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And the alternative, some kind of fling or affair, would only further complicate what was already a tenuous arrangement. His face settled into a scowl as he thought of Emma’s suggestion. Housekeeper. He didn’t want her here as a housekeeper. She wasn’t his damned employee. She was here because she was the mother of his child, because she belonged—
Larenzo let out his breath in a hiss as he bowed his head. Emma belonged with Ava, but not with him. Not like that. Never like that.
So perhaps, much as he had instinctively disliked the idea, it was better that she act as housekeeper. Perhaps having a clearly defined role would help them navigate this arrangement with a minimum of awkwardness.
A soft cry interrupted the wrangling of his own thoughts and Larenzo realised that Ava had woken up. Quickly he left his room and went to the nursery. His daughter was standing up in her crib, her face streaked with tears. Larenzo’s heart twisted with a powerful mixture of love, protectiveness, and sorrow. Sleeping in a strange place had to be a frightening experience for the child.
He picked her up, and again his heart twisted as Ava settled against his bare chest, her cheek resting over his heart. Larenzo stroked her back and without even realising what he was doing, he began to croon a lullaby in Italian. ‘E dormi, dormi, dormi, bambin de cuna. To mama no la gh’è la a-sé andà via.’
The words came to him unbidden, from a deep well of memory. He stroked Ava’s hair and watched as his daughter’s eyelids eventually drooped.
After several minutes when he was sure she was deeply asleep, he laid her back in the crib and watched her for a moment, her thick, dark lashes fanning her plump baby cheeks.
‘That’s a beautiful lullaby.’
Larenzo stiffened, his gaze moving from his sleeping daughter to the woman standing in the doorway of the nursery. Emma’s hair was tousled about her shoulders, her golden-green eyes wide and luminous. Larenzo dropped his gaze and saw with a hard kick of desire that she was wearing just what he’d imagined: a thin T-shirt that moulded to the shape of her breasts and a pair of boy shorts. He felt his body respond, and in only a pair of drawstring pyjama bottoms he knew Emma would be able to tell if she lowered her gaze just as he’d lowered his.
‘She’s asleep,’ he whispered, and moved quietly out of the nursery, brushing past Emma as he did so. He sucked in a hard breath as her breasts nudged against his chest, and her hair whispered against his cheek. He inhaled the scent of her, sweetness and sleep, and he averted his face from the temptation of hers.
Emma closed the door behind him and they stood in the hallway, only a few inches separating them, the only light coming from a lamp Larenzo had left on in the living room, its warm glow spilling onto the floor.
It was so reminiscent of that night in the villa, the way things had shifted between them in the quiet and dark. Barriers had disappeared, defences had dropped. In that bubble of solitude and intimacy there had only been the two of them, seeking and finding both solace and pleasure.
And there were just the two of them now, standing so close together, the only sound the sigh and draw of their breathing.
‘What did it mean?’ Emma asked in a whisper, and Larenzo forced himself to meet her gaze, to hold himself still, when all he wanted to do was drag her into his arms, forget everything but this, them, for a little while.
‘What did what mean?’
‘The lullaby. I couldn’t make out the Italian. I’m rusty, I suppose.’
‘Oh... Sleep, sleep, sleep, cradle baby. Your mother is not here, she has gone away.’ Belatedly he realised how it sounded. ‘It’s the only lullaby I know. I didn’t even realise I knew it until I started singing.’
‘Is it from your childhood?’ Emma asked, and Larenzo blinked.
‘I suppose it has to be. But I don’t remember anyone singing me any lullabies.’ He heard the note of bitterness that had crept into his voice and he tried to shrug it off. No point in dwelling on the past, just as he’d told Emma. ‘Anyway, Ava seemed to like it.’
‘Thank you,’ Emma said softly, and she reached out and laid a hand on his arm. The touch of her fingers on his skin was electric, jolting his senses as if he’d stuck his finger into a socket. He held himself still, staring down at her hand, her slender fingers curled around his biceps.
She’d touched him like this back in Sicily. And he’d put his hand on hers, and for a moment he hadn’t felt alone. He’d felt as if someone was on his side, someone actually cared...
