The Scandalous Sabbatinis

‘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.

‘There’s a chair over here.’ Bronte pushed it forward and he sat down, cradling Ella against his chest.

Luca couldn’t take his eyes off her. The perfection of her amazed him. She had the most beautiful face, like an angel. She favoured her mother, but now that he had her up close he could see traces of his own mother and even his long-dead baby sister. She smelt so sweet, a combination of talcum powder and baby that was indescribably beautiful. He traced a gentle fingertip over each of her tiny eyebrows and then the up-tilted button nose that was so like Bronte’s. Love flowed through him like a torrent. It filled him completely; there wasn’t a space inside him that wasn’t consumed with love for this child.

‘Would you like some time alone with her?’ Bronte asked after a long silence.

‘It’s all right,’ Luca said, carefully getting to his feet and carrying Ella back to the cot. He laid her down gently and pulled the covers back over her, tucking them in either side of her. ‘I don’t want to wake her. She might feel frightened at not knowing who I am if she should suddenly wake up.’

He stood back from the cot and took a steadying breath before turning to Bronte. ‘We need to talk.’

She nodded resignedly and led the way out of the room.

The kitchen–living room combined was on the small side but with Luca there it made it shrink to the size of a doll’s house. There was nowhere in the room that kept her more than two metres away from him. It was intimidating to say the least. One step from him and a reach with one of those long arms of his and she would be snared. The most bewildering thing was, she wasn’t entirely sure she would try to move away if he did reach out and touch her.

Bronte was so moved by watching him with Ella. She hadn’t been sure what to expect but seeing the love on his face for his child had made her all the more certain he was not going to walk away from his little daughter. He would want to be an active father. He came from a strongly connected family background, a rich heritage that Ella was entitled to be a part of as a Sabbatini. The only trouble was, where did Bronte fit into it all according to his plans for the future?

‘Would you like a cup of tea or something?’ she asked to fill the silence.

‘No tea,’ he said.

She gestured to the one and only sofa. ‘Would you like to sit down?’

‘No, but you had better do so,’ he said ominously.

Bronte sat down on the chain store sofa and pressed her knees against her hands to keep them from trembling. ‘Don’t take her off me, Luca, please, I beg you,’ she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth in an agonised stream. ‘I love her so much. I would do anything to make it up to you. I know it was wrong not to try harder to tell you. I realise it now. I couldn’t bear it if you…’ She couldn’t continue as the tears began to fall. She bowed her head and stifled a sob.

‘Tears are not going to work with me, Bronte,’ he said through tight lips. ‘I have lost more than a year of my child’s life. Do you have any idea of what that feels like?’

She looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. ‘I know how upset you must be—’

‘You don’t know the half of it,’ he ground out. ‘I look at Ella and every day I have missed is like a punch to my guts.’

‘I have photos and some home videos to show you—’

‘For God’s sake, Bronte, a child’s life is not like a movie I’ve missed when it came to the local cinema,’ he said, raking a hand through his hair. ‘I can never have that time back. I can never tell her when she is older what it was like to see her born. I can never tell her what it felt like to hold my hand over your belly to feel her wriggling in there. I can’t tell her when she took her first step or when she first smiled.’

‘She’s still so young,’ Bronte said. ‘She won’t even remember you weren’t a part of her life in the beginning. Children don’t really remember anything until they are about three years old. You have plenty of time to make up for what you’ve lost.’

‘And how do you suggest I do that?’ he asked. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

Bronte pressed her lips together. She knew what was coming and took a breath to prepare herself for it.

‘You live in Australia,’ he said. ‘I spend half my time in Italy and the other half in London.’

‘I… I know.’ Her voice was a thready whisper.

‘Which means one of us has to move.’

Her eyes rounded, her mouth going completely dry. ‘You’d do that? You’d consider moving here to be closer to Ella?’ she asked.

His expression was derisive. ‘Not me, Bronte,’ he said, ‘you.’

‘Me?’ The word came out like a squeak.

‘Of course you,’ he said. ‘I can’t run a corporation the size of mine from this distance. You can teach ballet anywhere.’

Bronte got to her feet in one agitated movement. ‘Are you out of your mind? I can’t move to Italy or wherever you want me to. I’m building up my career. It’s just getting to the stage where I can expand and take on more teachers. And I have my mother and friends here. My support network is very important to me.’

His mouth took on a stubborn line. ‘You move or you lose Ella,’ he said. ‘I am not going to have her travelling back and forth in planes on access visits. I want to be fully involved in her life. I am not prepared to negotiate on this.’

Bronte opened and closed her mouth, trying to think of some way to make him see reason. She couldn’t believe his obstinacy. Did he really think she should uproot everything at his bidding? What role was she to play in his life? Was she just to be the mother of his child or was he expecting something more?

‘I want my family to meet Ella as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘And it goes without saying we will have to get married as soon as it can be arranged.’

Bronte stared at him in stupefaction. ‘Are you crazy?’

‘I am not going to be drawn into an argument about this, Bronte,’ he said. ‘Ella is a Sabbatini. She has certain rights and privileges as a grandchild and heir. I will have no one refer to her as a love-child. I want her to have my name.’

‘She can have your name without you having to marry me,’ Bronte said. ‘I can have it put on the birth certificate.’

‘Bronte, let me make something very clear,’ he said with an intractable set to his mouth. ‘We have a responsibility towards our child. She needs a mother and a father. The only way to see that she gets what she needs is for us to marry and stay married.’

‘But I don’t love you any more.’ Bronte said it even though she wasn’t sure if it was true. She didn’t know what she felt towards him. She felt so confused about him. He had barged back into her life and was threatening everything she had clung to for security. The hurt over his rejection was like a wound that had been reopened. It ached deep inside her and she was terrified of being hurt all over again.

‘I do not require your love,’ he said. ‘There are plenty of very successful marriages which exist on mutual respect and common interests. We will start with that and see where it takes us.’

Bronte sent him a defiant glare. ‘I hope you’re not expecting me to sleep with you because I’m not going to. If I have to marry you, it will be in name only.’

His eyes were like glittering black diamonds as they held hers. ‘You are not the one dictating the terms here, Bronte,’ he said. ‘You will be my wife in every sense of the word.’

Bronte’s heart gave a nervous flutter as his implacable statement hit home. She could see the fiery intent in his eyes. He wanted her and he was not going to settle for a sterile hands-off arrangement. The thought of sleeping with him was all the more terrifying because she was sure she would fall in love with him all over again. She couldn’t dissociate the intimate act like some of her peers seemed able to do. She felt the emotional connection deeply. In the past she hadn’t just loved him with her heart and soul, but her body as well. ‘You seem to have it all worked out,’ she said, trying to keep the wobble out of her voice.

‘It’s for the best, Bronte,’ he said. ‘In time, you will see that. I know it is a lot to ask of you to relocate, but your mother can visit any time she likes. And you can fly back for visits. You will not be under lock and key.’

She turned and paced what little space she had. ‘I need some time to think about this,’ she said, pressing her hand to her temple where a cluster of tension was gathering.

‘There isn’t time,’ he said. ‘We have to get moving on this. We have a wedding to arrange. I want it to be a proper one, not some hole in the corner affair.’

Bronte swung back to face him. ‘I haven’t said I will marry you, Luca. Don’t rush me. I told you I need some time to think about this.’

He came over to where she was standing, his expression so in control, so commanding, so indomitable, it sent a tremor of unease through her. ‘If you say no to our marriage, you are never going to see your daughter again,’ he said. ‘Have I made myself clear enough?’

Bronte bristled with outrage. ‘You bastard,’ she said in a snarling hiss. ‘You arrogant, cruel, heartless bastard.’

His eyes glinted as they roamed her furious features, his body so close now she could feel the male heat of him. She had nowhere to escape. She was backed up against the wall, her heart going like a jackhammer in her chest as he planted his hands either side of her head, his strongly muscled arms making a cage around her quaking body. She sent the tip of her tongue out over her lips, a rush of unruly desire gushing through her like a flash flood.

His eyes went to her mouth, his lashes lowering in a smouldering manner. She held her breath as he came closer, the soft waft of his breath over the surface of her lips making her heart kick-start in reaction. When he finally touched down on her lips she felt an explosion of desire in her body. It roared like petrol thrown on a fire. Leaping flames of need rose up and consumed her. She opened her mouth to the possessive thrust of his tongue, a hollow pit opening in her stomach as it mated erotically with hers. This was no poignant tender kiss of a revisited relationship. This was a kiss of anger and out of control needs. Bronte tasted Luca’s anger and frustration and gave plenty of her own back. She used her teeth on his lower lip, not the tender teasing little nips of the past, but savage wildcat bites that drew blood. He took control of the kiss, pushing her further back against the wall, his aroused body hot, hard and urgent against hers.

It shocked her how much he wanted her.

It shocked her how much she wanted him.

Her body had superseded any counter argument her mind tried to throw up to resist him. The simple truth was she wanted him to make love to her, to reclaim her body, to imprint it with the potency of his.

His mouth was still locked on hers as his hands lifted her cocktail dress, searching for the slick wet heart of her. He cupped her first through the lacy barrier of her knickers, which were already damp with want. She arched her spine as he pushed the lace aside to slide one finger into her. The sensations rippled through her, making her want more and more of his touch. She whimpered against the crushing heat of his mouth as his hand left her moist heat to unzip his trousers. She blindly assisted him, her fingers stroking along his steely length, delighting in the feel of him so aroused. It was something to cling to, this need he had for her. He might not love her, he might never find it in himself to forgive her for denying him knowledge of his child, but he wanted her with a fervency that secretly thrilled her.

She could have pulled away. She could have stopped things before they went any further but she didn’t. She dug her fingers into the tautness of his buttocks and urged him on.

He thrust into her with a deep bone-melting thrust that sent her head thudding against the wall behind her. He set a furious pace but she matched it. It didn’t matter that they were still fully clothed; it didn’t matter that no one had mentioned protection.

The friction of his thickened body brought her undone within seconds. She had never been able to come without added stimulation before but this time her body shattered into a thousand pieces, the convulsions of her inner core setting off his equally powerful release. She felt the pumping of his body as he emptied himself.

His breathing was still uneven as he stepped back from her and re-zipped his trousers. ‘That should never have happened,’ he said grimly. ‘I hope I didn’t hurt you.’

Bronte smoothed down her dress. ‘I thought that was your intention—to hurt me as much as possible for keeping Ella a secret from you.’

His expression was contorted with regret. ‘Anger is a dangerous emotion when it’s out of control,’ he said. ‘I had no right to take it out on you in such a way. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’

Bronte felt a little sideswiped by his sudden mood change. She wasn’t sure how to deal with her own feelings, let alone his. Her body was still humming with the aftershocks of his lovemaking. She could still feel his presence inside her even now, the twinge of unused muscles and the damp heat of him reminding her of how much passion simmered between them. Those out of control needs were satiated for now, but how long was that going to last? If she were to marry him and live with him there would be no way of ignoring the sexual tension that crackled like a current of electricity between them. She stepped away from the wall and wasn’t quite able to disguise a little wince as her body protested at the movement.

Luca’s frown deepened. ‘I did hurt you, didn’t I?’

Bronte felt her cheeks heat up. ‘I’m fine. It’s just been a long time… well, you know…’

There was an awkward little silence.

‘It’s been a long while for me too,’ he said, rubbing the back of his neck again.

Bronte looked at him, wondering whether to believe him or not. When she’d met him he had a reputation as a playboy. What he wanted, he got. No woman could resist him. She couldn’t quite see him adhering to a celibate lifestyle for longer than a week or two. He was too full of life, too full blooded, too intensely and potently male.

He looked at her with a wry expression. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

‘Why should I?’ she asked. ‘You’ve told me practically nothing of your life over the past two years. For all I know, you’ve probably had numerous affairs, one after the other. A long time between lovers for you might mean a couple of days.’

He held her look for a long moment before shifting his gaze. ‘It’s not been like you think, Bronte. I’ve had other things going on in my life. There has been no one of any significance for quite some time.’

‘How very restrained of you,’ she said with an attempt at sarcasm.

He ignored her comment and wandered over to the small bookcase and picked up a photograph of Ella. ‘You mentioned you had photos and DVDs of her. I would like to have copies made, if you don’t mind.’

‘Of course I don’t mind,’ Bronte said. ‘I’ll get them together for you. I’ll have to bring them to your hotel tomorrow, however. Mum has most of them at her house. There’s not much storage space here.’

He turned and looked at her. ‘Why do you live here instead of in the main house with your mother?’

‘I thought it was important to maintain some element of independence for me and for Ella,’ she said. ‘My mother—as you saw—is rather protective. She means well but at times she can be quite smothering. I make allowances for her because she’s been alone for so long. Living here is a sort of compromise. Mum is close by to help me with Ella but there is enough distance, small as it is, to establish some boundaries.’

‘How do you think she will take the news of our marriage?’

‘The same way I am taking it,’ she answered. ‘With a great deal of apprehension.’

Luca came back over to her and ran a fingertip down her cheek. She didn’t veer away, but he saw the way her eyes flickered with wariness. Her mouth was swollen from his kisses, puffy and pink and all too tempting to kiss again. ‘There is no other way to do this, Bronte,’ he said. ‘You do realise that, don’t you?’