The Italian's Christmas Child

Holly pulled over Angelo’s toy box and extracted a red plastic truck that was a favourite. ‘He likes this… Coffee?’ she asked.

‘Black, no sugar,’ Vito murmured flatly, recognising that getting to know his son and learning how to play with him appeared to be even more challenging than he had feared.

Holly made coffee, acknowledging that she was simply delighted that Vito had had enough interest to come and meet Angelo. She could see how awkward he felt with their child and knew that if she didn’t make Vito feel more comfortable he might not want to make another visit. Not that he had prepared very well for this first visit, she thought ruefully, wondering what he had thought a baby would do with a miniature brick action figure festooned in even tinier weapons.

When she returned with the coffee, Angelo was sucking on his little red truck and refusing to share the toy with his father. Holly got down on her knees beside them and, with his mother on hand, her son relaxed his grip on the truck and handed it to Vito. For an instant he looked as though he had no idea what to do with the toy and then some childhood memory of his own must have prompted him because he ran the toy across the rug making vroom-vroom noises and Angelo gave a little-boy shout of appreciation.

A little of Vito’s tension ebbed in receipt of that favourable response. It shook him to appreciate that he had actually craved that first welcoming smile from his son. He wanted the little boy to recognise him as his father, he wanted him to like him and love him, but it was intimidating to appreciate that he hadn’t the faintest idea how to go about achieving those things.

Holly parted her lips to say, ‘When you first came in you said there was something that you needed to explain to me…?’

Vito’s lean, strong profile clenched and he sprang upright. ‘Yes. That sex-party scandal that made headlines,’ he framed with palpable distaste. ‘That wasn’t me, it was my father, Ciccio.’

As she too stood up, Holly’s mouth dropped open in shock. ‘Your…father?’

‘I didn’t deny my involvement because I was trying to protect my mother from the humiliation of having her husband’s habits exposed so publicly,’ Vito explained grimly.

Holly dropped down on the edge of the sofa behind her. ‘Oh, my goodness.’

‘My mother could confirm the truth if you require further proof that I wasn’t involved. What did happen that night was that I received a phone call in the early hours of the morning telling me that my father had fallen ill and needed urgent medical attention,’ Vito told her, his delivery curt.

‘The person calling refused to identify herself, and that should’ve been my warning. My mother was in Paris and I had to take charge. I wondered why my father had taken ill at an apartment owned by the bank but the minute I walked into it I could see what I was dealing with, and that I had been contacted like a clean-up crew in the hope of keeping the wild party under the radar.’

Holly nodded slowly, not really knowing what to say.

‘My father had had a heart attack in the company of hookers and drugs,’ Vito volunteered grimly. ‘I had him collected by a private ambulance from the rear entrance and, having instructed a trusted aide to dispose of all evidence of the party, I intended to join my father at a clinic. Unfortunately the press were waiting outside when I left and I was mobbed. One of the hookers then sold her story, choosing to name me rather than my father even though I had never met her in my life. She probably lied because there was more of a story in my downfall than in that of a middle-aged married man with a taste for sleaze.’

‘So you took the blame for your parents’ sake?’ Holly whispered in wonderment.

‘My mother’s sake,’ Vito emphasised drily. ‘But my mother worked out the truth for herself and she is currently divorcing my father. She looked after him until he had regained his health and then told him that she wanted a separation.’

‘And how do you feel about that? I mean, their divorce means that your sacrifice was in vain.’

‘I’m relieved that they’ve split up. I don’t like my father very much…well, not at all, really,’ Vito admitted, his wide sensual mouth twisting. ‘He’s a greedy, dishonest man and my mother will have a better life without him.’

Utterly amazed by that flood of unrestrained candour from a male as reserved as Vito, Holly continued to scrutinise him with inquisitive blue eyes. ‘Why are you telling me all t

his now?’

‘You’re family now in all but name,’ Vito told her wryly. ‘And I couldn’t possibly allow you to continue to believe that I am not a fit person to be around my son.’

Holly fully understood that motivation and muttered, ‘I’m sorry I misjudged you. I was naive to believe everything I read on the internet about you. I told you before that I don’t know who my father is,’ Holly admitted, wrinkling her nose. ‘My mother gave me several different stories and I challenged her when I was sixteen to tell me the truth but she still wouldn’t answer me. I honestly don’t think she knows either. In those days she was fairly promiscuous. I’ve had no contact with her since then.’

‘You’ve never had a father…much like me. Ciccio took no interest in me when I was a child and when I was an adult he only approached me if he wanted something,’ he revealed, settling down with striking grace of movement into an armchair. ‘My grandfather was my father figure but he was seventy when I was born and he had a Victorian outlook on childcare and education. It was far from ideal.’

Holly was fascinated by what she was learning about Vito’s background, although she really wasn’t sure why he was choosing to tell her so much. ‘I think very few people have an ideal childhood,’ she said ruefully.

‘But wouldn’t it be wonderful to give Angelo that ideal?’ Vito pressed, black velvet lashes lifting on glittering gold as he studied her.

Her heart raced and her mouth ran dry. Hurriedly she dropped her gaze from his, only for her attention to fall to the tight inner seam of his jeans stretched along a powerful muscular thigh. Guilty heat surged through her and she shifted uneasily. ‘And how could we give Angelo an ideal childhood?’ she asked abstractedly.

‘By getting married and giving our son a conventional start in life,’ Vito spelt out with measured assurance. ‘I’m not only here to meet Angelo, Holly…I’m here to ask you to be my wife.’

Disbelief roared through Holly. She blinked rapidly, doubting the evidence of her ears. He was proposing? He was actually proposing marriage to her because she had had his child?

Holly loosed an uneasy laugh and Vito frowned, because that was hardly the response he had envisaged. ‘I think your grandfather’s Victorian outlook is showing, Vito. We don’t need to get married to give Angelo a decent upbringing.’

‘How else can I be a proper father when I live in a different country?’ Vito demanded with harsh bite. ‘I really don’t want to be only an occasional visitor in my son’s life or the home he visits for a few weeks in summer when he’s off school. That is not enough for me.’