forgotten their presence.
He’d sent the attendant to her, several times.
Was everything all right? the woman had inquired politely. Did the senhorita need anything? If so, she had only to press the call button.
What Gabriella needed could not be gotten by pressing the call button. She hadn’t said that, of course, she’d simply smiled politely and said she would be sure to do that. Then she’d fed the baby, put him into a fresh diaper, curled up on the sofa with him and fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.
To her surprise, she’d slept for hours. She knew she was tired but it was as if only now, miles above the earth and from the fazenda, her mind and body were ready to admit she was not just tired but exhausted.
So much had happened during the past months! She had first tended to her father, then to her brother. Her father, true to form, had seemed to expect everything she’d done for him until his last breath; her brother, also true to form, had worried she was doing too much.
“You are with child,” he’d said. “You must worry about a new life, Gabriella, not a worn-out one like mine.”
Remembering those months before Arturo’s death was bittersweet. They had been as close as when they’d been children—but all the while, she’d known she could not save him.
And she’d been pregnant. An easy pregnancy, thankfully, but still, she was exhausted all the time, going without sleep, worrying over the increasing awareness that her father had gambled away everything, that there was no money left in his accounts or, eventually, in hers. Looking back, it seemed as if she had done nothing but worry.
