The Italian's Christmas Child

‘My word,’ Pixie groaned, performing her own search on her tablet. ‘Now I know why he gave you a fake name and was hiding out on Dartmoor. He was involved in some drugs-and-sex orgy. Hold on while I get this document translated into English.’

‘Drugs and sex?’ Holly repeated sickly. ‘Vito? It can’t be the same man!’

But it was. The photos proved that he was her Vito, not some strange lookalike character. Of course, he had never been hers even to begin with, Holly reminded herself doggedly. And it was two in the morning before the two women finished digging up unwelcome facts about Vito, the billionaire banker ditched by his fabulously beautiful blonde fiancée only days before Holly had met him.

‘Of course, you don’t need to concern yourself with any of that nonsense,’ Pixie told her ruefully. ‘All you want from him now is child support and he seems to be wealthy enough that I shouldn’t think that that will be a big deal.’

Holly lay sleepless in her bed, tossing and turning and at the mercy of her emotions. Vito had lied to her by deliberately giving her a false name. He too had been on the rebound but he hadn’t mentioned that either. How would he react when she told him that he was a father? And did she really want to expose her infant son to a drug-abusing, womanising father? The answer to that was a very firm no. No amount of money could make a parent who was a bad influence a good idea.

But that really wasn’t for her to decide, she reasoned over breakfast while she spooned baby rice into Angelo, who had a very healthy appetite. She studied her son with his coal-black curls and sparkling brown eyes. He was a happy baby, who liked to laugh and play, and he was very affectionate. Vito had been much more reserved, slow to smile and only demonstrative in bed. Holly winced at that unwelcome recollection. Regardless, Vito had a right to know that he was a father and in the same way she had a right to his financial help. She had to stop considering their situation from the personal angle because that only muddied the waters and upset her.

Angelo was the main issue. Everything came back to her son. Set against Angelo’s needs, her personal feelings had no relevance. She had to be practical for his benefit and concentrate on what he needed. And the truth was that financially she was really struggling to survive and her baby was having to do without all the extras that he might have enjoyed. That was wrong. Her son didn’t deserve to suffer because she had made a bad choice.

On the other hand, if Vito truly was the sort of guy who got involved in sex-and-drug orgies, he wasn’t at all the male she had believed him to be. How could she have been so wrong about a man? She had honestly believed that Vito was a decent guy.

Even so, he was still Angelo’s father and that was important. She was very much aware of just how much she had longed to know who her own father was. There was no way she could subject Angelo to living in the same ignorance. Nor could she somehow magically estimate whether Vito would be a good or bad influence on his son. The bottom line was that Angelo had the right to know who his father was so that he did not grow up with the same uncertainty that Holly had been forced to live with.

Holly acknowledged the hurt she had felt when Vito failed to make use of her phone number and contact her. Naturally her pride had been wounded and she had been disappointed. No woman wanted to feel that forgettable, but Angelo’s birth had cast a totally different light on her situation. She had to forget her resentment and hurt and move on while placing her son’s needs first. That would be a tall order but she believed that she loved her son enough to do it. She had to face Vito in the flesh and tell him that he was a father.

*

One week later, Holly handed over her package to the receptionist on the top floor of the Zaffari Bank in London. ‘It’s for Mr Zaffari. I would like to see him.’

The elegant receptionist set the small parcel down on the desktop and reached for something out of view. ‘Mr Zaffari’s appointments are fully booked weeks in advance, Miss…er…?’

‘Cleaver. I believe he will want to see me,’ Holly completed quietly while she wondered if that could possibly be true. ‘I’ll just wait over there until he’s free.’

‘There’s really no point in you waiting,’ the receptionist declared curtly, rising from her chair as two security guards approached. ‘Mr Zaffari doesn’t see anyone without a prior appointment.’

Stubbornly ignoring that assurance, Holly walked over to the waiting area and sat down, tugging her stretchy skirt down over her thighs. It had taken massive organisation for Holly to make a day trip to London but she knew that if she wanted to confront Vito she had to take advantage of his current presence in the UK. Her internet snooping had revealed that he was giving a speech at some fancy banking dinner that very evening and was therefore highly likely to be at the Zaffari Bank HQ throughout the day. Pixie had taken a day off to look after Angelo, and the children Holly usually minded were with their grandparents instead.

Holly had made a very early start to her day and had been appalled by the price of the train fare. Pixie had urged her to dress up to see Vito but, beyond abandoning her usual jeans and putting on a skirt with the knee boots Pixie had given her for Christmas, Holly had made no special effort. Why? As she continually reminded herself, this wasn’t a personal visit and she wasn’t trying to impress Vito. She was here to tell him about Angelo and that was all. Her restive fingers fiddled with the zip on her boots while she watched the two security guards carrying off her parcel with the absurdly cautious air of men who feared they could be carrying a bomb. Did she look like a terrorist? Like some kind of a madwoman?

Vito was in a board meeting and when his PA entered and slid a small package in front of him, which had already been unwrapped, he frowned in incomprehension, but when he pulled back the paper and saw the Santa hat and the small sprig of holly, he simply froze and gave his PA a shaken nod of immediate acceptance. Interrupting the proceedings to voice his apologies, he stood up, his cool dark eyes veiled.

What the hell was Holly doing here at the bank? Why now? And how had she tracked him down?

Hearing about that night, Apollo had scoffed. With all your options you settled for a stranger? Are you crazy? You’re one of the most eligible bachelors in the world and you picked up some random woman? A waitress? he had scoffed in a tone of posh disbelief.

In fact, Apollo’s comments had annoyed Vito so much that he had fiercely regretted confiding in his friend. He had told himself that it was for the best that Holly had walked away without fanfare, freeing them both from the threat of an awkward parting. He had also reminded himself that attempting to repeat a highly enjoyable experience invariably led to disappointment. With the information he had had he could have traced her but he had resisted the urge with every atom of discipline he possessed. Self-control was hugely important to Vito and Holly had obliterated his self-control. He remembered that he had acted oddly with her and that memory made him uncomfortable. Even so he still hadn’t forgotten her. In fact he was eager to see her because his memories of her had lingered to the extent that he had become disturbingly indifferent to other women and more particular than ever in his c

hoices. He wanted to see Holly in full daylight, shorn of the schmaltzy sparkle of the festive season. He was suddenly convinced that such a disillusionment would miraculously knock him back to normality.

But why the hell would Holly be seeking him out now so long after the event? And in person rather than more tactfully by phone? And how had she linked him to the Zaffari Bank? Black brows lowering over cold dark eyes suddenly glittering with suspicion, Vito strode back into his office to await his visitor without an appointment.

Holly smiled and stood up when the receptionist approached her. In spite of her apprehension, Vito had remembered her and she was relieved. The Santa hat had been designed to jog his memory. After all, a male who indulged in sex parties might well not recall one night with an ordinary woman from over a year earlier. When it came to a question of morals he was a total scumbag, Holly reminded herself doggedly while walking down the corridor after another woman—even more thin and elegant—had asked her to follow her. She wondered why the other people working there seemed to be peering out of their offices in her direction and staring.

Suddenly she wondered what she was doing. Did she really want a man of Vito’s dissolute proclivities in her life and Angelo’s? Common sense warned her not to make snap judgements and to give Vito a chance for Angelo’s sake. Her son would want to know who his dad was. Hadn’t she wondered all her life who had fathered her? Hadn’t that made her insecure? Made her feel less of a person than others because she didn’t know that most basic fact about herself? No, Angelo deserved access to the truth of his parentage right from the start and that was what Holly would ensure her son had, no matter how unpleasant seeing Vito again proved to be.

Vito was a total scumbag, Holly reminded herself afresh while wondering why she was experiencing the strangest sense of…elation. Why was her heart pounding and her adrenaline buzzing? Her guide opened a door and stood back for her to enter. My goodness, he had a big office, typical scumbag office, she rephrased mentally. She would not be impressed; she refused to be impressed. And then Vito strode in through a side door and she was paralysed to the carpet because he simply looked so drop-dead amazing that she could not believe that she had ever slept with him and that he was the father of her child.

Her mouth ran dry. She felt dizzy. Butterflies danced in her tummy as she focused on those lean, darkly handsome features, and she knew that Pixie would have kicked her hard. Total scumbag, she told herself, but her brain would not engage with that fact and was much more interested in opening a back catalogue on Vito’s sheer perfection. To look at—perfect to look at, she rephrased doggedly, striving to get back to the scumbag awareness. Drugs…sex with hookers, she fired at herself in desperation.

‘The hat and the holly were an original calling card,’ Vito drawled, the dark, deep accent tautening every muscle in her already tense body. ‘But I did remember your name. I didn’t need the prompt.’

Holly turned the red-hot colour of a tomato because she hadn’t expected him to grasp the reasoning behind her introduction that easily.

‘It would have been much easier to phone me,’ Vito assured her silkily.