The Italian's Unexpected Baby

Her thoughts tumbled and shifted in her mind in an ever-changing kaleidoscope that she struggled to make sense of. She felt as if she were teetering on a precipice, but she had no idea what lay ahead—or below.

Then Alessandro took her hand as he drew her towards him, his eyes the colour of smoke, his voice husky as he devoured her in a single glance.

‘Dance?’

Mia thought of their dance a year ago, when everything had heightened and changed between them. It had been magical…but it had also been dangerous. Where was the danger now? Was it real—or was she imagining it, because she was so afraid of losing herself the way her mother had? Could she let go of it for a night?

Could she let go of it for ever?

She nodded, her palm sliding across his, fingers twining and tightening as they moved onto the dance floor and began to sway to the sensuous music.

‘Are you enjoying tonight?’ Alessandro asked as he moved her slowly and languorously around the floor, their hips bumping, heat flaring.

‘Yes…’

‘You don’t sound entirely convinced.’ He spoke lightly but Mia saw the flash of concern and even hurt in his eyes, quickly masked.

‘I don’t know what to think, Alessandro,’ she confessed quietly. ‘So I’m trying not to think at all. I just want to…feel.’

‘Feeling is good,’ Alessandro murmured huskily. ‘Feeling is very good.’ His forehead crinkled in a frown. ‘But you don’t need to be so wary, Mia. So scared.’

‘I’m trying not to be.’

‘What exactly is it you are afraid of, cara?’ The endearment slipped easily from his tongue, caressing her with its intimacy, making her want even more to trust this and believe in it. In him.’

She hesitated, unsure what to say. How much to confess. Yet surely Alessandro deserved to know why she was the way she was, what experiences had formed and shaped her, and that she was becoming desperate to shed now? ‘I’m scared of losing myself,’ she admitted quietly.

Alessandro’s frown deepened, a deep line bisecting his brow. ‘Losing yourself?’

‘Yes. Losing my…my sense of self, I suppose. My ability to make decisions, to be my own person…’ She trailed off, realising how vague and really rather ridiculous she sounded. What did it even mean, to lose yourself? Could she even put what she was so frightened of into concrete ideas and absolutes? Or was it just this vague sense of dread, that life was spinning out of control, that she needed to leave behind her, finally and for ever?

‘I don’t understand,’ Alessandro said as he moved her around the dance floor, one hand warm and sure on her waist. ‘Please, will you explain it to me?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know if I can. I know it sounds silly and vague, formless, but…it’s what I grew up with. My mother and father…’ She faltered, her throat growing tight with memories.

‘Your mother and father?’ Alessandro prompted gently. ‘You mentioned you didn’t get along with your father…’

‘No, I didn’t. He was…very controlling. Mostly of my mother but, after she died, also of me.’ She shook her head, unwilling to explain just how cruel her father could be, how domineering. She didn’t want to explain about the memories that still tormented her—when he’d locked her in her room, or thrown the meal her mother had made in the bin, claiming it was inedible.

‘He’s just got high standards, Mia. That’s all it is.’

She couldn’t explain the choking frustration she’d felt with her mother, and then later the awful fear she’d felt for herself, knowing she had to get away before her father controlled her completely.

‘Controlling,’ Alessandro repeated in a neutral voice. ‘This is why you have this issue with control? Why you feel I am too controlling?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I suppose so. My father was…awful. He told me what I had to do, or say, or even wear. He enjoyed exerting that power, simply because he could.’

‘And so you think I am like this man?’ Alessandro asked. His voice was even, but Mia felt the hurt emanating from him, and a wave of sorrow and regret rushed through her.

Alessandro was nothing like her father. The realisation washed through her in a cleansing flood. Yes, he could be brutal in business, ruthless in his ambition, but he was never cruel. He’d already shown her how his hostile takeovers were, in essence, mercy missions. Although he could be autocratic, he never sneered or insulted or mocked simply to show his power, because he could. His kindness was genuine.

‘No,’ Mia said quietly. ‘I don’t think you’re like him, Alessandro.’ Another realisation was jolting through her, more powerful than the first. No, she didn’t think Alessandro was like her father, not really. Not at all.

But maybe she was like her mother.

That, Mia realised, had been her real fear all along. Not that she’d be beholden to a man like her father, but that she would act like her mother. She wouldn’t be able to help herself. She’d fall in love with Alessandro, just as her mother had with her father, and give up everything for him—willingly. That was what she was afraid of.

Yet how could she admit so much to him now? The last thing she wanted Alessandro to know was the hold he had over her, or that even now she was halfway to falling in love with him, and fighting it all the way.