Italian Bachelors: Unforgotten Lovers. Lynn Raye Harris

do at the sight of him. But he was beautiful, as always, and she couldn’t help herself. How had this splendid creature ever been interested in her for even a moment? How had they managed to make a baby together when she was so clearly not the class of woman he was accustomed to?

      He wore faded jeans that she knew were artfully faded rather than work faded, and a dark shirt that molded to the broad muscles of his chest. His feet were bare. Something about that detail made her heart skitter wildly.

      “I don’t need help to take care of my son,” she said. “You’ve wasted this woman’s time.”

      He came into the room then and she saw he was holding a newspaper at his side. He tossed it onto a table and kept walking.

      “I beg your pardon.” He was all arrogance and disdain once more. “But you definitely do.”

      He stopped in front of her and put two fingers under her chin. She flinched. And then he turned her head gently this way and that, his eyes raking over her.

      “I intend to pay a lot of money for this face to grace my ads. I’d prefer if you truly are rested instead of having you edited to look that way.”

      She pulled out of his grip and glared at him. Of course he was concerned about the campaign. What had she expected? That he’d hired a nanny because he cared? He didn’t care. He had never cared.

      Strike that: he only cared about himself.

      “You could have asked me. I didn’t appreciate waking up and finding my baby gone.”

      “My mistake, then,” he said, his eyes searching hers. “I told Sylvia to take him when he cried. I knew you didn’t get enough sleep last night.”

      Holly didn’t dare think the fact he’d noticed she didn’t get enough sleep meant anything other than he wanted to protect his investment. But she couldn’t remember the last time someone had paid attention to how much sleep she was getting. It made a lump form in her throat. Gabi would have noticed if she weren’t in the same boat.

      Gran would have, too. Gran would have put her to bed and taken the baby for as long as she needed. Holly bit the inside of her lip to stop a little sob from escaping. It wasn’t even eighteen months since Gran had died, and it still hurt her at the oddest times.

      Holly glanced at Sylvia, who had gotten back down on the floor to entice Nicky with a new toy. There was a tightness in her chest as she watched her baby play. She’d greatly appreciated Mrs. Turner’s help, and she was certain the woman was kind and gentle, but she was almost positive Mrs. Turner had spent her time watching television instead of playing on the floor with Nicky.

      Sylvia clearly knew what she was doing—in fact, Holly thought sadly, the woman seemed to know more than she did, if the way she encouraged Nicky to play with different shapes was any indication. Holly had been satisfied when he’d been occupied and happy. She’d never really considered his play to be a teaching moment.

      Holly put a hand to her forehead and drew in a deep breath. She wasn’t a bad mother, was she? She was simply an overworked and exhausted one, but she loved her son beyond reason. He was the only thing of value she had.

      “You need to eat,” Drago said, and Holly looked up at him.

      “I’m not hungry.” As if to prove her a liar, her stomach growled. Drago arched an eyebrow. “Fine,” she said, “I guess I am after all.”

      “Come to the kitchen and let the cook fix you something.”

      Holly looked doubtfully at her baby and Sylvia. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust the woman, but she didn’t know her. And she was nervous, she had to admit, with this change in circumstances. The last time she’d been here, it had all been ripped away from her without warning. She wasn’t certain it wouldn’t be again. “I’d rather stay here.”

      Drago frowned. “He’s not going anywhere, Holly. He’ll be perfectly fine.”

      Holly closed her eyes. She was being unreasonable. She’d left Nicky with Mrs. Turner for hours while she rode a bus and a streetcar halfway across town and went to work. Was it really such a stretch to go into another room and leave this woman alone with her child?

      “All right,” she said. Drago led her not to the kitchen but to a rooftop terrace with tables and chairs and grass—actual grass on a rooftop in New York City. The terrace was lined with potted trees and blossoming flowers, and while she could hear the city sounds below, her view was entirely of sky and plants and the buildings across the treetops in Central Park. Astounding, and beautiful in a way she found surprising.

      “This is not the kitchen,” she said inanely.

      Drago laughed. “No. I decided this was more appropriate.”

      They sat down and a maid appeared with a tray laden with small appetizers—olives, sliced meats, tiny pastries filled with cheese, cucumber sandwiches, ham sandwiches and delicate chocolates to finish. It wasn’t much, but it was precisely the kind of thing she needed just now.

      Holly dug in to the food, filling her plate and taking careful bites so as not to seem like a ravenous animal. She might not be accustomed to fancy New York society, but her grandmother had at least taught her the art of being graceful. The maid appeared again with a bottle of wine. Holly started to protest, but Drago shushed her. Then he poured the beautiful deep red liquid into two glasses.

      “You should appreciate this,” he said. “A Château Margaux of excellent vintage.”

      As if she even knew what that meant. But she did understand scents and flavors. Holly lifted the wine and swirled it before sniffing the bowl. The wine was rich and full and delicious to the nose. She took a sip, expecting perfection. It was there. And she knew, as she set the glass down again, it was the sort of thing she could never afford.

      When she glanced up, Drago was watching her. His gray eyes were piercing, assessing, and she met them evenly. So unlike the Holly of a year ago, who’d stammered and gulped and been a nervous wreck in his presence. It took a lot to meet that stare and not fold, but she was getting better at it.

      “Describe the wine to me,” he said, his voice smooth and commanding. As if he were accustomed to telling people what to do and then having them do it. Which, of course, he was.

      Holly bristled, though it was a simple request. She was tired and stressed and not in the mood to play games with him. Not in the mood to be devoured like a frightened rabbit.

      “Taste it yourself,” she said. “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

      She didn’t expect him to laugh. “You have made it your mission in life to argue with me, it seems.”

      “I wouldn’t say it’s a mission, as that implies I give you a lot of thought. But I’m not quite the same person you ordered around last year. I won’t pretend I am.”

      She was still more of that person than she wanted to be, but she was working very hard on being bold and brave. On not letting his overwhelming force of a personality dominate her will.

      Not that he needed to know that.

      He leaned back and sipped his wine. “I didn’t force you to do anything you didn’t want to do, Holly. As I recall, you wanted to do the same things I did. Very much, in fact.”

      Holly tried to suppress the heat flaring in her cheeks. Impossible, of course. They were red and he would know it. “The wine is delicious,” she said, picking up the glass and studying the color. “The top notes are blackberry and cassis. The middle might be rose, while the bottom hints at oak and coffee.” A small furrow appeared between Drago’s brows.

      “Ah, you are embarrassed by what happened between us,” he said softly.

      Her heart skipped a beat. “Embarrassed? No. But I see no need in discussing it. It’s in the past and I’d like to just forget the whole thing.”

      As if she could.

      His