The Italian's Christmas Secret

‘Matteo?’ she said.

Matteo didn’t answer. Not then. He wasn’t sure he trusted himself to speak because his thoughts were in such disarray. He looked down at the baby expecting to feel the instant bolt of love people talked about when they first set eyes on their own flesh and blood, but there was nothing. He stared down at the dark fringe of eyelashes which curved on the infant’s olive-hued cheeks and the shock of black hair. Tiny hands were curled into two tiny fists and he found himself leaning forward to count all the fingers, nodding his head with satisfaction as he registered each one. He felt as if he were observing himself and his reaction from a distance and realised it was possession he felt, not love. The sense that this was someone who belonged to him in a way that nobody ever had before.

His son.

He swallowed.

His son.

He waited for a moment before turning to Keira and he saw her dark blue eyes widen, as if she’d read something in his face she would prefer not to have seen.

‘So you played God with all our futures,’ he observed softly. ‘By keeping him from me.’

Her gaze became laced with defiance.

‘You paid me for sex.’

‘I did not pay you for sex,’ he gritted out. ‘I explained my motivation in my note. You spoke of a luxury you weren’t used to and I thought I would make it possible. Was that so very wrong?’

‘You know very well it was!’ she burst out. ‘Because offering me cash was insulting. Any man would know that.’

‘Was that why you tried to sell your story to the journalist, because you felt “insulted”?’

‘I did not sell my story to anyone,’ she shot back. ‘Can’t you imagine what it was like? I’d had sex for the first time and woke to find you gone, leaving that wretched pile of money. I walked into a charity shop to get rid of it because it felt...well, it felt tainted, if you must know.’

He grew very still. ‘You gave it away?’

‘Yes, I gave it away. To a worthy cause—to children living in care. Not realising I was pregnant at the time and could have used the money myself. The journalist just happened to be in the shop and overheard—and naturally she was interested. She bought me a drink and I hadn’t eaten anything all day and...’ She shrugged. ‘I guess I told her more than I meant to.’

Matteo’s eyes narrowed. If her story was true it meant she hadn’t tried to grab some seedy publicity from their brief liaison. If it was true. Yet even if it was—did it really change anything? He was here only because her back was up against the wall and she had nowhere else to turn. His gaze swept over the too-tight jeans and baggy jumper. And this was the mother of his child, he thought, his lips curving with distaste.

He opened his mouth to speak but Santino chose that moment to start to whimper and Keira bent over the crib to scoop him up, whispering her lips against his hair and rocking him in her arms until he had grown quiet again. She looked over his head, straight into Matteo’s eyes. ‘Would you...would you like to hold him?’

Matteo went very still. He knew he should want that, but although he thought it, he still couldn’t feel it. There was nothing but an icy lump where his heart should have been and as he looked at his son he couldn’t shift that strange air of detachment.

His lack of emotional empathy had never mattered to him before—only his frustrated lovers had complained about it and that had never been reason enough to change, or even want to change. But now he felt like someone on a beach who had inadvertently stepped onto quicksand. As if matters were spinning beyond his control.

And he needed to assert control, just as he always did.

Of course he would hold his son when he’d got his head round the fact that he actually had a son. But it would be in conditions favourable to them both—not in some tiny bedroom of a strange house while Keira stood studying him with those big blue eyes.

‘Not now,’ he said abruptly. ‘There isn’t time. You need to pack your things while I call ahead and prepare for your arrival in Italy.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me. He isn’t staying here. And since a child needs a mother, then I guess you will have to come, too.’

‘What are you talking about?’ She rocked the child against her breast. ‘I know it’s not perfect here but I can’t just walk out without making any plans. We can’t just go to Italy.’

‘You can’t put out a call for help and then ignore help when it comes. You telephoned me and now you must accept the consequences,’ he added grimly. ‘You’ve already implied that the atmosphere here is intolerable so I’m off

ering you an alternative. The only sensible alternative.’ He pulled a mobile phone from the pocket of his cashmere overcoat and began to scroll down the numbers. ‘For a start, you need a nursery nurse to help you.’

‘I don’t need a nurse,’ she contradicted fiercely. ‘Women like me don’t have nurses. They look after their babies themselves.’

‘Have you looked in the mirror recently?’

It was an underhand blow to someone who was already feeling acutely sensitive and once again Keira flushed. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to slap on a whole load of make-up and put on a party dress!’