The Sicilian's Stolen Son

‘The doctor’s with him,’ Luciano gritted, closing a managing hand to her spine to herd her in the right direction. He was the most alarmingly dominant man and, even worse, she thought ruefully, it seemed to come entirely naturally to him, as if an autocratic need to trample over the little people had been programmed into him at birth. ‘Not that he’s been much use!’

Lisa was pacing the floor with a wailing Nicky and looked as though she had been through the wars. Earlier that day she had looked immaculate. Now her long hair was falling down untidily and her shirt was spattered with food stains. An older bespectacled man, who could only be the doctor, overlooked the scene with an air of discomfiture.

‘What’s wrong with Nicky?’ Jemima asked worriedly.

The doctor studied her anxiously. ‘A touch of tonsillitis...nothing more—’

‘My son would not be making such a fuss over so little,’ Luciano began wrathfully.

‘Oh, yes, he would.’ Jemima threw Luciano a wryly apologetic glance. ‘He makes a real fuss when he’s sick. He’s had tonsillitis a couple of times already and I was up all night with him.’

With a yell, Nicky unglued his reddened eyes and, focusing joyously on Jemima, he gave a frantic lurch in Lisa’s hold. The other woman crossed the room in haste to settle him into Jemima’s arms. ‘It’s obvious he wants his mum.’

‘Perhaps you could explain to...er...Nicky’s father that this is not a serious condition. The baby has a mild fever and a sore throat and possibly some ear pain.’ Exhausted, Nicky moaned against Jemima’s shoulder, his solid little body heavy against her as he slumped.

‘Try to get him to drink some water to keep him hydrated,’ the doctor advised with a wary glance in Luciano’s smouldering direction. ‘Within a couple of days and with the medication he’ll soon be back to normal.’

‘Thank you,’ Jemima pronounced quietly as she sank down on a comfortable leather seat and accepted the baby bottle of water Lisa helpfully extended. She studied Nicky and glanced across the room at Luciano. So, she finally had first-hand evidence of whose genes had dealt Nicky the theatrics and the fireworks, she thought wryly, ignoring Nicky when he twisted away his mouth from the bottle. ‘Do you want your cup?’ she asked.

Nicky looked up at her, dark eyes cross and shimmering with tears.

Jemima dug the baby cup out of the bag and proceeded to pour some water into it while still cradling Nicky.

‘Seems that he is one little boy who knows what he wants,’ Lisa remarked.

‘You’re spot on.’ Jemima watched the baby moisten his lips and then try a tiny sip. Forced to swallow, he grimaced and sobbed again while she praised him and told him what a brave, wonderful boy he was.

Luciano watched the performance unfolding with blazing dark golden eyes, angry frustration assailing him. He knew when he was facing a fait accompli. Jemima handled Nicky beautifully, clearly knew him inside out and responded smoothly to his needs. He himself and the highly qualified nanny had failed utterly to provide the comfort his son had needed. He wondered if little boys were programmed to want mothers over father figures. He wondered tensely how his son would cope without a mother, particularly with her sudden disappearance. Bemused by that flood of concern and the sort of deep questions he normally suppressed, Luciano grated his teeth together in frustration and called someone to show out the doctor.

‘It is only a mild illness,’ Jemima remarked quietly. ‘Relax.’

‘How the hell am I supposed to relax when my son is suffering?’ Luciano lashed back at her in fierce attack.

‘Sometimes you can’t fix things and the normal childhood illnesses fall into that category,’ Jemima pointed out gently.

Well, he cared about Nicky; he was quite accidentally revealing that with his behaviour. Of course, he had to be aggressive even in that, but then he was an aggressive man. And intelligence warned her that Luciano Vitale would not voluntarily share anything with her that he considered to be private or personal. Obviously his feelings about his son would fall squarely into that territory and it was not for her to pry, she told herself doggedly as Nicky snuffled into an exhausted sleep on her lap.

Luciano strode to the door, raking an impatient hand through his blue-black glossy hair. A dark shadow of stubble outlined his sculpted mouth and strong jawline. He was obviously the sort of man who had to shave twice a day. He had loosened his racy red tie at the collar, unbuttoned the top button of his white shirt. He looked a little more human and a little less perfect than at their previous meeting and she censured her selfish sense of satisfaction that he was finding his son more of a challenge than he had expected. Such a feeling was mean and ungenerous, she reminded herself angrily. Nicky was Luciano’s flesh and blood and she should be pleased that he was so keen to get to know his child.