Charlotte closed her eyes, held her breath and prayed for something witty to say, because right now she just felt trapped.
“We still have two days,” Brando said quietly, “two days before you fly to London. Let’s say no more now, and let you have some time to yourself. We can discuss this again at dinner.”
Her eyes opened and she looked at him a long moment before she gave her head a short, regretful shake. He was beautiful, and fascinating, but not the man she’d marry. Not a man she could plan a life with, either. He loved women, loved sex, loved his freedom. He’d be a terrible husband, and he’d break her heart because she wouldn’t be able to share him, nor would she be able to forgive him for being in other women’s beds. “My feelings won’t change.”
“Neither will the facts. We’re having a baby. We have to put aside our differences—”
“I don’t think we can.”
“Let’s leave it for now. We have tonight.”
In her bedroom, Charlotte curled up in a chair near the window, pressed her fist to her mouth and stared out the window at the valley trying to calm herself and yet unable to relax, annoyed by Brando’s high-handedness, and frustrated by his inability to listen to what she wanted and needed.
This was why she didn’t date powerful men, or powerful, wealthy men, and this was why she didn’t want to become part of a powerful man’s family...or any family that made edicts and rules and told her how she was supposed to live and behave. She wanted to be herself. She wanted to be her own person.
How did she become so good at handling family strife? Because she’d grown up in it. Immersed in it. And would have drowned in it if she hadn’t figured out how to rise above.
The point was, she understood family dynamics, and family politics. But just because she understood it didn’t mean she wanted to spend her future answering to others. It was bad enough that she still had her own family to contend with, but to marry Brando, and to suddenly have to deal with the Ricci family, as well?
No.
It wasn’t going to happen.
His family were not bad people, and she’d enjoyed them as an outside consultant, but Riccis were very strong and opinionated, and passionate, and forceful with their thoughts and feelings. Her family, on the other hand, were quieter, and judgmental, and distantly disapproving. One still had to measure up, but the interactions were different, and the expectations were communicated differently. She didn’t know what was worse: the fierce, expressive discussions that took place in passionate families, or the cool, disapproving silence of her family. Either way, she preferred the calm of living alone, on her own terms, able to make the decisions that were right for her.
During dinner Charlotte felt as if she was on pins and needles, waiting for Brando to launch into another persuasive speech about why marriage was the right choice for them, but he didn’t. Instead he asked her how much she knew about the wines of Tuscany, and when she said she knew very little other than Chianti was considered the most popular red wine from Tuscany, he gave her an interesting history of winemaking in Tuscany, explaining that Sangiovese, the most commonly plated red grape, and the basis for Chianti Classico wines, was such an ancient grape in Italy that many considered it indigenous to the area. “It’s a grape that has a very long growing season, budding early, and then needs time to ripen. In the industry, we say it’s slow to ripen.”
“Not all grapes are slow to ripen, then?” she asked.
“We have mutual friends in Napa Valley, and their Chardonnay and Pinot Noir are both early ripening grapes. Cab, Merlot, Sangiovese are late varieties.”
“Is that what brought you to California last year?”
“No.” His gaze met hers and held. “You did.”
“Me?”
“Mmm-hmm. I’d hoped to see you again.”
She felt herself flush. “We agreed there would be just that one night.”
“Most women don’t mean it.”
She grew hotter, her skin hot and prickly across her cheekbones, her lips tingling, too. And just the tingle in her lips made her remember how good his mouth had felt on hers, and how his kisses had drawn her in, pulling her under, seducing her like nothing she’d ever known before. “I’m not sure how to respond to that.”
“You’re remarkably good at compartmentalizing.”
But ah, she wasn’t, and she hadn’t found it easy to put him behind her. She’d felt almost desperate with desire, and she’d craved him for weeks after her return to Southern California. The desire and her emotions had been so intense they’d scared her, making her feel alien even to herself. In the end, being with him that night hadn’t been a release, but a bond, and now the ties to that bond were tightening. Her stomach did an uncomfortable little flip and she forced herself to respond, feigning a cavalier attitude she didn’t feel. “You mean, good at compartmentalizing for a woman?”
“I’m not sexist.”
“Oh, you most definitely are. You’re the one expecting me to move here. You’re the one that won’t even consider other arrangements.”
“Nothing is in stone. I’m open to discussion, open to suggestions. How should we make this work, cara?”
Again, she bristled inwardly at the endearment. He said them so easily, dropping them like overripe cherries, even as he neatly turned the tables on her. “There is no simple solution. It’s one of the reasons I’ve waited to come to you. I needed to accept what’s happening, and then problem-solve. And I’m here now, because I believe that at least for the baby’s first year, the baby should be with me—”
“Then how will our baby bond with me?” he interrupted, his expression still pleasant but there was a new, steely edge to his voice.
“Fathers bond with their children later... They’re never fond of the baby stage and tend to feel useless until babies are weaned and able to have more independence and mobility.”
Brando looked at her for a moment before laughing, and not just a little laugh, but a big, deep laugh as if he’d never heard anything half so amusing. “I don’t know where you get your information from, but it’s wrong.”
“It’s common knowledge.”
“Is it?”
Again, he made her hackles rise. “My father had no use for babies. My brothers are useless until the toddler stage, but even then, they hate it when the children cry for Mummy.”
“Maybe it’s cultural, then, because my father was very hands-on, from day one. My brothers all helped with the night feedings by changing diapers, bringing the newborn to their wives and then burping the newborn before returning to bed. Marcello and his wife have a young baby now, and they’re in the middle of the sleepless-night phase. Marcello is exhausted but he said he wouldn’t trade this stage for anything. It’s when he feels closest to the bambino, and the most needed.”
His words filled her with a strange yearning feeling, which was so strange since just a moment ago she felt fierce and angry. She hated the rioting within her making herself feel as if she were a living kaleidoscope. “You paint an idyllic picture.”
“Well, I’ve left out the colic, and the baby that won’t sleep at night, but insists on napping all day, or the exhaustion from trying to cope with an inconsolable infant who won’t stop screaming.”
She just looked at him, unable to think of a thing to say because it struck her for the first time that he might know more about newborns than she did.
“It’s easier to parent as a team. I think we should work as a team,” he added. “I think we’d be most successful as parents that way.”
She suddenly needed air. She needed to move and breathe and she couldn’t do it in the dining room, as elegant as it was. “Would you mind terribly if we stepped outside? I’m feeling overly warm.”
“Let’s step outside and walk a bit. It might be a little cool, though.”
&n
bsp; “I’m sure it’d feel good.”
It was cooler outside, but not cold, and there was a light breeze that carried the fragrance of flowers, freshly cut grass and warm soil. It was rich and ripe and pungent and Charlotte breathed deeply, drawing the layered scent in, reminded of her family’s country house in Sussex.
“How are you feeling now?” Brando asked her as they walked along the pea gravel path that led from the house and into a long, rectangular walled garden, the pale gray stone walls lined with neatly pruned boxwoods, the center dominated by an ornate fountain that looked as if it had been there for hundreds of years, and two ornate flower beds. The light was just now fading, painting the garden shades of lavender and plum.
“A little better,” she said.
“That doesn’t sound very convincing,” he replied.
She didn’t answer, and he said nothing. They walked the length of the walled garden in thoughtful silence, and then did another lap, completing a full circle of the garden.
“I’m just scared,” Charlotte blurted, stopping next to the fountain. “I feel like everything is moving faster and faster, and I feel like I’m losing control.”
“You’re entering the final trimester. It won’t be long until the baby arrives, and that is a loss of control. Everything will be different, for both of us.”
The baby gave a kick just then and she inhaled and put a hand to the side of her bump.
“Moving?” he asked.
She nodded. Impulsively she reached for his hand, and placed it where hers had been, pressing his palm to the spot she’d felt the kick. For a moment nothing happened, and then it happened, a swift, little kick, or stretch. She looked up into his face to see if he’d felt it.
His jaw had firmed, and his lips pressed, but his silver gaze softened, and there was a look of wonder in his expression. “Sorprendente,” he murmured.
Amazing.
Her eyes burned, hot and gritty, and she blinked, chasing away the stinging sensation, but she couldn’t erase the aching lump in her throat. Quickly, she let go of his hand, suddenly self-conscious, aware that she’d reached for him, creating an intimacy neither of them wanted.