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Liam was inclined to laugh off bumps and bruises unless he picked up on an adult’s anxiety—then things could tip over into hysteria.
There were tears in the limpid blue gaze that lifted to his father. Gianni smiled reassuringly and ran his hands lightly down his son’s body to check for any obvious injuries.
The boy blinked several times and bit his wobbling lip before he shook his head and said, ‘I’m fine … Fitzgeralds are tough.’
Gianni patted his son’s shoulder and gave a thumbs-up sign as he rose to his feet. ‘Good man.’
Miranda, who had watched the revealing interchange with a disapproving frown, was forced to swallow to clear the emotional lump in her throat when the boy returned the thumbs-up gesture and beamed with pride as he struggled valiantly to his feet.
This was a very appealing kid who obviously wanted to please his father, who was clearly a paid-up member of the macho ‘boys don’t cry’ school of thought.
She just hoped for this child’s sake that his mother provided a softening influence. If ever I have a son, she thought fiercely, I’ll teach him that a boy is allowed to have feelings. He’s allowed to cry.
‘You haven’t said I told you so yet.’ Gianni turned his head and arched a sardonic brow. Caught unawares, Miranda found herself pinned by a heavy-lidded cynical stare.
‘I haven’t said big boys don’t cry either,’ she fired back, unable to totally shake the illogical feeling that those mocking eyes could see right into her head.
One corner of his mouth lifted in a mocking smile. ‘Are you suggesting I’m not in touch with my feminine side, Miranda?’
Miranda was startled to hear him use her name with such familiarity. The way he said it made it sound … different? ‘N-no …’ On another occasion the suggestion might have made her laugh—feminine? The man who oozed more testosterone than a rugby team!
‘I’m half Italian, half Irish—neither are known for their inhibitions when it comes to expressing emotions.’
Miranda looked at the sensual curve of his mouth and thought, I can believe it.
‘Frequently loudly,’ he admitted with a flash of white teeth.
Miranda turned her head quickly to break the hold of his mesmeric gleaming stare and, ignoring her violently quivering stomach muscles, directed her attention to the little boy. ‘Are you sure he’s all right?’
It was the child under discussion who responded to the question. ‘No, I’m not all right. The car made me sick … a lot,’ the little boy announced with a hint of pride. He gave her a look resembling a mistreated puppy—it would have melted stone—and said pathetically, ‘The car smells. Daddy was mad.’
‘Was he? I’m sure that helped a lot.’ The smiling comment passed over the child’s head but hit its target.
Reconciled to being considered the monster in this scene, Gianni shrugged and thought, Why fight it? ‘A man and his car—you know how it is.’
Miranda gave a scornful snort, edged a little towards the window and glanced down seeing, not the shiny boy’s toy his comment had brought to mind, but a disreputable-looking four wheel drive parked down below.
You could tell a lot about a man by the car he drove, as her mother had always told her daughters—her theory was not in Miranda’s experience foolproof, but sometimes dead on. Oliver drove a solid estate, which suited him; safe, steady and dependable.
‘Gracious!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m not surprised he was sick in that thing! What possessed you to transport a child who suffers from travel sickness in something that’s one step up from a horse and cart?’
‘You know what they say, Miranda—beggars can’t be choosers,’ he drawled with a languid shrug. ‘And I’m obviously not the expert on all things relating to childcare that you are.’ Jaw clenched, he arched a sarcastic brow. ‘How many children do you have?’
‘That’s not Daddy’s car. Daddy has a big, big car!’ the child boasted as he made a thrumming sound in his throat and began to charge around the room in imitation of a car, proving if nothing else that he hadn’t been injured by the fall.
Miranda’s softly rounded jaw tightened with annoyance. ‘I don’t have children and I never claimed to be an expert.’
‘Just a woman.’
‘What have you got against women?’
His sensually sculpted upper lip curled into an exaggerated leer. ‘I have never been accused of not liking women.’
I just bet they like you right back, she thought, dragging her gaze from his mouth, aware as she did so of the heavy ache low in her abdomen. This man really was sinfully attractive. She felt a spasm of sympathy for Liam’s mother, then as her eyes were drawn back to his mouth that vanished as it occurred to her the woman didn’t need sympathy—she had that mouth.
Rather shocked by her thought, she blinked, then lowered her gaze, balling her fists on the quilt as she resisted the sudden impulse to touch her own lips.
‘I’m sure that makes your wife deliriously happy.’
‘I’m not married.’
‘Oh, I thought …’ Her eyes moved in an unscheduled sweep from him to the playing child and back again. Not married did not mean they were not a couple.
He answered the question she was clearly gagging to ask. ‘No, we are not together.’
‘Oh!’ What was she meant to say to that? After an awkward pause she produced a lame. ‘I … sorry.’
His expression froze. ‘Do not be. Liam does not suffer in any way because his parents are not a couple.’ By the time he was old enough to think about it, few of Liam’s friends would be the products of a conventional family unit.
But how many would have a mother who had declared herself unwilling and unable to adjust her lifestyle to accommodate the needs of a child?
As always Gianni pushed away the thought. It was a question for the future and he would deal with it at the appropriate time.
The same way he’d dealt with Sam’s initial bombshell when she’d told him she was pregnant; the same way he had dealt with her sympathetic but amused response when he had asked when she was going to give up front-line journalism—the days of speaking calmly to a camera while bullets whizzed by her were clearly to his mind over.
His only experience of mothers was his own and she had put her family first, and while he had never expected the mother of his children to turn into some sort of fifties stay-at-home housewife—he had no problem with her having a career, just not one that involved being held hostage by rebel bandits—it had not crossed his mind that she would not be the main carer.
Just as it had not crossed his mind that he would not be married to the mother of his child.
Startled that her reply had elicited such a defensive aggressive reaction, Miranda thought, Wow, did I hit a nerve or what?
‘Liam is—’ Gianni stopped, the groove between his brows deepening as he realised that, for someone who was not in the habit of discussing his personal life with strangers or defending his actions to anyone, he was doing a pretty good impression of someone who needed approval.
Lowering his dark lashes in a lush veil over his eyes, he ran a hand over his jaw where a dark shadow of the stubble that gave him a vaguely piratical air was visible. ‘I don’t enjoy arguing before I shave or have my first coffee, especially with naked women.’
The sly addition caused Miranda’s hand to fly to her mouth. Bad idea because the quilt slipped on one side, almost causing a dramatic wardrobe malfunction—or as dramatic as a B cup could be.
One corner of his mouth tugged upwards as Gianni watched her struggle. ‘It gives them an unfair advantage.’
Unfair! For a moment she was rendered totally speechless—the nerve of the man! Miranda, who had never felt at more of a disadvantage in her life, scowled before arranging her features into an expression of mock consternation.
‘Well, I’m all for a level playing field, and I wouldn’t want to be accused of taking advantage, so in the interests of fair play we can continue this conversation when I’ve got some clothes on.’
His laugh was warm, deep, throaty and totally unexpected. Miranda, aware of a faint responsive quiver low in her stomach, fought the urge to smile back. She knew he was a man who spent his life smiling and having people—women—smile back.
Miranda could think of few things worse than being with a man every woman lusted after, unless of course it was having the man you loved fall for your twin sister!
‘That seems fair,’ he conceded. ‘Come on, champ, I think a bit of soap and water might be appropriate.’ He scooped up his son, his nostrils quivering at the stale acrid smell. ‘I left the bags in the kitchen. How’s about we take the bathroom downstairs and you take the one up here—the one with the big lock.’
At the mocking addition she lifted her chin, pushing away the mental photofit image in her head of a beautiful long-legged blonde hanging on his arm and keeping out a constant eye for the opposition. ‘And don’t think I won’t use it, Mr Fitzgerald.’
He laughed again, but this time just with his eyes. God, but the man had bad boy written all over him—she had never been attracted to bad boys, though that seemed to put her in the minority.
‘My mother warned me about women with smart mouths.’ But they had no discussion on mouths that were made for sin, he thought, his darkening glance lingering a moment too long on the lush curve before he turned and walked towards the door, grinning but not turning back when she yelled after him.
‘And my mother told me that men who are afraid of smart women generally have self-esteem issues.’ The effect that brief heavy-lidded stare had on Miranda’s nervous system had been nothing short of electric. Breathing hard and trying not to hear the rich throaty sound of his amused laughter, she struggled to shake off the weird lingering feeling of anticipation and excitement heavy in the pit of her stomach as she lifted her makeshift robe and walked towards the bathroom.
CHAPTER FOUR
MIRANDA used the lock with an air of defiance, not caring—actually hoping he would hear it slide home. He might be innocent of knowing she was in the bed when he got in—that much she accepted—but she imagined it was one of the few things that Gianni Fitzgerald was innocent of!
Father to a cute child or not, he had the air of a man who had no problem crossing lines. Parenthood did not make him harmless—not that she expected for one second that he’d test the lock. Gianni Fitzgerald was not a man who needed to batter down doors if he wanted female attention; all he had to do was smile … or laugh … The echo of that warm sound sent a little shiver down her spine.
She dropped the quilt on the marble floor, warm with the under-floor heating that was a feature of the entire cottage, and turned on the shower. Instead of stepping into the vast double cubicle—Lucy Fitzgerald had spared no cash when it came to the luxurious renovations on this farm cottage—she leaned back against the door, closed her eyes and waited for her heartbeat to return to something approaching normal.
It continued to bang against her ribcage, the echo loud in her ears for a long time. The encounter had left her on a high. She knew it was the effect of adrenalin, but as she struggled to tamp down the weird combination of exhilaration and antagonism circulating through her veins the scene played on a loop in her head.
Finally with a sigh she levered herself upright and walked into the shower, gasping a little as the cool needles of water hit her warm body. Face raised to the jets of water, she reached for her shower gel and began to lather her skin, rubbing until her body tingled, but Gianni Fitzgerald’s voice lingered, along with his slow, sardonic smile, the mixture of insolence and amusement in his attitude and the sensuality that came off him in sonic waves.
When she emerged a few minutes later she felt satisfied she had washed Gianni Fitzgerald out of her hair figuratively speaking, now she had to do it in the practical sense and reclaim the cottage.
After towel-drying her hair she pulled on the clothes she had grabbed from the top of her case. She was short of a bra, but that wasn’t a major problem. She was not exactly over-endowed in that area and the fabric of the denim-coloured cotton shirt she fought her way into was not exactly clingy. Her still-damp skin felt oddly sensitive as she hurriedly buttoned it up.
She was dragging a comb through her thick, damp curls when from below she heard a bang and clatter. The kitchen, to her way of thinking the most impressive room in the cottage, was located directly underneath this room.
Her brows twitched into a frown as she glanced into the mirror, connected with her overbright eyes and looked away again quickly.
What was he doing now? she asked herself when there was another loud bang. Mingled with the dismay she experienced at the thought of any breakages was a stab of real concern. Kitchens could be dangerous places for little boys.
The kitchen in the cottage was at the back of the house. It opened out on to the courtyard of stone outbuildings. She had spent a happy hour exploring the large room the night before, discovering that the free-standing rustic-looking units hid some very unrustic state-of-the-art shiny appliances that had not come cheap. Clearly money was not an issue for Lucy Fitzgerald; though there was no clue in the place as to how she made her living, the woman herself had offered no information and Miranda had not liked to ask.
‘I don’t cook,’ the beautiful blonde had admitted when Miranda had expressed her admiration for the room.
Miranda, secretly scandalised by the indifference—it seemed a criminal waste of a kitchen she would have lived in, given the chance—admitted she enjoyed cooking.
‘Well, the freezer’s full of ready meals, but if you want to cook anything from scratch go for it,’ her employer had offered, pulling open the door of a well-stocked store cupboard that made Miranda’s eyes widen and saying vaguely, ‘There’s stuff here. A friend brought in some things—I was going to teach myself the basics.’ She gave an attractive self-deprecating grimace and admitted, ‘But I never actually … well, anyway, feel free. There’s a local farm shop and a terrific fruit and veg man who calls … Quite cute actually, if you’re not spoken for …?’
Miranda admitted she was not but did not go into detail and the other woman, respecting her privacy, had not pushed it.
Pushing away the memory of the conversation with a lot more success than she had had with the surreal events of this morning, Miranda squared her shoulders and reached for the door handle.
She walked in at the moment Gianni Fitzgerald tipped a dustpan full of broken crockery into one of the neatly labelled recycling boxes set beside the open stable door. Liam was sitting on a kitchen chair swinging his legs and patting the head of one of the dogs, a shaggy lurcher.
The child’s dark hair was damp, his cherubic face shiny and clean. He looked wholesome and delicious. His father, who also had damp hair, did not look wholesome, but he did look delicious.
Rampantly delicious, she decided, taking the opportunity while unobserved to work out what it was beside his startling male beauty that made her skin prickle when she looked at him—and she didn’t even like all that macho stuff! Miranda told herself that it was simple scientific curiosity that made her want to study him, though it was hard to call the hollow achy feeling in the pit of her stomach scientific.
She swallowed to ease the tightness in her dry throat. She couldn’t think she was the only female whose brain shut down in his vicinity—presumably Gianni Fitzgerald produced a similar visceral response in any female with a pulse. Was it the Latin thing …? Half Italian, he’d said, but she could see precious little of the Celtic heritage he had claimed in his dark toned features. His dark hair slicked back from his broad brow was still wet. The sleek style emphasised the beautiful severity of his lean, hard-boned, classically proportioned face.
Dressed casually in a loose-fitting black tee shirt—the loose cut did nothing to disguise the lean, muscular torso she knew it covered—and faded jeans that clung to his long, muscular thighs, he oozed a raw sexuality that had nothing to do with what he was wearing and everything to do with the man himself.
As if feeling her gaze, Gianni turned his head. Caught staring at his bottom, Miranda lifted her chin to an angle of mute defiance and adopted a ‘so hang me’ expression that made his mouth quirk slightly at the corners as he tipped his head in silent acknowledgement of the gesture and allowed his dark, long-lashed eyes to travel in a slow, comprehensive sweep up from her toes until he reached her face.
At this point their glances connected and Miranda, who had been enduring the scrutiny, glimpsed something that moved like silvered fire deep in his midnight-dark eyes.
She could not define what she had seen, it had only been there for a fraction of a second, but her body wasn’t dealing in names. It reacted indiscriminately, sending a wave of scorching heat through her body.
Whatever this man had, clothes were no protection, she mused as she tugged fretfully at the neck of her shirt, unwittingly loosing the top two mother-of-pearl buttons.
Gianni’s eyes went to the deep vee of milk-pale smooth skin revealed, hardly what could be termed provocative, but his body responded with a disproportionate pulse of hunger that slammed through his body before concentrating in a hard ache of frustrated desire in his groin.
He swallowed hard, annoyed by his lack of self-control, and tipped his head in exaggerated approval, resorting to strained banter in an effort to disguise his reaction while recognising an equally strong need to rationalise it.
‘I hardly recognised you with your clothes on, cara,’ he drawled, and watched the angry colour fly to her smooth cheeks.
A man woke up next to a beautiful woman and the inevitable happened. It was no mystery, nothing more complicated than physical hunger, nothing a cold shower … another cold shower would not cure.
Before Miranda could respond with a suitable degree of scorn to this worn-out cliché—it was always harder to deliver scorn when your face was the colour of a post box; this man was dangerous—Gianni’s attentions switched abruptly to his son.
‘No, stay where you are, Liam, until I check out the floor …’ The rest of the sentence was delivered in Italian and Miranda was fascinated to hear the child clearly as bilingual as his father, reply in the same tongue.
Unexpected emotion tightened in Miranda’s throat as she watched them, the sternness leaving Gianni’s face as he bent down to the chair, spanned the child’s waist with his big hands and lifted him down, pushing him in the direction of the open door.
‘I’m hungry!’
Gianni, whose routine meant he was out of the house before his son took breakfast—he rarely had time for anything himself other than a double espresso and a bagel—paused before reaching for the tin that he recalled sweet-toothed Lucy kept filled with biscuits. It was empty.
‘Dio.’ His long fingers beat out an impatient tattoo on the granite work surface as he experienced an unaccustomed stab of indecision and doubt. For a man who stayed cool while those around him went into meltdown it was an uncomfortable experience.
Small wonder, he reflected grimly, Clare had looked aghast when he’d told her he planned to spend some time alone with Liam. The nanny had probably wondered if she’d get the child back in one piece. It might have been better for everyone concerned if she’d come right out and said he didn’t have a clue.
He sighed through his nose and squared his shoulders. His time might be better spent proving her wrong rather than feeling sorry for himself. For once he had the quality time with his son that always seemed in short supply.
‘Where are the biscuits … bread …?’
Miranda watched as he looked around the room with the air of a man who expected someone to materialise and produce what he required out of thin air.
Seeing this self-assured man look at a loss actually made her feel a little less antagonistic towards him. Perhaps in his world that was what happened, Miranda speculated. He certainly had the arrogance of someone who was accustomed to giving orders and expecting people to jump.
Miranda didn’t jump, but she did walk across to the well-stocked fridge and pull out a carton of milk from the shelf. Not because she felt the need to rush to his rescue, but she could hardly let the little boy go hungry just because his father was a bossy, ungrateful control freak with, admittedly, a very nice bottom and a way of looking at her that made her feel jittery and defensive.
She found the plastic tumbler she was looking for in the second cupboard she tried and, filling it, handed it without a word to Gianni.
‘Perhaps that will keep him going until breakfast?’
Gianni waited for the lecture on child nutrition. In his experience it was a rare woman who could resist the opportunity to display her superior knowledge, and when it didn’t come he tipped his head in silent acknowledgement.
He stood guard until Liam had finished the glass of milk before wiping the milky moustache from his upper lip and nodding his permission for him to go outside into the yard.
