Gianni's Pride

Liam was inclined to laugh off bumps and bruises unless he picked up on an adult’s anxiety—then things could tip over into hysteria.

There were tears in the limpid blue gaze that lifted to his father. Gianni smiled reassuringly and ran his hands lightly down his son’s body to check for any obvious injuries.

The boy blinked several times and bit his wobbling lip before he shook his head and said, ‘I’m fine … Fitzgeralds are tough.’

Gianni patted his son’s shoulder and gave a thumbs-up sign as he rose to his feet. ‘Good man.’

Miranda, who had watched the revealing interchange with a disapproving frown, was forced to swallow to clear the emotional lump in her throat when the boy returned the thumbs-up gesture and beamed with pride as he struggled valiantly to his feet.

This was a very appealing kid who obviously wanted to please his father, who was clearly a paid-up member of the macho ‘boys don’t cry’ school of thought.

She just hoped for this child’s sake that his mother provided a softening influence. If ever I have a son, she thought fiercely, I’ll teach him that a boy is allowed to have feelings. He’s allowed to cry.

‘You haven’t said I told you so yet.’ Gianni turned his head and arched a sardonic brow. Caught unawares, Miranda found herself pinned by a heavy-lidded cynical stare.

‘I haven’t said big boys don’t cry either,’ she fired back, unable to totally shake the illogical feeling that those mocking eyes could see right into her head.

One corner of his mouth lifted in a mocking smile. ‘Are you suggesting I’m not in touch with my feminine side, Miranda?’

Miranda was startled to hear him use her name with such familiarity. The way he said it made it sound … different? ‘N-no …’ On another occasion the suggestion might have made her laugh—feminine? The man who oozed more testosterone than a rugby team!

‘I’m half Italian, half Irish—neither are known for their inhibitions when it comes to expressing emotions.’

Miranda looked at the sensual curve of his mouth and thought, I can believe it.

‘Frequently loudly,’ he admitted with a flash of white teeth.

Miranda turned her head quickly to break the hold of his mesmeric gleaming stare and, ignoring her violently quivering stomach muscles, directed her attention to the little boy. ‘Are you sure he’s all right?’

It was the child under discussion who responded to the question. ‘No, I’m not all right. The car made me sick … a lot,’ the little boy announced with a hint of pride. He gave her a look resembling a mistreated puppy—it would have melted stone—and said pathetically, ‘The car smells. Daddy was mad.’

‘Was he? I’m sure that helped a lot.’ The smiling comment passed over the child’s head but hit its target.

Reconciled to being considered the monster in this scene, Gianni shrugged and thought, Why fight it? ‘A man and his car—you know how it is.’

Miranda gave a scornful snort, edged a little towards the window and glanced down seeing, not the shiny boy’s toy his comment had brought to mind, but a disreputable-looking four wheel drive parked down below.

You could tell a lot about a man by the car he drove, as her mother had always told her daughters—her theory was not in Miranda’s experience foolproof, but sometimes dead on. Oliver drove a solid estate, which suited him; safe, steady and dependable.

‘Gracious!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m not surprised he was sick in that thing! What possessed you to transport a child who suffers from travel sickness in something that’s one step up from a horse and cart?’

‘You know what they say, Miranda—beggars can’t be choosers,’ he drawled with a languid shrug. ‘And I’m obviously not the expert on all things relating to childcare that you are.’ Jaw clenched, he arched a sarcastic brow. ‘How many children do you have?’

‘That’s not Daddy’s car. Daddy has a big, big car!’ the child boasted as he made a thrumming sound in his throat and began to charge around the room in imitation of a car, proving if nothing else that he hadn’t been injured by the fall.

Miranda’s softly rounded jaw tightened with annoyance. ‘I don’t have children and I never claimed to be an expert.’

‘Just a woman.’

‘What have you got against women?’

His sensually sculpted upper lip curled into an exaggerated leer. ‘I have never been accused of not liking women.’

I just bet they like you right back, she thought, dragging her gaze from his mouth, aware as she did so of the heavy ache low in her abdomen. This man really was sinfully attractive. She felt a spasm of sympathy for Liam’s mother, then as her eyes were drawn back to his mouth that vanished as it occurred to her the woman didn’t need sympathy—she had that mouth.

Rather shocked by her thought, she blinked, then lowered her gaze, balling her fists on the quilt as she resisted the sudden impulse to touch her own lips.

‘I’m sure that makes your wife deliriously happy.’

‘I’m not married.’

‘Oh, I thought …’ Her eyes moved in an unscheduled sweep from him to the playing child and back again. Not married did not mean they were not a couple.

He answered the question she was clearly gagging to ask. ‘No, we are not together.’

‘Oh!’ What was she meant to say to that? After an awkward pause she produced a lame. ‘I … sorry.’

His expression froze. ‘Do not be. Liam does not suffer in any way because his parents are not a couple.’ By the time he was old enough to think about it, few of Liam’s friends would be the products of a conventional family unit.

But how many would have a mother who had declared herself unwilling and unable to adjust her lifestyle to accommodate the needs of a child?

As always Gianni pushed away the thought. It was a question for the future and he would deal with it at the appropriate time.

The same way he’d dealt with Sam’s initial bombshell when she’d told him she was pregnant; the same way he had dealt with her sympathetic but amused response when he had asked when she was going to give up front-line journalism—the days of speaking calmly to a camera while bullets whizzed by her were clearly to his mind over.

His only experience of mothers was his own and she had put her family first, and while he had never expected the mother of his children to turn into some sort of fifties stay-at-home housewife—he had no problem with her having a career, just not one that involved being held hostage by rebel bandits—it had not crossed his mind that she would not be the main carer.

Just as it had not crossed his mind that he would not be married to the mother of his child.

Startled that her reply had elicited such a defensive aggressive reaction, Miranda thought, Wow, did I hit a nerve or what?

‘Liam is—’ Gianni stopped, the groove between his brows deepening as he realised that, for someone who was not in the habit of discussing his personal life with strangers or defending his actions to anyone, he was doing a pretty good impression of someone who needed approval.

Lowering his dark lashes in a lush veil over his eyes, he ran a hand over his jaw where a dark shadow of the stubble that gave him a vaguely piratical air was visible. ‘I don’t enjoy arguing before I shave or have my first coffee, especially with naked women.’

The sly addition caused Miranda’s hand to fly to her mouth. Bad idea because the quilt slipped on one side, almost causing a dramatic wardrobe malfunction—or as dramatic as a B cup could be.

One corner of his mouth tugged upwards as Gianni watched her struggle. ‘It gives them an unfair advantage.’

Unfair! For a moment she was rendered totally speechless—the nerve of the man! Miranda, who had never felt at more of a disadvantage in her life, scowled before arranging her features into an expression of mock consternation.

‘Well, I’m all for a level playing field, and I wouldn’t want to be accused of taking advantage, so in the interests of fair play we can continue this conversation when I’ve got some clothes on.’

His laugh was warm, deep, throaty and totally unexpected. Miranda, aware of a faint responsive quiver low in her stomach, fought the urge to smile back. She knew he was a man who spent his life smiling and having people—women—smile back.

Miranda could think of few things worse than being with a man every woman lusted after, unless of course it was having the man you loved fall for your twin sister!

‘That seems fair,’ he conceded. ‘Come on, champ, I think a bit of soap and water might be appropriate.’ He scooped up his son, his nostrils quivering at the stale acrid smell. ‘I left the bags in the kitchen. How’s about we take the bathroom downstairs and you take the one up here—the one with the big lock.’