The Italian's Baby of Passion. Susan Stephens

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      ‘So Sam knows you’re not his real mother?’

      ‘Of course. You shouldn’t lie to children.’

      ‘A very sound principle,’ he approved smoothly. ‘And when Sam’s older and he asks about his parents you’ll be able to tell him…?’

       Unwittingly, she thought, he had touched upon a subject that had concerned her for some time. Sam would ask about his father, it was inevitable, but what was she supposed to tell him? The truth? Or was she to invent a hero that a boy could be proud of? It was a minefield.

      ‘Sam’s very young to understand yet.’

      ‘It’s surprising how much children understand.’

      ‘I’ll be able to tell him that his mummy loved him very much.’

      ‘Has she been gone long?’

      ‘Abby learnt she had leukaemia when she was first pregnant with Sam,’ Scarlet recalled quietly. ‘The doctors wanted her to have a termination and start treatment straight away. They warned her that not to do so would seriously reduce her chances of survival.’

      Their eyes locked. The shock in his was visible, as was the compassion; the latter made her throat ache, and she swallowed.

      ‘And they were right?’

      ‘Yes,’ she admitted softly.

      ‘She ignored them?’ he probed gently.

      Scarlet nodded.

      He released his breath in a long fractured hiss. ‘What a decision to be forced to make.’ And make alone.

      ‘I don’t think it actually was that hard for Abby. I don’t think a termination was ever an option for her.’

      ‘How long after?’

      ‘Sam was three months old when she died; most of that three months she spent in hospital,’ she imparted quietly.

      Roman caught his breath. ‘My God.’ His brow furrowed. ‘She knew that having her baby would kill her?’

      Anger 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—!

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