Daisy looked at him sideways beneath her lashes. “Maybe.”
Glancing at their innocent baby, who seemed to be staring at them with big brown eyes, drool coming from her mouth as she’d just gotten her first tooth, Leonidas sat down next to his wife at the table. “Maybe we can have a lot of quality time later.”
Smiling, she put her hand on his cheek. “Maybe.”
They’d been married for nearly a year, but for Leonidas, it felt like they’d just met. Every day, he felt a greater rush, a greater thrill, at the joy of being with her.
But at the same time, he felt safe. He felt adored. He felt...home.
In the four months since they’d returned to New York, many things had changed. Daisy had become the most in-demand portrait artist in the city, all the more celebrated because she took so few clients. “I’m already so busy with our baby, and you,” she’d said. “I simply don’t have time for more right now.”
Who was Leonidas to argue? Whenever she was ready to become a full-time artist, he suspected Daisy would take over the world. He felt so proud to be her man. Especially since, as she often told him, he was the one who’d given her the courage, and inspiration, to draw again.
He was home more now, too. His company was in the process of hiring a new CEO, as Leonidas had decided to step back and merely be the largest shareholder. “I don’t have time for more,” he’d told his wife tenderly. “I’m already so busy with the baby. And you.”
He was glad to be leaving the company in good shape. The shocking scandal of his birth, building on the soap-opera-like quality of his wedding and fatherhood—which had already gone viral on social media—had created so much outrageous publicity that Liontari’s brands had all gone up an average of six percent, causing a huge leap in shareholder value. Even the story that, as a rebellious, heartsick teenager, Leonidas had chopped up his mother’s Picasso with scissors when she abandoned him, somehow had added a darker, sexier edge to some of his more traditional brands. Even the most elite, art-loving clientele had forgiven Leonidas for it, after he’d donated the Picasso to a museum last month.
He’d once believed that if people ever learned the truth about him, they would destroy him with pitchforks and scorn. Instead, he’d become some sort of folk hero. He’d heard rumors of a telenovela in development, based on his life.
People were complicated, he thought. Success could be fleeting. All you had to do was look at Franck Bain, once so successful, to see that. A week after the man had fled Daisy’s rented cottage in California, he’d been arrested in Japan for trying to pass off a supposedly lost Van Gogh.
Leonidas shook his head. He couldn’t pretend he regretted the man’s imprisonment. He deserved it. Though Leonidas liked to believe he was a changed man, an understanding, loving person who would never think of taking vengeance on others, he was glad he didn’t have to prove it with Bain.
And it left Leonidas free to move on with his life, to more important things, like spending time with his wife, his child and his friends. They were all that mattered. The people who loved him. He loved them, too. Daisy and Livvy most of all.
He looked down at his wife now as she sat at the kitchen table. She gave him a mysterious smile. He was intrigued.
“Are you hiding something from me?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Yes,” he whispered, leaning forward. Drawing his hand down her long dark hair, he moved his lips against her ear, soft as breath. “And you’re going to tell me.”
He felt her shiver beneath his touch. He ran his hands over the blush-colored silk, softly over her shoulders, to her back, to her full breasts...
Her very full breasts.
He blinked, then pulled back, his eyes wide as he searched his wife’s gaze. “Are you... You’re not...”
“Not pregnant? I’m not.”
He exhaled, shocked by his own disappointment. He hadn’t even been thinking about trying for another baby, not yet. After all, Livvy was only seven months old. Was he really ready for another baby in the house?
More mayhem. More chaos. More love.
Yes, Leonidas realized. Yes, he was. He wanted another baby. Or six. A large family, big enough for a football team—that sounded perfect.
But there was no rush. He’d just keep putting in the practice, intensely and passionately, every night in bed. A smile traced the edges of his lips. It was a tough job, but someone had to do it.
“It’s all right,” he said huskily, lowering his head toward hers. “We’ll keep trying...”
Daisy put her hand on his chest, stopping him before he could kiss her.
“I’m not,” her green eyes twinkled, “not pregnant.”
His forehead furrowed as he searched her gaze. Then he sucked in his breath. “Not not pregnant?”
Daisy ducked her head, her smile suddenly shy. “It must have happened at Christmas. Maybe Christmas Eve. That time under the tree...”