The Italian's One-Night Love-Child (13 page)

‘I see you’re up.’ She entered the room and shut the door quietly behind her because, from personal experience, walls in her parents’ house tended to have ears.

She had postponed going back into the bedroom until the last possible moment. In fact, until her mother had more or less demanded that she wake Cristiano so that he could partake of the full Irish breakfast which she had made especially.

Cristiano refrained from making the obvious quip about being up in more than one sense. Instead, he informed her that he had not had such a good night’s sleep in a long time. Bethany, who felt punch-drunk from her restless night, scowled and was disgruntled when he grinned broadly in return.

‘You have no clothes,’ she said, eyeing his bronzed torso, which he was making little attempt to conceal. ‘What are you going to wear?’

‘Oh, I can go back to the hotel and get them.’

‘Have you looked outside the window?’

Cristiano obliged, slipping out of bed, glimpsing her rise in colour as he did so. It had snowed and it was a spectacular sight. The fields which fell away from the back of the house were a landscape of pristine, virgin white. The sky was a yellow grey, dull and threatening and still releasing its heavy load. He dropped the curtain and turned to her.

‘So…’ he spread his arms wide, unperturbed by the uninviting expression on her face ‘…tell me what you want me to do…You call the shots…’

C
RISTIANO
found out soon enough. After a hearty breakfast, the like of which he had not tasted since he had been a teenager with an insatiable appetite and an abundance of free time that could be apportioned to satisfying it, he found himself with a checklist of things to do, which he was pretty sure Bethany had compiled with a great deal of satisfaction. Most of the chores necessitated him being outside and, since he had not a stitch of clothing with him, aside from what he had arrived in, which were in the process of being washed, he was obliged to brace near blizzard conditions in some of her father’s clothes, which were too short in the arms and legs and too large in the waist.

‘Clear drive…and salt…chop wood for logs…milk and bread from corner shop…’ He lounged against the doorframe and looked up from the list. ‘Sure this is all? There must be a few
more
outdoor duties you need me to fulfil…’ She was busying herself by the kitchen sink, the picture of domesticity were it not for the smirk on her face. She sauntered up to him, took the list, read it slowly with a thoughtful frown and then returned it to him.

‘Nope. That’s all
for the moment
. Why? Do you think the Mr Perfect image might come a bit unglued by all the heavy
outdoor work?’ It still rankled that his charm offensive had been relentless and highly successful over breakfast. He had made himself useful in the kitchen, despite her mother’s protests that she was fine, and had won her father over with his ridiculous knowledge of Irish politics, horse racing and tips on investments for pension funds, which seemed to be her father’s most recent area of concern.

In the process, he had practically ignored her and she had had to remind herself that that was all to the good, considering they were now just
friends.
He had listened to what she had said, had backed off and the situation was now perfect. Fabulous. Of course, she would have to think about her story when it came to letting her parents down with the wedding that would never be, but she would cross that bridge when she came to it. In the meantime, she decided that satisfaction was the order of the day. She had got exactly what she had wanted! His respect! He had understood the situation and would no longer think that he could subject her to his unwanted attentions. She was uncomfortably aware that she had to gloss over that last thought but the end result was the same. He was keeping his distance and if her parents were blissfully unaware of the slight shift in the atmosphere, then
she
was very much aware of it. There had been no more of those suggestive looks or accidental brushing of hands or innuendo.

‘My
Mr Perfect
image…Now, should I take that as a compliment, I wonder?’

Bethany had a moment of wishing that her parents were around like chaperones because the lazy gleam in his eyes was mesmerising. She had to pull herself back down to earth and slam the door shut on a mind that wanted to play with the taboo images of running her fingers over his shirt, undoing the buttons, slipping her hand underneath to feel his warm skin.

The outfit which she had chosen for him, having told her parents that he had left his clothes at the hotel into which he had booked
just in case she had not been at home when he had arrived
, should have reduced his sex appeal to zero. It was one of her father’s oldest shirts. Something he used to wear for gardening a thousand years ago, a checked flannel number with two buttons missing, frayed cuffs and faded to the point that the original colour was no longer obvious. The very opposite of the handmade Italian shirts Cristiano favoured. The trousers were of a similar age and needed a belt. His handstitched leather shoes had been exchanged for green wellies, and the waterproof anorak she had supplied was heavy and shapeless. She had also insisted, under cover of the caring girlfriend, that he wear a woollen hat to combat the thickly falling snow and deep, penetrating cold.

‘Wouldn’t want you catching your death out there,’ she had said, smiling smugly when she had handed him the bundle of clothes. ‘We wrap up warm in this part of the world. No time for silly designer clothes…’

‘Understood,’ Cristiano had said, leaning in to her so that his warm breath had fanned against her cheek. ‘I would know all about the pointlessness of designer clothes, having spent so much time in Central Africa on that project, wouldn’t I?’

Bethany looked at him now and folded her arms. ‘I know you’ve probably never done a day’s hard work in your entire life—’ she began and he cut her short before she had time to finish her sentence.

‘And your assumptions would be based on…what, exactly?’

‘You’re a company man, Cristiano,’ she stammered, sticking her chin up. ‘You sit behind a desk…’

‘Every summer when I was at university I worked on a
building site,’ he informed her succinctly. He straightened up and pushed himself away from the door. ‘I’ve always thought that work that stretches the body is good for the brain and excellent for maintaining a healthy balance. Even now, I make sure that my trips to the gym are as physically gruelling as possible. So do me a favour and try not to pigeonhole me.’ He slung on the borrowed anorak which, Bethany thought sourly, had never looked like that on her father. ‘In fact, when I’m done with this list of things, I might just join your father in the fields and help out with the cattle. Now, why don’t you be a good little girl and run along and make sure that my clothes are nicely laundered…?’

‘How dare you…?’

‘What?’ Cristiano threw her a mocking smile over his shoulder as he headed out. ‘Pigeonhole you?’

She was still smarting from the way he had neatly turned the verbal tables on her when, a couple of hours later, she indeed found herself fishing his clothes out of the tumble dryer and setting up the ironing board so that she could iron his shirt.

‘Women don’t do this stuff any more,’ she complained to her mother, who had taken it as a given that Cristiano’s clothes, once washed, would be returned to him in the sort of pristine condition in which they had originally been bought from the shop, or tailor or wherever he stocked up on his mega-expensive outfits.

‘If you’re tired, I don’t mind running the iron over them,’ her mother said placidly, taking time out from the stew she was in the middle of making.

‘I’m fine,’ Bethany muttered in a driven tone. ‘I was just saying that the days of toiling over an ironing board, ironing a man’s shirt and trousers are over.’

‘Oh, I don’t think it’s asking too much for Cristiano to
come back here to some nice, clean, pressed clothing, do you? Not when he’s been making himself so helpful around the house when he’s probably exhausted and in need of a rest himself after everything he’s been through. And your dad said that he’s had the best advice off him about what to do with his savings, better than that accountant in Limerick he’s been using.’

Bethany’s teeth snapped together on the tart retort to her mother’s eulogy. She debated letting the sizzling iron sit on the pristine white shirt just long enough for it to leave a hideous indelible stain.

‘He’s certainly a gem when it comes to finances,’ she managed. Shirt and trousers finished, she switched off the iron and stood it upright on the ironing board for it to cool.

‘The man seems to be a gem when it comes to most things,’ her mother mused with a smile. ‘A rare find. I’d be more than pleased if your sisters decided to bring home a couple of those for my prospective sons-in-law.’

In a minute she would start making noises about weddings and honeymoons. Bethany could feel it hovering in the warm, aromatic air between them and she sighed.

‘Mum…I’ve been having some doubts about…you know…marrying Cristiano…’ She felt awkward colour seep into her face, intensifying as her mother stopped stirring the pot and looked at her, open-mouthed.

‘I really wasn’t going to say anything…’ It had to be done. The longer the charade continued, the more difficult it would be to back out of an impossible situation and also, what on earth was she going to do when Cristiano returned to London? Go back with him? Live where? In his apartment? Where they would work on their
friendship
, while she fell deeper and harder for the man? Would she have to sit around and watch as he went out with other women? Pretend
that none of it mattered? Because the only thing that did was the child they had accidentally created together?

‘Sit down, Beth. I’m going to make you a cup of tea. In fact, I think I’ll make us both a cup of tea.’

‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said, hands round the mug of sweet tea, ‘that everything happened really quickly with Cristiano. I know you’re going to tell me that it was like that with you and Dad but things are different these days. Marriage isn’t the immediate option. I just don’t feel I know him well enough to tie the knot…’ Her mother’s expression was altering from concerned and anxious to disappointed but valiant with it.

‘But you love each other…’

Bethany opted to evade that statement. ‘I just think that it’s important not to get swept up by the fact that I’m having a baby…’

‘But Cristiano’s the father…What could be more natural than…?’

‘I know, I know and I would never deny him his rights as a father, but we’ve spent so little time truly getting to know one another and it’s better to stand back now than get into a situation I…
we
…end up regretting…I’m really sorry if I’ve disappointed you and Dad…’ She shrugged her shoulders helplessly. She had spoken her piece. Without the figment of an impending marriage, Cristiano would return to London because he would have no choice and he would no longer be in a position to blackmail her into going with him
to satisfy her parents’ misconceptions
. She should have been feeling the light-headed relief of a great weight being removed from her shoulders, but Bethany was assailed by a sensation of corrosive emptiness. Her success at outmanoeuvring him was a lot less satisfying than it should have been.

Furthermore, her mother couldn’t understand how she could have doubts about someone who was so spectacularly perfect. Bethany could see it on her face. Cristiano had put his best foot forward and won her over and it was horribly upsetting to think that her mother, whilst not saying anything, might actually
blame her
for being picky and unreasonable.

The atmosphere was strained by the time the front door opened and her father and Cristiano came in on a gust of sharp cold air and thick falling snow.

Bethany was ready and waiting. She had stuck on her thickest jumper, which hung down past the waist of her full gypsy skirt, her woolly hat and her fur-lined boots and hijacked Cristiano before he could make it into the kitchen, where the delicious smell of the stew was wafting out into the hallway.

‘I need to talk to you,’ she said, putting on her gloves and resting her small hand lightly on his arm.

‘Can it wait? I need to have a shower.’

‘No, it can’t.’ There was a vitality about him that struck her like a bolt of electricity. He might not have anticipated everything that had happened but, in fairness, he had adapted well. His world had been turned upside down and he had risen to the occasion with admirable speed. He had come up with a solution that might be inappropriate as far as
she
was concerned but it was more than a lot of men would have done under similar circumstances. And he had wormed his way into her parents’ affections through a cunning combination of the gift of the gab, which always found an appreciative audience in Ireland, and a willingness to muck in.

Lord only knew how he had managed to familiarize himself with the chainsaw, but he had succeeded in chopping enough logs to last a couple of weeks and, although the snow was
already piling up onto the drive, he had still managed to clear the majority of it, leaving a gritted path that was safe to walk on.

Cristiano frowned. The past few hours spent outdoors had felt good. The challenge of the land was more immediate and rewarding than he might have expected and, trudging back with John, he had allowed himself to ponder the hitherto unexplored notion that there was something deeply satisfying about the old caveman approach to life…returning to the hearth after a day of solid hard work. Big, open fire, dutiful wife, kids. Naturally, he had had to grin at his own misconception there because the last thing Bethany could be described as was dutiful.

However, he hadn’t banked on returning to find her positioned by the front door like a pitbull on patrol and wearing an expression that promised a difficult end to the morning.

‘The log shed’s at the back of the house. I’ll help you carry the logs in and we can talk.’

‘Why do I get the feeling that this
talk
of yours doesn’t revolve around you wanting to find out how my morning’s been?’ The shed which housed the logs and Ireland’s trademark fuel of turf was surprisingly big and leant at an angle against the back of the house. Cristiano was only aware of the size when the final trip had been completed in silence and the last log dumped on the stack at the side. A naked overhanging lightbulb was the only form of illumination but it was enough for him to pick up the determined set of her jaw.

‘Have I successfully jumped through the first set of hoops?’ His mouth curled derisively. ‘Or have you thought of a few more? To prove my worth?’

‘You don’t have to prove anything.’

‘No, you’re right. I don’t. I’m glad you’ve finally reached
that conclusion.’ She was leaning against the side of the shed, hands behind her back, swamped in far too many clothes that were way too big for her. She looked small and defenceless and vulnerable but looks, Cristiano reminded himself, were deceiving. This was the woman who had lied to him, had lied to her parents about him, had kept her pregnancy a secret, something which he had unearthed purely by chance. She had fought him tooth and nail ever since he had arrived on the scene and even her compliance when she had fallen into bed with him had been short-lived. Still basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking, she had jolted him out of his warm, pleasant drowsiness with recriminations and rubbish about wanting to be friends. He’d offered her a solution to her problems, was big enough to overlook the enormity of her deception and she threw it back in his face. He said one thing and she immediately made sure to say the opposite. He went in one direction, she hived off in the other.