The Riccioni Pregnancy

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‘No wonder you’ve got thinner.’ His penetrating glance at her figure disapproved.

‘I’m not thin!’

‘Thinner, I said,’ he corrected. ‘You’re as lovely as ever—’

‘Thank you.’ Her voice was brittle.

‘—but you’ve lost weight.’

‘I’m getting more exercise than I used to. It’s healthy.’ She’d begun walking to work to save the bus fare when she’d been living in rental accommodation and her casual job wasn’t paying much. But she’d enjoyed the early morning exercise, except when Auckland’s fickle weather turned nasty. Her present job being largely desk-bound, walking to the office was a good way of keeping fit. ‘Do you still play squash?’

‘Yes.’

At one time he’d been a state champion; trophies lined the bookcase in his study where he sometimes worked at home. But after he turned twenty-five the business had gradually absorbed more of his energies. His grandfather had retired and his father had been anxious to groom the heir to take his place in the family firm.

‘How is your family?’ Roxane inquired.

‘Do you care?’

There it was again, that flash of acrimony like a searing flame darting through the steely armour of politeness.

‘Yes, I do,’ she said steadily. ‘I like your parents, and I miss your sisters, they were fun and very good to me. And your grandfather is a darling.’

‘But not his grandson.’

Roxane stopped trying to persuade a stubborn strand of spaghetti onto her fork and looked up. ‘I told you, Zito, it wasn’t—’

His closed fist thumped on the table, making the glasses jump, the wine shiver and sparkle in the light from overhead. ‘You told me nothing! Nothing that made any sense!’

Roxane had jumped too, and she felt her face go taut and wary.

He said immediately, wearily, ‘I didn’t intend to scare you again. This can wait.’

Zito had never believed in mixing food and argument, maintaining it spoiled both of them, that each deserved to be enjoyed in its own way. Nine times out of ten, he said, after a good meal an argument didn’t seem worth the effort.

Nine times out of ten he’d been right. And the tenth time, his way of resolving any issue between the two of them had been to make love to her until she could no longer think, until nothing seemed to matter but her need for him, and his for her, and every problem dissolved in the aftermath of passion. They had never, she thought with surprise, had a real quarrel.

‘Eat,’ he said, and she realised she’d been caught in a net of insidious remembrance while her food cooled.

A childish spurt of rebellion urged her to put down her fork and tell him she didn’t want any more. Instead she twirled more spaghetti and lifted it carefully to her mouth.

‘Do you feed yourself properly?’ he asked her.

‘I have perfectly adequate meals. Salads, lean meat, fish…soup in winter, and vegetables.’

He made a sound deep in his throat as though he didn’t think much of that. ‘Do you entertain?’

‘My personal entertaining tends to be impromptu and informal.’ The cottage couldn’t comfortably be used for large gatherings. Even the dining room that previous owners had carved from the original big old-fashioned kitchen didn’t have space for more than a table for six and a sideboard.

‘Tell me about this job of yours,’ Zito invited.

‘I started work with Leon’s catering firm soon after I arrived in Auckland, as casual labour. At first I was just serving food and laying tables, working lots of overtime…’ She’d needed the money. ‘After a couple of months he asked me to join the permanent staff.’

Leon had been impressed by her quickness, her reliability and her initiative. She remembered the inordinate thrill his praise had given her. ‘I could see,’ she went on, ‘that some clients would have liked more than food. Someone to organise invitations, publicity, venues—take care of the details of running a successful affair.’

‘You could see?’ Zito tilted his head.

That wasn’t disbelief, Roxane told herself. It’s just interest. Don’t be touchy.

‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘So I ran the idea past Leon and he said, “Let’s try it,” and put me in charge.’

‘Just like that.’

‘Just like that,’ she confirmed, and tried not to look smug. ‘I’m very good at what I do, and now I have the salary to prove it.’ Soon she would be able to afford new furniture and a few luxury items.

‘Congratulations.’

‘It’s small beer compared to the Riccioni empire, but so far we’re a roaring success.’

‘Deloras isn’t an empire, it’s a family business,’ Zito argued testily.

‘A family business worth millions.’ Maybe billions. She had never been privy to financial details.

‘That isn’t a crime. We all work very hard.’

‘I know you do.’ It was true of the men in the family anyway. The women weren’t expected to take part directly, as had been made very clear to her.

She was to keep house, which in practice meant ‘ordering’ a staff of three experienced people for a household of two, preside at parties and formal dinners for which the catering was performed by Deloras chefs and waiters, and attend functions that often seemed to have no other purpose than to allow the Deloras men to parade their success in the form of the clothes, jewels, beauty and breeding of their womenfolk.

At one of these extravaganzas, she’d complained to Zito that she felt about as useful as the magnificent carved ice centrepiece that graced the table before them. He’d smiled down at her and said, ‘You’re far more beautiful, and not nearly as cold.’

His eyes gleaming wickedly, he’d folded her into his arms and swung her onto the crowded area of polished floor where other couples were dancing under dimmed coloured lights to a slow, romantic tune.

Swaying rhythmically to the music, his cheek resting against her temple, he murmured to her reminders of the heat that they generated each time they came together as man and woman, his wonderfully sexy voice thickening as he described to her in explicit detail how she had reacted to him only the night before, how her responses had delighted him, how much he had enjoyed watching her total abandonment to pleasure. And what pleasure she had given him in return.

‘Zito, don’t!’ she’d finally begged him, embarrassed by the flush that burned in her cheeks, indeed over her entire body. ‘This is a public place.’

‘No one can hear,’ he assured her, bringing her even closer to him as he looked at her with glittering eyes. He had succeeded in arousing himself as much as he had her, she realised. His lips inches from hers, he said, ‘Shall we find somewhere private?’

She was trembling. ‘Here?’ The function was held in the ballroom of one of Melbourne’s historic houses. The whole ground floor was in use, and the upstairs region had been cordoned off.

‘Outside,’ Zito whispered. He leaned forward a little more, his lips barely touching hers for half a second. But instead of drawing away he bent to press another kiss to the smooth skin just behind the delicate silver and diamond pendant, one of his many exquisite gifts to her, that hung from her earlobe. The tip of his tongue traced the tiny groove, and every one of her nerve ends came alive.

Her teeth bit into her lip to stop a telltale moan escaping her throat, where her heart seemed to have lodged, a wave of sensation racing from the sensitive spot he’d teased, all the way to her toes, throbbing between her legs. For a horrifying moment she was afraid she would climax right there on the dance floor.

Pulling away, she looked at him with glazed eyes, her voice low and hoarse. ‘Find somewhere.’

Without a word he turned her, a hand on her waist just below the daringly dipped back of her bronze chiffon gown. He cut a ruthless swathe through the dancers and the chattering groups gathered at the edge of the room. Someone spoke to them and Roxane tried to smile in response, her facial muscles stiff, her cheekbones heated.

Zito curtly returned the greeting but didn’t slacken his stride, his arm sliding further about her waist and urging her forward.

Then he’d found a door and they were outside, where a few couples holding champagne flutes stood about on a narrow terrace lit by rows of coloured lightbulbs. It was cooler here, but not cold.

Zito didn’t hesitate, plunging down a shallow flight of steps and along a brick path that narrowed as it entered a darkened thicket of shrubs and trees. Behind them Roxane heard a woman laugh, a man rumble some remark.

‘Zito,’ she hissed. ‘People are going to guess what we’re—’

‘Let them.’

‘Zito…’ She made an effort to slow, stop.

Zito halted, both arms going about her. ‘Do you care?’ He kissed her quickly, thoroughly, his mouth covering hers, making her open it to him, his tongue feathering the roof of her mouth before withdrawing. His teeth gently nipped her lower lip.

‘No,’ she confessed recklessly, when he left her an inch between their mouths for her to reply.

Not speaking again, he propelled her further along the path, and they came on a small, unlit summerhouse. Inside Roxane saw the flutter of a light-coloured dress, heard a man’s slow voice and a whispered feminine answer.

Zito gave a smothered laugh and steered Roxane off the path between a couple of white-starred shrubs, the perfumed flowers brushing her arms and leaving a subtle sweet scent on her skin. They crossed a small moonlit lawn sheltered by surrounding growth, and under the shadow of a huge old tree he paused. The night was black here, the egg-shaped half moon that hung in the sky nearly obscured by leafy branches overhead.

He kissed her again, long and deep, and his fingers found the short zipper of her dress. It was the sort of dress that didn’t allow a bra, and when he slid it from her shoulders it fell about her feet.

Roxane gasped, and Zito bent, one hand still on her body, skimming down her back, and picked up the light, flimsy thing to drape it over a nearby branch.

‘Are you cold?’ he asked her, his hands touching her, caressing.

‘No.’ She was shivering, but her skin was on fire, her blood hot and heavy.

‘These next,’ he muttered, and her skimpy satin and lace panties joined her dress in the tree. Even through the increasing clamour of her senses, screaming for release, she was dimly grateful for his care of her clothing. Feeling silly wearing nothing but her high-heeled shoes, she slipped out of them, and a thin carpet of fallen leaves cooled her bare feet.

Somehow that added to the eroticism of this mad sexual escapade.

‘You’re incredibly beautiful,’ Zito told her. He stood only a breath away, but not touching.

Her eyes were adjusting to the night, and she could dimly discern the contours of his face, see the glint of his eyes. ‘You can’t tell,’ she argued shakily. ‘It’s dark.’

His hands came to rest on her hips. ‘There’s moonlight.’

There was, filtering in moving shards through the breeze-ruffled leaves overhead. His shirt glimmered in shifting patterns of white contrasting with his dark jacket and trousers. The fact that she was naked and he was still fully dressed in formal evening clothes was suddenly a fierce turn-on. Unfair but unbelievably sexy.

‘You’re a nymph,’ he said. ‘A naiad. Something out of a fairy tale.’

But Roxane knew she was all too human, her body was telling her so, loudly. Surely he could hear the singing in her veins, the roaring tide of desire that made her temples throb, shutting out all sound but her own quickened breathing and the seduction of his voice.

Slowly he moved his hands up to her breasts, and she gave a muffled cry, placing her own hands over his to press them to her, arching her body, her head flung back.

His mouth found the taut curve of her throat, roughly exploring it, and she removed her hands from his, undoing the zipper on his trousers, freeing him with clumsy fingers.

A breath audibly dragged in his throat, and then his lips were on hers again, his tongue plunging into her mouth, and she welcomed the intimate penetration, encouraging his aggressiveness. She felt both his hands lift her, cupping her as he backed himself against the solid trunk of the tree, and she opened her thighs, letting him enter her smoothly, deeply, satisfyingly, making her give a sob of pure relief. ‘Love me,’ she whispered, begging unashamedly. ‘Oh, Zito, love me.’

CHAPTER FOUR

HE DID, thrusting even deeper, taking her over, letting her consume him in turn, holding her safe and secure while she rode the waves of pleasure, his mouth on her shoulder, her throat, her breasts, sending her higher, higher, soaring into a familiar but intensely exciting world of darkness and dizziness and delight beyond belief, beyond imagination. Where he joined her, his own gutturally expressed pleasure bringing her to yet another pulsing, uninhibited peak while he kissed her mouth again and said against the gasping little sounds that forced themselves from her lips, ‘God, I love you!’

They stayed locked together for minutes, panting against each other. And then he handed her his pristine folded handkerchief and turned to retrieve her clothes, helped her dress and dropped a kiss at the top of her spine as he closed the zipper. She was still shaking, and he caught her against him and held her until she stopped, calling her darling and laughing a little anxiously but also with a hint of masculine triumph at her reaction.

They’d returned to the ballroom with her hand decorously tucked into the crook of his arm, and a glance had shown Roxane that Zito looked as well-groomed and self-possessed as always, but she headed straight for the ladies’ room and a mirror.

Although her hair, which she’d worn longer then, almost waist-length, because Zito liked it that way, had remarkably kept its casually elegant pinned-up style, her cheeks were hectically flushed, her eyes brilliant with huge glistening pupils, and her mouth moist and swollen and very red, although not a scrap of her carefully applied lipstick remained.

After repairing the damage as best she could, she’d emerged with her head high and for a decent hour or so had done her best to ignore the knowing glances and sly laughter she was sure were being directed at them, until Zito yielded to her urgent plea to take her home.

There, he’d laughed at her chagrined declaration that everyone had guessed what they’d been up to in the shrubbery, and told her it didn’t matter if they had.

‘I believe you’re proud of it!’ she accused him, and he laughed again, confirming her suspicion even as he denied the charge.

‘We’re married,’ he said. ‘We’re entitled to make love where and when we choose, provided we don’t frighten the horses. And it was fun, wasn’t it?’

More than fun, it had been awesome, amazing, but in retrospect she was slightly horrified that they’d been unable to wait until they got home.

‘I’m not going to boost your ego for you any further,’ she retorted, determined to wipe the lurking smile from his mouth. But he only laughed even more before carrying her to bed and making love to her all over again, this time in a sweet, languorous fashion that nevertheless ended in a shattering climax before she slept, exhausted, in his arms.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Zito put down his fork and pushed his empty plate aside.

Jolted back to the present, Roxane raised startled eyes and immediately lowered them again, afraid that he’d read remembered passion in them. ‘Nothing.’ She gulped more wine before digging her own fork again into her remaining pasta. With any luck he’d think it was the wine that was making her cheeks hot. ‘Do you want coffee?’

She hadn’t meant to offer him coffee or anything else. But it was the first distracting thing that came into her mind.

‘Not yet.’ Zito emptied the bottle into her glass, picked up his own half-full one and pushed his chair backward, hooking a hand into his belt and lifting one foot to rest it on the other knee. It was a pose he’d adopted often when they were alone at home. He found it relaxing…she found it very sexy. It was so outright male and so unconsciously demonstrative of how comfortable he was with his own body.

Averting her eyes, Roxane hurriedly scooped up the remains of her meal, trying to blank her mind, pausing only to help the spaghetti down with wine.

‘Shall I make it?’ he asked.

‘What?’ Fleetingly she glanced at him.

‘Shall I make the coffee?’ he repeated patiently. ‘You’re tired.’

Thank heaven if he thought that was all it was. ‘No, I’ll do it.’ Having offered, she could hardly retract now. Standing up, she stacked his plate on top of hers.

Zito got up too, taking them from her. ‘Okay, you do it while I deal with these.’ He walked to the sink. ‘You don’t have a dishwasher?’

‘I don’t need one.’ She made herself stop looking at the way his haunches moved inside the fabric of his trousers, and turned to the coffee-maker on a small trolley between the fridge and the stove. She couldn’t offer Zito instant, although she knew he’d accept it courteously and drink it with every appearance of pleasure.

Or would he? As a guest he would never dream of implying any fault in the hospitality he was offered, but as her ex-husband he might feel no such obligation.

She reached for the coffee grinder and the dark roasted beans in their airtight container.