Latin Lovers: Hot-Blooded Sicilians: Valentino's Love-Child / The Sicilian Doctor's Proposal / Sicilian Millionaire, Bought Bride. Catherine Spencer

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СКАЧАТЬ show enough interest in her life outside their sexual trysts to come see her.

      He went to the kitchen area, nothing more than an alcove off the main living area, really. She watched him fill the kettle and flip the switch to heat the water. The domesticity of the scene tugged at her helter-skelter emotions. It was so much like something she wanted to experience all the time—for the right reasons—that stupid tears burned her eyes before she resolutely blinked them away.

      He pulled down the box of tea and the bottle of whiskey from the cupboard. “I’ve never had ginger tea before.”

      She had. When she’d been pregnant before. And she was one of the lucky women it helped. “It’s not something I drink often.”

      He gave her an enigmatic look but said nothing as he poured his own drink and waited for her water to boil.

      She didn’t ask him why he was there or what he wanted to talk about, because the answer was obvious. He wanted her back in his bed, but she’d do her best to avoid that particular conversation. “How is Gio?”

      “You saw him only three days ago.”

      She shrugged. “I wish I taught more days a week,” she admitted, before her brain caught up with her mouth.

      “I understand.”

      “You do?”

      “You hold my son in deep affection.” “He’s easy to love.” “I agree.” “Urn … “

      “He wishes he could see you more often, as well.”

      “I know.” Only, his father did not want them to grow closer. He’d made that clear.

      “I think we can rectify that problem soon enough.”

      How? Was he going to up the ante of getting her back in bed by offering time with his family on a regular basis? Her rather creative and active imagination offered up a second option. One a lot less palatable.

      Maybe he had decided to remarry after all. To find the paragon of Sicilian virtue he thought Gio deserved as a stepmother. Someone who would eradicate the child’s fantasies about being his favorite teacher’s son.

      Faith went from weepy to annoyed in the space of a heartbeat. “I wouldn’t rush into anything if I were you.”

      “And yet some things require quick action.”

      “Marriage isn’t one of them.”

      Surprise showed clearly on Tino’s face. “You believe I plan to marry?”

      “Isn’t that the way you plan to fix your son’s desire to see me more?” Provide the little boy with a mother so he wouldn’t miss the teacher he had decided he wanted in that capacity.

      “It is, in fact.”

      Despite everything—knowing how he felt, knowing that he did not want her in his life like that—at Tino’s words, unpleasant shock coursed through Faith. Somewhere deep inside, she had believed he would not go that far.

      Her stomach tightened in a now familiar warning and she shot to her feet, kicking the lap blanket away. When she reached the commode, she retched. Though, since she had not been hungry earlier, she did nothing but dry heave. It hurt and it scared her. Though she knew that the cramps were in her stomach and not her womb, a tiny part of her brain kept saying it was one and the same.

      Tino had come into the small room with her and she could hear water running, but she couldn’t look up long enough to see what he was doing. Then a cold, damp cloth draped the nape of her neck while another one was pressed gently to her forehead. Tino rubbed her back in a soothing circular motion, crooning to her in Italian.

      The heaving stopped and she found herself leaning sideways into his strength. He said nothing, just let her draw heat and comfort from his touch. She didn’t know how long they remained like that—him crouching around her like a protective angel—her kneeling on the floor, but eventually she moved to stand.

      He helped her, gently wiping her face with one damp cloth before tossing them both in her small sink. “Better?”

      She nodded. “I don’t like being sick.”

      “I do not imagine you do.” He handed her a glass of water.

      She rinsed her mouth before drinking some down. Placing the glass down by the sink, she turned to leave and weaved a bit.

      Suddenly she found herself lifted in the strong arms she had been craving earlier. There was no thought to protest. She needed this. Even if it was a moment of fantasy in her rapidly failing reality.

      He carried her to her minuscule bedroom, barely big enough for the double-size bed—another purchase made with hope for something that had never developed between them—and single bedside table that occupied it.

      He sat her on the bed, reaching around her to arrange her pillows into a support for her back. Then he helped her to settle against them. It was all too much, too like what she secretly craved that she felt those stupid tears burning her eyes again.

      Ignoring the overwrought emotions she knew were a result of pregnancy hormones, she teased, “How did you know where my bedroom was?”

      “Instinct?”

      She forced a laugh that came out sounding hollow rather than amused, but it was better than crying like a weakling. “Are you saying you have a homing device for beds?”

      “Maybe beds belonging to you.” He brushed her hair back from one side of her temple and smiled, the look almost tender.

      But she knew better. “This is the only one I have.”

      “For the last year, almost, you have been sharing the bed in my apartment in Marsala and you have shared my bed in my family home.”

      “Are you trying to say those beds belong to me in some way now?” she asked, unable to completely quell her sarcasm at such a thought.

      “Yes.”

      She gasped but could think of nothing to say in reply until she spluttered, “That’s—It’s ridiculous.”

      He shrugged. “We will agree to disagree.”

      After everything he had said? She didn’t think so. “We will?” she asked in a tone she used so rarely he’d probably never heard it.

      He gave her that Zen look again and nodded, as if he had no idea he was in imminent danger of being beaned upside the head with a pillow. “It is the only rational thing to do. You clearly do not need to upset yourself.”

      “I …” She wanted to tell him he was wrong, but she couldn’t. She didn’t relish the thought of more dry heaves at all. She wanted to say she didn’t know what was wrong, or that she had a touch of the flu or something … anything but the truth. Only, she could not, would not lie.

      He patted her arm. “Rest here. I will get your tea.”

      “Fine, but your beds don’t belong to me in СКАЧАТЬ