The Shock Cassano Baby

‘It’s not something you have to figure out, Orlando.’ Edging back into her seat, Isobel concentrated on the job she had to do. ‘I will be the one deciding how to proceed.’

‘Scusi?’ A muscle twitched ominously in his jaw.

‘I mean I am prepared to accept full responsibility.’

‘“Full responsibility”?’ Dark brows drew together.

‘Yes. I don’t expect anything from you.’ Isobel paused to take in a breath, strongly suspecting from Orlando’s chilling calm that this wasn’t going her way. She tried again. ‘Obviously I would never stop you from seeing the child—if you want to, that is—but in terms of raising it, I want to make it clear that I expect that role to be solely down to me.’

‘Do you, indeed?’ Orlando’s voice dropped menacingly low.

‘Yes.’

‘Incredibile.’ Orlando pushed himself back forcibly enough for the chair to rock on its legs. ‘Let me get this straight. First you tell me that I’m going to be a father, and then you hit me with the news that you intend to raise the child alone and without my support. Is that right?’

‘Yes.’ Isobel blinked hard but remained defiant. ‘I told you because I thought you had a right to know—not because I want anything from you.’

‘Very kind of you, I’m sure.’ Sarcasm ripped through his voice. ‘So, having been given this information, what exactly did you expect me to do with it? Say “Thanks for letting me know” and then walk away? Forget all about it?’

‘If that’s what you want, yes.’ Isobel was determined not to buckle under the force of his contemptuous stare. ‘You have that option.’

‘Ha!’ Orlando gave a cruel laugh. ‘Believe me, I don’t. And neither do you, come to that, no matter how much you might want it.’

‘Orlando, look—’

Hearing a tap on the door, Orlando held up his hand to silence her as his PA appeared, framed prettily in the doorway.

‘Not now, Astrid.’

His barked words brought a flash of surprise to Astrid’s face before she quickly pulled down the mask of professionalism.

‘My apologies, but I thought you would want to know that your one-thirty appointment has arrived.’

Orlando rubbed his temples. ‘Yes, of course. Tell them I’ll be five minutes.’

‘Certainly.’ Turning on her dainty heel, Astrid left the room, closing the door behind her.

‘We need to talk, Isobel, but not here.’ Pushing back the sleeve of his jacket, Orlando glanced at his watch. ‘I have meetings all afternoon, so it will have to be this evening. I should be free by seven o’clock.’

Isobel hesitated. Part of her—a big part—wanted to decline his less-than-cordial invitation. Tell him that as far as she was concerned there was no point in spending a torturous evening together. Orlando’s cold, calculating reaction to the news of her pregnancy had confirmed her worst fears. He had shown no compassion. Never once had he asked about her, about how she felt.

She had done her duty in telling him about the baby—now she just wanted to be left alone to pick up the pieces and carry on as best she could. But one glance at the determined set of Orlando’s jaw, the hint of steel in his eyes, told her that that was about as likely to happen as holding back the ocean with a wall of sand.

Rising to her feet, she picked up her bag and plastered on the most neutral expression she could muster. ‘Very well, if that’s what you want. I’ll see you this evening. Where do you want to meet?’

‘Leave your address with Astrid.’ Giving her no chance to disagree, Orlando stood before her, all tall, imperious command. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven.’

* * *

Orlando watched as Isobel hurried from the room, those provocative heels clicking accusingly on the polished wooden floor. He could hear her talking to Astrid in the outer office before finally taking her leave. Only then did he allow himself to sink down into a chair and put his head in his hands.

Pregnant.

The reality of what he had done hit him like a ton of rock, the shock firing through his veins. Isobel—a young woman he hardly knew—was pregnant with his baby. And if that wasn’t bad enough she had been a virgin before he had come along and ruined her life. What sort of a brute did that make him? One just like his father, that was what—a man who had swept his teenage mother off her feet, taken what he wanted, then discarded her.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Orlando forced himself to think. Why hadn’t he known that Isobel was a virgin? Would it have made any difference if he had? Their brief relationship had been so sudden, so wildly all-consuming, it had knocked all the normal rules out of the park. The attraction between them had been powerful and overwhelming and impossible to resist. And it had been the same for both of them. Or so he’d thought.

Screwing up his eyes, Orlando let the image of those sultry nights play over in his mind. Yes, Isobel had wanted him—he was sure about that. He remembered them tearing each other’s clothes off, remembered the look of pure sexual longing in Isobel’s eyes as she had reached out to him that first time, arching her naked body against his. But now he also remembered the sharp intake of breath when he had entered her...the fat tears that had leaked from the corners of her eyes when they had finally fallen back against the pillows, gasping for breath.

At the time he had thought nothing of it—or, worse still, had maybe revelled in his potent masculinity, his ability to stir such passion in a beautiful young woman.

Now the thought of what he’d done made him feel sick. But the deed was done—and with the most dramatic of consequences.

Somehow he had to get his head around this. He was going to be a father. The one thing he had always sworn would never, ever happen. Because Orlando had seen first-hand the brutal destruction that came with so-called family life. His own childhood was a chilling testament to that—completely chaotic from the start.

As a young boy he had been shunted from one foster family to the next, whenever his mother’s fragile mental health had left her unable to cope or plunged her into a depression so black that Orlando had been deemed at risk of neglect. He had been twelve years old when she had died, unable to care for herself any better than she had her precious, skinny, vulnerable son.

Too old to be adopted, and too difficult, challenging and downright angry with the world to be suitable for short-term fostering any more, Orlando had been placed in a children’s home. And that forbidding, prison-like building had been his home for more than four years.

It had been during his last few months there that he had made the disastrous decision to track down his father—the man who had had a brief affair with his mother, then abandoned her before he was born. The man who had triggered the mental health issues that had eventually led to his mother’s death. The man who had very nearly destroyed Orlando too.

But all that had been a long time ago—almost half a lifetime, in fact. At just seventeen years old Orlando had bought a one-way ticket to New York and left his wretched past firmly behind him. And the years since then had been good—remarkable, even—with determination, dedication and sheer hard work seeing Orlando rise rapidly from absolutely nothing to be one of the world’s most successful businessmen. A massive achievement in anyone’s book.

Yes, Orlando Cassano was at the top of his game. He’d got his life exactly where he wanted it.

Or so he’d thought.

Now not only had his past come back to haunt him, but his future was being catapulted into the unknown. He was going to have a child. He had no idea exactly what that would mean, but he did know that he would be there for his son or daughter—come what may, whatever it took. No way would he replicate the despicable behaviour of his own father.

And that meant the course of his life was about to change for ever.

* * *

‘I’ll be right down.’

Replacing the intercom receiver, Isobel reached for her coat and slung it over her arm. After checking her reflection in the mirror she hurried out, locking the door behind her before running down the several flights of stairs. She didn’t want to give Orlando the chance to invite himself up.

Not that she was ashamed of her flat—far from it. It might be tiny, but the rent was reasonable and it was nice and central—only a few stops on the underground to the headquarters of Spicer Shoes. However, it was hardly on a par with the sort of grandeur that Orlando Cassano was accustomed to.

He was studying the view when Isobel joined him, taking in the car park, the bike racks and the group of youths sitting on the wall that housed the dustbins. Her dash down the stairs had left her out of breath, and Orlando turned to look at her, coolly objective.

Isobel fought to suppress the familiar lurch in her stomach at the sight of him. He looked ridiculously out of place, standing there in his dark grey cashmere coat, the collar pulled up against the chilly breeze. All urbane, confident authority, he seemed the very antithesis of the crudely graffitied walls of this inner-city tower block.

‘How long have you lived here?’

Having performed a perfunctory kiss on both cheeks, Orlando took a couple of steps back and craned his head to look up, scanning the soulless concrete facade, the uniform rows of windows. Isobel watched his Adam’s apple move beneath the smooth olive skin.

‘A couple of years.’ She focussed on buttoning up her coat. ‘And, before you start, there is nothing wrong with it. We can’t all live on Caribbean islands or in Long Island mansions.’