‘What do you want?’ she asked, tightening her hold on the door frame. There was no audience for them to pretend cordiality.
‘I want you to take this.’ He held up a long, thin rectangular box.
It was a pregnancy test.
THE PALE FACE that had opened the door to Matteo turned whiter. ‘I’m not pregnant.’
‘Take the test and prove it. I’m not going anywhere until you do.’
Her gaze darted over his shoulder.
‘Expecting someone?’ he asked curtly. ‘Another lover, perhaps?’
Her lips tightened but she held her ground. ‘Vanessa likes to drop in.’
‘The grieving mother checking up on the grieving widow? How charming.’ It sickened him that his aunt—like the rest of the Pellegrinis—all thought the sun rose and set with Natasha. It had been Francesca’s worry and compassion towards the young widow that had set the wheels in motion for the events that had led him here today. ‘If you don’t want her to find me here and have to explain why I have this with me, I suggest you let me in.’
A long exhalation of breath and then she stepped aside.
For the second time that day he entered Pieta’s home with the same curdle of self-loathing as when he’d entered it the first time. Revulsion. At her. At himself. At what they’d done.
Until Pieta had died Matteo had been in this house only once, when Natasha had been in England, visiting her parents.
‘Have you had a period since...?’ He couldn’t bring himself to finish the question.
Colour stained her white face at the intimacy of what he’d asked. ‘No,’ she whispered.
‘When are you due?’
Her throat moved before she answered. ‘A couple of days ago. But I’ve never been regular. It doesn’t mean anything.’
‘You’re tired. You have a backache. You used the bathroom three times during our two-hour meeting.’ He ticked her symptoms off his fingers dispassionately, although his head was pounding again. They’d made love at her most fertile time. ‘My flight back to Miami leaves in three hours. Take the test. If it’s negative I can leave Pisa and we can both forget anything happened between us.’
Neither of them said what would happen if the test proved positive.
He held the box out to her. She stared at it blankly for a moment before snatching it out of his hand and leaving the reception room they were still standing in. Her footsteps trod up the stairs, a door shut.
Alone, Matteo took himself to the day room and sat on the sofa, cradling his head in his hands while he waited. In the adjoining room was a bar where he and Pieta had had a drink together. The temptation to help himself to a drink now was strong but not strong enough to overcome his revulsion. He’d already helped himself to his best friend and cousin’s wife. He wasn’t going to add to his list of crimes by helping himself to Pieta’s alcohol.
He’d read the instructions himself. The test took three minutes to produce an answer.
He checked his watch. Natasha had been upstairs for ten minutes.
The seconds ticked past like minutes, the minutes like hours. All he had to occupy his mind were the furnishings the man who’d been like a brother to him had chosen. He couldn’t see any sign of Natasha’s influence in the decoration.
She’d once wanted to be an interior designer. He remembered her telling him that during a phone conversation held when he’d returned home after an eighteen-hour shift.
Matteo had thought he could never hate himself more than he had when he’d been ten and his dereliction of duty had ruined his little brother’s life. The loathing he felt for what he’d done with Natasha matched it, an ugly rancid feeling that lived in his guts. The loathing he felt for Natasha matched it too. Damn her, but she’d been Pieta’s wife. Hours after burying her husband she’d thrown herself into his arms and he...
Damn him, he’d let her.
He wished he could erase the memories of that night but every moment was imprinted in him. He’d woken that morning with the vivid feeling of entering her for the first time and the certainty that something had been wrong. It was a feeling that nagged at him more, growing stronger as time passed.
He rubbed the nape of his neck and cursed his fallible memory.
Natasha had been no virgin. She’d been married, for heaven’s sake, and had been trying for a baby with her husband.
Another five minutes passed before he heard movement.
She appeared in the doorway.
One look at her face told him the answer.
‘There’s got to be some mistake,’ Natasha croaked, clinging onto the door frame for support. ‘I need to do another test.’
She’d stared at the positive sign for so long her eyes had gone as blurry as the cold mist swimming in her head.
For two weeks she’d refused to believe it could happen. She’d refused to even contemplate it.
They had been reckless beyond belief but surely, surely nature wouldn’t punish them further for it? Surely the guilt and self-loathing they both had to live with was punishment enough?
Eyes of cold green steel stared back at her. It was a long time before he spoke.
‘That test is the most accurate one on the market. If it’s showing as positive then you are pregnant. So that leaves only one issue to be resolved and that’s determining who the father is.’
Afraid she was going to faint, she sank onto the floor and cuddled her knees.
‘When did you and Pieta last...?’ The distaste that laced his voice as he failed to complete his sentence sent a wave of heat through her cold head.
For the first time in her life she didn’t know what to say or do. Whenever life had posed her with a dilemma the answer had always been clear. Do what her parents wanted. It was why she’d married Pieta.
But now her parents were the least of her considerations.
‘Do I take your silence to mean that you and Pieta were active until his death?’
How could she answer that? She couldn’t.
‘If your last period was a month ago then it stands to reason you and I were together when you were at your most fertile. However, all women’s cycles differ to a certain degree so if you and Pieta were intimate until his death there’s a good chance he could be the father. Who else is in line?’
Her head spinning at the medical knowledge that meant he had a much better understanding of how her body worked than she did, she didn’t understand what he meant. ‘What?’
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. Who else have you had sex with in the past month?’
She recoiled. ‘That’s offensive.’
His laughter crackled between them like a bullet. ‘Don’t get me wrong, you’re playing the grieving widow admirably but you were like a dog on heat with me so it stands to reason there have been others.’
A dog on heat?
She covered her ears, digging her nails into her skull.
A dog on heat?
How had he not known? And him a doctor?
There had been