Modern Romance April 2019 Books 5-8. Chantelle Shaw

his palm over the very faint hint of roundness, and when he spoke it was with a voice thickened by emotion. ‘Are you well?’

      Inexplicable tears formed in Amelia’s eyes. She tried to blink them back, but one escaped unbidden and slid down her cheek.

      Irritated by it, she grimaced. It was just that she’d been so lonely, and seeing him now, feeling him touch her stomach and feel the life that was growing there—how could she not be affected?

      ‘I’m fine.’ The words were slightly uneven.

      He nodded slowly, then dropped his hand and, finally, the spell was broken. He turned to her phone, scanning the page she’d shown him, and nodding curtly. ‘It looks fine. I will make enquiries in the morning and organise an appointment.’

      ‘Thank you.’ She turned on her heel, ready to leave the room, her brain unable to supply anything else to say.

      But he forestalled her with a softly voiced, ‘Would you like something to drink? A cup of tea?’

      Her eyes swept shut and she was glad she had her back to him, so that he wouldn’t see the complex knot of emotions that passed over her face.

      ‘I haven’t eaten,’ he said. ‘Join me.’

      It was a simple invitation, spontaneously given, but it set off a cascade effect in Amelia. She’d missed him. Not him, per se, so much as a person to speak to, and laugh with. Or maybe it was all him—Antonio Herrera, the man who seemed to breathe life into her dreams and torment her sleeping body with memories of his touch.

      Temptation was the devil and she knew she needed to fight it. To fight the desire to lean into him and ask him to hold her tight, to have him smile at her as he had that first night—even if she knew it would be a lie.

      ‘I’m tired,’ she said, turning to face him for a brief moment, heat warming her body, memories making her ache for the past. ‘I... I think I’ll just go to bed.’

      * * *

      She had looked tired, he admitted to himself, staring out at the shimmering surface of the pool, Scotch cradled in the palm of his hand. The moon was high overhead, casting a silver light over the water.

      He’d spent the last three weeks holed up in his office, working late, yes, but also actively avoiding his wife.

      Avoiding her enormous blue eyes that showed him the galaxy, avoiding the softness of her body, the addictive properties of her smile. He’d been avoiding her and tonight he fully understood why.

      One look at her and he knew he’d run in front of a freight train to protect her and the baby that was growing inside her. One word from her and he was at risk of turning his back on everything he’d worked towards.

      One word and he could almost genuinely forget his hatred for her family. It wasn’t personal. It had nothing to do with Amelia. It was the baby; that was all. Some ancient, ingrained primal instinct was firing inside him, demanding he fulfil his duty and keep her and the baby safe and well. Even if that made him willing to surrender his own needs.

      Weakness was foreign to him, and it sure as hell wasn’t welcome. She wore his ring; she carried his baby, but she was still a diSalvo—and he couldn’t forget that.

      He shut his eyes and tried not to think of his wife. He forced his mind to erase her image momentarily, and replace it with the image of his father. He brought to mind painful memories that he generally chose to disregard, memories of his father’s stress and grief and the first time Antonio had confronted Carlo with what he’d done, and Carlo had laughed in Antonio’s face. Carlo had made an enemy that day—and Antonio knew he’d never be able to forget that.

      Forgiveness might have been divine, but it was nowhere on Antonio’s radar.

      * * *

      ‘Seriously, though, was the helicopter really necessary?’ Amelia asked as the chief of the obstetrics wing of the Hospital Internacional de Madrid exited the exam room for a moment.

      The room was dark, the lights off, a heavy blackout curtain blotting out all of Spain’s sunshine. Medical devices surrounded them, casting a very soft glow—one that was almost eerie.

      He tilted her a sardonic glance. ‘Of course. I wanted to see how long it would take to get here in an emergency.’

      And, despite the fact she’d told herself she would remain distant from him, she found herself rolling her eyes teasingly. ‘A car would suffice.’

      ‘You never know,’ he said, and he was serious now, his eyes showing a strength that made her tummy flip and flop.

      ‘Mr and Mrs Herrera.’ Dr López returned, a kindly smile on his face. He must have been in his sixties, with steel-grey hair and a lined face, and his experience gave Amelia confidence. ‘I have this,’ he said, holding up a bottle. ‘It will feel cold at first, okay?’

      Amelia nodded, lying back on the narrow bed.

      Dr López pushed Amelia’s shirt up, right to the ridge of her bra, and he wiggled the waistband of her skirt lower, exposing her gently rounded stomach. The gel he applied was ice-cold but it wasn’t unpleasant, given the heat and humidity of the day.

      Once he’d finished, he smiled reassuringly and moved to the other side of the bed. ‘Let us take a look.’

      Amelia was inexplicably nervous and, almost as though he understood that, Antonio reached out and curved his hand over hers, squeezing her fingers in his. She blinked up at him and a throb of strong emotion passed between them. She wrenched her gaze away, hating that her hormones made her so close to tears at present.

      Dr López pressed the ultrasound wand to her belly, firmly enough that she was slightly uncomfortable, and now she squeezed Antonio’s hand.

      ‘Okay?’ he asked huskily.

      ‘Yeah,’ she whispered.

      ‘The baby is playing hide and seek,’ the doctor reassured them both. ‘Just a minute.’

      Amelia held her breath, waiting—tense, nervous, anxious, delirious with every emotion she could imagine.

      ‘And you have not been unwell?’ Dr López asked, his expression infuriatingly blank.

      Amelia swallowed. ‘No. I mean, I’ve been a little sick sometimes.’

      ‘Good.’ He nodded, and Amelia relaxed. Beside her, though, she was aware of tension emanating from Antonio that caused her heart to twist in her chest.

      ‘You can see here your baby—’ Dr Lopez pointed to the screen ‘—lying on its back, see?’

      ‘Whoa...’ Amelia blinked, tears filling her eyes now, and Antonio squeezed her hand tight ‘...that’s our baby.’ She blinked up at her husband and the sight of him, still as a rock, his own eyes suspiciously moist, made everything hurt.

      ‘Yes, looking quite happy, you’d have to say.’

      Their baby was still so tiny, just a blip on the screen, but already her heart was bursting with love and total vulnerability.

      ‘You will need to come back in a month or so,’ Dr López said, pushing the screen away and handing Amelia a soft towel. She wiped her stomach clean of gel and then placed a hand over her belly.

      ‘And this is my card, with my personal number,’ he addressed Antonio.

      Her husband took the card with a curt nod. No gratitude, nothing to express that the chief of the hospital giving his private number to a patient was anything unusual. Because he was used to that kind of treatment. Doors opened for Antonio. He got what he wanted, when he wanted it.

      ‘If you have any concerns at any time, you may call,’ Dr Lopez continued. ‘Otherwise, I’ll see you in another month.’

      He pulled some small square pieces of paper from beneath the screen and handed them to Amelia. Fresh tears welled in her