The Sicilian's Wife (14 page)

Wildly she brandished her left hand in the air, waving it right in Cesare's closed, shuttered face.

‘But please don't call it my home! It's the house—your villa—my prison—but it really isn't any sort of
home
of mine!'

She'd overstepped the mark, she knew. Said too much, expressed it too forcefully. Her only excuse was that she had been lashing out in her pain. She had been hurting so badly that she had wanted someone else—Cesare preferably—to share her distress.

But he looked anything but hurt. He just looked furious. His expression was dangerous, violent emotion ruthlessly reined in, but fretting at the bit, threatening to break free
at any moment. The vicious golden fires that flared in his eyes terrified her so that she took a hasty step backwards, fighting to get a grip on herself and her stupid, stupid temper.

But when he spoke, it was cold and clipped and utterly precise, stunning her with the rigid control that was in such contrast to what she could read in his face.

‘Then in that case,
amante
…'

The deliberate, biting cynicism of his tone darkened the term of affection, turning it into something that was the exact opposite.

‘If you'll just get into the car, then I'll take you back to your prison at once.'

He even held the car door open for her, waiting as she flounced past, refusing even to glance in his direction for fear she would break down completely. But then just as she was about to lower herself into the passenger seat he caught hold of her arm, making her glance up at him in shock.

‘Just one more question,' he growled, forcing the words from between clenched teeth. ‘This “almighty crush” you had on me once. Am I to take it that you're well and truly over it now?'

He actually sounded as if it mattered, Megan thought for a moment as if… But then of course she realised just why that was. When he had just told her that her body was all he wanted, that he didn't love her at all, then the last thing he wanted was the pressure of thinking she had fallen in love with him. Well, at least she could convince him on that score.

‘Oh yes,' she said as airily as she could manage, praying that it sounded convincing ‘I got over that a long time ago.
It was one of those silly, schoolgirl things. I've done a lot of growing up since then.'

She knew she'd succeeded when he was silent for a long, long moment. And in that moment he subjected her to the sort of cold-eyed, unfriendly scrutiny that one might turn on a disgusting slug, or a maggot that had been found in the middle of a delicious meal.

‘Yes,' he said slowly. ‘You certainly have. And I have to admit that I preferred the other—the younger Megan.'

‘Well, I'm sorry—but that Megan doesn't exist any more.'

‘I can see that. You've grown up all right Megan. I waited a long time for that. It's just a pity that I don't happen to like what you've become.'

I
T WAS
three weeks since the day of the picnic.

Three weeks in which the first creeping suggestion of a doubt that she had known on that day had turned into rather more than that. Three weeks during which she had waited and watched and worried and prayed—but all to no avail it seemed. The doubt had turned into a worry, the worry to a fear, the fear to a possibility. And this morning that possibility had become something much, much stronger. It had become a definite.

But this time there was no chance that she had made a mistake. This time she wasn't going to take the risk of an over the counter test. She wouldn't trust it one way or the other, she knew. And this time she had to be certain.

She was certain all right.

She was as certain as it was possible to be. She had confided in Gio, and Gio had taken her to a doctor in Palermo. The doctor had done the requisite tests. And he had come back with the answer. And the answer left no room for doubt—or for hope.

She was pregnant with Cesare's child.

A baby that had almost certainly been conceived on that long, passionate night, the first time ever they had made love. A baby that had now been growing secretly inside her for almost eight weeks. A baby that was real, solid fact, not the delusion she had believed herself to be pregnant with before.

It didn't seem possible because she had felt none of the symptoms that had convinced her she was pregnant the first
time. Apart from that one brief moment of dizziness that day at the cove and, of course, the later realisation that her period was overdue, and then had missed, she had felt nothing that had made her suspect that this might be a possibility. The baby had come into her life so silently and secretly that it had never crossed her mind it might be there.

‘So when are you going to tell Cesare he's going to be a father?' Gio had asked. He hadn't needed to be told that the results of the tests had been positive. He'd seen it in her face as soon as she walked out of the doctor's surgery. She'd sworn him to secrecy until she had decided what to do.

And that was the problem that fretted at her mind every waking moment. It was there in her thoughts as soon as she stirred. It was the last thing she remembered before she went to sleep.

When
was
she going to tell Cesare?

How
was she going to tell Cesare?

And what was going to be his reaction when he learned the truth?

From the moment when they had returned from the cove on the day of the picnic, she had expected Cesare to revert to what she called the ‘silent mode'. That he would become once again the apparently totally occupied businessman who was out all hours, only ever returning to the villa to sleep and change his clothes.

She couldn't have been more wrong.

Cesare had never been so present in her life. He was there all the time, spending long days with her, taking her places, visiting his family, showing her the island. They had even had long weekends on the mainland, staying in Rome and Naples, and she had only to express an interest in something and it was provided for her.

It was the nights that were different. And the trouble was
that she couldn't quite put her finger on what had changed. The long, hotly sensual nights that they had shared in the first weeks of their marriage now were every bit as long and hot and sensual, but there was a whole new tone about them.

Or, rather, there was something missing from them.

‘What are you doing sitting all alone in the dark?'

Cesare's voice sounding so suddenly behind her, made her start nervously, swinging round to face him.

‘I—I was enjoying the cool of the evening—the silence,' she managed, grateful for the gathering shadows of the dusk that hid the finer details of her face from him. Her knowledge of the baby was still so new, so raw, that she feared some sign of it might show in her face, revealing more than she was ready to share. ‘It made me think of being at home—in my father's garden.'

‘And would you like to be at home?'

The question came sharply, too sharply, almost in the same second that he flicked the switch that brought the lights on, making her blink blindly in the sudden brilliance.

‘Would you?'

‘I'd like to see my father,' she said cautiously, not at all sure where this line of questioning was leading. ‘After all, it's been a couple of months now and I—I'd like to see how he is.'

She'd be able to tell him he was going to be a grandfather too. Her father would be delighted at the prospect, she knew. But first she had to find some way of telling the baby's father.

‘You spoke to him only the other night.'

‘But that was on the phone. It's not the same as actually speaking to someone face to face. Voices can be deceptive.'

‘Your father's fine. Better than he has been for ages.'

‘Yes, but I need to see for myself.'

‘Do you think I wouldn't tell you if I thought you had anything to worry about? Or is it that you don't believe his problems have been sorted out? That I—'

‘Of course I believe that you cleared up his debts, paid off all his creditors. You said you would and you've always been a man of your word. It isn't that that's bothering me.'

‘Then what is it?'

But that was a question she wasn't yet ready to answer. She tried to force herself to meet his narrow-eyed gaze, but was painfully aware of the way that her own eyes couldn't quite hold steady. She was too aware of the secret she had to hide; too afraid of his possible reaction to it.

‘I just want to see my father. Is there anything so very wrong with that?'

‘Nothing. As long as that is what you want to do.'

‘Of course it is! Cesare, what's wrong with you tonight?'

‘Nothing…'

‘Nothing? You can't expect me to believe that.'

‘No?'

For a moment he studied her, scrutinising every inch of her face with an intensity that made her feel incredibly vulnerable.

‘It's just that I've been wondering when this was going to come.'

‘When this…?'

But Cesare had walked away from her, heading in the direction of the kitchen, and if she wanted to hear what he had to say, she had to follow him.

‘When what was going to come?'

He was opening a bottle of wine, concentrating on the task as if it was something that needed a degree in rocket science. Megan had the strong suspicion that he was making her wait for his answer and she forced herself to bite
her tongue and keep silent until the cork slid out of the bottle with a distinct pop.

‘This “I want to go home” business.'

‘I want to see my father—what's wrong with that?'

The rich red wine swirled into the beautiful crystal glass, Cesare's attention fixed firmly on the way he was pouring it.

‘Your home is here—with me,' he stated coldly, not looking up for a second. ‘Do you want a drink?'

‘Ye—I mean no thanks,' Megan amended hastily, remembering her condition. ‘Cesare, what are you talking about? Are you telling me I can't go home?'

She wished he would stop the pantomime with the wine, her teeth snapping together, her foot tapping impatiently on the tiled floor as he inhaled the bouquet, sipped, savoured the flavour for a moment before swallowing appreciatively.

‘Would it matter if I did?'

‘Of course it would matter! I want to see my father! You can't keep me apart from him—can't say I…'

‘Why not? After all, he did that to me.'

Dannazione
! Cesare cursed the lapse in attention that had pushed him into the slip of the tongue, giving away far too much. He must be tired, not concentrating properly or he wouldn't have let that out.

But his mind wasn't fully on what he was saying. He was too busy watching Megan, trying to assess her mood, wondering if she knew.

And of course she noticed, pounced on the revealing hint he had foolishly given her.

‘Did what to you?'

‘Nothing. It doesn't matter. Megan, I don't want to talk about it.'

‘But I do! He did what to you? Are you talking about my father?'

‘All right, yes! I'm talking about your father!'

But thinking about Gary Rowell.

And that was the problem. He hadn't been able to think straight, concentrate on anything at all ever since he had learned that Rowell was in England, in London—and that he had been looking for Megan. Tom Ellis had let the fact slip in a phone call that afternoon.

Of course Megan's father didn't know anything about his daughter's past experience with Signor Gary Love-rat Rowell. And so, not even suspecting the way the other man had seduced his daughter and then tossed her aside like a used towel, he hadn't seen any reason not to pass on the news that ‘a friend of Megan's from university' had called round and was looking for her ‘to catch up on old times'.

And if he had passed that news on to his son-in-law, then surely he would also have told Megan about it?

‘And what is my father supposed to have done?'

Cesare had been heading back to the sitting-room but now he paused in the marble-floored hallway, swinging round to face her, the glass of wine in his hand seeming almost like some sort of delicate barrier between them.

‘Not supposed to have done, Megan,' he said sharply. ‘It's what he
has
done.'

‘And that is?'

He almost told her. He opened his mouth to speak, then abruptly closed it again, shaking his dark head firmly.

‘No.'

‘No? Cesare you can't do this!'

He had moved on again, heading for the lounge where he flung himself down in one of the big black leather armchairs, taking a deep swallow of his drink as he did so.

‘You have to tell me!'

‘Have to?'

The ebony eyes sparked with fire, warning her that this
was quite the wrong approach. One didn't tell Cesare Santorino that he
had
to do anything, not if you wanted to avoid an explosion to equal a volcanic eruption.

‘Please tell me,' she amended carefully, lowering her tone by a full octave so that it was suddenly a husky, enticing whisper. And she came to perch on the arm of his chair, curling her long legs up under her.

Did she know what she did to him when she came close like that? Cesare wondered. Did she know how the warm scent of her body, the sweet flowery perfume she wore, coiled around his senses, bringing them to sharp, stinging life immediately?

What was he thinking? Of course she did! Of course she knew the effect she had on him. Just as she knew that the sight of her long slim body in the tight blue jeans and the breast-hugging white cotton T-shirt had set his pulse throbbing from the moment he had entered the room. She knew it and she was using it deliberately to get what she wanted.

‘Please…'

One slender-fingered hand rested on his knee, smoothed the fine material of his trousers softly, making his throat dry instantly.

‘Cesare… You said my father kept you apart from—from me? Is that what you mean he did?'

His sigh hissed out in a sound that was a blend of exasperation and resignation.

‘You're not going to let this drop are you?'

‘No. And if it's about me then I have a right to know. If you don't tell me then I shall get right on the phone and ask my father.'

Her smile was mischievous; wicked little kitten with the cream in its sights and no intention of letting it go.

‘And I can be very persistent—so you might as well give in now.'

‘Okay!'

Cesare decided to surrender. The truth was that he was tired. He was tired of secrets, of hiding things from her. Perhaps if she knew what had really happened.

‘Okay. You'll probably find out some time anyway. It might as well be now.'

Megan had no idea what she was expecting, but whatever it was, it was certainly not what she heard. From the moment Cesare told her that he had spoken to her father, she listened wide-eyed, unable to believe a word he said.

‘You—you fancied me
then
?' she managed, still finding it hard to take in.

She was remembering something he had said to her a long time ago, a lifetime it seemed. On the night he had come to the house and found her alone and frightened.

‘I've never been able to ignore you,' he had said. ‘Not from the moment you bounced into my life as a pretty thirteen-year-old, the first time I ever visited this house. I couldn't take my eyes off you then, and I've never been able to since.'

‘Not as a thirteen-year-old, obviously!' Cesare was quick to point out. ‘Though even then you were a delight. But from the time you were sixteen—yes.'

‘And my father made you promise to wait?'

‘I gave him my word. I understood what he was trying to do. You see, I knew what he'd been through with your mother—the way he'd tried everything he could to keep her. He spent a fortune on her, bought her anything and everything she wanted. He really thought that would make her stay. But she went anyway, and when she divorced him…'

Painfully aware of the fact that this was her mother he was talking about, he glanced sharply at Megan's face, seeing the sadness that clouded her eyes.

‘I'm sorry…' he began but she shook her head fiercely.

‘Don't worry about it!' she told him. ‘And please don't think I have any delusions about my mother. She walked out on me when I was a child—and I know she treated Dad very badly.'

‘She sued for half of everything he possessed. That was the start of his money troubles—he never recovered from the expense of that divorce. And the truth was that his heart wasn't in it after he lost his wife. He let the business get badly run-down, until in the end no one could save it. The only thing I could do was to buy him out—at much more than it was worth—and then write the loss off.'