Baby By Accident: International Billionaires III: The Italians (14 page)

Closing her eyes, she swam in the delight of enjoying good food after such a long time.

His chuckle came from across the hardwood table. “Good, huh?”

Yes, good.

Somehow he’d convinced her to take one day without her laptop. And then another. Somewhere along the way, she’d lost the need to fight and fuss. In some way, his way, he’d charmed her into letting go, letting everything be good.

He’d slept on the couch the entire two weeks without complaining or cursing or questioning. Every night, he courteously said good night and left her alone. Naturally, his grin came and his eyes twinkled with wicked intent, yet his actions, his words? She could find nothing to grumble about.

Poking him only provoked a laugh.

Prodding him did nothing but gain her a smile.

She’d thought about punching him, except a lady didn’t descend to that level and to be truthful, she didn’t want to get that close. He might respond in a way she wasn’t able to rebuff anymore.

The thought gave her a cool knock in her jaw every time she pondered it.

A cluster of laughing students passed their table and Lise watched them as they shoved each other in affection. Her gaze slipped over them and returned to her husband. Just like her focus always seemed to gravitate to him whenever he was near. With irritation, she noticed he was checking his messages on his mobile.

The one he was allowed to have, while she was not.

She’d argued.

No work, he’d said.

But you—

No work for either of us. This, he’d waved the phone, is only for emergencies.

Sure, she’d thought, in sheer disbelief. No professional man in her acquaintance could ever really get away from his job. Her father, her co-workers, Robert—all of them had taught her—a sign of being a professional was to be constantly in touch with your staff and your work. She’d been sure, positive, Vico was lying. She was sure he’d spend the majority of this so-called honeymoon on the phone, on the computer, busily undermining her at the office while she languished in boredom.

Surprise wasn’t exactly the word she’d use to describe her reaction to his subsequent actions during the last two weeks.

Across from her, he slid the phone shut and slipped it back into his pocket. Glancing up, he met her gaze. A dark brow lifted. “What?”

“Nothing.”

It was a response she knew irritated him, still, his frown was slight and before he could respond the waiter appeared with their meal. The salmon sat on a bed of rice, fresh asparagus lacing its side. The lemon butter pooled over the fish in glistening splendor. The smell wafted to her nose, rich and robust. Lise cautiously sniffed.

Her stomach rumbled.

Her husband chuckled.

Ignoring his delight, she dug into the meal. She relished the aroma of her favorite fish, enjoyed the crisp crunch of the vegetable, let the taste soothe her irritation and frustration.

He’d been true to his word. He hadn’t worked. Not once.

Surprise wasn’t the word she’d use. Amazement wouldn’t do either.

Confusion? Shock? Bewilderment?

Whatever the word, the reality was he hadn’t spent a moment of his time or concentration on work. Instead, he’d concentrated on her.

Her comfort. Was she too hot? Was she thirsty? Did she need a break from walking?

Her sleep. A nap every day was required, he stated. Every respectable Parisian took a nap if it was August. His silly declaration should have stirred her rebellion, but she’d found it fit right into what her body wanted.

Her appetite. Once he’d figured out the nausea was gone, he’d been ruthless in pushing food in her mouth every moment of the day. Morning, noon and night she ate. Anything and everything.

His coddling irritated her and scared her. This was so contrary to everything she knew about this man and his conduct toward her. The one-eighty was enigmatic and enchanting. Added to the powerful lust she was keeping on a short, tight leash, the situation…
he
was…

The wall was crumbling down inside of her.

Lise took a sip of the lemonade and attempted to pile the stones of her hate back on top of each other. Each day, romantic Paris and this man pulled another stone down and each night, each stolen minute, she tugged the stones back up.

“Did you want dessert,
mia dolce
?” he said to her with a knowing grin.

My sweet. He’d begun calling her the nickname when she hadn’t managed to go past any pastry shop without slowing down for a look. And since Paris was littered with pastry shops, she’d been walking slowly for weeks. Strawberry fruit tarts glossy with melted sugar. Cream-filled macarons. Fluffy pain au chocolat. Almost without exception, and over her objections, he’d walked into every shop, charmed the clerk into a giggling mess, and exited with a bag of samples. Whether or not she declined, somehow the pirate got her to try each and every one.

She’d objected about this new nickname too. Without success.

At least it didn’t bite into her skin and spirit like
Princesse
had.

“Not this time,” she responded to his tempting offer.

He was having none of it. The waiter was given instructions and before she could snap her fingers, a plate of
Petits fours glacés
and a steaming cup of decaf tea sat before her.

“I said no.” But the words were hollow. She knew it and he knew it.

His only response was a wink.

His attitude, as always, irked her. He thought he needed to take care of her, when she’d been taking care of herself, her mother, her company for years without his help. The arrogance of the man. Just because she was pregnant didn’t mean she needed a man to take care of her.

The morning look in the mirror told her what her brain refused to acknowledge. His pampering had produced amazing results during the last two weeks. Her skin glowed, her curves had returned, her eyes were clear and happy.

Happy.

The clatter of her teacup hit the china saucer.

She was happy with Vico Mattare.

“What is it?” His hazel eyes were piercing and worried.

Worried?

“Nothing.”

He grunted male disgust at her feminine rebuff, but didn’t respond with a rebuff of his own.

His gaze, however, said quite a lot.

You are healthy and happy with me.

No
, her brain yelled.
Not a chance
, her pride screamed.
Never
, her conscience spat.

Yet what was a girl to do? What was she to do when she felt healthy for the first time in months? Relaxed and rested and cared for by a man whose beauty took her breath away every time he walked into her view.

What was a girl to do?

“Vico.” A low male voice interrupted her thoughts. “What a surprise to find you in Paris.”

Her husband jumped from his chair, a look of pleasure crossing his face. “Alexander Stravoudas. What the hell are you doing here?”

She glanced into the sun and could only make out that the man was tall and lean and blond. There was presence here, though, she felt his power like a solid wall of dynamism.

“I have a family home here. My mother’s family.” The man moved to take her husband’s outreached hand. “Surely I’ve mentioned that before.”

“Never.” The sun didn’t obscure the handshake going on before her. She’d always thought Vico’s hands were quintessentially male—tough and strong. But this man’s grasp engulfed her husband’s in a rough hand that appeared as if it belonged to a sailor or a carpenter.

Who was this guy? Her curiosity reared to attention.

“Lise, this is the premier architect of New York City and one of the best in the world.”

“Hello.” She tentatively stuck out her hand into the sunlight, not quite believing this man was an artist. “Nice to meet you.”

“And Alex, this is my wife.”

Her hand disappeared, but the man’s touch was elegant and quiet and unassuming. She suspected that was a façade because the energy emanating from the man only grew as he stood there.

“Wife?” The low voice rose. “When did this happen?”

“Join us.” Vico pulled out a chair with another smile. “This is wonderful timing.”

“Is it?” The man sat and she finally was able to see him.

His hands might tell one story, but his perfect profile told quite another. The man was as gorgeous as any man she’d ever seen. His classic nose cut between two chiseled cheekbones in a straight arrow of precision. His hair wasn’t merely blond. The curls were gold like ancient coins and curled around his masculine face as if craving his attention. Just like her husband, his hair was long, but instead of making a woman think of pirates and plunder, this fall of golden beauty made a woman think of heaven and angels.

His blue eyes met hers and blinded her with their brilliance.

Her husband coughed. “This usually happens.”

She swung her stare across to him and wondered if he were jealous. But there was only wicked amusement in the tawny eyes. “What usually happens?”

“Alex makes an impression.”

The man coughed too as if slightly embarrassed about his perfection. “When did this marriage happen?”

“A couple of weeks ago.” Her new husband leaned back in his chair, putting on a satisfied smile that she knew for a fact was a fake. “We’re on our honeymoon.”

Those amazing blue eyes widened. “Congratulations to both of you. What excellent timing to run into you during this joyous moment.”

“Speaking of timing,” Vico said. “I’ve got a building I want you to design in the middle of London.”

A confident smile slid across the handsomest mouth she’d ever seen. “Really? And what is going to be in this building?”

“My new company.”

The hair on the back of her neck rose.
My
new company. “You can’t possibly mean—”

“HSF Financial.”

Vico Mattare did mean
her
company. “The building
my
company occupies has been our headquarters for twenty years,” she snarled.

“Precisely.” Her husband didn’t bat an eye in the face of her fury. “Time for a change.”

The blond, elegant man sitting between them arched a pair of golden brows. “It’s apparent to me there needs to be more conversation before this project moves forward.”

“Nonsense.” Her bull-headed husband plowed forward with his stupidity.

Alexander Stravoudas looked at her and laughed. “Vico, you might want to—”

“You are the most idiotic, stupid man I know.”

Vico stared at her in stunned silence. The blond man, who clearly wasn’t stupid at all, kept his peace.

Lise jerked herself out of her seat. “I’ll see you back at the flat. Much to my regret.”

Before either man could move, she stomped down the Paris street, anger bubbling inside, but also, relief. All her lust and affection were gone. In one single second of male arrogance.

She knew what a girl should do.

Return to London. And fight hand and tooth for her company.

T
he woman was driving
herself into the ground. And driving him insane.

Vico sat at his office desk, his fingers tapping on the glass top.

He waited for his wife. Waited for the inevitable fight.

Two weeks. Two weeks back in London and all the hard work he’d done in Paris was gone.

The first night of his honeymoon, he’d promised himself and he’d kept the promise. Sex was not what was most important. Laying a good foundation for the bridge he planned on building between them was. He’d turned his libido to off and made some decisions.

No loss of temper no matter how much she aggravated him.

No harsh words. No threats.

His entire focus had been on calming the nature of their relationship and establishing some kind of peace between them. More than anything else, though, his focus had been on getting her to relax, getting her healthy. Getting her to drop her defenses.

All his concentration on her had worked. Brilliantly, if he did say so himself.

“Mr. Mattare?”

Vico glanced at the intercom. “
Si
?”

“Mrs. Mattare is running a bit late.”

He growled under his breath. “Tell her I will expect her as soon as she’s free.”

“I will.” Sally clicked off.

His heart thumped with immediate worry, sweeping over the impatience. Was she ill again? Not inconceivable the way she drove herself. Fourteen-hour workdays would do that to a pregnant woman. Along with long stretches of work on the weekends.

He knew what she was doing. He knew what this was.

An avoidance tactic.

That last day in Paris everything had been coming together. He’d felt the pull, he’d felt her drawing close. They’d teetered right on the edge of something wonderful.

He’d instinctively known it, relished it, yearned for it.

But then she’d used his simple introduction to the leading architect in the world and his simple suggestion to change some things at HSF. Used them both by blowing everything all out of proportion so she could avoid what was right in front of her.

They were good together. They could be even better together.

The stubborn woman had spent the last night in Paris pouting in the bedroom. Then she’d given him the silent treatment all through the flight back to England. But her dictate to be dropped off at her own place as they drove away from Heathrow had delivered the final cut on the last string of his patience.

“You can drop me off in Mayfair.” Her cool instruction from the backseat of the limo had elicited a short nod from driver.

Vico's shock had quickly turned to determination. “Your clothing and personal items have been moved to my home while we’ve been away. There’s no need to go to your old place.” He met the driver’s gaze with a stony contradiction to her demand. The driver acknowledged this with another nod.

“What?” She went rigid beside him, her spine as inflexible as the Queen’s. “I didn’t give you permission to do that.”

“I wanted to make this transition as painless as possible.” Leaning over, he pressed the button and the darkened glass zoomed up, cutting them and their inevitable argument off from the driver. “Your friends agreed and helped with the packing.”

“That’s where you got the key to get in.” Her arctic tone slashed a cold streak up his spine.

“
Si.
” If he didn’t tread carefully here, the peace and companionship he’d cultivated in Paris would disappear. “There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“What I’ll worry about is how to get my things returned to my own home.”

Keeping the peace didn’t mean he’d sacrifice his pride. He turned from the window to stare into her glacial gaze. “You’re my wife. Your place is with me.”

“This is a sham of a marriage.” Her elegant fingers went white as she curled them into fists. “I don’t need to live with you.”

“You can call our marriage anything you want.” He settled back into the seat, trying for casual. “However, we were married in front of family and friends and business associates. All of them think this marriage is real. I want them to continue to do so.”

“You want. But it’s not what I want.”

“Lise.” He rubbed a hand across his face in frustration. “Be realistic. What will the tabloids print? What will the company directors say?”

“I don’t care.” Her stubborn words plunked between them making him look over to gauge his next step.

“I do.” His heart pounded in his chest as the realization washed through him. He’d lost any ground he’d gained during their honeymoon. He saw it in her eyes.

“That wasn’t part of our agreement.” The tightness of her lips told him he’d already tread across her line and right into the battle zone.

So be it. If he couldn’t save the peace, he’d at least save some time. “Taverwood Grange.”

There’d been no more objections.

There’d also been no remnants of any lingering Paris peace.

He’d known what was going on. Instantly. She was avoiding this sexual connection bubbling between them, exactly as she’d stubbornly ignored it through the honeymoon. He’d seen it in her eyes as she watched him from across a cafe table. He’d sensed it in the way she moved away from him when their shoulders touched as they explored the Latin Quarter. Her need had scented the air between them, driving him into one cold shower after the other in his Paris bathroom.

She was afraid of what would happen if they lived together.

His wife was nothing if not stubborn.

Vico stood and strode to the windows. The mid-September sun blazed down on the humid London streets jammed with traffic. The sun had been hot in France too. Still, there it had seemed hazy and dreamy and warm. Maybe his ever-increasing hope as the honeymoon proceeded had been the difference.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and fiddled with the few coins.

Had he really won when he’d forced her to live with him? Or as in every other fight between them, had he walked away with the medal but not the prize? Lise Helton Mattare was now physically ensconced in his home. True, it was in the bedroom farthest from his, yet she was there. In every way that mattered, though, he’d lost ground in his ultimate fight to make this marriage a good one.

She never let him take care of her now. She never smiled anymore. She never looked at him with anything other than hate once again. And she’d used his demand to live with him as an excuse to live at work.

Which had to stop. Today.

He had a responsibility to the
bambino
—and to her—to make sure she was well. Make sure she was taking care of herself. If the mulish woman wouldn’t do it herself, then he would make her. If it made her hate him more that was the price he would pay.

Shrugging his shoulders, he turned to see the door open behind him.

Fragile was the word that leapt to mind when he saw his wife. The rose of her Paris cheeks was now pasty. The gloss of her blonde hair, shining in the Paris sun, was now drab once more. The weight, the curves that had developed in Paris, the curves that had driven him to lusty distraction, had disappeared.

He was right to put his foot down. It was needed.

“
Vene
.” He gestured at her with impatience. He’d thought about having this conversation at home, but decided perhaps the office would provide more neutral territory. Maybe the fact she was still his employee would carry more weight in his demands.

“What is it you want?” Her words were clipped and cold. Yet she did step into the room and close the door behind her.

“Take a seat.”
Before you fall down
.

A streak of wry amusement ran through him as he realized he was always telling this woman to sit and she always fought him. The typical humph he expected came from her, but she did follow his terse instructions. Placing her hands primly on her lap, she lifted her chin and stared at him with icy disdain.

Vico strode to his desk and stood behind it. Stared right back at her. This was the right thing to do. The only thing he could do. “I have moved some of your responsibilities to another department head.”

Her spine straightened, her jaw locked. “You can’t—”

“I can. And I have.”

“The quality of my work—”

“Is not the issue.” He kept his gaze on her and kept his temper in check.

When they’d returned from the honeymoon, he hadn’t objected to her continuing to work.
Dio
, he had to admit the thought of sitting on a couch for months on end would drive him to distraction also. Plus, she’d recovered much of her health and he’d expected she’d realize she needed to take life a bit easier.

His expectations regarding the
Princesse
always seemed to be disappointed, didn’t they?

“Then what is the issue?” Her voice cut through his thoughts.

“Your health.”

“My health is perfectly fine.” She jumped from the chair with a jerk.

The wobble of her legs, the wash of white on her cheeks, proved his point better than his words could.

Folding his arms in front of him, he raised a disbelieving brow.

“I’m fine.” The mule of a woman kept fighting. “What right do you have to say any different?”

“The right of a husband? The right of a father?”

“Those are mere titles, not rights.” She waved his claim away. “I’m capable of taking care of myself.”

His temper surged, tugging at the leash of his control. “Eight-hour days at the maximum, Lise.”

“You can’t really believe—”

“No work on the weekends.”

“I will not—”

“You will.” He gritted his teeth, intent on keeping this as calm as possible. This could not be good for her or the baby, this confrontation. It was his duty to keep this as low-key as he could. Which was impossible with her. Still, he would try. “You will take care of yourself if I have to force you.”

“I am taking—”

“You are not. Look at you.” He cut the air with a curt hand of his own. “You look like a wet dishrag.”

“How dare you—”

“You will rest. You will eat. You will do what I tell you to do.”

His wife’s eyes widened, her brows shot up, and her body went taut. With a snap, she broke out of her frozen stand and stormed to his desk. Leaning over it, she spat the words in his face. “Are you for real, Vico? Or did you sprout from some ancient Stonehenge as a primitive philistine?”

Her attack was typical and expected, yet it prodded and poked his pride. “Call me any name you want. But you’re going to rest if I have to chain you to a bed.”

“Chain me to a bed?” She must have realized how the words sounded because a sudden rush of color came to her cheeks and she stepped away from the desk.

He was not a man to look a gift horse in the mouth. She was thinking of sex and he was happy to oblige. “The thought intrigues you?”

“Not in the least.” Her blush deepened. She took another step back.

A bitter laugh escaped him at her continued rejection of them. Of him. Irritation and annoyance turned and twisted into something else. “Why is it I don’t believe you?”

“You don’t believe anything I say.” She backed away again. “Why should this be any different?”

The twisting inside him screwed tight into a ball of ballooning resentment. Of tortured hurt. Mixed in with his ongoing lust, it ate right through the last line of mastery over his temper. He verbally struck out at her. Struck back at what she did to him inside. “Why should I believe a liar and a cheat?”

She stopped, stiffened. Her mouth twisted. “Let’s get one thing straight—”

“Only one thing?” he snarled, realizing his temper was off its leash and finding it impossible to catch it and tame it. “There are so many things,
mia dolce
, that we have to straighten out.”

Itching with the heat of his emotions, he prowled around his desk to confront her in the middle of the room. He half expected another retreat, but the woman surprised him.

She stomped right up to him and one of her long, elegant fingers poked him in the chest. “I may have lied to you once or twice, I’ll give you that.”

“
Grazie.
” He leaned down, sneering in her face.

“I had my reasons.” She held firm under his looming presence. “And those reasons still stand. You will never be a good father.”

Pain ripped a hole the size of Lake Como in his heart. He nearly gasped at the accusation, so unfair.

So true.

“But I never have been a cheat.” She kept going, seemingly oblivious to the blow she’d given him. “Never.”

The pain retreated, leaving only a yawning, gaping fissure. Before he could process his thoughts or emotions any further, his hands were tight around her shoulders and he’d lifted her off her toes. “Another lie.”

She had guts, his wife. Her frosty eyes stared at him with pure clarity. “I wasn’t engaged when we slept together. Robert had split with me earlier that night.”

The words hit him with a solid punch. He dropped her back on her feet because he couldn’t think, could only feel the primitive male inside him howling and screaming for something. Revenge? Forgiveness? He was afraid of what he’d do to her. What he’d do to himself.

Turning, he stalked to the windows and blindly looked down at the traffic.

That night? Split up that night? His brain whizzed over the events. A woman intent on getting drunk. A woman brokenhearted. A woman grabbing for the first man she found in a vain attempt to console herself for what she’d lost.

She hadn’t been lusting for
him
.

Hadn’t been driven to take him because she couldn’t help herself. Hadn’t dreamed of him for endless nights. Hadn’t ached for him through endless days. Far worse for his ego and his pride then thinking she was only rejecting him because of stubborn spite, she’d merely been using him to ease the pain and didn’t want him for anything more.

“Vico?” Her voice was tentative.

The breath in his lungs held, then gusted out in a near gasp.

That night had not been what he’d thought. Or dreamed.

“You must believe me.”

This woman destroyed him in every way. But it was too late. Too late to run and hide and lick his wounds. He was married. He was soon to be a father. He was doomed to endless regrets exactly as he had been fifteen years ago.