Happy Mother's Day!

gently about politics and films, there are enough staff here to ensure that life runs smoothly—and at night you become a sensual witch in my arms.’ And it felt like living in a damned vacuum. He raised his eyebrows in question. ‘What more could a man ask for?’

The undercurrent and the tension in the air were almost palpable. Aisling felt as if he were asking her some kind of trick question which she had no idea how to answer. ‘We’ll advertise for a nanny, then,’ she said stiffly. ‘That should help.’

They interviewed the prospective candidates together, even though Aisling would have preferred to vet them all by herself.

‘Isn’t this more my territory than yours?’ she asked him lightly. ‘Do you really want to be bothered with all this?’

‘Haven’t you seen those horror films where the nanny turns out to be a psycho?’ he queried acidly. ‘I’d rather have some say in the matter, if you don’t mind.’

She knew that made sense, since whoever they chose would inevitably be Italian and Aisling’s command of the language was very basic indeed. Nonetheless, she shocked herself by wanting to bin all the applications from any attractive woman under thirty. Correction. Any woman she thought might be eying up Gianluca—because there was a stunning widow of forty she found rather threatening.

Was she going to become one of those chronically insecure women who was always terrified that her husband was going to have affairs with other women? And would that be such an unreasonable fear, under the circumstances?

‘Perhaps you could explain your criteria for rejecting some of these perfectly good candidates?’ questioned Gianluca sardonically.

‘They just have to feel right,’ said Aisling stubbornly, thinking that if one more applicant slanted him a look from beneath her eyelashes, she would scream out loud. ‘It’s a woman thing.’

In the end they both agreed on Carmela, who was just twenty and sweetly serious. But she was the one who seemed most captivated by Claudio—though bizarrely Aisling found herself wanting her not to get too attached to her baby.

And she quickly discovered that having a nanny was different from having all the other people who worked in and around the vast estate for Gianluca. They tended to get on with their jobs and fade into the background, but a nanny was a fairly constant presence and Aisling found it inhibiting.

Not because she and Gianluca were constantly snatching kisses—they definitely weren’t, since all their physical affection never left the bedroom. But it was unsettling having someone else around as an unwitting observer. Or rather, it made her feel unsettled—and start to think that perhaps something did need to change. As if seeing the situation through an outsider’s eyes made her realise how unsatisfactory it all was.

Aisling went upstairs earlier than usual one evening and was trying on one of her suits when she heard the door open quietly, and then close again. She looked up from where she had been struggling to do up a skirt when she saw Gianluca standing there, watching her.

‘Those are your work clothes,’ he observed.

She met his eyes in the mirror. ‘That’s right,’ she said evenly.

‘You’re planning to go back?’

‘Suzy says there’s a job in Paris coming up and she’d rather I handled it—I’ve dealt with the people before.’ She shrugged. ‘And I can speak a bit of French.’

‘And were you planning to tell me about it?’

She heard the sharp note of accusation in his voice. ‘Oh, Gianluca—of course I was! I thought that was why we employed Carmela. Anyway, nothing’s been decided yet.’

‘It sounds to me as if the decision has already been made.’

‘You don’t … mind? If I go back?’

‘It is not my place to mind, cara,’ he mocked. ‘You never claimed to want to stay at home baking biscuits all day.’ His black eyes roved slowly over her, enjoying seeing her struggle with the zip.

She swallowed—the ebony stare making her feel acutely self-conscious. ‘The damn thing’s too tight!’ she complained.

‘Your hips are rounder since motherhood,’ he murmured. ‘Buy a different size.’

Suddenly her inability to do the skirt up seemed to symbolise more than just a few extra pounds gained after childbirth. Where had all the control gone from her life? That feeling of order she used to experience—of knowing where she was in the world? ‘Are you trying to make me feel worse?’ she questioned.

He walked up behind her and slid his hands round to where they lay on the slight curve of her belly.

‘Al contrario’ he murmured, sliding his fingers down to press hard and possessively over the mound of her crotch. ‘I am trying to make you feel better.’

‘Gianluca,’ she breathed, because this was exquisitely erotic, with his fingers splayed possessively against her. And more erotic still was the fact that he was now sliding the skirt up over her thighs with a little difficulty until he—and she—could see the neat pale blue triangle of her panties reflected back in the mirror.

‘What is it?’ he whispered, bending his head so that she could feel his warm breath against her neck as he watched their reflection. He rubbed his fingertips over the triangle experimentally, feeling her squirm and watching her squirm, too.

‘I … nothing.’ She swallowed as his fingers moved with their own particular rhythm. It seemed too … too intimate … not just to feel him, but to watch him doing it. But then Gianluca seemed to delight in experimentation—to introduce her to wild and wonderful new things and to watch the passion explode within her. ‘Do you want to go to … bed?’ she stumbled.