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She reached for the glass of water on the edge of the table. Far away from the device in the middle.
Tentatively, she raised it to her lips, careful to think through the steps.Open her mouth. Take a sip. Close her mouth. Swallow. Put the glass back.Rational steps. Logical.
The suite was all crisp lines in creams and greys. All shiny. The low table between them gleamed. If she leaned over—inspected the plastic blue and white oval device—she’d see her reflection in it.
They were in the bedroom of the master suite.Hissuite. Which was really as big as any house, with a separate dining area, a lounge and bathroom.
An enormous bed dominated one section of the room, with the crispest white sheets, the plumpest pillows and the deepest mattress she’d ever seen. Subtle lights surrounded it. Built into the walls themselves.
Only a soft glow, so as not to take away from the view, she assumed. Because the view of the ocean was vast, and it surrounded them. Never-ending. Water usually calmed her. Her trips to the beach were her escape. Her chance to be still. To let her mind wander.
She couldn’t look at it now. But she couldn’t stop looking at the bed.
She flicked her gaze back to the test. It wasn’t the kind of test she’d pictured in her head. It was smart. It wouldn’t show her any pink lines. She wouldn’t have to apply her maths skills. She wouldn’t have to add one line with another to make two.Ifshe was pregnant it would flash with the wordpregnantand show how many weeks life had been growing inside her. She would know in less than five minutes what she hadn’t known for weeks.
Unable to bear it any longer, she leant forward, reached out her hand.
‘It’s not time.’
Her hand froze in mid-air. ‘How much longer?’
‘Thirty seconds.’
She dropped her hand. Returned to her perch.
She’d asked Raffaele to read the instructions to her twice. It wasn’t rocket science, but she’d wanted to make sure she did it right.
And, calmly, he had. Each word level. Clear. Emotionless. She’d known he wasn’t telling her a story any more, but a part of her had wanted to hear what he was feeling. How he felt about her. About the possibility of a baby they’d made together.
Raffaele had whisked her through doors made of glass, through corridors that smelt of newness and quality, but when he’d opened the door to this room he’d let go of her hand. She rubbed at it now. There were no visible marks. No evidence of his touch. But she tingled with it. The sensation of skin against skin. All thoughts of the boy vanished and replaced with thoughts of the man beside her.
Of this room he’d led her to.
The bed.
She cleared her throat. Swiped her tongue against her teeth. That wasn’t logical. Sheneededto be logical. Those feelings, those impulses that had gripped her when she’d walked in, that had urged her to climb onto the bed, to surrender to her body’s needs, needed to be buried.
‘It’s time,piccolina.’
Her gaze snapped to his. Before she could stop herself, she spoke. ‘I’m scared.’
‘It can’t hurt you.’
‘What if I hurtit?’
He blinked. Slowly. Fluttering shadows kissing his chiselled cheekbones. ‘Why would you think that?’
‘No...’ She stumbled, realising what that had sounded like. ‘I wouldn’t hurt a baby. I wouldn’t hurt anyone. Not physically. Not emotionally. Not on purpose.’
Because that was always her goal, wasn’t it? Not to hurt those she loved with her behaviour. Not to make them worry. But unconsciously...
‘What if I get it all wrong?’ she asked, her throat tight. ‘What if I’m a terrible mother?’
His gaze softened. ‘That you worry about being bad means you will do everything you can to be good. That you will care. Deeply.’
She frowned. He’d told her his story... Didn’t he deserve hers, too?
‘Aren’t you worried?’ she asked. ‘A little scared?’
