The Italian's Love-Child

Luca had always held his nephew with a kind of confident ease, but this felt completely different. He bent down and Eve carefully deposited the precious bundle into his arms.

She watched the two of them, transfixed by the sight of the strong, powerful man held in thrall to the tiny baby.

Luca looked down and his son opened his eyes and stared up at him, and in that moment his heart and his soul connected. ‘I will die for him,’ he said fiercely, hardly aware that he had spoken aloud. ‘My little Oliviero Patricio.’

Eve lay back on the pillows, and the enormity of what had happened slammed home to her in a way it hadn’t before. She had been protected by the slight sense of unreality which pregnancy gave you, which made you sometimes feel you weren’t part of the outside world.

Hadn’t part of her always thought that if it didn’t work out, they would quietly divorce and she could slip back to England? But now she knew that would never happen. The possessive pride which had softened Luca’s hard, handsome face told her that. He would die for him, he had said, and he would fight for him, too. She knew that. Whichever way she looked at it—as a gilded prison, or a marriage of convenience—she had better make the best of it, because she was here now for the duration.

She closed her eyes. She was weary now.

They took Oliviero home six days later, to a flat where Luca had clearly been busy. There were flowers everywhere—roses and lilies and tulips—colourful and scented, and more than a little overwhelming. The yellow nursery was filled with balloons, and there was a pile of cards, waiting, and gifts wrapped exquisitely in blue and silver and blue and gold. It looked as if a Hollywood film star were about to pay a visit and Eve found it all a little overwhelming.

And the lift journey up to the penthouse only served to remind her that this was essentially a bachelor’s flat. She thought of the pristine white walls and the frosted glass and shuddered as her mind tried to make the connection with a rampaging toddler.

Luca carried the baby in and placed the carry-cot on the coffee-table, smiling at him tenderly before looking up at Eve.

‘He sleeps well,’ he observed softly. ‘You feed him well, Eve.’

Stupidly, she found herself blushing and turned away. It seemed such an intimate thing for him to say, and yet what could be more intimate than the fact he had witnessed the birth? He had seen her at her most naked and vulnerable, stripped and defenceless and in a way that was scary.

Luca noted the way she wouldn’t look at him, and his eyes narrowed. So be it. If distance was what she wanted, then distance was what she would get.

‘Are you hungry?’ he questioned.

Her instinct was to say no, but she knew she had to eat. She nodded. ‘I think I might have a bath first.’

‘That’s fine,’ he said coolly. ‘Sit down, and I’ll run one for you.’

She had offended him and she didn’t know why. ‘No, honestly—’

‘Eve, sit down,’ he repeated, rather grimly. ‘You have been through a lot.’

Rather gingerly, she sat down, gazing at Oliviero as he lay sleeping so peacefully, listening to the sound of water rushing into the bath.

‘It’s ready.’

She looked up. Luca was standing there, silhouetted by the door, looking dark and edgy and somehow formidable. It would have been strange fitting into these new roles of mother and father whatever the circumstances, but the distance between them only seemed to make them stranger. A distance she didn’t quite know how, or if, she could ever breach.

Slowly, she got to her feet. Still at that new-mother-scared stage of not wanting to let him out of her sight, she fixed him with an anxious look. ‘You’ll keep an eye on Oliviero?’

His eyes hardened. What did she think he was going to do? Take a stroll around the piazza and leave him? ‘Sure,’ he said shortly.

She couldn’t remember ever seeing him quite so keyed up. Maybe it was the birth of a baby. It was a stressful time for a man, too—she mustn’t forget that.

But the bath made her feel a million times better and so did the hair-wash. Through the soapy and bubbly water she looked down at her stomach, which seemed amazingly flat. Of course, it wasn’t flat at all compared to its normal state, but it wasn’t too bad, considering. The midwife had told her that she was going to be one of those lucky few who would be back in her jeans within the month, and Eve hoped so.

She had eaten healthily and carefully throughout the pregnancy and she didn’t want to let herself go. For her sake,

but also because of the sophisticated and sylph-like women in Luca’s circle of friends.

And for Luca’s sake? prompted a little voice in her head. Don’t you want t keep your body looking good for him? She let the water out and stepped out of the bath, the droplets drying on her skin.

She stared at her face in the mirror. What happened now? Would Luca attempt to make her his wife in the most fundamental way now that there was no baby inside her? Not tonight, that was for sure—but in the days to come?

She pulled on some velvet trousers and hid their elasticated waist with a long, silky shirt in a shade of deep green which brought out the natural green in her eyes. She blasted her hair with the dryer and fussed around with it and stood back from the mirror, quite pleased with her reflection.

And when she came out from the bathroom it was to see that Luca had set the table and she blinked in surprise to see that it was lit by candlelight. There was salad and pasta and a dish of figs and white peaches.