Gianni's Pride. KIM LAWRENCE

      His expression froze. ‘Do not be. Liam does not suffer in any way because his parents are not a couple.’ By the time he was old enough to think about it, few of Liam’s friends would be the products of a conventional family unit.

      But how many would have a mother who had declared herself unwilling and unable to adjust her lifestyle to accommodate the needs of a child?

      As always Gianni pushed away the thought. It was a question for the future and he would deal with it at the appropriate time.

      The same way he’d dealt with Sam’s initial bombshell when she’d told him she was pregnant; the same way he had dealt with her sympathetic but amused response when he had asked when she was going to give up front-line journalism—the days of speaking calmly to a camera while bullets whizzed by her were clearly to his mind over.

      His only experience of mothers was his own and she had put her family first, and while he had never expected the mother of his children to turn into some sort of fifties stay-at-home housewife—he had no problem with her having a career, just not one that involved being held hostage by rebel bandits—it had not crossed his mind that she would not be the main carer.

      Just as it had not crossed his mind that he would not be married to the mother of his child.

      Startled that her reply had elicited such a defensive aggressive reaction, Miranda thought, Wow, did I hit a nerve or what?

      ‘Liam is—’ Gianni stopped, the groove between his brows deepening as he realised that, for someone who was not in the habit of discussing his personal life with strangers or defending his actions to anyone, he was doing a pretty good impression of someone who needed approval.

      Lowering his dark lashes in a lush veil over his eyes, he ran a hand over his jaw where a dark shadow of the stubble that gave him a vaguely piratical air was visible. ‘I don’t enjoy arguing before I shave or have my first coffee, especially with naked women.’

      The sly addition caused Miranda’s hand to fly to her mouth. Bad idea because the quilt slipped on one side, almost causing a dramatic wardrobe malfunction—or as dramatic as a B cup could be.

      One corner of his mouth tugged upwards as Gianni watched her struggle. ‘It gives them an unfair advantage.’

      Unfair! For a moment she was rendered totally speechless—the nerve of the man! Miranda, who had never felt at more of a disadvantage in her life, scowled before arranging her features into an expression of mock consternation.

      ‘Well, I’m all for a level playing field, and I wouldn’t want to be accused of taking advantage, so in the interests of fair play we can continue this conversation when I’ve got some clothes on.’

      His laugh was warm, deep, throaty and totally unexpected. Miranda, aware of a faint responsive quiver low in her stomach, fought the urge to smile back. She knew he was a man who spent his life smiling and having people—women—smile back.

      Miranda could think of few things worse than being with a man every woman lusted after, unless of course it was having the man you loved fall for your twin sister!

      ‘That seems fair,’ he conceded. ‘Come on, champ, I think a bit of soap and water might be appropriate.’ He scooped up his son, his nostrils quivering at the stale acrid smell. ‘I left the bags in the kitchen. How’s about we take the bathroom downstairs and you take the one up here—the one with the big lock.’

      At the mocking addition she lifted her chin, pushing away the mental photofit image in her head of a beautiful long-legged blonde hanging on his arm and keeping out a constant eye for the opposition. ‘And don’t think I won’t use it, Mr Fitzgerald.’

      He laughed again, but this time just with his eyes. God, but the man had bad boy written all over him—she had never been attracted to bad boys, though that seemed to put her in the minority.

      ‘My mother warned me about women with smart mouths.’ But they had no discussion on mouths that were made for sin, he thought, his darkening glance lingering a moment too long on the lush curve before he turned and walked towards the door, grinning but not turning back when she yelled after him.

      ‘And my mother told me that men who are afraid of smart women generally have self-esteem issues.’ The effect that brief heavy-lidded stare had on Miranda’s nervous system had been nothing short of electric. Breathing hard and trying not to hear the rich throaty sound of his amused laughter, she struggled to shake off the weird lingering feeling of anticipation and excitement heavy in the pit of her stomach as she lifted her makeshift robe and walked towards the bathroom.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      MIRANDA used the lock with an air of defiance, not caring—actually hoping he would hear it slide home. He might be innocent of knowing she was in the bed when he got in—that much she accepted—but she imagined it was one of the few things that Gianni Fitzgerald was innocent of!

      Father to a cute child or not, he had the air of a man who had no problem crossing lines. Parenthood did not make him harmless—not that she expected for one second that he’d test the lock. Gianni Fitzgerald was not a man who needed to batter down doors if he wanted female attention; all he had to do was smile … or laugh … The echo of that warm sound sent a little shiver down her spine.

      She dropped the quilt on the marble floor, warm with the under-floor heating that was a feature of the entire cottage, and turned on the shower. Instead of stepping into the vast double cubicle—Lucy Fitzgerald had spared no cash when it came to the luxurious renovations on this farm cottage—she leaned back against the door, closed her eyes and waited for her heartbeat to return to something approaching normal.

      It continued to bang against her ribcage, the echo loud in her ears for a long time. The encounter had left her on a high. She knew it was the effect of adrenalin, but as she struggled to tamp down the weird combination of exhilaration and antagonism circulating through her veins the scene played on a loop in her head.

      Finally with a sigh she levered herself upright and walked into the shower, gasping a little as the cool needles of water hit her warm body. Face raised to the jets of water, she reached for her shower gel and began to lather her skin, rubbing until her body tingled, but Gianni Fitzgerald’s voice lingered, along with his slow, sardonic smile, the mixture of insolence and amusement in his attitude and the sensuality that came off him in sonic waves.

      When she emerged a few minutes later she felt satisfied she had washed Gianni Fitzgerald out of her hair figuratively speaking, now she had to do it in the practical sense and reclaim the cottage.

      After towel-drying her hair she pulled on the clothes she had grabbed from the top of her case. She was short of a bra, but that wasn’t a major problem. She was not exactly over-endowed in that area and the fabric of the denim-coloured cotton shirt she fought her way into was not exactly clingy. Her still-damp skin felt oddly sensitive as she hurriedly buttoned it up.

      She was dragging a comb through her thick, damp curls when from below she heard a bang and clatter. The kitchen, to her way of thinking the most impressive room in the cottage, was located directly underneath this room.

      Her brows twitched into a frown as she glanced into the mirror, connected with her overbright eyes and looked away again quickly.

      What was he doing now? she asked herself when there was another loud bang. Mingled with the dismay she experienced at the thought of any breakages was a stab of real concern. Kitchens could be dangerous places for little boys.

      The kitchen in the cottage was at the back of the house. It opened out on to the courtyard of stone outbuildings. She had spent a happy hour exploring the large room the night before, discovering that the free-standing rustic-looking units hid some very unrustic state-of-the-art shiny appliances that had not come cheap. Clearly money was not an issue for Lucy Fitzgerald; though there was no clue in the place as to how she made her living, the woman herself had offered no information and Miranda had not liked to ask.

      ‘I don’t cook,’ the beautiful blonde