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“I don’t see anything else that should concern me.”
“You don’t see how having a son concerns you?”
His eyebrows locked together. “He’s not my son.”
Carlotta’s heart twisted tight. It was a fair enough statement. Luca wasn’t Rodriguez’s son. And they’d been at his home for all of fifteen minutes. He wasn’t being cruel. Still, it felt a little cruel. “No, I know. But he is a child, and if you’re going to be my husband he will be your stepson, and that means some of the responsibility …”
“He has a nanny?”
“Yes. She had to stay behind for a couple of days but …”
“In that case, I see my responsibility will be limited.”
Anger burned in her, threatening to swallow her whole. “And will it be the same for your children? Because if not, you and I have no more to say to each other. Luca is my son. He’s my world and if you—”
“Yes. It will be the same for our child. I don’t intend to have any more than is required.”
“If we have a girl?”
“Then we will have to have more, I suppose.”
“I don’t … I don’t even know how to have this discussion with you,” she said, panic clawing at her stomach. How could she stand here talking children with this stranger? Was she really going to marry this man?
Yes. Because the other option was going back to her father, standing in that spot in his office and telling him, yet again, how badly she’d failed the Santina family. She couldn’t do it. The guilt would consume her. She lived with enough guilt. No sense in adding to it.
But one thing she had to be sure of. For Luca. And if Rodriguez couldn’t handle it, she would walk away, no matter how disappointed her father was. No matter how much compound interest in guilt it earned her.
“Will you adopt him?”
Rodriguez stiffened, his posture totally rigid. “What?”
“Will you adopt Luca? Give him your name. The same name I will have. The same name his halfbrother or -sister will have. Will you make him a part of this family? Because if not, I’ll walk away now.”
A muscle in Rodriguez’s jaw twitched. “I cannot name him as my heir.”
“I don’t expect you to. But I cannot have him be alone in that way.” Just the thought of it made her throat ache, made it get unbearably tight. “I need him to know that he has a father. That he isn’t the only one who isn’t a part of a family.”
“Having a father can be vastly overrated,” Rodriguez said, his voice rough.
“Give him your name. Your protection. And I will marry you. Be your wife in every sense. But you have to make my son yours, as much as your other children.”
She watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed, his eyes fixed on Luca. “Then I will adopt him after the marriage. All of this can be simple enough. We marry, we produce an heir. We lead separate lives.”
“Why?”
He looked past her, at Luca, who was now lying on his back looking at the sky. Then he looked back at her. “Because I’m not after a perfect, happy family. I want to do what is right by my country. What is necessary.”
“The way that disrupts your life the least?”
“And yours, Carlotta. You can keep living as you please here. You’ll have very little obligation to me. This marriage will be like a job you can clock in and out of. On for public appearances, off when it’s done.”
“So, I get lovers too, then?”
He shrugged. “What’s good for the goose.”
“Just not while we’re—”
“Mommy!”
She turned sharply and saw Luca, standing right at the edge of the terrace. He had a way of darting from place to place with no warning, her son. It had never really been a problem before.
“Yes, Luca?”
“I’m bored.”
“And tired I’ll bet,” she said.
“No.” He shook his head for emphasis, the serious expression on his face reminding her of her brother Alessandro. She was so thankful that he seemed to have none of his father in him.
“Yeah, I don’t believe that, figlio mio, but nice try,” she said, running her fingers through his dark hair, ruffling it.
“There is a room next to yours,” Rodriguez said, his manner suddenly awkward. Luca did seem to make him nervous and she wasn’t really sure why. “He can stay in there.”
“Good. If we could have his things brought in, that would be great.”
Rodriguez nodded curtly. “After he’s in bed, perhaps you and I can have dinner.”
Carlotta wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She liked having Luca as a buffer. It was much more comfortable.
Ironic that you feel the need for a buffer since you’re planning on having a baby with the man. No buffers then.
That thought had her hot all over. Well, not so much the pregnancy and childbirth aspect of it. She’d hated being pregnant. Every moment of it. It had all been sickness and sadness. A little bit of denial. Only when Luca was placed in her arms had everything truly come together. And from that moment, she’d been lost. Everything that had come before it—the pain, physical and emotional—had paled in comparison to the love that had flooded through her when she’d seen her son for the first time.
She’d already done it once without a man in the picture.
“Great. We can talk more then,” she said, wondering if any amount of talking would ever make the situation seem normal.
After spending a couple of hours getting Luca settled and conked out in his new room, Carlotta went back to her room and selected a nice dress from her collection of, admittedly, out-of-date clothing.
Clothes just didn’t matter when you hardly ever went anywhere and certainly never went on dates. As Queen of Santa Christobel she would need new clothing….
Oh. Madre di dio. She was going to be the Queen of Santa Christobel. She had sort of been stuck on being Rodriguez’s wife. On what it would mean to marry him and share his bed, and have his baby, and uproot her son from his home in Italy. She hadn’t even gotten to the queen bit.
She tugged the dress off the hanger and sat on the bed in nothing but her bra and panties, the plush, silken comforter billowing around her, enveloping her. She clutched the rust-colored dress to her chest and breathed in deeply, trying to stop the room from spinning.
This was not her life.
And what is? Self-imposed exile in Italy? Living it up, aren’t you, Carlotta?
She had known she’d have to get back into the swing of things eventually. Start living life beyond the four walls of her home. She hadn’t really intended on doing it in such a grand way.
Life had seemed … still, for the past five years. No, not still. Because Luca always changed. Every day there was something new and exciting for him, and she lived it, loved it. Loved him. But for her … there had been nothing. It had been like being wrapped in a cocoon. Now she was torn from it, and she doubted she’d had any grand transformation.
She didn’t know if she was ready for this. And she didn’t really have anyone to talk to. Normally she would call Sophia but since she was currently shacked up with Ash in India and Carlotta was now engaged to the man she’d been intended to marry …
Well, she deserved to be dragged into it, all things considered.
Carlotta took her phone out of her purse and tapped the icon on the screen for text messaging. She’d sent Sophia a blistering message when she’d found out she’d run off with Ash. Now, well, she couldn’t really blame her younger sister. This was … it was overwhelming. Maybe if Ash had been standing by with a private plane she would have run off with him too. Though she wouldn’t have hopped into bed with him.
Hope you’re having a blast in India. BTW, I’m marrying the fiancé you ditched. Good choice, he’s an ass.
She hit Send on the message, then tapped the screen again, a smile curving her lips. She hit the New Message icon.
He’s also a total stud. So that’s some consolation.
This time when she hit Send, her smile was smug. She hoped Sophia was happy, whatever she was doing. Well, she had a fair idea of what her sister was doing, since she’d been caught in Ash’s bed on his private plane.
Sophia was the one person who didn’t seem completely ashamed of her and Luca. But while she wished her sister a lifetime of happiness, and if that included a torrid affair with Ash, fine with her, she deserved a little goading, all things considered.
Her phone pinged and she picked it back up. New message from Sophia.
At least our father will be pleased to have both of us marrying fellow royals.
Married? She’d just thought Sophia was sleeping with him. Well, then things really had worked out in her father’s favor. One daughter to a maharaja, the other, the one who’d been mired in total disgrace, married off to a prince.
She typed in another quick message. Congrats, Soph. Love ya.
She snorted and tossed the phone onto the bed. Yes, this was all working out great for Eduardo Santina. Hopefully it would work out even half as well for her.
There was a sharp knock on her door and she scrambled from the bed, stepping into the dress and contorting her arm so that she could tug the zipper up. “Just a second.”
She got it midway up, then reached over her shoulder and grabbed it from above, tugging it up the rest of the way. She looked in the mirror and pulled on the neckline, trying to make sure everything was in its proper place. Her figure was a bit fuller since her pregnancy and sometimes she wasn’t quite sure what to make of her new curves.
Not that they were pin-up worthy or anything. But at least she could fill out the top of her dress now, with a little cleavage.
She wondered what Rodriguez would think. If he would check her out. That made her cheeks feel hot. She tried to find some hold on her control, tried to keep in command of her body’s reaction.
This is what happens when you give in. When you’re weak.
That was what her father had shouted at her the day she’d told him she was pregnant. The day she’d told him who the father of her baby was through heartbroken sobs. It was so easy to feel the shame, the sick, crawling feeling of dirt on her skin, as she confessed the truth about Gabriel.
She was determined never to be weak again.
“Ready,” she said, turning away from her reflection, redirecting her thoughts.
The door swung open and Rodriguez was there, leaning against the frame. He didn’t look last season, not even close.
His crisp, white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a wedge of golden brown skin and just a little bit of dark chest hair. His dark hair was disheveled. He looked like a man who’d just come from his lover’s bed.
She wrinkled her nose. She’d been upstairs for a couple of hours, it was entirely possible that he’d …
“So, how was your evening?” she asked, stepping past him, out into the corridor.
“Fine. I had some work to see to.”
“Great.”
“You?”
“Luca seems settled in. I don’t know if he really understands that we’re staying here. But then, I guess that makes two of us.”
“Three,” he said, walking ahead of her, taking the stairs two at a time. She followed as quickly as her kitten heels would allow.
“You don’t feel at home here?”
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at the painted ceiling. “I never have.”
“You could … redecorate.”
A short laugh escaped his lips and he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his dark slacks. “That’s almost like suggesting I paint over the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling. I mean, not quite, but as far as Santa Christobel and our history is concerned, it is.”
“Well, that would be a bad idea then.”
“Very likely.”
He paused and turned to her, placing his hand on her lower back. She felt the heat of his touch blaze through her, like fire had ignited in her bloodstream, moving through her like a reckless spark on dry tinder.
Was she so desperate for a man’s touch that such a simple thing could turn her on so quickly? Well, clearly she was. A man she didn’t even know, a man she wasn’t sure she liked. She truly was no better now than she’d been six years ago. It was still there, that reckless passion. The one she’d worked so hard to shove down deep, to lock away forever. It was a sobering, gutting realization.
“This way,” he said, unaware of the turmoil his hand on her back had caused.
She kept her shoulders straight, tried to keep it so his hand only touched the fabric of her dress and didn’t press it down so that it came into contact with her back again. Because that had been far too disturbing.
The dining room was as opulent and formal as the rest of the house, the sprawling ceiling mural continuing through, with scenes of a massive feast painted just above the long, expansive table.
“Cozy,” she said.
That earned a laugh from Rodriguez. “Isn’t it? Perfect for an intimate dinner for two. Plus twenty.”
“The palace in Santina is a bit like that. It’s daunting. Luca … he’s not used to this.”
“Why did you take him away from Santina?”
“The press,” she said, her voice soft.
He pulled a chair out for her and she sat, touching the golden fork that was set beside an ornate dinner plate.
“It was bad for you?” Rodriguez took his seat opposite her.
