“Do you—” Gwyn forgot what she was going to ask as a flash of movement caught her eye.
Was that a little boy? He touched his lips to signal her to keep quiet as he climbed the rail that bordered the pool terrace then darted behind an oversize terra-cotta planter.
Vito followed her gaze and glanced backward at the empty landscape, then brought his alert frown back to her. “What’s wrong?”
She started to say, “I saw a little boy—”
Before she could get the words out, the boy was barreling straight for Vito’s legs.
In the same moment, Vito’s expression hardened. He plunked his glass down and spun in a fluid motion, like he knew exactly what was coming. He crouched, grabbed, then threw the boy high into the air as he straightened, then caught him firmly and held him nose to nose.
“You little gremlin. I ought to throw you into the pool.”
“Do it!” The boy’s laughing eyes brightened with excitement. He splayed out his arms and legs, ready to fly through the air into the still, blue water despite being fully dressed.
“I won’t,” Vito told him, hitching the boy’s wiry figure onto his arm so they were eye to eye. “That’s your punishment for trying to push me in. No swimming at all. Say hello to Miss Ellis,” he said, indicating her with a nod. “This is Roberto. He has all of his mother’s sass and twice his father’s disregard for danger.”
“I was going to come in with you,” the boy excused, curling his arm around Vito’s neck and pressing his cheek to Vito’s with open trust and affection. He was speaking perfect English but could have been Vito’s son, his looks were so patently Italian. He turned his attention to Gwyn and pronounced what sounded like a coached speech. “It’s nice to meet you. Welcome to our home.” He offered his small hand for a shake, making it a firm one.
“It’s a beautiful home,” Gwyn said, ridiculously charmed, even though he couldn’t have been more than five. “I’m very pleased to meet you, too.”
Roberto gave her a stare reminiscent of Vito’s most delving look.
“Are you American? Mama is Canadian and sometimes people think she’s American, but your accent is different. You sound like our housekeeper in Charleston.”
“Good ear,” Gwyn said with a bemused smile. Honestly, he had more sophistication than some thirty-year-old executives she had met.
“Did you drive here yourself? Where is your father?” Vito asked, giving the boy a little bounce.
“He won’t let me drive,” Roberto said with a disgruntled scowl, then pointed to the top floor. “He’s putting Bianca in her bed. She fell asleep in the car. She has a cold.”
“He brought both of you? How is your mother?”
“So pregnant,” a woman said, coming out the back door of the house.
Lauren Donatelli was very pregnant, but carried it beautifully on her tall frame, glowing and graceful as she came down the short flight of steps onto the pool terrace, nary a waddle in her step.
Gwyn recognized her from photos she’d seen in the Charleston news several years ago, along with the odd image published in the company newsletter where Lauren invariably stood next to Paolo looking warm and approachable despite how aloof and distant her husband always seemed.
“Hi, I’m Lauren,” she said, offering her hand.
“Gwyn,” she murmured, and tried to thank her for the loan of clothes, but was waved off.
“Anything for Vito. Hello, caro,” she said to him. He stooped a little so she could kiss both his cheeks.
“Should you be anywhere but a maternity ward?” he asked her.
“I offered to check myself into a clinic, but the doctor said there was no point since it will be at least two weeks. Paolo wouldn’t let me stay in the city without him, of course. His mother is at the house, but you know what he’s like. Won’t let me out of his sight.” She shook her head in exasperation.
“Roberto was born inside their front door. Bianca delivered in a car,” Vito informed Gwyn.
“It was easier to lose the paparazzi waiting at the gate if we made it look like we were going for a simple family outing,” Paolo said, arriving with a baby monitor that he set on the table next to Vito’s wineglass. “Miss Ellis,” he greeted with a cool nod.
“Signor Donatelli,” she murmured, intimidated to the soles of her feet.
Thankfully his son pleaded, “May I swim, Papa. Per favore?”
“Vito and I must talk about work, but if you put on your trunks you can come to the shore with us and wade.”
“Yes!” Roberto dropped out of Vito’s arms and started to run toward the house.