Rosalie drew back, looking up at him, and he felt the rush of cold air against his body where her warmth had just been. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she choked out, “You don’t know what this means to me. I was afraid to even hope.” Reaching into her bag, she pushed a document into his hands. “Please sign that and send it to the medical clinic in San Francisco. Just so they don’t give me any trouble.” Wiping her tears, she tried to smile. “Thank you. You’re a good man,” she whispered, and turning, she left.
Alex stared after her in shock. Then he looked down at the paper in his hands. It was a legal document that would sever all his parental rights, according to California law.
Why would Rosalie Brown come all the way to Venice, claim to be the mother of his child, but not ask him for any money?
He looked at the small roll of American dollars in his hand. In fact, she’d given money to him. None of this made sense.
Unless her story was true.
But it couldn’t be. Because however much Chiara might have wished to put a diabolical plan like this in motion, how could she? There was no way he could be the father. The San Francisco clinic couldn’t have had access to his DNA. He hadn’t been to California in years.
Unless—
With an intake of breath, Alex remembered his visit to a Swiss medical clinic, early in his marriage, when he’d still hoped for a child and had wondered why they hadn’t conceived. He’d gone to get tested for problems, and agreed to let them keep the samples for the future, just in case. Could it possibly be—
His lips parted.
Yes, he realized. It could. His dead wife, so clever and ruthless, must have known he’d demand a paternity test. The baby would have to be provably his; blackmail would never work otherwise. She could have bribed her way to getting his sample from the Swiss clinic, and had it sent to San Francisco.
The thought was chilling. Had Chiara found a way to take her revenge, even from beyond the grave?
Could it really be possible that Rosalie Brown, a woman he’d never met before today, was pregnant with his baby?
CHAPTER TWO
“ARE THEY STILL HERE? Why won’t they leave?” Rosalie’s wizened great-aunt whispered in French as she stood in the kitchen doorway, staring at the tourists singing on the other side of her restaurant. Looking at Rosalie, she scowled, putting her hand on her hip beneath her frilly apron. “And for the last time, stop smiling! It’s enough to curdle the eggs!”
“I’m sorry—I can’t help it.” But it wasn’t just the singing tourists who were making Rosalie smile. The truth was, since she’d arrived at Mont-Saint-Michel two days ago, she’d barely stopped grinning.
Her baby was hers.
Well and truly hers. When she’d left San Francisco for Venice, she’d thought it an impossible dream.
But that dream had actually come true. Rosalie could keep her baby. Her child was hers alone. Now and forever.
Joy lit up her heart. Standing by an empty table, she did an impromptu little dance, hugging her huge belly.
We’re a family, baby. You and me.
And she felt her unborn baby dance with her, turning over, kicking his joy.
“Do not dance in the middle of my restaurant!” Great-aunt Odette looked scandalized. “You are acting as drunk as the tourists!”
“Drunk on happiness, Tatie,” Rosalie replied fondly, giving her a big kiss on the cheek. Her white-haired great-aunt pulled away, wiping her cheek.
“My sister never should have moved to America. You do not know how to behave! You are embarrassing yourself!”
But her words had no sting. In spite of her bluster, her aunt was hiding a smile. For about the hundredth time, Rosalie was glad she’d had a few extra days before her scheduled return flight to California. Since getting custody of her baby had been so unexpectedly fast and easy, she’d taken the train from Venice to see her great-aunt in France. Odette Lancel owned the most popular omelet restaurant on the tiny island of Mont-Saint-Michel, in the village beneath the medieval abbey, clinging to the rock jutting from the sea.
Not that Grande-tante Odette had been happy at first to see her only relative show up
on her doorstep, unmarried and heavily pregnant. That first day had been filled with many French scoldings which, fortunately, Rosalie had been too happy to take to heart. But Odette Lancel had made it clear she thought her young great-niece exceedingly silly to have gotten pregnant via surrogacy, and even more naive to now plan to raise the baby alone.
“A baby needs two parents, ma petite,” Odette had told her firmly. “And as foolish a child as you obviously are, I know you had a happy childhood. Your mother was a dear creature, and I know you loved your father. And they loved you...”
At the mention of her parents, Rosalie’s joy had briefly dimmed. She couldn’t bear to remember her wonderful parents who had died, and the happiness of her childhood home, all lost forever. Because of her.
And Chiara Falconeri, too, had died. Rosalie had met the beautiful, chic Italian woman only briefly in San Francisco. Such a tragedy, dying so suddenly. And apparently her marriage, far from being happy, had in truth been a misery. She’d died with her lover, cheating on her husband. After she’d created the child without Alex Falconeri’s consent—trying to force him into a divorce?