‘Not only will you miss out on being a social pariah,’ he continued. ‘But you’ll get a big diamond ring to wear, which should provide a little in the way of compensation.’ His mouth flattened into a grimace of a smile. ‘Judging by how much women seem to value diamonds.’
Flora stared at him, hating the cynical timbre of his voice. Did he really think the entire female sex was that shallow—or that he needed to placate her with expensive toys? It seemed a waste of time to tell him she thought diamonds were cold and unimaginative. They certainly weren’t forever. Not in this case.
But his words contained a strange kind of sense, despite the impersonal way he had delivered them. An engagement would guarantee her respectability, even if it wasn’t real. Because what was the alternative? People looking at her pityingly, or angrily—outraged that this little nobody of a secretary had trapped one of Italy’s most gorgeous bachelors? Could she really cope with that level of insecurity, on top of dealing with sharing an apartment with the irascible tycoon?
‘Okay, I’ll wear your ring,’ she said, as if she didn’t really care one way or another.
CHAPTER TEN
‘I’VE MADE ANappointment for you to see the doctor today,’ Vito announced one morning, by way of a greeting. ‘Can you be ready for ten?’
‘Today?’ Flora looked up from thecornetto marmellatoshe was tucking into, wiping her greasy fingers on the pristine linen napkin. Since she’d arrived in Milan, her nausea had completely deserted her and once again she was doing justice to her favourite meal of the day—though a rather elevated version of what she was used to. Fresh fruit, delicious juices and pastries which were baked right here in Vito’s apartment and which appeared like magic whenever she sat down for breakfast. It felt like a long way from Ealing.
This morning, she had been eating alone in the splendour of Vito’s high-ceilinged dining room, until the tycoon’s unexpected arrival had shattered her solitude—and her equilibrium. She placed the napkin down on the table, surprised—yet again—by the flash of fire against her flesh. The enormous diamond engagement ring—which had arrived by courier yesterday morning—sparkled like a burst of rainbow. But it was as heavy as a rock and she was still trying to get used to the weight as it kept spinning around her finger.
‘Why not today?’ he drawled, in answer to her question.
‘I saw a doctor just before I left England,’ she objected. ‘AndI had a scan. I don’t need another one.’
‘You’re in Italy now,’ he asserted firmly. ‘And I want you to see an Italian doctor. The best in the city, I’m assured. He can see you at eleven and one of my assistants will accompany you.’
Frustratedly, Flora put the remains of her cornetto down. Her appetite had suddenly fled and not simply because Vito had marched in here being his usual bossy self. The sight of him would tempt a saint and she wasn’t feeling particularly saintlike at the moment, because—along with her more conventional appetite—had come a burst of sexual hunger which was now making itself very evident in the urgent prickle of her breasts. How annoying that he still had that effect on her. Or that her pregnancy hadn’t dampened down her desire for him.
Clad in his trademark suit, his thick hair still damp from the shower, it was hard for Flora not to ogle him. He had (presumably) been up at his usual ungodly hour, because Mafalda had explained what his morning routine involved. A vigorous session in his gym was followed by a half an hour’s swim in the rectangular pool set in the verdant roof terrace. An actual swimming pool which overlooked the actual Duomo because that was the kind of preposterously over-the-top detail which creative architects provided for their impossibly wealthy clients, apparently. After that, he would disappear—either to his study on the ground floor—but more often to his company headquarters near the Via Vincenzo Monti. Signor Monticello was, Mafalda had informed her, astacanovista—which was the same as the English wordworkaholic.
It was, Flora acknowledged glumly—one of the few Italian words she could pronounce perfectly. Perhaps she needed to learn the ones forindifferent, ordistant—which could also be applied to Vito Monticello with equal accuracy, because hadn’t he been going out of his way to avoid being alone with her for any length of time? Why else would he have gone on ‘urgent’ business to Bologna and Roma and Capri, not arriving back home until long after Flora had crawled into her comfortable bed.
She had been here for four days and done nothing but eat and sleep, but deep down she’d known that she’d needed the rest. It had been recuperative to wake up late and have Mafalda fuss around her like a mother hen, as she provided the most delicious breakfast. Afterwards she would find a book in Vito’s vast library and take it onto one of the terraces to enjoy in the spring sunshine. She was working up to venturing out on her own, but all in good time. And at least she no longer resembled the haunted-looking woman who had arrived here. She just hadn’t realised how exhausted she had been.
‘One of yourassistants?’ she echoed incredulously, dragging her attention away from the sensual curve of his lips and focusing on his preposterous suggestion instead. ‘Is planning on coming to the doctor with me?’
‘Her name is Chiara.’
‘Are you having a laugh?’ Flora glared at him. ‘I’m not going to see the doctor with one of your assistants!’
‘She’s about your age,’ he said reasonably. ‘And she’s great fun. I think you’ll like her.’
But Flora wasn’t in the mood to be reasoned with, nor to willingly accept Vito’s glowing praise of another woman. ‘Whether or not I like her is irrelevant. She’s not the right person to be accompanying me.’ She drew in a deep breath and suddenly she knew she wasn’t just going to sit back and accept his blatant evasion. ‘It should be you.’
Six feet and two inches of muscle-packed masculinity stilled as a pair of icy-blue eyes regarded her incredulously. ‘Me?’
‘Why do you say it as though none of this has anything to do with you?’ she demanded exasperatedly. ‘You’re the daddy, aren’t you? You were the only man present at conception.’
‘That’s not funny, Flora,’ he warned dangerously.
‘Oh, I know you’ve been doing your best to keep me out of sight and mind, like some brood mare,’ she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘But don’t you want to be involved in some way, Vito?’
‘No.’
But despite the forbidding tone of his response, Flora refused to be deterred. ‘They’re bound to give me a scan. Aren’t you interested—even if it’s from a purely intellectual point of view—to see what your son or daughter looks like on a sonar screen?’
‘Not particularly,’ he snapped, but only after a tell-tale moment of hesitation.
‘I don’t believe you,’ she said softly. ‘And I think you’d be crazy to miss out on this opportunity, even if you never want to repeat it.’
She could see a muscle working at his temple before he finally threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. ‘Oh, very well. Have it your own way. I’ll come, if you insist!’ he growled, as he headed for the door. ‘Especially if it means I won’t have to endure this kind of tirade before I’ve even had a cup of coffee. Be ready for ten,’ he said icily, calling for Mafalda to bring him some coffee to his office.
After slamming his way out of the dining room, Vito stormed upstairs to his office, which enjoyed commanding views of the Italian city. But for once his morning was exceedingly unproductive. Scarcely bothering to engage with any of the emails which had flooded into his inbox overnight and refusing all but the most vital phone calls, all he could think about was Flora and her feisty determination to involve him in her pregnancy.
