The Italian's Baby of Passion. Susan Stephens

flared in Scarlet’s dark-fringed hazel eyes. ‘No, leukaemia killed her.’

      She was painfully aware that it was possible for a careless word to plant an idea in a child’s head, and she determined that Sam wouldn’t grow up burdened with the guilt of his mother’s death.

      ‘And I’d be grateful if you didn’t say that again—ever.’

      He inclined his head towards her. ‘Of course, I’m sorry.’

      Rather taken aback by his apparent sincerity, she accepted it with a grudging but wary nod.

      ‘And you have brought her baby up?’ She gave a tiny nod of assent, and his hand came up to his mouth before moving roughly along the angle of his hard, angular jaw.

      The bare facts were he had got a woman pregnant and for whatever reason she had not felt able to tell him. That woman had died and if her premature death could not be directly attributed to the birth of his son it had definitely been a contributing factor.

      It didn’t matter what sort of spin you put on those facts, he did not emerge from the telling of this story looking good. If there was any victim here he wasn’t it…not that there was any shortage of victims in this story.

      ‘That must have been hard.’ He winced inwardly at the triteness of his words.

      ‘I was terrified of the responsibility at first,’ Scarlet admitted. She gave a small laugh. ‘I still am sometimes…’ Her eyes lifted. ‘Does that sound terrible to you?’

      As soon as she’d asked the question Scarlet hated the fact she sounded as though she was asking for his approval.

      He didn’t reply, just continued to look at her with an odd intensity.

      ‘It doesn’t sound terrible at all,’ he said finally. ‘So don’t beat yourself up.’

      She blinked to clear her blurry vision. It was perverse that after surviving his insults she should be brought to the brink of emotional tears by his kindness.

       ‘Wasn’t there someone else you could have shared the responsibility with?’

      Scarlet sniffed and dabbed her finger to a spot of moisture in the corner of her eye. ‘There was just Abby and me, and our gran who died last year. She was pretty frail.’

      He searched her open features, and realised that not only was she not canvassing the sympathy vote, she didn’t have the faintest idea how poignant her statement sounded.

      Dealing with people who normally had an agenda—people who wanted something from him—Roman found himself uniquely ill equipped when it came to a dialogue with someone who said what they meant. Someone who furthermore would have thrown anything he offered back in his face.

      ‘There were no other relatives who could help?’

      ‘No. My uncle and aunty are not really children people.’

      ‘But surely they were better situated than you to bring up a baby?’

      ‘Financially maybe, but it’s not about money, is it?’ she said, taking his agreement on something so fundamental as granted. ‘They didn’t have a family of their own out of choice,’ she went on to explain.

      ‘And I can’t imagine them welcoming anything which stopped them jumping in the car and driving down to the South of France when they felt like it.’ Her nose wrinkled as she looked reflectively at him and her head tilted a little to one side. ‘They’re a bit like you, really. They do whatever they like without having to consider anyone else…though you’re younger, obviously.’

      ‘But equally selfish,’ he suggested drily.

      ‘They love one another, so you can’t call them totally self-obsessed and narcissistic,’ she pointed out tolerantly.

      ‘Unlike me.’

       Scarlet flushed under his ironic gaze. ‘I didn’t say that,’ she protested.

      ‘You didn’t need to. You can’t imagine me with children?’

      Scarlet frowned at the inflection in his voice. ‘You’re Italian Irish, aren’t you?’ She gave an offhand shrug. ‘With that background I expect you’ll have a big family one day, when you’re ready.’

      In her head she could see children with Roman’s dark eyes and warm colouring running around…children just like Sam.

      ‘Or when I’ve grown up?’

      ‘I wasn’t going to say that. I’m a realist.’

      Roman grinned. ‘You have a smart mouth.’ Lush, lovely and incredibly kissable—!

      The fact his dark, devastatingly gorgeous eyes were glued to her lips, and that he was no longer grinning, made Scarlet very nervous.

      ‘I wouldn’t worry—a lot of men never grow up. You’re obviously enjoying playing the field.’ And, my, did he show dedication. She tried to make up for her lack of judgement in speaking her mind with a brittle, blindingly insincere smile.

      ‘But I expect one day you’ll get bored with it, and when you meet someone…’ Someone beautiful and talented to give him those golden babies.

      ‘You don’t sound very convinced.’

      ‘You’re right, I’ve always had my doubts about reformed rakes,’ she confided. Her glance skimmed the strong, arrogant lines in his hard-boned features. And if anyone could accurately be described as a rake, it was him.

       ‘Rakes?’

      Scarlet, who was warming to one of her favourite themes, nodded, barely registering the stunned expression on his handsome face.

      ‘I know a lot of women think that with the love of a good woman, the good woman being them,’ she qualified drily, ‘even the most committed playboy will metamorphose overnight into a faithful husband.’ She shook her head and gave an incredulous laugh at the ability of her own sex to fool themselves.

      ‘But you don’t share this view?’

      ‘Look at me! Do I look like a hopeless romantic?’ she demanded.

      He took her reckless offer and there was an extremely uncomfortable interval while he considered the question and her face. The defiant angle of Scarlet’s chin increased in direct proportion to the rapid thud of her racing heart.

      Finally he delivered his judgement.

      ‘I don’t have one hell of a lot of hands-on experience with hopeless romantics but, yes, I’d say you do.’

      His dry comment drew Scarlet’s eyes involuntarily to the hands he referred to. His long, tapering fingers curled lightly over the arms of the chair; they were square-tipped, suggesting sensitivity and strength. Something low in her belly tightened as she looked at them and imagined them moving over softer, paler flesh.

      Colour significantly heightened, she dragged her eyes clear. ‘Well, I’m not, and,’ she informed him with feeling, ‘I’m glad. I don’t see how falling in love can fundamentally change a person’s character. Call me a cynic, but, the way I see it, once a faithless love rat always a—’ She broke off, her eyes widening. ‘Not that I’m calling you a faithless…’

      His eyebrows lifted. ‘No? If you say so.’ His mobile lips formed a cynical smile as he shrugged.

      It was pretty damned hard to refute her observations when you had fathered a child on a one-night stand and didn’t discover it until almost four years later.

      In most people’s book that qualified as love-rattish behaviour. The fact it had been an accident did not make him any the less an irresponsible bastard.

      ‘Marriage means different things to different people. Some people are more…flexible…’ she finished awkwardly.

      ‘I