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‘I know how it feels.’
An unpleasant shock stirred in her stomach. ‘You have a child?’
‘I have Nicky,’ he said. ‘And I don’t intend to let him go.’
Deadlock. In his rock-hard face she saw the same unyielding willpower he’d exerted in order to get his hands on Dominic, to force through the paperwork that made him the baby’s legal guardian, ensuring there could be no comeback if Lia changed her mind.
She wasn’t giving up, but banging her head against the brick wall of his intransigence wouldn’t accomplish anything at this point. ‘I’d like to see him,’ she said.
‘He’ll be having his nap.’
‘I’ll wait.’ Short of bodily throwing her out, or getting a henchman to do it, he wouldn’t shift her.
He regarded her consideringly for several seconds, perhaps weighing how much of a fight she’d put up if he did physically remove her. Then he gave a short, surprised laugh, strode to a discreet intercom on the wall and pressed a button. ‘Two cups and a pot of coffee please, Mrs Walker,’ he said into the machine. ‘And something to eat.’
Switching off, he wandered to a window, looking out at the driveway and lawns. Perhaps realising it was discourteous to present his back to a guest, however unwelcome, he turned abruptly. ‘When did you begin watching the house?’ he asked.
‘Yesterday was the first time.’
‘Have you been in Australia for long?’
‘Since the day before.’
‘Where are you staying?’
She told him, but he didn’t seem to recognise the name of the bed and breakfast accommodation. Small, cheap and basic, it was no doubt not the kind of place that he or anyone he knew would even notice. ‘It’s clean,’ she said. ‘And quiet.’
He glanced out of the window, then returned his attention to her. ‘I tried to keep track of you after you left here. You moved about a lot. I didn’t know you’d returned to New Zealand.’
‘You had me watched?’ Resentment at the intrusion coloured her voice. ‘Why?’ Had he anticipated that Lia might one day challenge his guardianship of her son? Hoped for some damning sign that would count against her, strengthen his position?
His mouth went tight. ‘I wanted to know if you were all right. You’re Nicky’s mother, after all. And Rico loved you, however wrong-headed he was.’
Rico, his younger brother who had loved life and lived for the moment, impatient with the restrictions and expectations of the Brunellesci family. And who had paid the price and died far too young in the wreckage of his car, leaving a baby and a desperate, injured and grief-stricken mother who couldn’t cope with what had happened to her and her child.
Even after securing legal custody of his brother’s child, Zandro had been concerned about Lia? Hard to believe.
He might, she supposed, have been protecting the family’s reputation, perhaps afraid of what Rico’s lover might say about his brother, about his parents, about Zandro himself.
‘I managed,’ she said. ‘My…my friends helped, when I got back home to New Zealand.’
‘Better friends, I hope, than the ones you had in Sydney.’
Sydney was where Lia had met Rico, she on a working holiday from New Zealand, he escaping what he’d called the suffocation of his family home and business.
It had been love at first sight; at least that was what they’d believed. One look at Lia and no other woman existed for Rico—he’d told her so on their second meeting. She’d felt exactly the same. The pace of their affair was matched by the pace of their lifestyle—fast, frenetic, sometimes wild. They were young, heedless, caring for nothing but each other, the need to enjoy every moment as if they knew their time would be short, eager to explore every heady new sensation to the fullest. Perhaps deep down they’d known that such sizzling, euphoric emotion couldn’t last. But never had Lia dreamed it could end so shatteringly.
When she’d fled back to New Zealand it was to a totally different lifestyle, after finally realising how few people she could rely on once her laughing, handsome lover was dead, his money gone with him, her baby taken and her health broken.
A plump middle-aged woman entered with a tray that she placed on the table nearest the visitor. Noticing the compress as she straightened, the woman looked surprised. ‘You’re hurt? Can I do anything?’
Zandro looked at the compress. ‘Perhaps some more ice, Mrs Walker… Lia?’
‘No, it’s fine now, but maybe you could take this away?’ She unwound the compress, and when the housekeeper had left inquired, ‘What happened to Mrs Strickland?’
‘She retired and went to live with her daughter in Sydney.’ Zandro crossed the big room and poured coffee into the cups, silently indicating the sugar and milk on the tray. He picked up his cup as she added sugar to hers. ‘I would like to believe,’ he said, straightening with the cup in his hand, ‘that you have changed—a lot. Is that possible?’
‘What do you think?’ she demanded witheringly. ‘After losing Rico and having his baby snatched away, you supposed there’d be no change?’
Something flickered across his face, too fast for her to identify it. Chagrin, perhaps—surely not compassion.
It was quickly replaced by an impenetrable mask when he’d seated himself opposite her. ‘The fact is, you have no rights now. You agreed, and it was all legal and aboveboard.’
He’d been much smarter than Lia. Taken her to a lawyer—his lawyer—to sign over her baby to him. No doubt the legalese was watertight.
Her jaw ached and she looked down into her coffee, trying not to snap back a retort that would only antagonise him. ‘My information,’ she said, ‘is that a parent can rescind guardianship.’
‘Are you prepared to bear the scrutiny of a court on your suitability to care for Nicky?’
Aware of being on frighteningly shaky ground, she gulped some coffee and tried to sound confident. ‘If you insist on taking it that far. I have nothing to hide.’ A barefaced lie. She told herself—not for the first time—that desperate situations demanded desperate measures. Saving a child from a life of misery surely justified a few unavoidable falsehoods.
‘Nothing?’ He seemed incredulous, and again she experienced a nervous, dreaded uncertainty.
He couldn’t possibly have guessed her secret. His scepticism was based on what little he’d known of Lia months ago, after his brother’s death.
If her perilous bluff failed she would go to court, tell the truth and throw every resource she could muster into the fight to beat the Brunellescis and take Dominic home where he belonged. A proper home where he’d be loved for himself, not for what he represented to the future of a business empire. A home where love and understanding were more important than money, and success was measured by the quality of relationships and the satisfaction of a job well done, instead of company dividends. Where he’d be allowed to choose his career, rather than be indoctrinated with the idea that as a Brunellesci he was destined to be swallowed up by the corporate politics of the family’s various holdings. And where he’d never be forced into a role that would stultify him and break his spirit.
Zandro was staring intently at her. ‘A solo mother,’ he said, ‘with…let’s say dubious connections. And have you had a job since you left here?’ he pressed.
‘Yes.’ No need to panic. She didn’t have to answer his questions. Pre-empting the next one, she said, ‘I don’t have a lot of money, but I own a house.’ Her parents had left it mortgage-free on their deaths. Just an ordinary three-bedroom suburban bungalow in Auckland, but a house all the same. An asset. Of course she and Dominic couldn’t stay there—she’d have to sell it—but she wasn’t going to tell Zandro of her long-term plan. ‘I can make a good life for Dominic. I’ll give up everything to make sure of it.’
‘And how long will this altruism last?’
‘It isn’t altruism. It’s love. Maternal instinct.’ Boldly she met his eyes.
He made an acid sound of disbelief.
She ignored it. ‘You could help make the changeover easy for him.’
He finished his coffee in one gulp and put down the cup, then sat back and folded his arms, seemingly thinking. ‘He’s happy here, he has everything he needs, and if you’re the loving mother you’re pretending to be you’ll leave him.’
Her heart gave a brief lurch, and she forced herself to breathe normally and stay silent.
‘I propose that you visit him as many times as you like while you’re here—to satisfy yourself he couldn’t be better off.’
He didn’t begin to understand her compulsion. A mother’s frantic need to rescue a child she felt she’d deserted was only half of it.
He paused. ‘And if it works out, we can talk about visiting rights for the future.’
‘Visits aren’t an adequate substitute for living in the same house.’
Visiting could never equal having Dominic with her, watching him grow from day to day, putting him to bed each night—all the things that went with parenting.
Maybe Zandro had misunderstood. He said, after a pause, ‘I know it’s not the same. You want to move in?’
For a moment she didn’t comprehend what he was suggesting. Then she blinked. ‘You’re inviting me here?’
Almost certainly he was ruing it. His face was stiffly set, the angularity of his features more noticeable. ‘I’d like to reassure you that your son is in the best hands, and send you home with an easy mind.’
No chance—but she didn’t say the words aloud, afraid that he’d retract. Before she’d arrived here she’d told herself that Dominic’s material needs, at the very least, would be met. Even kindness would be arranged for, if not freely given. Yet the image had haunted her of a motherless baby, perhaps alone in some empty room of a huge, cold house.
Zandro had said that his nephew didn’t lack for affection. But, too young to understand though Dominic had been, surely he must have noticed the sudden absence of his mother, felt abandoned, insecure?
‘All right,’ she said. And with an effort, ‘Thank you.’
She wouldn’t be exactly welcome, that much she knew. What would Zandro’s parents make of the astounding invitation? Judging by his father’s attitude, she could expect to be cold-shouldered if not insulted.
But she hadn’t come here to be comfortable. She’d come because Dominic needed her, because this was an obligation she couldn’t refuse.
It seemed she’d surprised Zandro yet again. His hands gripped the arms of his chair before he slowly relaxed them. ‘I’ll ask my mother to have a room prepared for you,’ he said.
She felt a little dazed. Things were moving faster than she’d expected, although he’d promised nothing except that he would not give up Dominic. Did he really believe she would stay for a while, then pronounce herself satisfied with his arrangements for his brother’s child, and tamely leave?
He didn’t, she decided, have much imagination. But she wasn’t about to point out to him that throwing a pining mother into close proximity with her stolen child was unlikely to lead her to abandon it a second time. ‘When shall I come?’
Better strike while the iron was hot, give him no chance to find some excuse to rescind.
He shrugged, though she fancied it cost him some effort to appear so nonchalant. ‘Give me time to…inform my parents that you will be staying—for a while.’
Perhaps she’d imagined the emphasis on the last phrase. He didn’t need to worry. She had no desire to remain in the Brunellesci household for any longer than it took her to persuade them that a mother’s rights took precedence over any others.
She fought another twinge of conscience. By Zandro’s own admission his mother was too old and he was too busy to give Dominic undivided attention. While Domenico apparently took some distant interest in his grandson, no doubt he left practical matters of child care to his wife and the nanny.
No matter what they thought, a paid employee couldn’t give the same unstinting devotion to Dominic she could. He was all she had in the world now.
Grief threatened to overwhelm her and she turned her head, pretending to admire a large oil colour on the wall, a luminous study of a young girl in a white dress, perched on a chair before a window where gauzy curtains floated on an invisible breeze.
It didn’t really help, so she put down the coffee cup she’d emptied and stood up. ‘I’ll go then,’ she said, ‘and pack my things.’ It wouldn’t take long. Not a naturally pushy person, nevertheless she was determined not to let him back out. ‘I hired a car in town… Can I garage it here—or will I need it? I don’t suppose I’ll be going out much.’ And if she did, she could use public transport now there was no need for discreet surveillance.
He said, ‘Return it. I’ll send a car for you tonight.’ And after a slight hesitation, ‘About seven. You may join us for dinner.’
Gracious of him, she thought snidely, but bit back the urge to say it aloud. He probably wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news to his father that someone Domenico had called that woman—and, she suspected, something much worse—was about to invade his home.
She wondered if the old man might veto the idea and countermand his son.
Evidently if there had been objections Zandro had overridden them. The car arrived promptly—one of a fleet that specialised in corporate business, according to the logo on the side.
When they reached the Brunellesci house the driver spoke into the microphone, and in response the gates opened. He drove to the stone steps, where the door was opened by the housekeeper.
As the driver lifted the single suitcase out of the boot and set it on the verandah, Zandro’s deep voice said, ‘I’ll take care of that, Mrs Walker.’
He came forward, flicking a critical glance over their guest, evidently noting that she’d changed into a cool cotton dress worn with wedge-heeled sandals.
His greeting was coldly polite. ‘Good evening, Lia. Mrs Walker will take you upstairs. I’ll bring your case in a few minutes.’ He turned to speak to the driver.
The woman showed her to a large bedroom with embossed creamy-gold wallpaper, dimmed by trees outside that grew taller than the house. A bronze satin spread covered the queen-size bed. The adjoining bathroom was green-tiled and gleamed with gold fittings.
Mrs Walker left before Zandro arrived with her case, putting it down on a blanket box at the foot of the bed. ‘Do you have everything you need?’ he inquired.
‘Thank you. Yes, I think so.’ She too could be polite but not friendly.
‘You know your way to the dining room. We’ll be sitting down in about twenty minutes.’ He cast her a searching look. ‘If you’d like a drink first we’re in the front room.’
‘I’ll be down soon,’ she promised. ‘I’d like a gin and tonic if you have it.’
He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement before leaving.
She crossed the room to close the door behind him and leaned back against it, letting out a long breath. Zandro Brunellesci was not a man she could comfortably be in the same room with. Every time he came within touching distance she could feel the force of his personality, an aura of power, determination and authority, making her nerves skitter all over the place.
Staying in the same house with Dominic meant living with Zandro and his disquieting effect on her.
Moving away from the door, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the big dressing table. She looked apprehensive, her cheeks flushed with colour, eyes dark in the middle, the pupils enlarged, the green irises softened to almost grey.
She squared her shoulders, trying to banish the look. Sure, Zandro was intimidating, but she’d known that all along. Known too that she could—must—stand up to whatever obstacles he put in the way of her plans. And never let him know on what shaky foundations those plans actually rested.
One step at a time. The first was to go downstairs and face the enemy. The three faces of the Brunellesci family, ranged against her.
CHAPTER THREE
THE front room, Zandro had said. She followed the sound of voices to a door that stood ajar. The first face she saw on entering the big room was his. He was standing, talking with his father. Looking over the older man’s shoulder, he found her eyes, abruptly falling silent.
Domenico turned, his fierce gaze lighting on her as she paused in the doorway. She saw his hand tighten on the cane he held, then he drew himself up to his considerable height and gave her a curt nod. ‘Good evening, Lia.’
Walking into the room, she returned the greeting in a steady voice. Then she saw a motherly figure encased in floral silk, her greying hair pulled into a bun, ensconced on a sofa with Dominic snuggled into the angle of a comfortable lap.
The old woman looked up, her eyes wary, perhaps anxious. ‘Buona sera, Lia.’
Dominic wore some kind of one-piece pyjama suit, yellow and printed with teddy bears. Black curls covered his head, and his mouth was like a pink rosebud. Round, dark eyes regarded this new person with curiosity, and she took a couple of quick steps towards him, her arms lifting.
He turned from her and buried his face in his grandmother’s bosom, one tiny hand clutching at the shiny silk, roundly rejecting the overture.
Letting her hands fall, she felt exposed, and at a loss what to do.
Then Zandro was at her side, holding out a glass to her, his eyes commanding, willing her to take it. ‘Your gin and tonic,’ he said. ‘Drink it.’
His voice was low, with a rough edge. He took her arm and led her to a couch, where she wrapped both her hands about the glass he had pressed on her. It was cold, ice clinking as her hands trembled.
Of course Dominic didn’t recognise her. Her head knew that but unthinking instinct, the primal tug of a bond he couldn’t be expected to sense, and which had taken her unawares, had led her to make that futile gesture.
