‘Because we couldn’t have taken Connor abroad with us. He has no documentation right now—’
Milly frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Gianni sighed. ‘Milly, you slipped right back into your true identity because it was already established. Our son, however, was registered at birth as the child of Faith Jennings. That has to be legally sorted out before he can be issued with a new birth certificate.’
‘My goodness, I never even thought about that!’
‘It’s in hand. Don’t worry about it. But as soon as Christmas is over I have every intention of finding a hot, deserted beach and bringing in the New Year—’
‘With Connor and a bucket and spade?’
‘I’m not listening. Fantasy is all I’ve got right now,’ Gianni muttered raggedly, whisking her deftly behind one of the marble pillars that edged the dance floor and hauling her up to his level again to repossess her soft mouth with hot, driven urgency.
Milly caught fire. ‘Gianni—’
‘You’re like too much champagne in my blood.’ He bowed his arrogant dark head over hers and snatched in a fracturing breath. ‘You push me to the edge. Sometimes I need you so much it hurts.’
Already dizzy with desire, Milly experienced a joyous flare of sheer happiness. Had he noticed what he had said? Not want but need. Gianni, who prided himself on never needing anybody or anything, whose belief in self-sufficiency was legendary, had admitted that he needed her.
And yet a few hours later, when they were finally in the privacy of their own bedroom, surprisingly Gianni was patience personified. He removed her wedding dress with gentle, almost regretful hands. He told her how gorgeous she had looked all day. He made sweet, tender love to every sensitised, shivering inch of her he uncovered. He took his time—oh, yes, he took his time—until she was twisting and begging, lost in incoherent urgency. And when he at last sealed his lean, bronzed body to hers, and possessed her with aching sensuality, it was the most sensational experience they had ever shared.
Two weeks later, Gianni watched Milly turn on the lights on the big Christmas tree she had sited in the drawing room of Heywood House.
She smiled like a happy child when the lights worked first time. But then she’d had plenty of practice, Gianni conceded. This was the third tree she had dressed within as many days. Several shopping trips to Harrods and other well-known retail outlets had yielded a huge collection of ornaments and other necessities. It was a very big house, she had pointed out, in an apparent attempt to convince him that she was just doing what had to be done. But the truth was that Milly adored the festive season, gloried in every single tradition, no matter how naff, and still left out refreshment for Santa Claus as an adult.
‘What do you think?’ she prompted expectantly.
‘Spectacular.’ Gianni looked past the glimmering lights to Milly, her fantastic hair tumbling round her shoulders, eyes bright as sapphires in her beautiful smiling face. ‘Christmas just wasn’t the same without you, cara mia.’
Milly stilled, veiling her eyes, not wanting to seem too conscious of that easy reference to the past. ‘Wasn’t it?’
‘Like Scrooge, I stopped celebrating it,’ Gianni admitted.
‘Oh, Gianni!’ Milly groaned, troubled by the imagery summoned up by that confession and heading towards him like a homing pigeon.
‘And, like grumpy old Ebenezer, I took particular pleasure in doing it.’
Milly linked her arms tightly round his narrow waist. ‘We’re about to have the most wonderful Christmas ever!’
And it would be, Milly thought with warm confidence. They had spent every hour of the past two weeks together, loving and laughing. She had never been as happy as she was now. She had never known Gianni so relaxed or so content. She loved watching him with Connor, revelling in the rough-housing that little boys enjoy, but she loved him most of all for his acceptance of their son’s occasional tantrums.
In fact, from that morning in Paris Gianni had been fantastic in every possible way. He had changed over their three years apart, she now acknowledged. He was more tolerant, more kind, less volatile, less driven. For Milly, it was deeply ironic that Gianni should be capable of showing her more caring tenderness now than he had shown her before he’d seen her wrestling on a bed with Stefano! And, unfortunately, that presented Milly with a major problem.
Every hour, on the hour, Gianni was proving that he could successfully put that sordid little scene behind him. As long as the subject was never broached, as long as it was left buried. She still couldn’t really understand how he could contrive to achieve that miracle. Could it be because he knew that sexually nothing had really happened that night? Gianni had accepted his brother’s lying explanation in its entirety. That she had been lonely and he had been drunk, that just for a few foolish minutes desire had overwhelmed decent boundaries.
Certainly Gianni had never doubted her guilt. She had been condemned for playing the temptress and punished much more heavily than Stefano. She was still very angry and bitter about that fact. But now she feared the risk she would be taking in challenging Gianni again. She might destroy everything they had recently regained; she might wreck their marriage.
And she still couldn’t prove that she was innocent. To believe her, Gianni would have to accept that Stefano was an out-and-out liar, capable of behaviour that might well have landed him in court in any other circumstances. That was a very tall order. But, even as Milly confronted that truth, she knew that it wasn’t possible for her to remain silent. She would just have to deal with the fall-out when it happened.
That same afternoon, Milly was coiled in Gianni’s arms in front of the log fire in the library, telling him between kisses about the new rose garden she was planning, when a knock on the door interrupted them.
With a groan of annoyance, Gianni settled her into an armchair. Milly closed her eyes sleepily.
‘Wake up, cara mia. We have a visitor.’
Something in Gianni’s flat delivery spooked her. Her drowsy eyes opened very wide in dismay when she focused on the young man hovering in the centre of the magnificent rug. It was Stefano.
CHAPTER TEN