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His daughter.
‘I wanted to tell you in person,’ Bronte said in a small voice. ‘But you didn’t return my calls or emails. I went to your villa in Milan but I was turned away at the door. Your housekeeper said you were with your mistress in the US.’
Luca felt an avalanche of guilt come down on him. He had made it impossible for her to contact him. He had covered his tracks so well, not even his family had been aware of where he was and what he had been doing. He had spun them the same tale: a whirlwind affair in the States. And it had worked, perhaps rather too well. ‘You could have sent a letter,’ he said, still not quite ready to take the whole blame.
‘Is that how you wanted to hear you had fathered a child?’ she asked.
‘It would be a damn better way than finding out in a restaurant in front of complete strangers,’ he shot back.
She lowered her gaze and did that thing with her bottom lip again. ‘I told you, I was about to tell you when they arrived.’
‘When?’ he asked. ‘Between the main course and dessert? How were you going to slip it into the conversation? “By the way, I had your child fourteen months ago; I thought you might like to know now that you’re here in Melbourne.” For God’s sake, Bronte, what the hell were you thinking?’
She looked at up at him with tears shining in her eyes. ‘I didn’t expect to ever see you again. You made it so clear our relationship was over.’
‘So you punished me by keeping my child a secret,’ he said. ‘Is that it? Is that why you didn’t try harder to get the message to me?’
Guilt flooded her cheeks a cherry-red. ‘I didn’t want any of this to happen.’
‘Meaning you never intended for me to find out,’ he said heavily. ‘Well, I’ve got news for you, Bronte Bennett. I want my child. You have got one hell of a fight on your hands if you think you’re going to keep me away from her.’
Bronte felt a rod of anger straighten her spine. ‘You can’t take her from me, Luca. I won’t allow it. She’s my child. I’ll fight you until my dying breath.’
‘You and whose legal team?’ he asked with a malevolent look. ‘You do realise who you are up against here, don’t you? You haven’t got a hope of winning this, Bronte. Not a hope.’
Bronte hated herself for doing it but right at that moment her temper got the better of her. ‘First you have to prove she is yours,’ she said with a jut of her chin. ‘Have you thought about that, Luca? How do you know she isn’t another man’s child? You only saw me two or three times a week when we were together, sometimes even less. I had plenty of time to play around behind your back.’
His expression went as dark as the thunderous sky outside. His hands went to tight fists, his breath hissing out from between clenched teeth. ‘A paternity test will soon sort out that. I will apply for one in the morning. If you don’t agree, expect to hear from my lawyer.’
Instead of feeling she had won that round, Bronte felt as if she had lost much more than a few verbal points. She had lost his respect. She could see it in his eyes, the way they had stripped her bare. It was one thing for him to have the freedom to see who he liked when he liked but quite another for her to do the same. She had been his possession, his little plaything on the side, and it would infuriate him to think she had given herself to someone else while involved with him.
‘Who was it?’ he asked through tight lips. ‘Anyone I knew at the time?’
Bronte turned away. ‘I don’t have to explain myself to you. You certainly gave me no explanation for what you got up to when you weren’t with me.’
He grabbed her arm and spun her around to face him, his expression still as menacing as the storm raging outside. ‘Who the hell were you seeing?’ he asked.
Bronte tugged at his hold, squirming at the bite of his fingers. ‘Stop it, Luca. You’re hurting me.’
His hold loosened, but not by much. ‘Tell me who you were seeing, damn it.’
She felt tears approaching and fought them back valiantly. ‘Tell me who you were with in LA,’ she said. ‘What was her name? Was it someone famous or someone married so you had to keep it a big secret?’
His eyes flickered for a moment, his mouth pulled so tight it was white-tipped at the corners.
‘Was she very beautiful?’ Bronte asked, struggling now to keep her voice from cracking. ‘Did she love you? Did you love her?’
He dropped his hand from her arm and stepped away. He rubbed the back of his neck as if trying to soothe a knot of tension there. He didn’t speak. He just stood in front of the bank of windows and looked at the last of the storm’s activity outside. His back was like a fortress, a thick impenetrable wall she had no hope of scaling. In spite of his hostility, she wanted to go to him, to put her arms around his waist, to hold him, to breathe in the aching familiarity of his scent.
‘Luca?’
He turned to face her, his expression rigid with determination. ‘I want to see her,’ he said. ‘I want to see my child.’
Bronte took a little step backwards. ‘You mean… now?’
‘Of course I mean now,’ he said, scooping up his car keys from the coffee table.
‘But she’s asleep,’ Bronte said. ‘And… and my mother’s there and—’
‘Then it’s time your mother met the father of her grandchild,’ he said. ‘She’s going to have to get used to me being a part of the child’s life.’
‘“The child”,’ Bronte said, throwing her hands out wide. ‘Can you please use her name? It’s Ella.’
‘Does she have a middle name?’ he asked, his eyes hard and black with contempt as they pinned hers.
Bronte compressed her lips. ‘Her full name is Ella Lucia Bennett.’
He blinked and the strong column of his throat moved up and down over a swallow. ‘You named her… for me?’
She let out a small sigh. ‘I wanted her to have something of you, even if it turned out she never met you. I felt I owed you that. I felt I owed her that.’
A little muscle in his jaw worked for a long moment. ‘I want my name on her birth certificate,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose it’s there?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t see the point at the time.’
‘Did you tell anyone I was the father?’
‘Not until recently,’ she answered. ‘My mother eventually pried it out of me. Rachel figured it out when you came to the studio yesterday.’
There was a small tense silence.
‘I’m starting to think a paternity test is going to be a waste of time,’ he said. ‘You didn’t cheat on me, did you, Bronte?’
She shook her head. ‘No. There’s been no one but you.’
Luca curled his fingers around his keys until the cold hard metal cut into his palm. He needed time to process everything. His head was still reeling with the knowledge he was a father. He felt as if he had been pummelled all over. He ached with a pain he couldn’t describe. It was worse than anything he had ever experienced. He couldn’t imagine how he was going to sort out the mess his life had suddenly become. Things were going to get a whole lot more complicated when it came down to the practicalities. He lived between Milan and London. Bronte lived in Melbourne. Thousands of kilometres separated him from his daughter. That was one of the first things that had to change. ‘Let’s get going,’ he said, moving across to hold the door open for her.
‘Luca… wouldn’t it be better to do this tomorrow when we’ve both had some time to think about things?’ she asked. ‘To cool down a bit, think things through in a more rational state of mind?’
‘What is there to think about?’ he asked. ‘I want to see my daughter. I haven’t seen her once and she’s fourteen months old. I am not prepared to wait another hour, let alone another day.’
She moved past him with her head down, her expression shadowed with worry. Luca wanted her to be worried. He wanted her to be aware of what she had done. He wanted her to feel something of what he was feeling, how cheated he felt, how completely devastating it felt to have your world turned upside down without warning.
After asking for directions to her home, Luca retreated into a brooding silence. He couldn’t hope to keep something as big as this silent for long. The press would very likely get in on the news. He had to call his mother and brothers and his grandfather. He didn’t want them to read it in the press rather than hear it from him. And then there were legal things to see to, such as changing his will to make sure Ella was well provided for in the event of his death.
And then, of course, there was the issue of where to go from here with Bronte. He glanced at her, sitting with her head bowed, her eyes on her knotted hands in her lap. A sharp little pang caught him off guard when he thought of her trying to contact him with the news of her pregnancy. He wondered what she must have been feeling, alone and abandoned, far away from her family and friends. He thought too of the audition she’d had her heart set on. A once in a lifetime opportunity she had relinquished in order to have his baby. So many women would have chosen another option but she hadn’t. She had soldiered on, giving up her dream to give life to his daughter.
‘Tell me about the pregnancy,’ he said. ‘Were you well throughout?’
She lifted her head to glance at him. ‘I was sick a lot in the beginning,’ she said softly. ‘I lost a lot of weight in the first three months but after that things settled down a bit.’
Luca felt another jab of guilt. ‘What about the birth? Did you have someone with you?’
‘My mother was with me.’
He gripped the steering wheel tighter, thinking of what he had missed out on. That first glimpse of new life, hearing the miracle of that first spluttering cry. ‘Was it a natural birth?’ he asked once he got his voice into working order.
‘Yes. I think the fact that I was fit and well helped a lot. I had a relatively short labour. It was painful but I wanted to do things as naturally as possible.’
‘Were you able to breastfeed her?’
‘Yes, but it took a while to get things established,’ she said. ‘For something so natural it’s harder than you think to get things right. I weaned her a couple of months ago, just before her first birthday.’
Luca let silence build a wall between them. He wasn’t quite ready to let her off the hook. He knew he hadn’t made things easy for her by being so adamant about ending their relationship, but he still felt she could have tried harder, should have tried harder.
The closer he got to Bronte’s mother’s house, the more nervous he felt. His stomach was a hive of restless activity. It seemed like a flock of sharp-winged insects was inside him trying desperately to find a way out.
He was about to see his baby daughter for the first time. He would be able to touch her, to hold her in his arms, to feel her petite little body nestled up against him.
He already loved her.
That had surprised him. He thought he would have to meet her first, but no, as soon as he knew she was alive he felt something switch on inside him. The urge to protect and provide for her was so strong he couldn’t think about anything else. He was determined to give her everything money could buy, to give her the sort of childhood that would give her every opportunity to blossom and grow into a beautiful young lady, well educated, compassionate and ready to take on the world.
‘It’s the third house on the left,’ Bronte said. ‘The one without a fence.’
Luca parked in front of the small weatherboard house. As far as he could see, it was neat but in no way luxurious. Humble was probably a more appropriate word. There wasn’t much of a garden, just a lawn and a few azaleas and camellias that lined the boundary of the block. The contrast with his family’s villa, his childhood homes in Milan and Rome and the holiday villa at Bellagio couldn’t be more apparent. He knew for certain there wouldn’t be any household staff opening the door as they approached, nor would there be a team of gardeners to tend the block, nor a driver at the ready to run errands.
Bronte’s car—he assumed it was hers as it had a baby seat in the back—was parked in the driveway. There was no carport or garage. The car was at least fifteen years old and looked as if it needed new tyres. The thought of his child being ferried about in that accident-waiting-to-happen appalled him but he decided to keep that conversation for another time.
The walk to the back of the block where a small granny flat was situated was conducted in a stiff silence. Luca could feel Bronte’s apprehension coming off her in waves. One of the curtains twitched aside and he saw a woman whom he assumed was Bronte’s mother staring at him with wide, nervous-looking eyes.
Bronte opened the door and led Luca inside. Her mother came towards them, her expression cold and unfriendly.
‘You must be Luca,’ she said, pointedly ignoring Luca’s proffered hand.
‘That is correct,’ he said, dropping his hand back by his side.
‘Mum…’ Bronte gave her mother a pained look. ‘Do you mind if—?’
Tina Bennett ignored her daughter and addressed Luca. ‘What you did to Bronte was unforgivable. You left her pregnant and alone. She was only twenty-three years old. She had her whole life ahead of her and you ruined it.’
‘Mum, please—’
Tina continued her attack undaunted. ‘Did you ever think what had become of her after you threw her out of your life? Or did you simply move on to the next floozy, someone who was more your type?’
Luca seemed very tall as he stood looking down at her mother, Bronte thought. He contained himself well. He showed no sign of being angry at the way her mother was speaking to him. ‘Mrs Bennett—’ he began.
‘It’s Miss,’ Tina snapped. ‘Like mother, like daughter, Mr Sabbatini. I too was abandoned by the man I loved when I was carrying her. I have never married. Being a single mother makes it hard to find someone who is prepared to love your child as their own. You can ask Bronte about that. She’s had one date, one boring, going nowhere date that was really only a favour for her friend Rachel.’
‘Mum,’ Bronte spoke with firmness, ‘I want to be alone with Luca. There are things we need to discuss in private. Thank you for minding Ella for me.’
Tina tightened her mouth as she gave Luca a mother lion protecting her cub look. ‘I won’t let you hurt her again,’ she said. ‘You can be sure of that, Mr Sabbatini. Bronte and Ella are all I’ve got. I’m not going to stand by and watch some rich, spoilt playboy take either of them away from me.’
‘It is not my intention to hurt anyone,’ Luca said coolly and calmly. ‘I am here to see my daughter. That is my priority at this point. Bronte and I haven’t yet got around to discussing where we go from here but, as soon as we do, you will be the first to know.’
Tina looked as if she was about to say something else but, after another pleading look from Bronte, she turned on her heel and left.
CHAPTER SEVEN
LUCA turned his gaze to Bronte’s, his expression rueful. ‘Something tells me I didn’t make such a great first impression.’
‘I would have liked to have warned her you were coming,’ Bronte said with a note of reproach in her voice.
‘Don’t talk to me about warnings,’ he threw back. ‘Yesterday I was a single man with no responsibilities apart from my work. Now I find I am the father of a fourteen-month-old toddler.’
Bronte worked hard at holding his accusing gaze. ‘I know this must be a shock. And I’m sorry about Mum but she’s just being a mum. She’s frightened and uncertain about what happens next.’
‘So she should be,’ he said with a brooding frown.
Bronte felt a quake of unease rumble through her stomach. ‘Wh… what do you mean?’ she asked.
His eyes held hers for a tense moment, bitterness, anger and vengefulness all reflected there. ‘Look at this place,’ he said, waving his hand to encompass the small room and simple furnishings. ‘This is not the place where I want any child of mine to be brought up. There isn’t even a front fence, for God’s sake. What if Ella was to walk out on the road? Have you thought of that?’
Bronte summoned her pride. ‘There is nothing wrong with this place,’ she said. ‘The fence is going up as soon as we can afford it. And, anyway, Ella is only just walking and she is never left alone. Not for a minute.’
‘That is not the point,’ he argued. ‘She deserves much better and I am going to make sure she gets it. Now, please lead me to her. I want to see her.’
Bronte clamped her lips down on her response and silently led him to the small bedroom next to hers. The blue angel night light was on, casting a soft luminous glow over the room. Ella was lying on her back, arms flung either side of her head, her rosebud mouth slightly open, the covers kicked off her tiny body. Bronte gently pulled the covers back up, conscious of Luca standing next to her, his eyes looking down at the sleeping infant.
The only sound in the silence was Ella’s soft snuffling breathing.
Luca looked at the angelic face of his child and felt a seismic shift inside his chest. He was totally overcome by emotion. Feelings surged through him, knocking him sideways. He swallowed against the lump in his throat, surprised to feel the burn of tears at the backs of his eyes. He blinked them back and, with a hand that was not quite steady, he reached down and brushed his fingertip across the velvet softness of Ella’s tiny cheek. She made a little noise, something between a snuffle and a murmur, as if she were dreaming, before settling back down with a little sigh.
Luca picked up one of her tiny hands. It reminded him of a starfish, the little splay of fingers with their perfect fingernails so small in comparison to his. Her fingers curled around one of his, the tiny dimples on her knuckles appearing as she tightened her hold, as if subconsciously recognising she belonged to him. He could not explain how it felt. It was totally overwhelming. He longed to hold on to this moment, to keep it forever in his memory.
How would it feel as the years went by, holding this little trusting hand in his? Walking her into school for the first day, holding her steady as he taught her to ride a bike, her holding on his arm as he led her one day way off in the future to the man who would one day be her husband? It was too much to absorb all at once. Other men had nine months to prepare for it. He had been cheated of that. He was in catch up mode and it hurt—it hurt so much he could barely breathe.
‘You can pick her up if you want to,’ Bronte whispered at his side. ‘She usually sleeps pretty soundly.’
‘Can I?’ he asked, looking at Bronte for reassurance.
She gave him a tight little movement of her lips, her eyes suspiciously moist. ‘Of course,’ she said, reaching past him to ease back the covers.
Luca wasn’t sure how to do it but was too proud to ask for help. He had bounced the occasional friend’s baby on his knee but he had never picked up a sleeping baby before. Wasn’t there something about their neck you had to be aware of?
‘Just gather her underneath her shoulders and knees,’ Bronte offered in the silence, as if she had sensed his hesitancy.
‘Ri-ght.’ He did as she said and his little daughter nestled against him as he lifted her out of the cot with another soft murmur.
