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She’d never know who her biological father was, and that would always leave a hole inside her. But at least she hadn’t been soothed by stories of a father who might be aristocracy to lessen the blow.
‘Until I reached twenty-one my parents told me stories too,’ she said. ‘Not as wild as having nobility for parents. But never the facts. Never the truth.’
‘What kind of stories?’
‘Stories to hide the reasons why I was home-schooled. The reasons I shouldn’t follow my instincts but plan and execute carefully designed routines, so I didn’t ever become consumed by my passions.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘I have an addictive personality. I focus on things...’ she shrugged, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth ‘...and I fixate.’
‘What things do you focus on?’
‘Fixing things, usually...’ She paused, feeling a tightness that was making it difficult to form a placating smile. Making it difficult to swallow.
He shrugged. ‘Focusing—prioritising—in a world full of noise is a skill, not a fault.’
‘Maybe...’ she conceded.
‘Is that why you think you don’t know yourself? Because you were never told your truth? Your story?’ he asked, and with that he catapulted her six weeks into the past.
‘You remember?’
‘I remember everything.’
And so did she. Every caress of his fingers. Every touch of his—
She pushed them down. The memories. And she ignored the heavy drag in her stomach.
‘I’m their miracle baby,’ she said, as if that would explain everything. And to her it did.
‘I was an unwanted bastard,’ he answered. ‘And you were a miracle. Two opposite ends of the spectrum. No child of mine will never be a mistake. My child will never be a bastard. Never unwanted or illegitimate,’ he bit out between tight lips. ‘If you are pregnant, our baby will always know where it belongs. That it is protected. Safe.’
His eyes held hers with an intensity so strong she could feel the pulse of it in her chest.
‘With me,’ he said.
‘You weren’t safe?’ she asked, feeling a stab of something visceral to her solar plexus. ‘When you were growing up?’
‘I grew up in the eastern hills of Sicily. It’s...’ he frowned ‘...beautiful. Untouched and out of the way of things. If we’d lived closer to the coastal towns, to people who might have seen my mother’s illness—’
‘Your mother was ill?’
‘Mentally ill. To the point where she couldn’t function.’
She watched his Adam’s apple drag up and down his taut throat.
‘Or care for a little boy who was hungry more often than not.’
‘You don’t want the same for you child?’ she said. ‘That’s why you’re here? Because—?’
‘Exactly.’ His gaze locked on her stomach. ‘My child will not be hungry. My child will never be cold.’
Connection surged between them. Not like the night they’d met. Something deeper. Something she couldn’t name or place. But she recognised it was happening.
‘Did your mother tell you stories of Italian nobility because she didn’t know who your father was? Or did she tell you them because she didn’t want to tell you the truth?’
‘Some of my mother’s stories were true...some false,’ he answered. ‘I only found out which when I was much older, and then it didn’t matter to me any more what was fiction or fact. I’d grown up without a father...without his name. All I knew was that we were hungry and that my mother had been abandoned by a man who didn’t want to claim either her or me. He paid her off with a wad of cash that lived under the bed in a jar until it was all gone. He left us in a village where they called my mother—’
