‘A calm, phlegmatic British approach to a problem, is that it? I am supposed to quietly accept years of premeditated deceit with a smile on my face and then get down to visiting rights. Is that it?’
‘Something like that,’ Julia admitted hopefully.
‘I might have been educated in your fine British system, but I am not a phlegmatic British man,’ Riccardo informed her icily. ‘When it comes to business I may don the clothes of the businessman and speak with the civilised tongue of your country and deal with the savagery of the concrete jungle with cold-headed judgement, but when it comes to my personal life I am a man of passion.’
Julia felt an involuntary shiver of awareness run through her body like an electric shock.
A man of passion. She had seen that for herself and how! When it comes to my personal life… The blood rushed to her head as she imagined the personal life he had in mind. His passion had overwhelmed Caroline. His powerful drive, instead of sweeping her along, had left her flailing. Had it been that way in bed too? Had his passion driven her into a state of numbed frigidity? She imagined that wild, un-tamed side of him making love, bringing all his suffocating masculinity to bear upon the object of his desire. The picture shocked her with its vividness and for a few seconds reduced her to a state of confusion.
She shook her head, feeling winded. ‘Passion won’t help us deal with this situation,’ Julia said carefully, treading on thin ice. ‘Nicola has never met you. She has no idea who you are and she’ll be terrified if you suddenly appear on the scene and try to take her over. She’s finding it hard enough to come to terms with losing her…’ she nearly fell into the trap of saying her parents and reined in the instinct at the last moment ‘…Martin and Caroline. She will need to be approached with gentleness.’
It took supreme will-power not to give vent to the violent host of objections Julia’s little speech produced inside him. He could understand her reason, but, like a wounded and raging bull, he simply wanted to strike out.
Had this calmly spoken girl ever felt anything like the hurt searing through his every muscle now? Had she ever felt what it was like to have your world upended through no fault of your own? Because that was how he felt.
This morning he had been in control of his vastly successful life. He had held his dynasty in the palm of his hand and was gratifyingly aware of the sensual magnetism with which he was blessed, and which could draw any woman he wanted to him.
Now he was being lectured to by this seemingly demure but frustratingly obstinate, mousy-haired woman on how to handle a situation the likes of which he had never expected to encounter. Now he was father to a child and a stranger to her as well.
‘I need something stiffer than a cup of coffee,’ he said abruptly. Julia thought that perhaps she did as well, especially considering that her own cup of coffee lay in splinters on the ground, something she had temporarily forgotten about. She wearily bent down and began gathering the shards of blue porcelain, tipping them into the bin, while he watched her, his face showing his own intense preoccupation with his thoughts.
She was so busy watching him from under her lashes, wondering whether she could second-guess what he would say next, that when the stray splinter of china rammed into her finger it took her a few seconds to register the pain, and only then because of the sight of the blood.
She stood up quickly, holding the injured finger and biting down on her lower lip to stifle the edge of pain. Pain was not a problem, but the blood threatened to bring on a fainting fit.
She hardly expected him to play the knight in shining armour to her damsel in distress, but perhaps it was just part of his nature to take over.
‘What have you done?’
‘What does it look like? I’ve cut my finger!’
He took hold of her hand, inspecting the gash left by the shard, and, with a gentleness that took her by surprise, slowly and efficiently pulled out the offending splinter. His hands were steady and assured. Julia felt the warmth of his hand around hers, the slight abrasiveness of his skin, and she stifled a tremor.
‘First-aid kit?’
‘It’s in the… I’ll just go and fetch it…’
Instead of releasing her hand, he walked with her to the small utility room, and when she indicated a cupboard to the left he reached up and extracted a cardboard box that was crammed to overflowing with medication of every variety, most of them suitable for young children. He still had her hand in his. Considering what they had just been through and the currents of hostility that had flowed between them, their physical closeness now was like a parody of intimacy.
‘This is your first-aid kit?’ he demanded, and Julia’s grey eyes clashed stormily with his.
‘Yes, it is. And before you start telling me that it’s not up to your high regulation standards, I’d just like to remind you that I didn’t ask for your help! I’m quite capable of seeing to a cut finger!’
‘You are as white as a sheet. Where are the plasters? All I can see are cough medicines.’
‘They’re in there somewhere.’ She rummaged through the box and extracted a sad-looking packet wherein lay a stack of plasters adorned with brightly coloured cartoon characters. ‘Nicola likes Winnie the Pooh,’ she told him tersely, extracting one of the plasters. ‘I’ll wash my finger before I put this on.’
There was no need. Before she could pluck it from his grasp, he took her finger to his mouth and sucked. The action was so shockingly intimate that Julia stared at him open-mouthed. His dark head was bent, but he raised his eyes to meet hers. Was he caressing her finger with his tongue? she thought dazedly. No, of course not. Her body appeared to be on fire. Another illusion, she thought, distracted.
‘Saliva is the best antiseptic,’ he said, finally removing her finger and holding it up to inspect it. ‘There, that looks a lot cleaner now. Give me the plaster.’
She handed him the plaster and, still ridiculously shaken, watched while he gently wrapped it around the slither of open skin. The sight of the blood must have destabilised her more than she had thought at first, Julia decided. She had always had a peculiarly strong aversion to blood. That was probably why her breathing was as laboured as if she had just completed a ten-mile marathon.
That was probably why she wasn’t even aware of her mother’s presence until she said, mildly but inquisitively, ‘Julia! What’s going on here? Have I interrupted something?’
‘No, of course not, Mum.’
Riccardo watched the play of emotion shadowing the fine-boned, pale face through narrowed eyes. Her mother had startled her, that was for sure, but more than that. She had sprung back guiltily. Afraid of what…?
‘You’ve been on a date? I thought you said you were going to the pub with some friends! You never told me you had a young man.’ Her voice was full of misdirected pleasure and Julia felt herself reddening.
She should have told her mother what she was going to do, that she was going to contact Nicola’s father, but she had kept it to herself, reasoning that she would confess when everything had been settled. If he had not turned up or else had walked away from the problem then there would have been no need for painful explanations to her mother afterwards.
‘Mum…’ Her eyes flickered resentfully towards Riccardo. ‘This is…’
‘Riccardo Fabbrini. Nicola’s father.’ The biting sting of anger resurfaced as he extended his hand towards the small, grey-haired woman standing in the doorway.
‘Nicola’s father.’ Jeannette Nash