The Price Of A Dangerous Passion

“That sounds dreadful. You know that, don’t you? Every word you say just sounds dreadful.”

“Dreadful, how? It’s stability. It’s honorable—”

“Devoid of passion, energy, excitement—”

“And yet, you yourself seem to avoid those very things,” he interrupted.

She drew back. “What?”

“You deliberately avoid passion and excitement—”

“If that was true, I wouldn’t be here, in this situation, now.”

“And yet you’ve admitted more than once that our night together was a mistake.”

She felt her face heat. “I don’t do one-night stands,” she said stiffly. “You were my first, and I realized belatedly that casual sex wasn’t for me.”

“I didn’t blow you off, and it didn’t have to be a one-night stand. I phoned you while you were on the way in the cab to the airport. I phoned you again after you landed in Los Angeles. You didn’t return those two calls. Undeterred, I tried to see you again a couple weeks later, but you pushed me away, saying that while you’d enjoyed our night together, it wouldn’t happen again.”

“It couldn’t, Brando. I’ve never mixed business and pleasure before. You were the first client I ever got...intimate...with.”

“Why did you?”

“I liked you. I was drawn to you.”

“And I liked you, and was very drawn to you, too.”

“But I don’t sleep with my clients,” she said firmly. “It’s bad business, and incredibly irresponsible of me.”

“Don’t work with the Ricci family anymore. Problem solved.”

“It’s not that easy, Brando. The Riccis are important clients. I can’t alienate them.”

“You can’t alienate them, but you can alienate me?”

She sighed with frustration. “You’re not helping, especially not when you twist my words. You know what I mean. I didn’t have feelings for any of them... I had feelings for you, and that’s a problem.” And then realizing what she’d just said, she hurriedly added, “And now that I’m pregnant, we really have a problem. How do we raise this baby, and where?”

Brando was silent, his features shuttered, and then he rolled one thickly muscled shoulder. “Sometimes solutions come when you’re not obsessing about them. Perhaps we need a break from talking and thinking. Perhaps we should go do something and just not think.”

She arched a brow, curious. “Do what?”

“We could get in the car and drive to Greve, and then stop in Montefioralle, which is up on a hillside, and actually overlooks Greve. Montefioralle is a village that dates to the early nine hundreds and there are wonderful views of the valley from there. Many tourists like to walk to Montefioralle from Greve, but I wouldn’t suggest it in your condition, but the drive is scenic and Greve has a charming, historic main square, and several nice spots we could stop for lunch.”

Charlotte glanced at her laptop on the table and then out at the valley, and she knew what she wanted to do—escape. Not think. But being with Brando was incredibly problematic. “Can we really not discuss the baby and the future for the next hour?”

“I promise we won’t discuss either for the rest of the afternoon. Let’s leave serious discussions until later, and just try to enjoy the day. You’re not in this part of Italy often. Try to enjoy it.”

They drove to Greve in his low-slung sports car and parked in a small alley behind a creamy stone building, and then entered through the back of the building. It was cool inside, the thick stone walls keeping out the heat, while the interior smelled of oak and wine. “One of our tasting rooms,” he said, guiding her past an office to the public rooms where he gave her a brief overview of the Ricci wines being sampled and sold in the shop.

After saying a few words to the staff, he escorted her through the front door, where they emerged onto the medieval town square, the square ringed with handsome buildings filled with picturesque cafés, art galleries and more wine tasting rooms. They wandered in and out of the different shops and galleries and visited a church where the stillness and flickering candles filled Charlotte with much-needed peace. Everything would be fine. She didn’t have to panic or worry so much. Brando would be reasonable and they’d find a way through this.

After an hour and a half of exploring the town, they returned to Brando’s car for the short drive up a steep hill to Montefioralle.

This time Brando parked at a small restaurant perched on the side of the slope with a breathtaking view of the valley and Greve below. “Hope you’re hungry,” he said as they were seated at a table on the small patio. “The food here is excellent, and the wine, too.”

“Is it wine from your vineyard?” she asked.

He flashed a smile that was as sexy as it was sinful. “How did you know?”

She couldn’t help smiling back. He was irresistible when he turned on the charm. “Just a lucky guess.”

Brando had been intrigued by Charlotte from the first time he met her in August of last year. She was stylish, stunning, smart and incredibly confident. He was impressed she could hold her own during contentious meetings with his family, and admired her ability to say what needed to be said, even if it wasn’t popular. Brando, himself, tended to be blunt, and it wasn’t often he met a woman who’d go toe-to-toe with him, rather than shy away from tough topics, but she did. And then when the conflict eased, she’d smile one of her smiles, and maybe that’s what had hooked him.

When Charlotte Parks smiled, she lit up a room. Her smile was brilliant and wide, and her blue eyes gleamed, too.

It wasn’t until she smiled now that he realized this was the first time he’d seen her smile since their night together New Year’s Eve.

He realized how much he’d missed that smile, never mind how much he’d flat out missed her.

Brando hadn’t chased after a woman in years, but he’d wanted to see Charlotte last year, after she’d returned to the States. He’d very much wanted another night with her, although he suspected one more night wouldn’t be enough for him. He’d gone to LA to see her, but she gave excuses about being busy, and in the middle of a tense situation with clients, but she hoped she could say hello the next time she was in Italy.

She was giving him the brush-off. He’d been equally surprised, and disappointed, because even though she’d said all along it would be one night only, he hadn’t believed she meant it. But she had.

He admired that, too.

This wasn’t a game for her, either. She truly valued her independence, and it was a refreshing change from the women he dated who were utterly dependent on him, craving attention, desiring to be spoiled, hungry for gifts, big and small. Brando knew he was as much at fault for cultivating shallow relationships. He preferred giving gifts over giving his heart. It was a tidier transaction. Fewer complications.

Only now the woman who didn’t want him was here, pregnant with his child, and there would be no tidy transaction. Their situation was enormously complicated.

He leaned across the table and kissed her, a firm, slow kiss. Her mouth was warm and soft and he felt the quiver in her lips before he drew back.

Her face was pale with two pink blotches in her cheekbones, which only made her blue eyes brighter. He could see the worry in her eyes, though, as well as a question. She didn’t know why he’d kissed her. He didn’t know, either, other than he wanted her. He’d wanted her from the very beginning, and it crossed his mind that he would probably always be this attracted to her, and not just physically, but intellectually. She held her own with him. She was his equal in every way. She’d make an excellent wife.

“You’ll make an excellent addition to the family,” he said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a Ricci already.”

Charlotte stiffened, her shoulders squaring, spine straightening. “We’d agreed we weren’t going to discuss the future,

” she said quietly, flatly, anger washing through her. “Those were your words, too.”

He gave a casual shrug. “I’m not discussing the future. I’m talking about the present. You fit in. You’re my other half. You belong with me,” he answered.

“I’m not your other half. You are a whole, and I am a whole and there is no room in our individual lives for each other. We are too independent, too headstrong.”

“We’re smart enough, successful enough to know how to adjust.”

She held her breath, unwilling to speak, afraid that whatever she said might be used against her.

“What other choice do we have?” He’d ordered a glass of wine with his lunch and he gave his goblet a slight spin and watched the ruby-red wine swirl. “Not if we’re putting our child’s needs first, and I don’t know a lot about you, but I’ve heard enough now to understand that your family never put you first. That your fear of families is the fear of being lost, consumed—”

“That’s putting it a little strong,” she interrupted.