He’d aced Financial Analysis 101. So, how come he’d made such a muck-up of Real-Life Analysis, Grade School Level?
It was time to start making some intelligent moves, starting with settling Gabriella and the kid elsewhere. The real estate agent who’d got him this place understood his tastes, his needs; the guy’s firm was a high-end operation that understood the importance of discretion. That would be step one. Find her a place to live. Someplace within hailing distance but not where anyone would stumble over her.
He thought about that for a moment. To someone not familiar with the circumstances, a set-up like that would look as if he were trying to deny the ramifications of the situation.
Ridiculous.
He was just doing what he should have done in the first place. Behaving intelligently. Sam Cohen would surely agree. Not that he’d involve him until he had the move in motion, otherwise he’d have to admit Sam had an ass for a client.
Dante smiled thinly. He’d call Sam later today, set up an appointment, arrange for the necessary tests, for temporary financial support, long-term if that proved necessary because hadn’t he finally faced the fact that anything was possible?
For no discernible reason, an image of Gabriella flashed before him.
Her wide eyes. Her lovely mouth. Her smile. And, though it wasn’t something one could see, her honesty all the time they’d been together, starting the first time he’d phoned.
“It’s Dante Orsini,” he’d said, and then, because the need to see her had been near all consuming, he’d skipped the niceties and gone straight to the point. “I’ll be there at eight, to take you to dinner.”
“Did I miss something?” she’d said, with a little laugh. “When, exactly, did you ask me out?”
“I didn’t,” he’d replied bluntly. “Why would I ask you for something we both want?”
He’d heard the catch of her breath. And then she’d said, “Yes.” Just that one word, that “yes,” delivered in such a low, sexy voice that it had filled him with heat.
She was into honesty from the small things to the big ones. She’d told him she was a Jets fan when he said he was into the Giants. He’d mentioned his preference for the Giants to an endless stream of women and every last one had quickly said wasn’t that nice because she loved them, too, and that included the ones who probably couldn’t tell a football from a volley ball.
She ate with gusto, packing away a loaded-with-everything hot dog at a Yankees game, warning him she knew no bounds when it came to lobster and proving it by finishing every bite at The Boathouse, ending with butter on her chin that he’d just had to kiss away.
She was upfront about everything.
Especially in bed.
Her passion, her arousal, her eagerness when he touched her, when he tasted her breasts, when he put his mouth on that perfect bud between her thighs, all of it so real, so sweet, so amazing it shook his world.
And when she responded, when she caressed him, put her hands and mouth on him…
“Dammit,” he growled.
None of that meant he should believe this child was his without proof, he thought coldly.
First things first. Shower. Phone that real estate agent. And then tap politely at Gabriella’s door, tell her he’d been thinking things over and that he’d come up with a workable plan.
He felt better already.
Showered, shaved, dressed in faded jeans and a navy T-shirt, Dante headed for the kitchen.
He’d lost track not only of days but of hours. All that going back and forth had confused his internal clock. Was it time for breakfast? Lunch? Dinner? He didn’t know and didn’t much care. He was hungry, was all he knew; his stomach was growling. He’d had a sandwich on the plane but that seemed a long time ago. Gabriella hadn’t eaten at all. During the flight, the attendant had said she’d checked and both Gabriella and the baby were sleeping. He’d thought about going back there, just to see how things were, but if Gabriella was asleep…
Okay. So maybe the truth was, he hadn’t been ready to talk to her. Not then.
But he was ready now.
So, he’d cook something for the two of them.
He frowned as he opened the fridge. The shelves were pretty empty except for the requisite things. Eggs. Bread. Butter. A container of light cream that passed the sniff test. An unopened quart of milk. There was a wedge of cheddar in the cheese keeper on the door. He wasn’t the world’s best cook but he could put together a cheese omelet, make some toast, a pot of coffee. As for the baby…
What did babies that small eat? Formula? Little jars of vile-looking, strange-colored food? Not that it would be his problem. Gabriella had filled a big carry-on with what she’d called baby stuff. She surely had food for the kid inside it.
He took out the eggs, the milk, the butter, the cheese—
And hesitated.
Come to think of it, how come it was so quiet? He’d been up and pacing around for hours. He figured Gabriella was exhausted, but still, what about the kid? When his sister Anna was a baby, she’d cried nonstop.
For no good reason the skin on the back of his neck prickled. He shut the refrigerator door and headed up the stairs.
Nothing. No sounds at all drifting down the wide hall.
He paused at the guest suite. “Gabriella?” He moved closer to the door. Tapped at it. “Gabriella?” No answer. “Gabriella,” he said loudly, and then he said to hell with it, turned the knob and stepped inside.
The curtains in the sitting room were drawn. Beyond, the bedroom door stood open. He walked toward it.
The baby lay on the bed, surrounded by pillows. He was on his belly, his rump up in the air, head to the side and part of his fist jammed into his mouth. He was sound asleep and…Dante frowned. Hell. The kid was that all-purpose word. Cute. A cliché but accurate. The kid was so small, the bed so big…
Dante cleared his throat. He hadn’t come up here to look at babies, he’d come to check on Gabriella. Obviously, she was in the bathroom.
Oh, hell.
The bathroom door was shut but the sound of someone being sick traveled straight through it. “Gabriella?” he said, hurrying to the door. “Are you sick?”
“Dante.” Her voice was weak. Frighteningly weak. “Don’t come in. I have a bug. The flu—”
He could almost feel the blood draining from his face. He wasn’t good at this, either. Somebody throwing up…
Gabriella groaned. Retched. He didn’t think, didn’t hesitate; he flung the door open and stepped into the room. His Gabriella was hunched over the toilet, her hair streaming down her back, her body trembling. He cursed, ran to her and clasped her shoulders from behind.
“Sweetheart. Why didn’t you ask me to help you? I’ll get a doctor—”
“Go away. I don’t need—”
She retched again. His hands tightened on her. He could feel her shaking; she was wearing a nightgown and she was soaked straight through with sweat. His heart turned over.
“Gaby. Honey, what can I do to help?”
What could he do? If she hadn’t felt as if she were dying,