Italian Bachelors: Unforgotten Lovers: The Change in Di Navarra's Plan / Bound by the Italian's Contract / Visconti's Forgotten Heir

He looked imposing as he straightened to his full height and gazed down at her. He was dressed in a custom suit, navy blue, with a crisp white shirt and no tie. The pale blue diaper bag with the smiling monkey on it looked completely out of place against that elegant backdrop.

And yet he held it as though he could care less that the rich and entitled CEO of one of the most important cosmetics companies in the world might look just a little ridiculous. Or a little too appealing for a tabloid photo.

Holly cast her gaze up and down the street, but nobody with a camera emerged to snap a shot. Thank goodness.

“I’m going with you,” Drago said.

“I don’t see why,” she returned. “I can handle it alone. Or you could send a lackey. Surely you have work to do.”

“I have a cell phone and a tablet, Holly. I can work, I assure you.”

She tried to swallow down her fear. It tasted like bitter acid. “I won’t run away, Drago, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

A preposterous suggestion that he’d be worried about her leaving, but it was the only thing she could think of.

“Holly, for goodness’ sake, just turn around and walk into the building. We have an appointment and you’re going to make us late.”

She glared at him a moment more, her stomach dancing with butterflies—and then she heaved a sigh. “Fine, but don’t blame me if it takes six hours and you’re bored silly. I told you not to come.”

Thankfully, it did not take six hours. But Holly’s fear refused to abate while they waited. When they were finally shown into an office and it was time to hand over the paperwork, Holly snatched the diaper bag from Drago and fished out the papers with trembling hands. Then she handed them directly to the clerk.

The clerk was a typical bureaucrat, going over everything in triplicate. At one point, the woman looked up at Drago. He was flipping through files on his tablet and didn’t seem to notice, but Holly’s heart climbed into her throat as she waited for the woman to say something.

Then the clerk met Holly’s gaze for a long moment. Finally, she seemed to give a mental shrug, and the moment was over. A short while later, they were on their way back to Drago’s apartment, the passports safely tucked away in Holly’s purse.

Holly felt a little shell-shocked over the whole thing. When they arrived at Drago’s, she took Nicky and put him down for his nap. Then she climbed into bed and lay there, staring at the ceiling, her stomach still churning with guilt and fear. It wound its way through her belly, her bones, her heart, curling and squeezing until she thought she would choke on it.

She’d overcome another obstacle, gotten one step closer to the goal. Her luck was holding, but for how much longer?

She needed to tell Drago the truth before her luck ran out, but she was caught in an infinite loop of her own making. There was no scenario in which she could envision telling him and it not exploding in her face.

Once she signed the contract, she would tell him. Once she had the guarantee that she’d have money to take care of her baby, she could admit the truth. And then, even if he threw her out again when it was over, it would be fine. Everything would be fine.

But she couldn’t quite make herself believe it.

When Holly finally emerged from her room a couple of hours later, it was because she was hungry and couldn’t stay hidden any longer. She hoped that Drago would have gone out for the evening, so she didn’t have to face him right now, but of course nothing ever went the way she hoped.

He looked up as she tiptoed into the kitchen. Her stomach slid down to the marble floor and stayed there.

“I was just looking for something to eat,” she said casually.

“There’s Chinese takeout,” he said. “It’s in the warming drawer.”

She couldn’t help but look at him in surprise. “You eat Chinese takeout?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t everyone?”

Not billionaires, she thought. She expected they ate lofty meals in the kinds of restaurants he’d taken her to the last time she was in New York. Or meals prepared at home by their personal chefs. Which he did happen to have.

“I figured that would be too, um, basic for you.”

He laughed and a trickle of warmth stirred inside her. She loved that laugh more than she should. He was sitting at the expansive kitchen island with papers arrayed around him and an open laptop off to one side. Just a tycoon and his paperwork. Quite a different picture from the one she usually made at her worn Formica table every month, trying to make too little money stretch too far.

Chinese takeout had been a luxury. And Gabi was usually the one who’d bought it, against Holly’s protests.

Save your money, Gabi. Don’t waste it on me.

It’s not a waste. Eat.

The memory of her and Gabi perched on the sofa in front of the television, eating from containers, made her feel wistful. And lonely.

“Holly, I’m a man like any other,” Drago said. “I like lobster and champagne, I like Kobe beef, I like truffles—but I also like Chinese takeout, hotdogs from a cart and gyros sliced fresh at a street fair.”

She very much doubted he was like other men. But the idea of him eating a hot dog he’d bought from one of the carts lining the city streets fanned the warmth inside her into a glow.

“Next you’ll be telling me you like funnel cakes and deep-fried candy bars.”

“Funnel cakes, yes. Candy bars, no.”

She pictured him tearing off bites of funnel cake, powdered sugar dusting his lips, and fresh butterflies swirled low in her belly. “Will wonders never cease?”

He grinned and then stood and walked over to the warming drawer. He wore faded jeans and a dark T-shirt, and his feet were bare. It was entirely too intimate and sexy, especially since the sky was dark and the city lights sparkled like diamonds tossed across the horizon.

She didn’t know why that made it more intimate, but it did.

Drago pulled open the drawer and took out several containers of food. “There’s a variety here. Mu shu pork, sweet-and-sour chicken, Mongolian beef, kung pao shrimp, black-pepper fish, lo mein, fried rice...”

Holly could only gape at him. “Gracious, was there a party tonight and I missed it?”

He shrugged, completely unselfconscious. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I ordered several different things.”

He set the containers on the counter, and Holly walked over to peer at the contents. Her stomach rumbled. It all looked—and smelled—wonderful. Drago set a plate and some wooden chopsticks on the counter.

“Thank you,” she said softly. And then, though it embarrassed her, “But I’ll need a fork.”

He pulled open a drawer and took out a variety of silverware—forks and spoons so she could dip out the food—and set them down without a word about her inability to use chopsticks. It was a silly thing, but she was ridiculously grateful that he didn’t tease her about it.

He walked back to his seat at the island, and Holly started to fill her plate. She thought about retreating to her room with the food, but he’d been so nice to order it all and she didn’t want to be rude.

Holly turned and set the plate on the island. But instead of sitting, she stood and dug her fork into the kung pao shrimp. The flavors exploded on her tongue—spice and tang and freshness. Far better than anything she’d ever had from the lone Chinese restaurant in New Hope, where everything was either hidden under too much breading or soaked in sauce.

“I have your contract here,” Drago said softly, and her belly clenched. “When you’re done, we’ll go over it.”

She wanted to shove the food away and see it now, but she forced herself to keep chewing. She’d been unable to eat breakfast or lunch and now she was starving. If she didn’t eat now, she didn’t know if she would be able to. Her nerves swirled and popped like ice dropped on a hot grill. She was so close to having security for her baby. So close.

She put the fork down. “I have to see it now,” she said. “I’ll never be able to wait.”

Drago frowned. “Only if you promise to keep eating,” he said, picking up a sheaf of papers from the pile next to him.