Erica, who specialised in high-risk pregnancies, saw no reason for intervention. It was only the patients who went into premature labour for no apparent reason that she tended to treat more aggressively in subsequent pregnancies, and her faith that Peyton would go to full term was hugely bolstering for Peyton.
And even though it was true that she would never be entirely relaxed, both her and Valentino had confidence in Erica and were happy with her care and her treatment plan. And each week as their little boy grew and did all the right things and there were no signs of trouble, Peyton was more and more encouraged.
The day she turned twenty-two weeks, Peyton was joined by Valentino in the scrub room as she was nearing the end of her three-minute hand wash. It was their first case of the day.
‘So.’ Valentino wet his arms and applied the liquid surgical scrub. ‘Twenty-two weeks today.’
Peyton could see the smile in his eyes and knew his dimples would be dazzling beneath his mask. Still, they’d agreed not to talk about it at work. ‘Not here,’ she murmured.
Valentino chuckled. ‘I’m just making conversation.’
Peyton rolled her eyes at him. ‘It’s a nice day, is conversation. We need more rain, is conversation.’
He shrugged, his arms soaped to his elbows. ‘Blame it on my command of the English language. Subtleties are harder to pick up on.’
Peyton laughed. Valentino spoke perfect English with almost no accent. He certainly understood subtleties and nuance just fine. ‘Poor Valentino.’
As she ran her hands under the water for one last rinse, the baby kicked her hard and high as if he objected to Peyton teasing his father. She gasped and leaned over a little, the motion of her hands freezing as her breath was momentarily stolen.
Valentino frowned, his hands also ceasing their activity. ‘Are you all right?’
Peyton nodded, her hands still up and elevated above the sink as the baby continued to tap-dance in her womb. ‘I think this baby’s going to play soccer for Italy.’
Grinning, Valentino said, ‘He kicked?’
‘Oh, yeah. I think he’s awake and ready to party.’
Before she could blink, Valentino had abandoned his scrub and reached for her belly, soapy hands and all.
‘Valentino!’ Peyton gasped as he made wet imprints on her blue scrubs. How was she going to explain that when she walked into the OR? ‘They’re expecting us inside.’
Ignoring her, he demanded, ‘Where?’
His hands roved over the small bump her baggy scrubs had been easily able to hide thus far, obviously waiting for the tell-tale movement he never seemed to tire of feeling. ‘These clothes are in the way,’ he muttered and, before she knew it, his soapy hands pushed under the hem of the scrub top, touching her bare belly.
She gasped again, quieter this time, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she concentrated on keeping her arms sterile and remaining upright while his warm, slippery, depressingly asexual touch slid all over, spreading sticky tentacles of lust directlylower.
He’d felt her belly before. But never likedthis.Always through her clothes. Not that there was anything sexual about his touch, it was just that her nipples hadn’t gotten the memo. They were hard and rubbed almost painfully against the fabric of her bra.
‘Valentino…’ Even to her own ears it sounded husky and aching. Not that he seemed to be listening, intent on awaiting the baby’s next move.
She was about to give him the whole this-is-entirely-inappropriate spiel but then the baby kicked again, another hard jab, right beneath Valentino’s hand, and he looked up at her with joy in his eyes, and she forgot about what was appropriate.
He turned a few more loops for his father’s benefit, Peyton watching Valentino’s downcast head, his dark hair just visible beneath the semi-transparent fabric of his theatre hat.
‘This is the best feeling in the world,’ Valentino said, glancing at her for confirmation.
Peyton smiled and nodded. It was. It really was. But as always it was fleeting and after a torturous minute of his hands smoothing all over the ripe swell of her belly with no action, Peyton called it. ‘I think the show’s over,’ she murmured, her upright arms pretty much drip-dried, other parts of her much wetter.
He glanced at her, his hands still splayed over her flesh, and smiled. She smiled back, trying not to get lost in his dark eyes or the glorious sensation of his fingers touching her intimately, lighting sparks in their wake. But it feltsodamn good, so damnhot, pouring over her like warm honey, pooling between her legs.
The fact they were at work? That the taps were still running and people were waiting for them to commence the day’s list? It all faded into insignificance as the tempo of Peyton’s pulse beat through her head and she swayed a little, everything below the point of his hands turning liquid, the urgent thrum of desire the only thing keeping her upright.
He saw it too; she could see the flicker of recognition in his eyes, feel it in the slight indentation of his fingertips as they tightened over her bump, before he drew in a ragged breath and took a step back, his hands sliding from her belly.
‘Sorry,’ he murmured.
Peyton wobbled as his hands left her body and she ground her clogged feet into the floor to stop herself from pitching forward.
