Dante Claiming His Secret Love-Child

He felt better already.

Showered, shaved, dressed in faded jeans and a navy T-shirt, Dante headed for the kitchen.

He’d lost track not only of days but of hours. All that going back and forth had confused his internal clock. Was it time for breakfast? Lunch? Dinner? He didn’t know and didn’t much care.

He was hungry, was all he knew; his stomach was growling. He’d had a sandwich on the plane but that seemed a long time ago. Gabriella hadn’t eaten at all. During the flight, the attendant had said she’d checked and both Gabriella and the baby were sleeping. He’d thought about going back there, just to see how things were, but if Gabriella was asleep…

Okay. So maybe the truth was, he hadn’t been ready to talk to her. Not then.

But he was ready now.

So, he’d cook something for the two of them.

He frowned as he opened the fridge. The shelves were pretty empty except for the requisite things. Eggs. Bread. Butter. A container of light cream that passed the sniff test. An unopened quart of milk. There was a wedge of cheddar in the cheese keeper on the door. He wasn’t the world’s best cook but he could put together a cheese omelet, make some toast, a pot of coffee.

As for the baby…

What did babies that small eat? Formula? Little jars of vile-looking, strange-colored food? Not that it would be his problem. Gabriella had filled a big carry-on with what she’d called baby stuff. She surely had food for the kid inside it.

He took out the eggs, the milk, the butter, the cheese—

And hesitated.

Come to think of it, how come it was so quiet? He’d been up and pacing around for hours. He figured Gabriella was exhausted, but still, what about the kid? When his sister Anna was a baby, she’d cried nonstop.

For no good reason the skin on the back of his neck prickled. He shut the refrigerator door and headed up the stairs.

Nothing. No sounds at all drifting down the wide hall.

He paused at the guest suite. “Gabriella?” He moved closer to the door. Tapped at it.

“Gabriella?” No answer. “Gabriella,” he said loudly, and then he said to hell with it, turned the knob and stepped inside.

The curtains in the sitting room were drawn. Beyond, the bedroom door stood open. He walked toward it.

The baby lay on the bed, surrounded by pillows. He was on his belly, his rump up in the air, head to the side and part of his fist jammed into his mouth. He was sound asleep and…Dante frowned.

Hell. The kid was that all-purpose word. Cute. A clichι but accurate. The kid was so small, the bed so big…

Dante cleared his throat. He hadn’t come up here to look at babies, he’d come to check on Gabriella. Obviously, she was in the bathroom.

Oh, hell.

The bathroom door was shut but the sound of someone being sick traveled straight through it.

“Gabriella?” he said, hurrying to the door. “Are you sick?”

“Dante.” Her voice was weak. Frighteningly weak. “Don’t come in. I have a bug. The flu—”

He could almost feel the blood draining from his face. He wasn’t good at this, either. Somebody throwing up…

Gabriella groaned. Retched. He didn’t think, didn’t hesitate; he flung the door open and stepped into the room. His Gabriella was hunched over the toilet, her hair streaming down her back, her body trembling. He cursed, ran to her and clasped her shoulders from behind.

“Sweetheart. Why didn’t you ask me to help you? I’ll get a doctor—”

“Go away. I don’t need—”

She retched again. His hands tightened on her. He could feel her shaking; she was wearing a nightgown and she was soaked straight through with sweat. His heart turned over.

“Gaby. Honey, what can I do to help?”

What could he do? If she hadn’t felt as if she were dying, Gabriella would have laughed. What he could do was disappear. This was not what a woman wanted, to have a man see her like this.

Sweaty, disheveled—and throwing up everything, starting at her toes.

Pain fisted in her belly and she bent over and gave herself up to the spasm. By the time it ended, she was swaying on her feet. Dante cursed softly, drew her gently back against him. Go away, she thought desperately, just go away.

But his body felt so good against hers. Strong. Hard. Comforting. Shivering, icy cold, she let his warmth seep into her.

“Gaby?”

His voice was filled with alarm. She wanted to reassure him that she’d be okay, that she’d come down with whatever had sickened Yara the week before, but it happened again, the wave of agonizing nausea, and she gagged, leaned forward and vomited.

When she straightened up this time, she knew the spasms were over.

“I’m okay now,” she said weakly.