Bound to the Tuscan Billionaire (9 page)

‘You'll learn to ignore them.'

‘Will I? I've got enough to do, learning how to be a mother.'

‘It's not like you to avoid a challenge, Cassandra.'

‘I've never been pregnant before.'

Her feelings were so strong, so confused. Marco was inviting her into his world, which was everything she had always told herself she must avoid. He was the father of her child, and there wasn't a part of her that didn't yearn for them to take that journey together. How often had she longed for a real home and a real family? But that wasn't what Marco was offering her. He was offering a part-time solution, which would make the inevitable break-up that much harder when it came.

‘You need help, Cassandra, and you know it. What's most important to you? Are you thinking of yourself or your baby?'

‘The baby, of course. You don't need to ask.'

‘Then you don't need to debate any longer. Come with me and your baby will thrive. I promise you that.'

‘Give me until tomorrow morning. I'll give you my answer then.'

* * *

On this occasion he couldn't refuse a pregnant woman the chance to think things through and so he booked into a local hotel. His frustration was mounting, likewise his impatience with Cassandra, who refused to give ground. He had made several fortunes and had found that process a whole lot easier than this. He had raised himself out of the gutter without half so much soul-searching.

When it came to it he found he couldn't wait until the morning, so he called her up on the phone.

‘I've given you my answer, Marco. I need more time.'

‘Nonsense. You know what you want. You're not an indecisive woman, so let me hear your decision.'

There was a long silence and then she said, ‘All right. I agree I probably do need a rest, but the sickness will pass, and then I want to work for as long as I can until the baby is born. I can't just come to Rome and do nothing. If I agree to come back with you, you have to allow me to choose a job, and you can't interfere with that. I don't want your influence helping me, and I don't want your money supporting me, but I am prepared to accept that my baby needs its mother in better health. So, if your offer's still on, you can pick me up in the morning, but only on those terms.'

She was setting terms for him? He had never, in all his years in business, been in a position where he was on the receiving end of terms.

‘This is what I want, Marco. You're right in saying I'm not an indecisive woman, and what I've suggested seems fair to both of us from my perspective. I won't be a drain on you, and you'll have a guest staying for a while who promises not to get under your feet.'

It wasn't his feet he was worried about.

‘Are you still there, Marco?'

‘I'm riveted.'

She ignored his sarcasm. ‘Do you agree to my terms?'

Her place was small but homely, and Cassandra was not a helpless woman. He knew that to have her agree to his suggestion was a measure of how sick she felt.

As for her terms, terms were negotiable. Cassandra's health was not.

CHAPTER NINE

S
HE
WAS
SO
sure she had thought things through properly before leaving for Rome, but this was so much worse than she had imagined. Exchanging her tiny, cosy home for Marco's vast, impersonal penthouse was like being stranded on a desert island. The impressive door had barely swung open on the all-too-familiar hallway with its Caligula overtones when Marco turned to go.

He gave her no explanation. Why would he? He'd been working on the flight, and when they'd disembarked he had been on the phone in the limousine. Some important business deal, she'd gathered, judging from his decisive speech and stern expression. They hadn't spoken once during the trip, and were as distant now as if they were once again the billionaire and his part-time gardener.

She cringed with embarrassment when his driver put her shabby suitcase down in the hall before following Marco out. Her case looked like a boil on the pristine marble floor, and when she went to pick it up, a maid as starchy as her uniform whisked it away before Cass had the chance to touch it.

‘Your room is ready for you,
signorina
.'

‘Thank you.' She felt the hallway was spinning. Everything was happening too fast. She followed the maid to the suite of rooms that would be her home for the next few months.

How had she agreed to this? Cass wondered as she stroked her stomach protectively. She knew that her health had made it necessary, but even so her heart sank as she looked around. She knew how ungrateful she must seem, but she didn't need all this. She would happily swop these gracious surroundings for a few calm words with Marco.

‘If you need anything else,
signorina
...'

The maid was hovering by the door.

‘I won't, but thank you.' All Cass wanted was to be left alone.

‘If you change your mind, please call me on the house phone.'

‘Thank you,' she said again, wondering what Marco's staff made of her.

Nothing, she guessed. They probably saw lots of women arrive and leave without ever exchanging a friendly greeting with them.

When the door closed she turned full circle slowly. Everywhere was beautiful and light, and very spacious, but though it was all incredibly impressive, Marco's magnificent penthouse had more of an air of an exclusive hotel than a home. People slept here, and occasionally ate here, but they never left a personal mark. There were no photographs, no trophies, no memorabilia at all. There was absolutely nothing to give a hint of the type of man who lived here. Maybe that was Marco's intention. He had the reputation of being a cold, aloof man.

But not in bed.

That was all over now, she told herself sensibly. She was pregnant. He was suspicious. They were at an impasse. And for now there was nothing to be done about it.

The maid brought her a light supper of delicious salad and freshly baked bread. When the phone had rung earlier she had nearly jumped out of her skin, and had rushed to answer it, only to hear the dispassionate tones of Marco's chef, enquiring what she would like to eat and where she would like to eat it. She had said that she would prefer to remain in her suite. She couldn't face rattling around the opulence of the grand salon on her own, or the even grander dining room.

She had picked at the food and now she pushed it away. Crossing the room, she opened the door. It was all still and quiet on the corridor leading to the kitchen. Guessing the staff must have gone home, she took her tray back, only to find the chef and the maid eating supper there.

‘Oh, I'm sorry— I didn't mean—'

They stared at her as she backed her way out again. The kitchen was their preserve, not hers, their hostile stares clearly told her. This was a very different set-up from Marco's country estate, where Maria had always welcomed Cass into the kitchen for a friendly chat.

Marco's kitchen in Rome might have every sort of appliance known to man, but it lacked the one thing Maria's kitchen could boast, which was heart, Cass concluded. If only she could have gone to Tuscany to wait for her baby. It wasn't nearly as formal there, and Maria and Giuseppe had always treated her like a member of their family.

It wouldn't be so easy for Marco to keep an eye on her in Tuscany, Cass suspected.

Hugging herself, she returned to her room. She felt cold and lost. And she was stuck here. Until the sickness lessened she couldn't look for a job.

The vista beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows seemed to echo her feelings. The sky was uniformly grey, and the giant panes of glass were flecked with rain. A stubborn mist had descended over Rome, obscuring the stunning view. Pressing her hands flat against the cold, unyielding surface, she stared out, knowing Marco was out there somewhere...but where? She didn't know who he was with, or even if he'd be home tonight.

And it was none of her business.

With nothing else to do, she ran a bath in a tub big enough for two. The tub took ten minutes to fill, and it took her two minutes to take a bath. Climbing out, she grabbed a towel and headed off to bed. Drawing the covers up to her chin, she stared around what had to be the most luxurious bedroom she had ever spent the night in. It felt like a prison cell.

* * *

He spent a couple of nights away from the apartment, knowing Cassandra would be well looked after. His staff were under strict instructions not to let anyone in.

And no one out?

Cassandra needed to rest. He'd been quite firm about that. She'd been overdoing it and she still didn't look well. He had arranged a check-up for her with one of Rome's top doctors, a man known to be discreet. She would remain in the apartment until then. He had sent her a text with the man's contact number should she need to call him, together with his own emergency number, which was manned by his staff twenty-four seven.

Thx.
That was her response.

He couldn't blame her for being abrupt. He was hardly a wordsmith himself. The less said the better, he concluded, remembering his mother's drunken confessions once she had accepted that the man he had called
Papa
would never take them back. He had always thought the embarrassing confidences she had shared with an eight-year-old boy had damaged him for life. He had certainly never shared his feelings with anyone since. He would never impose that type of situation on anyone else.

His life had changed overnight at the age of eight. From having two loving, if distant parents he had become the sole carer for his alcoholic mother and estranged from his fathers—both of them—not that there had been any sign of the handyman who'd spawned him once the gravy train had crashed and burned.

He glanced at his phone and was tempted to call Cassandra, but he killed that idea. It was better that he stayed away from her.

And how long was he going to do that?

He smiled as he stretched out naked on the bed. The reaction of his body when he thought about Cassandra said it wouldn't be too long.

* * *

She heard the latch slip on the front door at about the same time she heard the maid and chef leave—her prison guards, as she'd come to think of them. In fairness, she had enjoyed the rest. She'd needed it. Once she'd slowed down the sickness had gone, just as the doctor had predicted. She tensed, hearing footsteps approaching. Who else had the key to the door? It had to be Marco. Her heart was thundering. This was the first time she'd seen him since she'd settled into his apartment. Feeling self-conscious, having allowed herself to relax, she quickly finger-combed her hair and bit some colour into her lips, and was then angry with herself for being so obvious. She was supposed to be resting after all.

‘Can I come in?'

Why ask when he was already inside the room?

Her heart was hammering so hard she couldn't trust herself to speak. She wanted to be angry with him for giving her no word of when he'd be back—or
if
he'd be back. But she was hungry for company—Marco's company—and her heart turned over at the sight of him, though he looked more dark and menacing than ever in his immaculately tailored suit.

And more remote, she thought as he stared at her. They really did come from two different worlds.

‘It's not too late, is it?' he enquired crisply.

Much too late, she thought, pressing back against the pillows as he walked deeper into the room. He took her breath away. He was so handsome, so swarthy, so compelling, and yet there was danger in those cold, remote eyes. She was determined not to let him see how forcefully he affected her.

‘I think I can stay awake long enough to say hello.' She shrugged, as if having a man like Marco walk into her bedroom didn't put her at a huge disadvantage. She was rumpled, and practically naked in bed, while he looked as if he had just stepped from the pages of a society magazine. Catching the pillow close, she hugged it like a shield. ‘I wasn't expecting you tonight.'

‘I didn't say when I was coming back,' he conceded.

‘Did you have a good trip?'

‘Yes, dear,' he said dryly, reminding her that where he went and what he did was nothing to do with her.

She held her breath as he prowled closer. There could be no running away or backing off. And that wasn't in her nature. She had come here of her own free will, with the intention of recovering her health. That was why Marco had brought her here... Or was it? she wondered, seeing the look in his eyes. It was a look she knew she should ignore, but her body thought otherwise. And it wasn't just her body calling out to him. It was her soul, her being, her essence doing that too. Because Marco was the father of her child. He was her mate. And she wanted him. She wanted to be in his arms again. She wanted to be lost with him—one with him.

Her world tilted on its axis as he sat down on the bed. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. He just drew her into his arms.

‘Tell me if you don't want this and I'll stop,' he whispered huskily.

She might have pressed her hands against his chest in some sort of weak protest, but there was no force behind it because she did not want to push him away. Whether or not it was pregnancy hormones driving her, the way Marco made her feel couldn't be ignored. It wasn't just the sex or the pleasure he gave her, it was being with him—just being with him and being close to him. There was no one on this earth who could make her feel the way he did.

She helped him to shrug off his jacket and watched as he loosened his tie. Breath shot out of her when he yanked her against his body, and she groaned when his hand slipped through the buttons on her pyjama jacket on its way to cupping her breast. His touch was so familiar, and so long missed. She grabbed a noisy breath, wondering if she would ever breathe normally again.

He set about teasing her senses, his thumbnail lightly abrading her puckered nipples. ‘Your breasts are bigger,' he commented with approval as he stripped off the rest of his clothes. ‘I like that.'

And he was magnificent. Naked and fully erect, Marco di Fivizzano was a big, rugged man, with none of the city sheen people generally associated with him. This was the man who hefted sandbags and hewed logs. This was the father of her child. And she wanted him—no questions, no criticisms, no complaints—she wanted him in the most primal way possible. She wanted to be one with her mate.

She was not expecting him to hunker down at her side, let alone that he would place the palm of one hand very gently on her belly. Dipping his head, he replaced his hand with a lingering kiss. She held her breath, but by the time he pulled back he was once again the brooding lover. Still, for that one moment he had been someone else— someone caring. Someone she would want to be the father of her child.

Marco soon distracted her. Burying his face in her breasts, he took her wrists in one big fist and pinned them above her head, and then he used his hands and mouth to drive her to distraction, forcing her to arch her hips towards him in an attempt to catch more contact from him.

‘Is this what you want?' he demanded softly as he trailed his fingertips over her body.

‘Yes,' she confirmed, shivering with excitement, knowing just how long Marco might be prepared to withhold her pleasure if she didn't answer him.

He eased her pyjama bottoms down and tossed them away, by which time she was going crazy for more and nearly screamed the first time he touched her. He knew exactly what to do. There was no teasing now, just gentle pressure in the right place, and a dependable, stroking rhythm. She had no option but to let go.

‘That was so good!' she exclaimed, gasping out the words when the starburst of sensation had dimmed enough for her to speak.

‘It seems to me that your healthy approach to life and sex is fully restored,' Marco observed dryly.

‘Seems it is,' she agreed.

‘Better now?'

‘Not yet,' she said quickly.

He smiled. ‘More?'

‘Please...'

As Marco eased one powerful thigh between her legs she exclaimed softly in anticipation of more pleasure. She felt so abandoned and exposed, and so deliciously excited. She loved the way he liked to watch. It always increased the level of her arousal. She didn't hold back—she couldn't. She had no reason to, and was still exclaiming in the grip of pleasure when Marco moved over her.

‘I'll be gentle,' he promised.

He kept his word, and she discovered how extraordinary this new, gentle sex could be. Marco used it to his advantage as he extended her pleasure for the longest time. She heard him laughing softly when, surprised by her inability to hold on, she wailed with shock and bucked vigorously beneath him. She writhed contentedly, beyond caring now—beyond anything but basking in sensation.

When she finally quieted, he slid slowly into her again and lodging himself deep he rolled his hips so that she lost it again, and then again. Withdrawing with a deliberate lack of haste, he paused, looming over her to stare down. His face was masterful and brooding as he watched her grip his arms and work her body hungrily on his. The last time before she fell asleep was so violent she might as well have been unconscious afterwards, and she only woke when Marco swung off the bed.