One Passionate Night: Her Brooding Italian Boss / The Heiress's Secret Baby / Best Friend to Wife and Mother?

She swallowed just as he said, “Really? If I let you work for me for two weeks then you’ll spend another two weeks resting and not arguing about going home?”

“Yes, I’ll get out of your hair if you let me work for two weeks and rest for two more. But that’s if you still want me to go home.” Her voice shook a bit as she considered that he might have actually been attracted to her. If she hadn’t told him about being pregnant...he might have kissed her. Just the thought almost made her swoon.

Telling herself it was foolishness to deal in what ifs, she said, “But who knows? You might—” she swallowed again “—like me.”

Her heart thrummed as their gazes met. He didn’t seem to get the double meaning.

He broke their connection and stepped back. “Constanzo can help you find a job in New York.”

She smiled sadly. Before he’d discovered she was pregnant he might have found her attractive, but he didn’t now. Though something in her heart pinched, it was okay. It had to be okay. She had bigger worries than disappointment over being wanted one minute and discarded the next. After all, why would a man who’d been married to a supermodel want a pregnant commoner?

She took a step back too. “I’d have to make a ton of money to be able to live in New York on my own, especially with the added expense of a baby. If I couldn’t make it as a single woman, it’s pretty far-fetched to think I could make it as a single mom. At the wedding, I thought about finding new roommates, but I now realize it might be impossible to find two women who want to share the small amount of space we could afford with an infant. I think, in the end, I’m going to have to go back to Kentucky. Live with my parents until the baby is born and then hope I can find a job.”

* * *

The sadness in her voice sat on Antonio’s shoulders like a cold, wet coat. Two minutes ago, she’d been so fiery he’d wanted to kiss her. But suddenly she’d become meek, docile.

Not that he wasn’t glad. Now that he knew she was pregnant, everything inside him had frozen with a new kind of fear. The last thing he needed in his life was someone who would remind him of the child he had lost. He might be able to keep her in his home for the four weeks of rest she needed, four weeks before her pregnancy showed...but he couldn’t handle watching another man’s baby grow when he knew his own child had been cast aside.

She pointed behind her to the door. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go to the kitchen to make a sandwich.”

“I’ll show you—”

She waved a hand to stop him. “I’m fine. I really do need some time by myself.”

She turned and walked out of the room, and he fell to the tall-backed chair behind the desk and rubbed his hands down his face. The man who loved peace and quiet now had a constantly hungry pregnant woman in his home. Pregnant. As in with child. Here was a single woman with no money who was willing to beg and sacrifice to figure out what to do with her life so she could keep her child—and his wealthy wife, who could have hired all the help in the world, had aborted his baby.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He had to get her out of his house before her pregnancy showed, before the constant reminder drove him insane with sadness and anger.

But he wouldn’t do it at the expense of her feelings. She’d left his office believing she’d done something wrong, when she had done nothing wrong. His jumbled emotions had caused him to react poorly.

He should apologize tonight, before she went to bed, so she didn’t take the weight of this job loss on her shoulders like one more mistake.

He bounced out of his chair and headed for the kitchen, but when he got there it was empty. And clean. Not even a bread crumb on a countertop.

Regret tightened his stomach. He hoped to God he hadn’t upset her so much she’d decided not to eat. Thinking that she might have gone outside for some fresh air before making her snack, he waited in the kitchen for twenty minutes. But she never came in.

Irritation with himself poured through him. Of course he’d upset her by telling her she couldn’t stay. She was pregnant and sensitive. Right now she was probably taking responsibility for everything that happened to her.

Knowing he had to apologize and make her see it wasn’t her fault that he couldn’t keep her, he headed upstairs to her room. The strip of light below the white door to her bedroom indicated she was inside, and he knocked once.

“Laura Beth?”

There was no answer, but the light told him she was still awake, probably reading the science fiction novel she’d had on the plane.

He knocked again. “Laura Beth?”

This time when she didn’t answer, he sighed heavily. She might want her privacy, but he didn’t want a sleepless night, angry with himself for being the cause of her anxiety and going to bed hungry. And he didn’t want her upset with herself.

He twisted the knob. “I’m coming in.”

As soon as the door opened, he knew why she hadn’t answered. Sprawled across the bed, wrapped in the bath towel she’d used after showering, lay his houseguest. Her toes hung off the side. Her hair fell down her long, sleek back. The towel cruised across her round buttocks.

The fact that she was angry with him disappeared from his brain like a puff of smoke as interest and curiosity fluttered inside him. He told himself to get out of her room. She was sleeping. Obviously exhausted. And tiptoeing closer was not a very gentlemanly thing to do.

But right at that moment, he didn’t feel like a gentleman. The artist in him awoke and cautiously eyed the smooth lines of her back, the long sweep that spoke of classic femininity, the perfect milk-white skin interrupted by dark locks of hair that shimmered when she sniffed and shifted in her sleep.

Longing to paint coiled through him. Swift and sharp, it stole his breath. His fingers twitched, yearning for the slim wooden handle of a paintbrush, and also pulling him out of his trance.

Oh, dear God.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He’d wanted to paint her. For real. At the wedding he’d wanted to capture the expression in her eyes, but that had been more like a wish.

What he’d just felt was a genuine yearning to see her form on a canvas, to bring her essence to life.

Excitement raced through him and he studied her back, her hair, her peaceful face against the soft white pillow. His unwanted attraction to her blossomed, but the desire to paint didn’t return.

Anguish filled him, but he brushed it off. He couldn’t explain the fleeting moment of wanting to paint her, but it was gone and that might be for the best. His decision to let her go was a good one. Even if his ability to paint returned, he could not paint her. It could take weeks to get the image of her he wanted and by that time she’d be showing and he’d experience all the sadness of the loss of his child a hundred times over.

He quietly tiptoed backward toward the door and left her as she lay.

* * *

The next morning, Laura Beth awakened to the bright Italian sun peeking in through the blinds behind the sheer aqua curtains. She stretched luxuriously on the smooth, cool sheets that felt like—terry cloth?

Her brow furrowed and she looked down with a gasp as the events of the night before tumbled back. She’d been too tired to make herself something to eat but had forced herself to shower, then she’d fallen asleep before she could even get into pajamas. Pregnancy was full of surprises.

But that was fine. Today was the second day of her life as a realist. No more dreaming or rhapsodizing for her. She had a child to consider. She might have told Antonio the night before that she envisioned herself going back to Kentucky, but that wasn’t the optimal plan. Her parents would eventually come around and love the baby, no matter that it didn’t have a participating father and that their daughter wasn’t married. But there weren’t a lot of jobs for IT—information technology—people in Starlight, Kentucky, the small town in which she’d grown up. If she was going to earn a decent living, it would be by getting a job where she could use her degree. And that was what she needed to consider while she had this one-month reprieve. She had to think about exactly what kind of job she could do and in what city she would find it.

She dressed in her best jeans—which were nonetheless worn—and a pink tank top, then ambled downstairs feeling a little better. Because she’d slept later than she normally did, her morning sickness was barely noticeable. Antonio might not be giving her a shot to prove that she could be a good assistant, but she needed time to really think through her options. And he was giving it to her. In beautiful Italy.

Technically, she was lucky.

Very lucky.

When she opened the door to the huge stainless-steel kitchen, the noise of shuffling pots and chatting servants greeted her. Antonio’s staff hadn’t been around the day before. He’d mentioned giving them time off while he was in New York for the two weeks for Eloise and Ricky’s wedding. But today they were in the kitchen, going about what looked to be typical duties.

“Good morning!”

The three women froze. Dressed in yellow uniforms, with their hair tucked into neat buns at the backs of their heads, they could have been triplets, except the woman at the stove appeared to be in her seventies. The woman at the table was probably in her thirties. And the woman with the dust cloth looked to be in her early twenties.

The oldest woman said, “Good morning,” but it sounded more like “Goot morning.”

Laura Beth eased a little farther into the room. “I’m a friend of Antonio’s. I’m staying here for a few weeks. Hopefully, I’m going to be helping him clean his outer office.”

The youngest woman smiled. Her big brown eyes brightened. “Sì.”

The oldest woman batted a hand. “Her English isn’t good. God only knows what she thought you said.” She walked from behind the huge center island that housed the six-burner chef’s stove. “Would you like some coffee?”