The Valtieri Marriage Deal (7 page)

He wanted Isabelle, and he’d have her. Somehow.

Then she walked onto the ward on Friday morning, her auburn hair swinging round her shoulders, her cheeks rosy from the cold, those beautiful amethyst eyes challenging his, and he felt a kick in his gut that told him more clearly than anything else how important this was to him.

He wasn’t ready to give up on her—not even slightly. He
hadn’t moved on, he couldn’t forget the night they’d spent together. He wanted her as much as ever—not the wild and generous lover, curiously, although his need for her was never far away, but her, this beautiful, principled and wounded woman—and he was going to convince her to give them another chance.

‘Isabelle,’ he said as casually and professionally as he could manage, ‘I have a patient I’d like your help with.’

‘And good morning to you, too,’ she retorted.

He gave a wry laugh and started again. ‘Good morning. How were your days off?’

‘Lovely, thank you. Peaceful. You were saying?’

‘I have a patient. It’s her third pregnancy, she was admitted about an hour ago with intermittent contractions, and she needs a little TLC. Her first delivery was textbook normal, then she had a C-section for a placenta previa, and she’s going to try for another normal delivery, but she’s scared. I’ve squared it with your ward manager, and I’d like you to manage her delivery.’

She met his eyes challengingly. ‘Why me?’

‘Because you’re good.’

‘Sarah’s good,’ she said bluntly.

‘Sarah’s off today.’

‘Well, Helen, then. Any of them. They’re all good.’

‘I want you. You’re the best.’

‘That’s rubbish.’ She turned away, heading into the staffroom. ‘I’ll see you in a minute,’ she muttered, and shut the door in his face.

He shrugged. Well, she was reluctant, but she hadn’t told him to take a hike. And he could wait for her to come round.

Just so long as she didn’t take too long, because he was an
impatient man, he was discovering, and the clingy little sweater she’d been wearing under her coat was enough to push him over the brink.

He went into the ward kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee. He’d been in the hospital since six, waiting for Isabelle and trying to convince himself that she would be fine if he didn’t go and fetch her, and so far today he hadn’t had time for a drink. And if he didn’t get some caffeine down himself soon he was going to be ripping heads off.

‘Right—where’s this woman?’ Isabelle said, appearing in the doorway in scrubs, and he offered her his mug.

‘She’ll keep for a moment. I’ll fill you in. Want this?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I’ll pass. It’s a bit early for coffee and I haven’t really got time to make tea. I’ll have a glass of water. So, tell me, how frequent are her contractions?’

‘Every three minutes. It could be quite quick.’

Great. Isabelle swallowed and put the glass down, trying to psych herself up. She could do with a slow start today. She’d been feeling a bit iffy when she’d woken—edgy about seeing him again, of course—and she’d had to struggle with the bus and the Tube. She’d even been frustrated that he hadn’t turned up to give her a lift, of all the contrary things…

‘OK, I’ll go and get handover on her and introduce myself. I take it you’re happy to leave me to it?’

‘Of course.’

‘Right. I’ll keep you posted.’

‘Thank you.’

Good grief, so formal, so civilised, and yet under it all, the memory of that kiss was seething and simmering like a wild thing. She walked away, deeply conscious of his eyes on her back, trying to halt the sway of her hips as she walked. The
last thing she wanted was for him to feel encouraged. She was still furious with him for kissing her, but not nearly as furious as she was with herself for responding.

Oh, damn it!

She went and found her patient.

‘I hate you! Don’t you dare come near me! This is all your fault!’

‘Well, excuse me, but it wasn’t me who forgot to take the pills regularly.’

‘Hey, guys, come on, now. Lindsey, calm down, nice slow breaths. That’s it. Good girl.’ She shot a smile over her shoulder at the husband, standing at the foot of the bed ramming his hands through his hair and looking helpless. ‘It’s OK. It’s not personal,’ she said softly as Lindsey breathed her way through a nasty contraction. ‘You’ll have your baby very soon.’

‘Is she all right?’

‘Yes, she’s just in transition. Everything looks lovely.’

His shoulders dropped, and he closed his eyes and gave a soft laugh. ‘You know, once we got over the shock we were really pleased about the baby. It was just a bit unexpected, hearing her talking to me like that.’

‘Ignore it. She’ll be all smiles in a few minutes.’

‘I won’t. I hate him,’ Lindsey muttered between breaths.

‘Of course you do,’ Isabelle said soothingly, rubbing her back and eliciting a deep groan of relief. ‘Mike, why don’t you do this for her?’ she suggested, and then Lindsey’s eyes flew wide open and she stared at Isabelle wildly.

‘I have to push!’

‘OK, that’s fine, you’re ready now. Nice and steady, you can remember how to do it.’

Behind her she heard the door open quietly, and she knew without looking round that it was Luca, and she was relieved, because one of the team was off sick and she was on her own again today and if anything went wrong…

‘OK?’ he murmured softly so as not to distract Lindsey, and she nodded.

‘She’s just gone into second stage.’

‘May I stay?’

‘Please do.’

‘You can defend me,’ Mike said, smiling at him and maybe a bit relieved to have his support. ‘Apparently this is my fault.’

Luca chuckled softly. ‘Isn’t it always? The man can never win.’

‘Well, it is his fault, so don’t you join in and gang up on me—oh, hell, I want to kneel,’ Lindsey said, dragging herself up the bed and hanging on to the headboard, her body draped over the pillows. And moments later, with very little fuss, their daughter was born, and Isabelle felt the familiar wave of emotion sweep over her.

‘Congratulations,’ she said warmly, settling the tearful, smiling Lindsey back against her pillows and putting the baby to her breast. ‘She’s absolutely beautiful, aren’t you, sweetheart?’

Luca patted Mike on the back. ‘Well done, guys. I thought you’d be fine. I’ll leave you in Isabelle’s capable hands. I’ll get you a nursery nurse to help.’

‘No hurry,’ she said, because she enjoyed this moment, and once she was happy that everything was as it should be, she’d leave them alone for a while to get to know their baby.

‘Aren’t you glad now that I’ve got a lousy memory and kept
taking my pill late?’ Lindsey was saying with a huge smile on her face, and Isabelle laughed.

‘See? I told you you’d be forgiven,’ she said to Mike.

‘Oh, of course he’s forgiven,’ Lindsey said with a smile, ‘but it’s a good job we lead a fairly sober life, because I had no idea I was pregnant for months. I was still taking the Pill but I was feeling iffy, and I just thought I must have a virus and then I got over it and started to eat like a horse and put on weight. And then I looked at myself one day in the mirror and the penny dropped. All those late pills, and look where it got me, little one,’ she said, her voice softening as she turned her attention to the baby again. ‘In here with you! And you’re just gorgeous.’

In the middle of checking the placenta, Isabelle froze. Late pills? A virus? Feeling iffy? And her last period had been really light…

Oh, dear God, no!

She felt a wave of panic and disbelief, and having checked that the placenta was intact and that Lindsey and the baby were both looking well, she left them to it for a moment, heading for the staffroom.

‘I’ve just put the kettle on—fancy a coffee now?’ Luca said as she approached the kitchen.

‘Not really,’ she said, unable to look at him. ‘I’ll get something in a minute, there’s something I have to do.’

And diverting to the supplies, she took a box off the shelf, slipped it into her pocket and walked off the ward.

‘Luca?’

‘Isabelle? What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing, but—I need to see you.’

He sat up, turning off the television, his heart starting to pound slowly, his mind in freefall trying to imagine why she was calling. ‘When did you have in mind?’

‘Are you free now? I’ve just finished work. I could come to you.’

‘Sure, I’m here. Can you remember the way or do you want me to come and get you?’

‘No, stay there, I’ll come,’ she said, and headed for the exit.

Luca tidied the sitting room and put his empty mug into the dishwasher while he waited. He couldn’t imagine what she wanted. He could dream, he could fantasise, but he had no real idea, and her distant greeting this morning—her distance all day, really—hadn’t given him much fuel for the fantasy.

The bell rang and he let her in, taking in her pallor and the tight line of her lips. It didn’t look like she was about to give in to him, he thought with regret, and hung her coat on the end of the banisters. Maybe she just wanted to talk—perhaps to tell him whatever it was that was getting in the way of them having a relationship. Hallelujah! And then maybe they could make some progress.

‘What can I get you to drink?’

‘Um—have you got any fruit juice?’ she asked, part of her wanting to stall and the other part wanting to get it over with quick before she lost her courage.

‘Sure. Apple and mango again?’

‘Lovely,’ she said, following him and hugging her elbows.

He poured her a glass, made himself a coffee then led her into the sitting room, gesturing to the pair of leather sofas that sat at right angles to each other. She perched on the edge of one, and he sat on the other, and silence settled over them.

‘So why did you want to see me?’ he said eventually, and
she swallowed hard. There was no easy way to do this, so she might just as well get it over with. Taking a deep breath, she looked up and met his eyes.

‘I think I might be pregnant.’

L
UCA FELT THE
blood drain from his face. ‘Pregnant?’

‘I—I think so.’

His heart thudded hard against his ribs, her words so unexpected they’d caught him completely off guard. ‘And it’s mine?’ he asked, his voice rough even to his ears.

She stared at him, her eyes blank. ‘Well—of course it’s yours.’

‘There hasn’t been anybody else?’

‘No. No! Not for years. You know I don’t do relationships, and I certainly don’t do one-night stands.’

‘But you’re on the Pill,’ he challenged, pushing her, while the blood roared in his ears and the sense of déjà vu threatened to swamp him.

‘To control my cycle. Nothing else. Luca, if I am pregnant, it’s definitely yours.’ And he could tell from her eyes that it was the truth.

He felt the shockwave go through him, and closed his eyes briefly, setting his coffee down with a little clatter into the saucer before looking up at her.

But her eyes were on the cup, and she swallowed hard. ‘Bathroom,’ she muttered, and, crashing her glass down onto the table, she fled into the hall.

‘On the right,’ he yelled, following her, but she’d found it, slamming the door behind her and leaving him in limbo. Did he follow her? Hold her hair? Or give her her dignity? He waited, while the emotions roiled through him, his heart pounding, until he heard the loo flush and water running.

Then he tapped on the door and met her wary eyes as she opened it, his heart beating heavily in his chest as they stood looking at each other in silence. Action and reaction, he thought, and asked the question that had been burning a hole in him for the past few minutes.

‘Isabelle, when you say you
think…
’

‘I did a test.’

Hell. ‘And?’

‘It was a bit inconclusive.’

Well, the last few minutes wasn’t, he thought drily, and felt a skitter of nerves. ‘When was your last period?’ he asked, his voice deadly soft as he tried to stay calm.

She gave a tiny, defensive shrug. ‘Last week. But it was light,’ she added. ‘So was the one before.’

‘So—it’s nearly seven weeks since Florence, which would make you…’

She swallowed. ‘Nearly nine weeks pregnant—if I am.’

Oh, she was. He could see it a mile away, but he had to know. He took a slow, deep breath. ‘Do you have another test with you?’

She nodded numbly. ‘In my bag. Luca, I’m on the Pill,’ she said, her voice a little desperate.

‘And did you take it punctually?’

She nodded her head slowly. ‘Pretty much, but it’s only to regulate my periods, so I’m not religious about it. And that morning, I took it just before we boarded the flight and then
I was airsick in the turbulence and I felt so dreadful I just didn’t think about it until now—’

She broke off, and he stabbed his hand through his hair. ‘And I—’ He’d been so inflamed with passion that he’d forgotten his own name. Damn. He picked up her bag from the floor and held it out to her. ‘Just do the test,
cara,
please. We need to know this.
I
need to know it.’

She took it, her fingers shaking, and rummaged for a box—a pregnancy test kit from the ward. He recognised it instantly. She handed the bag back and shut the door, and he waited. And waited. What seemed like hours later, when he was about to tear the door down and go in and find her, she opened it and walked out, her face ashen.

‘Well?’ he asked, his voice tight.

She handed him the little white stick.

‘Congratulations, Luca,’ she said unsteadily. ‘You’re going to be a father.’ And then she burst into tears.

He didn’t even look down. One glance at her face had been enough to tell him the answer, but he’d needed to hear her say it. And his reaction was not at all what he’d expected. In the midst of the shock, somewhere buried down there amongst a whole plethora of emotions and complications and sheer, blind terror, a tiny flicker of joy burst into life.

He was going to be a father. He felt his eyes fill, and blinked hard, scarcely daring to hope, but he
knew
Isabelle was pregnant. He was an obstetrician. He knew the signs, knew it wasn’t possible to fake the chalk-white skin with the faint sheen of sweat, the nausea and its inevitable result—and sure, she could have produced a positive pregnancy test stick but he’d seen her go into the loo with an unopened packet and break the seal.

He
knew.

And now he had to think of the future.

‘We need to talk.’

Talk? She nearly laughed out loud, but it would have been more than a little hysterical, so she just clamped her mouth shut and headed out of the hall, walking into the sitting room and standing there staring unseeing through the window, arms wrapped tight around her waist, while the emotions crashed through her like a tidal wave.

‘Go on, then, talk.’

He laughed, an odd, fractured sound that scraped on her nerves.
‘Cara,
we
have
to talk. This is going to happen, and we have to face it. What alternative is there?’

Shooting myself? Ringing my mother and telling her I’ve been as stupid as she was? Scrolling back through all the drugs and chemicals and foodstuffs I’ve been exposed to in the past few weeks?

‘Going home to bed,’ she said, suddenly feeling incredibly tired and tearful and wishing Luca would go away so she could curl up in the corner and howl.

She got her wish. His pager went off, and muttering something Italian and no doubt rude, he put a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘Later. I have to go back to the hospital, but you can stay here,’ he said. ‘Go and rest now, I’ll come home as soon as I can. Use my bed.’

‘I can’t. I have to go home.’

‘No, you can’t do that awful journey in this state—or work the hours you’ve been working. It’s ridiculous when you’re sick.’

‘No, Luca,’ she said, turning to face him and meeting his eyes with defiance. ‘I’m not sick. I’m pregnant. There’s a difference, and I have no intention of being treated like an
invalid—and before you even think about it, don’t you
dare
go and tell my colleagues to get them to take my workload off me, or I swear to God, I’ll kill you with my bare hands.’

He felt a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. ‘I’m terrified.’

‘You should be.’

Their eyes locked, and then he gave a little shrug and sighed. ‘OK, I won’t say anything, for now—but only on condition you’re sensible. And that means lying down now and waiting for me to get back, at the very least. Is that clear?’

He could see the struggle in her eyes, but finally she nodded. ‘All right, I’ll wait. But here. I don’t need to go to bed.’

He hesitated, but then his mouth firmed and with a curt nod he turned on his heel and walked back into the hall. She turned back to the window and watched him walking down the street until he disappeared into the night. It was raining now, fat drops hitting the window and streaming down it like rivers of tears, and resting her head against the cool glass, she closed her eyes again and pressed her lips together.

Pregnant. Just like her mother, pregnant, single and alone.

Self-pity washed over her, and she firmed her spine and told herself not to be melodramatic and ridiculous. Her mother had been much younger and she’d had no training, but Isabelle had a good career, in a field where working part time was perfectly possible, her maternity leave would be assured and there was a crèche available to solve her childcare needs.

OK, it wasn’t the future she’d hoped for, but it would be a good future, and at least she had the house. She’d told her mother it wasn’t necessary to put it in her name, but now she was grateful, because in the end it would be the thing that above all else gave her security.

She—
they
—would be all right. And that was all that mattered.

Pushing herself away from the window, she lay down on the sofa under a lovely snuggly throw and tried to sleep, but her mind was whirling. She sat up again and noticed a newspaper on the coffee table, opened at the puzzle page. He’d started the crossword, filled in a few numbers on the Sudoku, but she could finish them off. It would keep her mind occupied till he got back…

She was asleep, her eyes shadowed, the long, thick lashes dark crescents against her pale cheeks. Her mouth was closed but her jaw was relaxed, and her lips looked soft and full and kissable.

Resisting the urge, he put the bowls down and sat beside her, his hip brushing against her abdomen as the cushion sank under his weight and she rolled towards him. His child was in there, he thought, feeling the warmth of her body against his hip, cradled in the bowl of her pelvis, a tiny baby, slowly growing in the shelter of her body, and it was suddenly real to him. Please, God, let everything be all right. He couldn’t bear it if it wasn’t.

He rested his hand on her hip and stared at her, the woman who was carrying his child, and a fierce wave of protective tenderness washed over him, catching him by surprise, because this was for her, not for the child. His feelings for the child were a given. His feelings for the mother were much less ordered and would take time to sort out. But for now, he had to feed her.

‘Isabella?’
he murmured. ‘Wake up. I’ve cooked for you.’

‘No,’ she moaned, and buried her face in a little cushion.

He took it away from her. ‘Yes. Come on, you need to eat. Sit up—here, it’s just boiled rice and vegetables. Nothing too flavoured, but you must eat. You’ve had nothing all day.’

She struggled upright. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she grumbled, but she shoved the hair out of her eyes and took the bowl and ate, reluctantly at first and then more eagerly as it became obvious it wasn’t going to be instantly rejected by her body.

‘Better?’ he asked, searching her face for clues, and she smiled a little wanly and nodded.

‘Yes. Thank you. I was getting a bit shaky.’

‘You mustn’t let yourself get hungry. That’s the worst thing. Low blood sugar’s a killer. And don’t have coffee, or cola, or strong tea or even dark chocolate. Caffeine can increase the risk of miscarriage significantly—and it’s probably why it and many other potentially harmful or potentially bacteria-laden foods can trigger nausea in early pregnancy—’

He cut himself off, realising he was lecturing her, telling himself not to get over-protective, but she just gave a funny little smile.

‘Luca, I do know this. I’m well aware that we’re programmed to avoid the dangerous things when the foetus is most vulnerable.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t worry, it’s very effective. I won’t be drinking coffee ever again, I don’t think. Just the smell is enough to kill me.’

‘Was it my coffee today?’ he asked, suddenly realising that when she’d run away, he’d been drinking it, and she nodded. He let out a harsh sigh and shook his head.

‘Bella,
I’m sorry. You should have said.’

‘I didn’t know until it happened.’

‘Well, it won’t happen again,’ he said with a twisted smile. ‘Come on, you need to go to bed now, you look exhausted. And I will review your rota, whatever you say. These long days are no good for you, and I don’t want you working nights.’

‘The nights are fine, Luca. I like working nights. They’re quiet and peaceful.’

‘But you need a regular routine, so you can eat properly and your body can settle into pregnancy without constant disturbance.’

‘Luca, it’s my body! I’ll decide.’

She had that mulish look about her chin again, and he let it go. For now. There was plenty of time to fight with her. Years and years and years, if he had his way.

‘Come on, let me put you to bed, and then I’ve got to go shopping for things that are good for you, and in the morning we’ll talk.’

‘I’m not staying here,’ she said, looking panicked.

‘Don’t be silly. It’s really late, and I’m on call. I can’t take you home and the Tube’s about to shut. Please,
cara.
Don’t try and go. I’m only trying to help you.’

She hesitated, reluctant to give up too much independence but too tired in the end to argue, so she nodded. ‘OK, if you insist—but I’m not sleeping with you. I’ll sleep here.’

‘Don’t be silly. I’ve got two spare rooms, the beds are made. Why don’t you have a bath while I’m shopping?’

A bath. That sounded so tempting. She nodded. ‘OK.’

‘Not too hot, though. It’ll make you sick.’

She shut her eyes. ‘Luca,’ she said warningly, and he got up off the sofa so that the warmth of his body was removed from her thigh. And, stupidly, she missed it.

‘I’ll run the bath for you,’ he said, ignoring her warning, and disappeared upstairs. A few minutes later he came back down. ‘It’s ready for you now,’ he said, and then he held out a hand and eased her to her feet.

‘I’ve put you out a T-shirt in the bedroom at the top of the
stairs, and the bathroom’s just opposite. I won’t be long,’ he promised, and headed for the door, tossing his keys in the air and leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Or not quite alone.

Her hand slid down until it lay over the baby, curled protectively around her tiny, defenceless child, conceived in an unpremeditated and ill-considered moment of wild passion and now destined for the sort of childhood she herself had had.

Oh, well, it hadn’t done her any harm, and she’d always known she was loved, but she felt a flicker of fear for the future of her child. What if something should happen to her? What would happen to her baby then?

Exhausted with emotion, longing for the oblivion of sleep and promising herself that she’d phone her mother in the morning and talk to her, she went upstairs, undressed in the bedroom he’d got ready for her and went into the bathroom.

And stopped dead.

He’d run her a bath, she’d known that, but he’d also lit candles on the side, and put a few drops of lavender oil in it from the bottle on the window sill. She bent and tested the water with her fingers, and sighed. Tepid. Well, not quite, but certainly not a long, hot soak. But it would do—and he was quite right, a hot bath would only make her feel sick. And it smelled lovely.