e conceived my baby in a test tube?”
“Artificial insemination,” she mumbled, her cheeks turning pink.
“Miss—what was your name again?”
“Rosalie Brown.”
“Miss Brown.” Alex lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll pay you double what Chiara did, if you’ll admit you’re lying.”
“Lying?”
“Admit I’m not the father of your baby.” He paused, tilting his head as he considered her. “That is, if you’re even pregnant at all.”
“Not pregnant?” Her voice was indignant. “Feel this!”
Grabbing his hand, she placed it on the swell of her belly. He half expected to discover soft padding, nothing more. Instead, he felt her belly’s warmth and firmness. He pulled his hand back in surprise.
She glared at him. “Of course I’m pregnant. Why would I lie?”
“Girl or boy?” he challenged, a little shaken.
“What difference does it make? A boy. He’ll be born in two months. You’re the father.”
“And you’ve come for a payout,” he guessed grimly. His mind was whirling. “You were already pregnant when Chiara found you. But she promised you a good deal of money if you could come to Venice and make me believe I was the father, so she’d get her divorce.”
“She wanted a divorce?”
“But when you heard she was dead, you were afraid you wouldn’t get paid,” he continued relentlessly. “So now you’re hoping I’ll pay you to go away.”
“What? No! You’ve got it all wrong!”
Alex turned toward the grand piano, topped by dozens of framed pictures his parents had taken with celebrities and politicians long ago. It was strange to see his mother and father smiling together in pictures, when he had no memory of them doing that when they were alive. “Then what do you want, Miss Brown?”
Rosalie stared at him, her lovely face pale. He was tantalized once more by his attraction for her, the shape of her, her expressive eyes, deep pools of midnight scattered with faraway stars. She took a deep breath.
“I want you to go away,” she whispered. “That’s why I came. That’s why I just got a passport and traveled across the ocean for the first time in my life. I want this baby to be mine. Because he is mine. He’s my son.”
Alex’s jaw fell. He recovered quickly. “You mean, you want my money—”
“No. All I want is my baby.” Reaching into her worn leather bag, she pulled out a small roll of dollar bills wrapped by a rubber band. She held it out to him. “Here’s what your wife gave me for pregnancy expenses. You can have it back. All of it.”
Bewildered, he took the wad of bills. He looked down at the money. It seemed a very small amount. He lifted his head.
“You don’t want anything from me?” he said slowly.
Rosalie Brown shook her head. A beam of sunlight burst through the salon’s large window, glazing all the old furniture with gold, making the room briefly seem warm and alive.
“Go, then,” Alex said hoarsely. “I don’t know anything about your baby. There’s no way I can be the father. So just get the hell out.”
He expected her to respond with angry words.
Instead, Rosalie suddenly flung her arms around him in a tearfully grateful embrace. With a sob, she kissed him fiercely and lingeringly on the cheek.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her lips brushing his ear. “Oh, thank you.”
Alex felt the softness of her full breasts against his ribs, the push of her belly against his groin. He breathed in the scent of her dark hair, like vanilla and orange blossoms.
Electricity sizzled through his body, like a burst of heat and sunlight of summer after a long, cold, dead winter.