‘He hurt his pride more than himself,’ Fredo said gruffly.
‘I know,’ Freya replied without removing her eyes from her son.
If she had done so she would have seen the way Cindy was staring at her, at the wild flow of her hair streaming down to her waist, then at the tall guy who’d come to stand right behind her. He was looking down at Nicky wrapped in the gorilla’s arms. The newcomer just had to be Enrico Ranieri, Cindy realised. And if those ink-black eyes were not Nicky’s eyes, then she was the dumb blonde some people took her for.
‘Sorry, boss,’ Fredo said huskily. ‘I could not reach him quickly enough to break his fall.’
That was the point when Freya became aware of Enrico, then she caught the look on Cindy’s face. Heat poured into her cheeks and she quickly fluttered her eyes back to Nicky, hands, arms trembling as she reached out for him and gently untangled the small boy. Nicky transferred his arms to her neck, little fingers curling in her hair as she stood up with him and, ignoring everyone else, walked over to another corner of the room where it was quiet, and sat down on a bench with him straddling her lap.
There was a calm, gentle dignity in the way she coaxed Nicky out of hiding to show her the damage. Enrico watched, his expression grave, his insides locked in some strange, aching place that made him feel so separate from all of this that he struggled to understand why he was here at all.
He knew nothing about children, even less about brightly coloured playrooms like this. He was used to smart, efficient offices and slick business environments, living spaces made up of neutral-coloured elegance and hushed sophistication, not bright primary colours, noise and mess.
He was even used to fluffy blue-eyed blondes staring at him, but this one did it in a way that made him want to run a finger under his shirt collar like a nervous boy.
She knew. She’d seen the likeness between father and son. He could sense it, even though he refused to let himself check that out by looking directly at her.
And over there was his two-year-old son, who did not know him from a stranger. Plus an ex-lover he did not want as a lover again, yet he had just sunk himself into her like a man with a fever and no damn finesse.
Look at her, he told himself. She was sitting there with that hair like fire all around her, pale and strained-looking. But smiling tenderly as she inspected the child’s face while he stroked his hands over that glorious hair and listened intently to what she was saying to him.
Hot nymph and earth mother in one package.
In the last short hour he had coolly put her out of work and hotly ravished her, but there she sat, looking as serene as an angel as she talked to his son.
His son! It was finally—finally—getting through to him. He had been repeating those words to himself since he’d first seen the boy in the foyer. But it was only now as he stood here in this alien place with yet another clutch of curious eyes fixed upon him that the full power of those words truly took shape.
He had to go over there, he knew that he did. He could not let the moment pass by. He had to make his first approach towards that small person as a father, with all of these strangers looking on. His fingers curled into fists at his sides and it was only as they did so that he felt something in his right palm.
He looked down, then just stared at the red toy Ferrari. It was the same model he’d used to drive around in when Freya was in his life.
In every which way he happened to stumble upon, she had been making connections between him and that little boy; consciously or subconsciously—it did not matter.
And, for some crazy reason, he realised this knowledge was causing a rare burn to attack the back of his throat. He swallowed, glanced at Fredo, who was looking back at him. This man, whom he had known since they were boys, could read him like an open book.
Just as he could also read Fredo, when those grave, knowing eyes gave a flick towards Freya and the child. Get over there, the look said.
He didn’t want to.
He kept a dozen multimillion-dollar companies with who knew how many employees functioning to his express bidding, yet the idea of approaching this small boy was completely defeating him.
What if Nicky was Luca’s son, and he’d spent the afternoon making a big fool of himself? Threats, blackmail and intimidation could make a woman in Freya’s situation say anything—lie, if she believed it was her only way out!
But she had not lied. She still had not declared anything, even when she’d finally accepted it was her only way out.
Because she was punishing him, or because she could not bring herself to lie about the father of her son?
He made himself walk on feet made of concrete, the sting in his throat dying down to be replaced by a dull throb in his gut. The fluffy blonde crèche manager was just standing there watching him like some wise, all-knowing, blue-eyed owl, but she did not know about Luca, did she?
His jaw took on a rigid clench.
Freya saw those muscles in his face tighten as he came towards them, and wondered heavily what was going through his head now.
Having second thoughts, Ranieri? she mocked silently. Wondering at last if you want to be an instant father to a two-year-old boy?
Or has Luca raised his head in your nasty thoughts again?
She lowered her eyes to Nicky before her face decided to show the bitterness she was feeling inside. Nicky would not understand her expression.