‘You’re pregnant.’
‘You don’t say!’ But as she waved a sardonic hand in front of her bump, a tiny heel suddenly scooted across the drum-tight surface of her belly.
Did he notice the fear and joy and vague discomfort which must have shown on her face as she felt the movement of their child? Was that why he suddenly moved forward to place his hand in the small of her back, gently propelling her into one of the chairs by the side of the fire which she never bothered to light because it seemed too much like hard work? She told herself that if she hadn’t been so overwhelmed by everything that was happening, she might have stopped him. But then again, she might not. Because didn’t it feel delicious to have Xanthos’s fingers touching her like this—the sizzle of physical contact undeniably thrilling after so long apart?
And wasn’t it wonderful to have somebody to lean on?
And then, even more disconcertingly, he dropped to his knees and began unzipping her leather boots.
‘What are you doing?’ Bianca demanded hoarsely.
‘I’m making you more comfortable.’
He must have noticed her shifting restlessly and correctly concluded that her boots were hurting. And her stupid pang of disappointment that he hadn’t been bending down to produce a diamond ring was quickly superseded by the realisation that having someone remove her footwear in her current inhibited state, felt like the most caring thing which had ever happened to her. As well as spookily erotic. His thumb glided over her insole as he took off the second boot and the temptation to leave her foot resting in his palm and ask him to massage her toes was overwhelming, but somehow she resisted it and wriggled away from him.
‘We’ve already had the marriage conversation,’ she said, forcing herself to face facts instead of indulging in a fantasy which seemed to be getting more real by the second. ‘You weren’t a big fan of the institution, as I recall. In fact, you suggested I hunt around for someone else to be my husband. And nothing is any different since we had that rather difficult conversation—other than the shape of my body, of course.’
He went to stand by the mantelpiece, a study of power and poise, and although this meant Bianca was able to study him properly, it might have been better if she could have been spared that slow scrutiny. He had removed his snow-flecked overcoat to reveal a cashmere sweater in a cloud-coloured shade of pewter, which complemented his black hair and the olive-dark glow of his skin. His jeans were faded and moulded to his legs—as if they had been specially designed to emphasise his muscular thighs and the narrow jut of his hips.
He looked sexy.
He looked dangerous.
And, oh, how she wanted him. She hadn’t thought it would be possible for such a heavily pregnant woman to feel sexual desire, but it seemed that was patently untrue. She thought about the way he’d removed her boots and how indecently good it had felt. About the nights when she lay awake, alone and scared and longing for someone to hold. No, not justsomeone. Him, and only him. Sometimes she dreamt of him kissing her. Touching her. Being deep inside her. And then she would wake up and realise it had all been a dream and a terrible sense of despair would run through her blood, no matter how many times she told herself that such a reaction was ridiculous.
She ran her tongue over the parched surface of her bottom lip, but her thoughts just wouldn’t stop racing. Would it be so terrible to allow herself to wonder if a marriage between them could work?
‘I think a lot is different,’ he said quietly. ‘But then, I’ve had a lot of time to think about it lately. I’ve spent the last couple of weeks in Monterosso, with Corso.’
She stared at him suspiciously. ‘I thought you wanted nothing more to do with Monterosso,oryour brother.’
‘I thought so, too, but I was mistaken.’
‘Gosh.’ She couldn’t resist the tart observation. ‘You don’t strike me as a man who would admit to that very often.’
He nodded his head in brief acknowledgement. ‘You’re absolutely right. I don’t.’
‘So what happened to change your mind?’
Xanthos stared at a photo of her on her sister’s wedding day, enclosed in a golden frame, studded with emeralds. He thought how happy and smiling she looked—in contrast to the suspicious mask which Bianca wore today. Had he thought time and distance would have made her more amenable and she would instantly agree to his demands? Of course he had. But he had imagined that his own feelings on the subject would be as rational as they always were and he had been mistaken about that, too. The jolt of possession when he had first laid eyes on her today had been like a violent ambush on his senses and he had been unprepared for his reaction. The emotional fire which had raged through him when she’d opened the door to him was still burning, and he was uncertain how best to douse the flames.
She was looking at him expectantly and he realised that he would get nowhere unless he was honest with her. ‘Suddenly, I wanted to know more about my half-brother. The only person in the world who shares my blood.’ His gaze became hooded as he gazed at her. ‘Apart from the child you carry in your belly.’
He saw the colour leach from her cheeks, as if she was unprepared for the emotional quality of his words.
‘And my mother, of course,’ he added suddenly.
She blinked. ‘You’ve found your mother?’
‘No, but I have someone looking for her. That relationship seemed to be something else in my life which needed to be untangled. To try to understand why she did what she did. And maybe to know how it affected her.’ There was a pause. ‘You suggested a while back it might be a good idea.’
She absorbed this piece of news in silence before responding. ‘And did you tell Corso...did you tell him you’re the father of my baby?’
‘No, since it was obvious you didn’t want them to know, and I respect your wishes. I suspect they’ve worked it out for themselves, Bianca,’ he added wryly. ‘But I neither confirmed nor denied the fact.’
‘Go on,’ she said, a little uncertainly. ‘With your story.’
He stared down at the empty grate of the fire, before lifting his gaze once more. ‘Spending time in Monterosso gave me a chance to evaluate my life. To examine things I don’t usually care to look at. I told you early on that the man I believed to be my father had never liked me. It didn’t occur to me at the time why his resentment should grow with every year that passed and why it should eventually turn into the kind of hatred which was hard to live with.’ A bitter laugh resonated through him. ‘It wasn’t until many years later that I realised the physical differences between us must have been remarkable.’ He shrugged. ‘As a child you never really think about that kind of thing, but hindsight gives you remarkable clarity. He was short and portly and I was not. By the age of twelve I was taller than him. And I was strong.’