ROCCO WRENCHED HIS tie off and cast it down to the marble floor in the entryway of his home. He had gone out, and he had stayed out all night. He had found a beautiful woman, and he had bought her a drink. However, when it had come time for him to take the beautiful woman to bed, he had changed his mind. He had not even kissed her, not even tried to seduce her. He had bought her a drink, chatted with her and realized that his body had no interest in her.
He wasn’t entirely certain what to do with that realization. She was a beautiful woman, and there was no reason for him to do anything but take her to bed. However, he found he simply lacked the desire. And so he had spent the rest of the night drinking, attempting to get himself into a place where he might not be so aware of the woman he wanted to seduce. But still, as he had approached a blonde later in the night, Charity—her dark curls, beautifully smooth skin, like coffee and cream—swam before his vision, the pale beauty before him washing out into insignificance.
He had ended his time out as the sky began to turn gray, the sun preparing to rise over the sea, walking through the city using the frigid early-morning air to help sober him up.
And then he had walked back to the villa. He would send someone for his car later.
But, though his head was clear, he was not in a better mood.
He did not understand why he had been immune to those women.
He started up the stairs, unbuttoning the top couple of buttons on his shirt, and the cuffs, pushing the sleeves up to his elbows.
As he made his way down the hall toward his bedroom he heard a thump and a groan.
He paused, turning in the direction of the sound. It was coming from Charity’s room.
He did not stop and think; rather he charged toward the door and pushed it open, just in time to see her crawling on all fours into the bathroom. He frowned and strode across the room. In the bathroom, he saw her kneeling in front of the toilet, retching.
He walked in behind her, lifting her hair from her face, until she was finished being sick.
“Go away,” she said, her voice pitiful.
“No, I will not go away. You are ill.”
“I’m not,” she said, sputtering, before leaning back over and being sick again. He made sure her dark curls were pulled away from her face, his fingers making contact with the clammy skin on her forehead, the back of her neck.
“Yes, you are.” She slumped backward, her limbs shaking, a shiver racking her frame. “Are you finished?” he asked.
She nodded feebly, and he scooped her up into his arms, conscious of how cool her skin felt, even though it was beaded with perspiration. “Water,” she said.
“Of course, but let me get you back into your bed.”
“You getting me into bed is what caused this in the first place,” she mumbled.
“This is because of the pregnancy?” He set her down at the center of the bed, debating whether or not he should put a blanket over her.
“Well, it isn’t food poisoning.”
“I have no experience with pregnant women,” he said, feeling defensive. “I knew that pregnancy could make you ill, but I did not realize how severe it might be.”
She drew her knees up to her chest, curling into a little miserable ball. “Mine is quite severe.”
“You seemed well yesterday.”
“It usually only does this in the morning.”
“Are you cold?”
She shivered. “No, I’m hot.”
“You are shivering.”
“Okay, now I’m cold.”
Rocco didn’t know the first thing about caring for another person. He had never done it before. Since the death of his mother he had spent his life renting out connections. Foster families that never kept him for longer than a couple of months, lovers who lasted a couple of nights. In his experience, the only thing that was permanent were the things he could buy. So he invested in things. In brick, and marble. In cars and land. People were too transient in nature. Too temporary.
He remembered—a hazy image—that when he had been ill as a child his mother used to bring him a drink. With a lemon. Or maybe it wasn’t a real memory at all. Maybe it was just something his mind had given him, something he had created for his mother’s image to replace the more concrete memories of her looking desolate, tired.
Either way, he imagined Charity might like tea.
* * *
Charity watched as Rocco turned wordlessly and walked out of the room. She hadn’t really expected him to leave without a word, but all things considered she was relieved. Having him walk in while she was throwing up had to be one of the most humiliating experiences of her life. Vomiting was bad enough. Vomiting in front of Rocco was even worse.
She did not want him seeing her when she was so low. He didn’t deserve it.
She crawled to the head of the bed and slipped beneath the covers, exhaustion rolling over her in a wave.
Dimly, she registered that he was wearing the suit he had been wearing last night, though he did not have his tie or jacket on. So that meant he had gone out all night. Very likely, he had slept with someone else.
Misery joined the exhaustion, and she shivered. At least when he’d come into the bathroom he hadn’t been cruel. He’d held her hair. Had carried her to bed. It had almost been as if he cared about her comfort.
Which was silly. Because he didn’t care about anything. Least of all her.
A few moments later, Rocco reappeared, carrying a tray, his black hair disheveled, his shirt open at the collar, revealing a wedge of tan skin and dark chest hair. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, the weight of the tray enhancing the muscles of his forearms. And the strength of his hands.
He really did have wonderful hands.
She liked his hands much better than she liked his mouth, though that was beautiful, too. His hands had only given her pleasure. His mouth did a lot to administer pain.
“What are you doing?” she asked, as he set the tray, which she now saw had a teapot, a cup, a small plate with toast and a little jar of jam, down on the bed.
“This is what you do when people aren’t feeling well. Isn’t it?”
“Well, it can’t hurt.” She readjusted herself so that she was sitting, leaning back against the nest of pillows that were on the bed, and the headboard.
Rocco picked up the teapot and the cup, pouring a generous amount for her before handing it to her. “Careful,” he said, the warning strange and stilted on his lips, “it’s hot.”
She lifted the cup to her lips and blew on it gently, before looking over the rim at her delivery service. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
He cleared his throat, a wrinkle appearing between his brows. “I’m not being nice. I am being practical. It does not benefit either of us for you to die.”
She sighed heavily into the sip of her tea. “I don’t know. If I died you wouldn’t have to deal with any of this. You wouldn’t have to face fatherhood.”
His expression turned grim. “I have dealt with quite enough loss, thank you. I should like to keep you alive. And the baby.”
She looked into her tea. “Sorry. That was gallows humor at its worst.”
“I think you