It wasn’t an ear-piercing cry, but more fretful and prolonged. Giovanni rolled onto his back, smashing his pillow behind his head, and listened, eyes closed, to the wail coming from down the hall, realizing that he’d heard the crying even in his sleep and had incorporated the sound in his dream.
It hadn’t been a pleasant dream, either. He’d been talking with Antonio and they’d argued, and he didn’t remember what they were arguing about but it was tense, and Antonio turned around to face him, and as he turned the baby was there in his arms. And then the baby was crying, and Antonio blamed him for upsetting Michael, and Giovanni answered that he’d done nothing and that’s when he woke up.
And heard the baby crying down the hall in his room.
Was no one going to the baby? Could Rachel not hear him? Or had something happened to Rachel?
Giovanni flipped the covers back and climbed from the bed, throwing his robe on over his pajama bottoms. The pale green room was dimly lit, illuminated only by a small night-light. In the soft yellow glow he could see Rachel holding Michael and patting his back, crooning in his ear but the baby cried on, miserable.
She was facing the oil landscape on the wall, gently jiggling the baby as she studied the scene, unaware that she was being watched. She really was good with Michael, he thought, very much the mother the baby needed.
They would both stay here with him, he decided. It was logical. It made sense. Michael needed Rachel, and Giovanni wanted both Michael and Rachel…
“Is this normal?” he asked, approaching them.
She startled, turning quickly to face him. “He’s teething. It makes him fretful. But he’s not settling down and he feels warm to me. He might be coming down with something, which would explain why he’s been not quite himself the past few days.”
“He’s running a fever?”
“I think so.”
“You haven’t checked?”
She gave him a look he couldn’t decipher. “I didn’t bring a thermometer with me, but I’ll go buy one in the morning. You must have a pharmacy nearby, and if he’s feverish, I’ll take him to the doctor and have him checked out, just in case.” She pressed her lips to the top of the baby’s head. “Sorry to have disturbed you but we’re fine.”
She turned her back on him as she walked away, pacing back across the room, crooning in the fretful baby’s ear. In her pink robe, with her hair loose over her shoulders, she was small and delicate and very, very appealing.
His body hardened. He wanted her—in his bed, and out of bed. But she was wary of him, almost skittish. “Do you want me to take a turn with him?” he offered. “Could you use a break?”
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that.”
“Because I am fine.”
“Even when you’re desperate, you’re fine?”
She laughed softly. “I try very hard not to be hysterical. I don’t enjoy the state of desperation.”
Rachel blinked when Giovanni laughed, the sound low and husky. It was the first time she’d heard him laugh without mockery, and there was something in his voice, something in his amusement that thrilled her, making her flush with pleasure, her skin tingling, her body responding. It took so little for him to wake her up, make her come alive.
“You have a sense of humor,” he said.
“Not according to my mother.” But her lips curved wryly. “She thought I needed a sense of humor, at least when it came to Juliet.”
“How so?”
“I think she expected me to enjoy Juliet’s adventures and triumphs more. Instead I was me. Difficult, prickly porcupine Rachel.” She tried to smile again, but it felt tight and uncomfortable. “And to be fair, I wasn’t amused by Juliet. She was a lot of work and demanded a lot of Mother’s time. Or maybe Mother just preferred to focus on Juliet. Juliet was the beautiful daughter after all, and charming and admired by many. It gave my mother great pleasure to show her off.”
“Was your mother beautiful?”
“No. She looked like me.”
“You are beautiful.”
Rachel sputtered. “Hardly. I’m fairly utilitarian, but that’s okay. I’ve had twenty-eight years to come to terms with my attractiveness, or lack of—”
“Are you being serious?”
“Yes, and I don’t want compliments. I don’t need them. But I have a mirror, and a phone. I’m on social media. I know what beautiful is, and I know what society likes—”
“Society!” he scoffed. “And social media? You allow such things to influence you?”
“I know what’s beautiful. Classical features. High cheekbones. Full, plumped lips. Flawless skin. I don’t have any of that. My nose is too long, my mouth is too wide, my jaw is too strong, my eyes are a little too close—” She flushed, appalled that she’d said so much.