Escape for Easter: The Brunelli Baby Bargain / The Italian Boss's Secret Child / The Midwife's Miracle Baby

It was ten minutes after the time Eric Gibbs had said he wanted her to meet him. Eric was well known for two things: his beard, which made him look like an avuncular Father Christmas, and his almost paranoid aversion to being kept waiting by anyone.

He had been known to walk out on Hollywood royalty because they were late and she wasn’t a famous actor or a diva, she was a very junior journalist whose temporary contract was just coming to an end.

It was a nail-biting place to be for anyone who had her share of insecurities—which Sam did.

A few weeks earlier being offered this contract had been the focus of all her ambitions, and the possibility that the man himself might be about to offer it to her would have had her in a state of feverish anticipation.

Now, when financial security mattered more than ever, Sam knocked on the door feeling oddly detached.

The chances were this was nothing to do with her contract at all. Eric Gibbs had more important items on his agenda than the contracts of very junior members of his staff. On the two occasions they had met face to face he had got her name wrong, though she’d been told not to take that personally. Apparently Eric was not good with names and called everyone from royalty to government ministers ‘mate’.

But if it wasn’t the contract what else could explain this abrupt summons on her day off? She might have had more of a clue if her mental discipline hadn’t disintegrated. She couldn’t string two thoughts together without Cesare muscling his way into her head.

‘Get over him, Sam!’ she counselled herself sternly. If he didn’t want anything to do with this baby, that was his loss. She frowned, lifted her chin and said ‘His loss!’ just as the office door opened. ‘S-sorry,’ she muttered, blushing to the roots of her hair.

‘I said come in.’

‘I didn’t hear, I’m…’

‘Never mind. Sit down…I’ll get straight to the point.’

He did and Sam listened, the knot of anxiety in her stomach having grown into a gaping chasm by the time he had finished speaking.

‘So you’re sacking me?’ It was a shock—more than a shock. She was insecure, but she was not delusional—she knew she was good.

The editor’s direct gaze wandered in the direction of the potted plant on the filing cabinet. ‘We have to let you go. Sorry and all that.’

Sam got to her feet struggling for dignity. It was hard when her knees were shaking so hard. ‘Not as sorry as me.’

‘Of course, we’ll give you excellent references.’

‘What have I done wrong?’

‘This isn’t about you, it’s about… Damn them!’ he growled, slamming his fist down on the desk causing a pile of papers to slide to the floor.

Sam watched the inexplicable display of anger, but it didn’t have the power to touch her. She was numb.

‘It’s about organisational changes.’

Sam accepted the vague explanation with a shrug. ‘I’ll take my things with me, shall I?’

‘No hurry…no hurry,’ Eric said, looking awkward as he gave her shoulder a squeeze.

Sam managed to collect her things without bumping into anyone she knew. She was halfway home before the anger kicked in and she was articulate after the fact. A hundred things she knew she should have said—haughty, cutting things—popped into her head. By the time she reached her bedsit the anger had given way to misery, self-pity and tears that blinded her as she pushed the key into the door and let herself in.

She dropped the things she was holding onto the floor and flung herself headlong on the sofa.

They had been sitting in the stationary car for half an hour before Paolo, sitting in the driving seat, spoke up.

‘There is a lady coming, petite, she has red hair and she’s crying.’

The last comment was the clincher.

‘She is going into the building.’ The thickset Italian continued speaking in his native tongue.

‘We will follow her,’ Cesare said, trying not to think about the tears. This was a situation where the ends definitely justified the means.

Paolo responded with an affirmative grunt, but expressed no surprise at the announcement. He had worked for Cesare for ten years and the role required flexibility. He waited until Cesare had slid from the back seat and then placed a light guiding hand unobtrusively on his employer’s elbow as they walked towards the building the woman had gone into.

‘It is the fifth floor, flat 17b.’

Was she weeping in flat 17b?

Cesare’s expression hardened into a mask of resolution as he continued to refuse to acknowledge his guilt, and the part he had played in her tears.

‘The lift is out of order, sir,’ Paolo said in a tone that suggested this did not surprise him.

‘The building does not meet with your approval? It could do with a lick of paint?’ Cesare speculated.

‘Several. Or, better still, knocking down.’

Cesare laughed. ‘You are a snob.’ Then his expression sobered. A building that his fastidious driver found unacceptable was not one that he had any intention of his child being raised in.

The thickset Paolo, who carried a few extra pounds around his middle, was panting by the time they reached the fourth floor. Cesare was not.

‘You need to take more exercise, my friend.’

Paolo acknowledged the comment with a grunt before giving his employer a rapid thumbnail sketch of their surroundings. He knew that his employer’s remarkably retentive memory would not require him to repeat himself.

‘You wish me to wait?’

‘No. I will call when I need you.’

Sam was still lying on the sofa wearing her damp coat when the doorbell began to ring. It was only when the man from the flat upstairs began banging on the floor and it became obvious that her visitor was not going to go away that she made any attempt to respond.

‘All right, all right,’ she muttered, running the back of her hand across her damp cheeks and glancing with disinterest in the mirror as she passed. The glance revealed a blotchy, tear-stained face and swollen eyes surrounded by a halo of wild, slightly damp red curls.

Sniffing and pushing her hair back from her face, she opened the door a crack, but before she could either tell her noisy visitor to go away or even just check them out the door was thrust open and she was lifted backwards into her cramped hallway as Cesare Brunelli’s broad-shouldered, six-foot-five frame entered her flat.

For thirty seconds she was too stunned to say or do anything at all.

As his hands fell from her waist Cesare was unable to dispel the illogical feeling that they had belonged there—they fitted. Shrugging off the whimsical idea, he drew a hand through his hair and it came away wet. It had been raining outside.

‘Say something or I will start to think I have wandered into the wrong flat.’

It was a lie. He could have picked out her subtle womanly fragrance in a room crammed with hundreds of bodies, and he didn’t think this had anything to do with some sensory compensation he had developed. His sixth sense had not come out of hibernation, but there was, it seemed, just something about her that he reacted to on an almost cellular level.

The mass of raw masculinity in such an enclosed space sent Sam’s nervous system and her brain into chaotic confusion. She expelled a long shaky sigh as her wide-eyed glance slid down the long, lean length of him, a weakness invading her limbs as a deeper shuddery sigh left her with parted lips. He looked incredible—the epitome of male beauty standing close enough for her to touch. Only she wasn’t going to—she still had a grain of good sense left and past experience had taught her that when any form of physical contact with the Italian took place things got dangerously unpredictable.