Her Italian Boss Page 6

  In fact, the more Santino thought of how she had behaved, the more alienated he felt. She wasn’t in love with him, never had been in love with him. Even a little dose of infatuation would have lasted longer than a couple of weeks. Maybe she had slept with him because she had decided it was time she acquired some experience. Whatever, her behaviour ever since had spoken for her: she didn’t want to see him and preferred to forget about that night. In fact, she could not have made her feelings clearer. She had jacked in her job, left London. Exactly why had he gone to such extraordinary lengths to locate her? Had he become such an arrogant jerk that he couldn’t accept a woman’s rejection?

  ‘Presumably you’ll know whether or not you’re pregnant very soon,’ Santino drawled without any expression at all. ‘If you are, please get in touch with me immediately and we’ll deal with it together. Obviously I will give you my support. You know how to reach me.’

  His beautiful dark eyes were still level but his detachment was noticeable and complete. Poppy could feel that change like a wall he had thrown up between them. He wanted to leave. She could feel that, too. But then why not? It hadn’t been a very pleasant visit for him to have to make, she recognised miserably. It had been a waste of time too when she had been unable to tell him that he had nothing to worry about. Naturally he would be praying that there would be no repercussions from that night and that awareness prevented her from sharing her own misgivings. Why say anything when she might well be fretting about nothing?

  Santino strode towards his car and then swung back for one last look at her. ‘Look after yourself,’ he offered gruffly.

  Feeling as if she were dying inside, Poppy stood like a statue watching the car reverse out. She had the most terrible urge to run after it and tell him that, even though she ought to hate him, she still loved him. But what would he want to know that for? He had to be in love with Jenna.

  A couple of miles down the road, Santino brought the car to a halt, buzzed down the window and drank in a great lungful of the fresh, rain-wet air. Mission accomplished? A raw-edged laugh, empty of all humour, broke from him. Why was he chickening out of confronting the obvious: his success scores before the sofa, and on the sofa, had been nil. Everything that had struck him as fantastic and very special had left her distinctly underwhelmed. She hadn’t even offered him a cup of coffee. All the way to Wales for the privilege of being shot down in flames in the space of ten minutes!

  Thinking of the stupid, naff valentine card he had bought for her, a violent miasma of emotion lanced through Santino. He just wanted to smash something. He didn’t want to think about her. In fact he was determined not to think about her. Of course, she wasn’t going to be pregnant! Off the top of his head, he could have named three young, healthy married couples tying themselves in knots in a desperate effort to conceive a child. The chances of his having fathered a baby in one night were slim and surely she would have known by now? He would check into a hotel, get something to eat…only he wasn’t hungry any more.

  So he would check into a hotel and have a lost weekend. Why? He just felt like it! He wanted to drink himself into a stupor. He was off women, really, really seriously off women.

  Three days later, Poppy learned that she was indeed pregnant.

  During the weekend, she had had to content herself with purchasing a pregnancy test kit. When the test had come up positive, she’d barely slept for the following two nights. Unsure of how reliable a home test was, she’d made an appointment at her local surgery. When the doctor gave her the same confirmation and discussed options with her, she already knew that she didn’t want a termination. She loved children, had always hoped that some day she would have some of her own, but that prospect had until then existed in some dim, distant future. Now that a baby, Santino’s baby, was a much more immediate reality, she also knew she had some hard thinking to do about how she intended to manage.

  At first, she believed that she could steel herself to phone Santino to tell him that she was carrying his child, but when it came to the point she couldn’t face it. Santino was engaged to Jenna. Like it or not, what she had to tell him was very bad news on his terms. She had her pride too and she didn’t want to risk getting all weepy and apologetic on the phone, did she? As she wasn’t prepared to consider a termination, she decided that it would be less painful all round if she wrote a letter spelling out her intentions.

  So, Poppy sat in Tilly’s narrow little guest-room bed and tried to write a letter. But she kept on sitting there and trying to write it and failing and scrunching up her every attempt and ended up in floods of miserable tears.

  Finally, she stopped trying to save face and just let her own honest feelings speak for her in what she wrote. After all, did she really want Santino to go on thinking now that the valentine card had just been a cheap, silly joke? That their baby had been conceived as a result of such a joke? Poppy cringed at that image. Some day, she would want to tell their child that she had loved his father and that truth was surely more important than her own pride.

  When it dawned on Poppy that she would have to send the letter to Aragone Systems because she still didn’t know Santino’s home address and he wasn’t in the phone book either, she was careful to print ‘Private and Confidential’ in block capitals on one corner of the envelope. Once it was in the post, she tried not to think about it. The ball was in his court now. She would just have to wait and see what happened.

  During the following week she was offered interviews with two families in search of a nanny, in fact desperate for a nanny. Qualified nannies, it seemed, were in even shorter supply than they had been when she had first emerged from her training. But did she admit she was pregnant or not? She decided that she would be happier being honest from the outset as she would need time off to attend pre-natal hospital appointments, and then of course she would have a baby in tow. At the same time, on every occasion that Tilly’s phone rang, her heart would start banging like a drum and she would think that it was Santino calling her. But Santino didn’t call and watching the post proved to be no more productive.

  But then, had she but known it, Santino never received her letter. He was in Italy when it arrived and Craig Belston was working his last day at Aragone Systems. An astute operator, Craig had recognised that his promotion prospects were slim if he stayed; Santino had been cold with him ever since the night of that party. Although Craig had found lucrative employment elsewhere, his resentment at what a little teasing of Poppy Bishop had cost him still rankled. He examined the letter, his mouth twisting at the ‘P. Bishop’ and return address printed on the back of the envelope. Walking over to the tall drinks cabinet, which had of recent contained nothing stronger than soft drinks and mineral water, he dropped the letter down between it and the wall and he smiled.

  Within a month Poppy had left Wales and started work as a nanny again. Initially shocked that Santino had not responded to her letter, she grew more cynical as time passed. After all, his silence was in itself an answer, wasn’t it? Confronted with the worst-case scenario, Santino had decided that he didn’t want to know about the baby. Why had she swallowed all that impressive guff about him being willing to take responsibility? Why once again had she begun thinking of him as an essentially decent guy?

  After all, Santino had lied that night about Jenna to get her onto that sofa, so, why shouldn’t he have lied again? She was on her own in every way and, for the sake of the child she was expecting, she reckoned that she had better get used to the idea.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘YES, that uniform looks the thing, all right. Turn round,’ Daphne Brewett urged Poppy, her be-ringed hands clasped together, an approving smile blooming on her plump, attractive face. ‘You look like a proper nanny now, luv. No chance of folk mistaking you for one of those au pair girls, who work for pocket change! What do you think, Harold?’

  Her balding husband, Harold, removed his admiring gaze with reluctance from Poppy’s slim black nylon-clad ankles. ‘Does anyone but t
he Royals put their nannies in uniform these days?’ he enquired in his refined public school accent, his tone apologetic.

  Daphne stuck her hands on her ample hips and skewered him with one warning glance. ‘Poppy’s wearing a uniform…OK?’ she rapped out loudly.

  Harold nodded in submission and picked up his newspaper. Poppy, who had been toying with the idea of mentioning that she was afraid that the fussy white apron and the frilly little hat were definitely over the top, thought better of it. Daphne had a terrible temper and Harold might be a very astute and respected business tycoon, but he was terrified of his wife and knew when to keep quiet. Poppy reminded herself that she was earning an enormous salary. If pleasing Daphne meant dressing like a cross between a French maid and a Victorian nurse, she would just have to put up with it. After all, Daphne had been broad-minded enough to hire a nanny who came with a very young child of her own in tow. Indeed, Daphne had been warmly accepting of what had struck other potential employers as a serious drawback.

  ‘Right…’ Having vanquished Harold, Daphne turned her attention on Poppy again. ‘You have the kiddies packed and ready for two this afternoon. We’re off to Torrisbrooke Priory for the weekend. That’ll be a treat for you. You can look forward to seeing some real landed gentry there,’ she said with unhidden satisfaction.

  Poppy walked out of the drawing room. Three children were seated on the stairs: Tristram, aged ten, Emily Jane, aged eight, Rollo, aged five, all blond and blue-eyed and very unspoilt and pleasant children. Daphne Brewett might be a very domineering personality but beggars could not be choosers, Poppy reminded herself squarely, determined to make the best of her recent employment with the family.

  ‘Well, did you tell Ma how dumb you looked?’ Tris asked with rich cynicism.

  Poppy shook her head in wincing apology.

  ‘I’m not going to be seen dead with you in that daft get-up!’ Tris warned her.

  ‘It’s very uncool,’ Emily Jane pronounced in a pained tone.

  ‘You look funny!’ Rollo giggled. ‘I like your silly hat.’

  With a rueful grin, Poppy went over to the pram parked below the stairs. Florenza was wide awake, big blue eyes sparkling beneath her soft mop of tiny black curls. Poppy reached in and scooped her daughter out to take her back upstairs again. Florenza was three months old, cute as a button, and the undeniable centre of her adoring mother’s world.

  ‘Who lives at Torisbrooke Priory?’ Poppy asked Tris on the way upstairs.

  ‘Dunno. But Ma thinks the invitation’s really great, so it’s probably somebody posh with a title. I wish she’d just leave us at home,’ he grumbled. ‘She’s really embarrassing in other people’s houses.’

  ‘Don’t talk about your mother like that,’ Poppy reproved.

  ‘I don’t like people laughing at her,’ Tris said defensively.

  Ignoring that, for to deny that Daphne could be both vulgar and comical in her desire to impress all with the conspicuous extent of the Brewett wealth, was impossible.

  At four that afternoon, the Brewett cavalcade of limousines drove at a stately pace up the long, wooded, winding drive to Torrisbrooke Priory. A vast and ancient building appeared round the final bend. It was built of weathered Tudor brick, winter sunshine glittering over the many mullioned windows, and Poppy gazed out at it with interest. Half a dozen big cars were already parked on the gravel frontage.

  A venerable butler stood at the gothic arched front door in readiness. Daphne and Harold descended from the first limo. Florenza clasped in her arms and wearing the gabardine raincoat that went with her uniform, Poppy climbed out of the second limo in the wake of the children. The third limo was just for the luggage: Daphne did not travel light.

  When a very tall, dark male strolled down the steps to greet her employers, Poppy’s steps faltered. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t possibly be! But as her shattered eyes focused on the lean, devastatingly handsome dark features that still haunted her dreams on a shamefully regular basis, she saw that it truly was…it was Santino Aragone! Sheer, disbelieving panic afflicted her. Was he their host? Why else would he be shaking hands with Harold? Did that mean that the priory belonged to Santino?

  Daphne summoned her children to her side to introduce them. In the background, Poppy hovered. There was no place to go, no place to hide. At the exact moment that Santino registered her presence, Poppy froze, heart thumping so hard she felt sick, her taut face pale as milk. His brilliant dark eyes welded to her and just stayed there, his surprise unconcealed.

  ‘And this is our nanny, Poppy,’ Daphne trilled in full swing. ‘And little Flo.’

  Her blue eyes achingly vulnerable, Poppy’s chin nonetheless came up in a sudden defiant tilt. What did she have to be embarrassed about? Santino was the one who ought to be embarrassed! She noted that as his piercing gaze suddenly veiled, he did not succumb to the temptation of stealing so much as a glance at his own daughter.

  ‘Poppy and I have met before. She used to work in Aragone Systems,’ Santino remarked without any apparent discomfiture. ‘Let’s go inside. It’s cold.’

  While Daphne chattered cheerfully about what a small world it was, Santino was in shock but refusing to acknowledge it. A coincidence and life was full of them, he told himself. Poppy was the Brewetts’ nanny and she would be busy with their children all weekend. It was almost a year to the day since… No, no way was he revisiting that memory lane. A baby wailed. As Santino hadn’t noticed a baby in the party, he turned his head in bewilderment, following the sound right back to source: the small bundle cradled in Poppy’s arms.

  ‘I didn’t realise you had a new baby,’ he said to Daphne, struggling to act the part of interested host, endeavouring to force a relaxed smile to his taut features.

  ‘Oh, the baby’s not ours.’ Daphne loosed a girlish giggle, flattered by Santino’s misapprehension because she was pushing fifty. ‘Three was quite enough for me! Flo is Poppy’s kiddy.’

  At the foot of the glorious oak carved staircase where the butler was waiting to show her upstairs, Poppy stared at Santino with very wide blue eyes. What on earth was he playing at? When his startled gaze zeroed in on her with sudden questioning force, she was at a complete loss. Why was he acting so surprised? Hadn’t he appreciated that pregnancies most often led to births and little babies?

  ‘Her name’s Florenza,’ Tris piped up. ‘Flo’s just what Ma calls her.’

  ‘Florenza…’ Santino repeated, ebony brows pleating.

  ‘It’s I-talian,’ Daphne told him helpfully.

  Santino angled a charged scrutiny at the little squirming bundle. He was suffering from information overload. Was Florenza his child? What age was the little girl? She was wrapped in a shawl and, the way she was being held, the shawl was all he could see. She might be a newborn baby, she might be some other man’s child. She couldn’t be his daughter! Poppy would have told him, wouldn’t she?

  Fabulous cheekbones prominent below his bronzed skin, Santino dredged his attention from the mystery bundle, encountered a speculative look from Daphne Brewett’s keen gaze and hastened to show his guests into the drawing room.

  Poppy climbed the stairs in a daze, beneath which a growing turmoil of emotions seethed. Santino had been astounded when Daphne had informed him that the baby was her nanny’s. He had stared at Florenza much as though she were a Pandora’s box ready to fly open and cause a storm of catastrophe. A tremor ran through Poppy and her arms tightened round her tiny daughter. Why was she shrinking from facing the obvious explanation for Santino’s incredulity? Evidently, Santino had assumed that without his support she would not continue her pregnancy. Well, how else could she interpret his shocked reaction to Florenza’s existence?

  Was Jenna waiting in that drawing room downstairs? Jenna in her gracious role of hostess as Santino’s wife? Had they got married during the last year? At that awful thought, a cold, clammy chill slid down Poppy’s spine and her sensitive tummy clenched in protest. For the first time, she regretted not h
aving allowed herself to check out whether or not that wedding had taken place as yet. But refusing to allow herself to seek any information whatsoever about Santino Aragone’s life had been a necessary defence mechanism. She had brought down a curtain on the past and disciplined herself to live only in the present.

  ‘Is this Mr Aragone’s home?’ she enquired of the elderly butler, Jenkins, whose steps were slowing with each step up the stairs.

  ‘Yes, madam,’ he wheezed and, as he was so clearly in no fit state to answer any further questions, Poppy had to content herself with that.

  Three hours later, having supervised a late and riotous tea with the children that had been served in a small dining room on the ground floor, Poppy set up Florenza’s bright and cosy travel cot in the nursery and tucked her up for the night. Poppy was tired. Her days started at six when Florenza wakened and she was grateful that it was her night off. Although impressing that necessity on Daphne had been a challenge, she conceded ruefully. But she was painfully aware that live-in nannies had to define boundaries or she would soon find herself on call twenty-four hours a day.

  The priory was a simply huge house. Poppy reflected that she might well contrive to stay the weekend without seeing Santino again. Unhappily, she was conscious of a dangerous craving to nonetheless throw herself in his path for a showdown. He deserved to be told what a rat he was! Removing her elaborate uniform with a grimace of relief, she ran a bath for herself in the bathroom beside the nursery and got in to have a soak.

  In the library downstairs, undercover of having announced the necessity of making an urgent call, Santino was delving in frustration through a very old book on babies. All he needed to know was what weight the average baby was when it was born. Armed with that knowledge, he might then take a subtle peek at Poppy’s baby and work out whether it was within the realms of possibility that Florenza was his baby, too. Why not just ask Poppy? That would entail a serious loss of face that Santino was unwilling to consider.