Apparently they were stating the obvious.
She suddenly realized her shirt collar was turned under, her hair loose and uncombed and her eyes still puffy with sleep. “I didn’t know where he was. Is he hungry?”
“He hasn’t said so,” he said dryly, glancing at the blinking infant before inviting her in with a wave. He met her halfway into the room and let her take the baby. With a light touch against the side of her head, he held her for a brief but firm kiss, then moved past her to close the door. “How are you feeling?” he asked as he turned back to her.
“Good,” she murmured, disconcerted by the faint taste of coffee now on her lips. “You’re starting him rather early for taking charge, aren’t you?”
“One more reason to raise him in Naples,” he commented with quiet significance.
She looked away, but her gaze snagged on the oil painting by his aunt that hung behind his desk. It was the view from the veranda of the Castello di Ferrante onto the hills of the vineyard surrounding the ancestral estate.
“It’s his heritage,” Alessandro added, noting where she was looking.
As he said it, she heard the truth of it. She squirmed inwardly, but realized he had her. No matter what she thought best for herself, she couldn’t deny Lorenzo his birthright. Did Alessandro feel guilty at all using their son to manipulate her? If he did, there was not one iota of remorse in his expression.
“My grandfather used to tell me that being CEO of the family company is a caretaker’s position. I thought I understood what he meant, but I didn’t. Not until I brought my son in here today. I’m not just supporting the family, but building his future. You won’t deny it to him, will you?”
Octavia let her gaze flicker around the room. The place was in disarray. Alessandro was obviously still trying to bring order after firing Primo. He’d left file cabinet drawers open and papers spilled onto every surface. An assortment of flash drives and backup tapes littered a side table and an old laptop had been revived on the coffee table. The desk was peppered with his own laptop and tablet and phone. One of Lorenzo’s new stuffed bears sat crookedly in the big black executive chair like a tiny drunken CEO.
She didn’t take in the mess so much as search for escape routes, glancing to the window like a bird seeking freedom. But the window was closed.
“No,” she admitted in a small mumble of defeat. “Congratulations on finding my Achilles’ heel.” She glanced back at him, expecting triumph.
He was very somber. “My mother is going to sit with him tonight, so you and I can go out for dinner.”
“Oh. I—” She hadn’t expected that. After weeks of feeling too unwieldy to leave the house, then stuck in the hospital and finally recovering here, she was feeling very cooped up. The little bird in her gave a fresh flutter of its wings, but Ysabelle obviously didn’t see the tension between her son and daughter-in-law. “That’s a nice offer, but I’ll tell her it’s not necessary.”
“I asked her to.”
“Why?” she blurted.
“Because we’ve been apart too long. It’s time to be a husband and wife again.”
This was exactly what she was afraid of. The moment she conceded one point to him, he assumed she was ready to resume their marriage.
Was she?
She was still trying to decide a few hours later, as she applied makeup for the first time in forever. She was still attracted to her husband, of course she was. Physically, he was so perfect it was a superpower. But he was extra powerful in other ways, too, which made her feel weak.
She sighed, standing back to examine the top and skirt she’d rescued from her early maternity wear. The black skirt had a kerchief hem and an elastic panel that didn’t put too much pressure on her abdomen. Her legs looked okay, especially once she stepped into a pair of heels. The overlong, eggplant-colored top was, well, she supposed the scoop neckline drew the eye to her cleavage, rather than the thick waistline she’d tried to define with a narrow gold belt. She looked voluptuous and very Italian, especially with her pregnancy hair, thick and wavy and longer than she’d ever worn it. With a quick twist, she wound a pale yellow-and-orange scarf around her neck, adding a hint of pizzazz.
“You look beautiful,” he said, expression softening into admiring lines as he watched her come down the stairs to meet him in the foyer. He drew her close to press a kiss to her temple and her crumpled ego ate it up.
She tucked a mumbled, “Grazie,” into his shoulder. His touch took her tension into a whole new stratosphere, reminding her how much she enjoyed his caresses. At one point she’d been sure he enjoyed their lovemaking, too, but she wasn’t so sure anymore.