She shrugged. ‘Where we’re going to live. Practicalities. That kind of thing. And we need to decide soon because I won’t be allowed to fly once I’m past thirty-six weeks.’
His self-assured shake of his head was tinged with the arrogant sense of certainty which was so much a part of him. ‘I have my own jet, Darcy. We can fly when the hell we like, provided we take medical support with us.’
She nodded as she pulled back the covers and got into the king-size bed, rolling over as far as possible until she had commandeered one side of it. ‘Whatever,’ she said. ‘But we still need to discuss it.’
‘Just not tonight,’ he said, the bed dipping beneath his weight as he joined her. ‘You’re much too tired. We’ll talk in the morning. And—just for the record—if you lie much closer to the edge, you’re going to fall off it in the middle of the night and, apart from the obvious danger to yourself, you might just wake me up.’ She heard the clatter as he removed his wristwatch and put it on the bedside table. ‘Don’t worry, Darcy, I’m reading your body language loud and clear and I have no intention of trying to persuade a woman to make love if she has set her mind against it.’
‘Something which has never happened to you before, I suppose?’ she questioned waspishly.
‘As it happens, no,’ he drawled. He snapped off the light. ‘Usually I have to fight them off.’
Darcy’s skin stung with furious heat. It was a lesson to never ask questions unless you were prepared to be stupidly hurt by the answer you might receive. Lying open-eyed in the darkness, almost immediately she heard the sounds of Renzo’s deep and steady breathing and fearfully she foresaw a restless night ahead, plagued by troubled thoughts about the future. But to her surprise she felt warm and cosseted in that big bed with a brand-new wedding ring on her finger. And, yes, even a little bit safe.
As the keen Tuscan wind howled outside the ancient house Darcy snuggled down into her pillow and, for the first time in a long time, slept soundly.
RENZO INSISTED ON a honeymoon—cutting through Darcy’s automatic protests when she went downstairs the following morning to find him in the throes of planning it. As she glanced at the road map he’d spread out on the dining-room table, she told him it would be hypocritical; he said he didn’t care.
‘Maybe you’re just doing it to make the marriage look more authentic than it really is,’ she observed, once she had selected a slice of warm bread from the basket. ‘Since we haven’t actually consummated it.’
‘Maybe I am,’ he agreed evenly. ‘Or maybe it’s because I want to show you a little of my country and to see you relax some more. You slept well last night, Darcy.’ His black eyes gleamed but that was the only reference he made to their chaste wedding night, though she felt a little flustered as his gaze lingered on the swell of her breasts for slightly longer than was necessary. ‘And we can consummate it anytime you like,’ he said softly. ‘You do realise that, don’t you?’
She didn’t trust herself to answer, though her burning cheeks must have given away the fact that the subject was very much on her mind. Sharing a bed so he could keep an eye on her was more straightforward in theory than in practice. Because a bed was a bed, no matter how big it was. And wasn’t it true that at one point during the night her foot had encountered one of her new husband’s shins and she’d instinctively wanted to rub her toes up and down his leg, before hastily rolling away as if her skin had been scorched?
She told herself their situation was crazy enough but at least she was in full control of her senses—and if she had sex with him, she wouldn’t be. And she was afraid. Afraid that the pregnancy was making her prone to waves of vulnerability she was supposed to have left behind. Afraid he would hurt her if he saw through to the darkness at the very core of her. Because something had changed, she recognised that. He was being gentle with her in a way he’d never been before. She knew it was because she was carrying his baby but even so... It was intoxicating behaviour coming from such an intrinsically cold man and Darcy might have been bewitched by such a transformation, had she not instinctively mistrusted any type of kindness.
But she couldn’t get out of the ‘honeymoon’ he was planning and perhaps that was a good thing. It would be distracting. There would be things to occupy them other than prowling around their beautiful rented villa like two wary, circling tigers, with her terrified to even meet those brilliantine black eyes for fear he would read the lust in hers and act on it...
So she packed her suitcase with the warm clothes which had also been purchased from Nicoletta’s boutique and Renzo loaded it into the back of his sports car. The air was crisp as they drove through the mountains towards Italy’s capital, the hills softly green against the ice-blue sky as the powerful car swallowed up the miles. They stopped in a small, hilltop town for an early lunch of truffled pasta followed by torta della nonna and afterwards walked through narrow cobbled streets to the viewpoint at the very top, looking down on the landscape below, which was spread out like a chequered tablecloth of green and gold.
Darcy gave a long sigh as her elbows rested on the balustrade and Renzo turned to look at her.
‘Like it?’ he questioned.
‘It’s beautiful. So beautiful it seems almost unreal.’
‘But there are many beautiful parts of England.’
She shrugged, her eyes fixed on some unseen spot in the distance. ‘Not where I grew up. Oh, there were lots of lovely spaces in the surrounding countryside, but unless they’re on your doorstep you need funds to access them.’
‘Was it awful?’ he questioned suddenly.
She didn’t answer immediately. ‘Yes,’ she said, at last.
He heard the sadness in that single word and saw the way her teeth chewed on her bottom lip and he broke the silence which followed with a light touch to her arm. ‘Come on. Let’s try and get there before it gets dark.’
She fell asleep almost as soon as she got in the car and as Renzo waited in line at a toll gate, he found himself studying that pale face with its upturned freckled nose. Her red curls hung over one shoulder in the loose plait she sometimes wore and he thought that today she looked almost like a teenager, in jeans and a soft grey sweater. Only the bump reminded him that she was nearly twenty-five and soon going to have his baby.
Could they make it work? His leather-gloved fingers gripped the steering wheel as they moved forward. They had to make it work. There was no other choice, for he would not replicate his own bleak and fatherless childhood. He realised how little she’d actually told him about her own upbringing, yet, uncharacteristically, she had mentioned it today. And even though that haunted look had come over her face, he had found himself wanting to know more.
Wasn’t that his role now, as husband and prospective father—to break the ingrained rules of a lifetime and find out as much about Darcy as possible? And wasn’t the best way to do that to tell her something about him—the kind of stuff women had quizzed him about over years, to no effect. Because communication was a two-way street, wasn’t it? At least, that was what that therapist had told him once. Not that he’d been seeing her professionally. To him she was just a gorgeous brunette he’d been enjoying a very physical relationship with when she’d freaked him out by telling him that she specialised in ‘family therapy’ and he could confide in her anytime she liked. His mouth thinned. Maybe he should have taken her up on her offer and gathered tips about how to deal with his current situation.
Darcy woke as they drove into the darkening city whose ancient streets were deeply familiar to him from his own childhood. Taking a circuitous route, Renzo found himself enjoying her murmured appreciation of the Campidoglio, the Coliseum and other famous monuments, but he saw her jaw drop in amazement when he stopped