Page 27 of Italian Baby Shock

It seemed ridiculous to be pleased that he’d asked her if she minded the nanny coming to get Maya’s things, when he’d swept in and organised it all already. Nevertheless, she was pleased.

‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘But do you ever get tired of upending people’s lives to suit yourself?’

There was unexpected humour in his eyes and it suited him. It suited him far too well. ‘Honestly? No.’

She snorted. ‘Thought so.’

A soft, deep laugh escaped him, the sound moving over her like a caress. ‘Did you really expect me to give you a different answer, little bird?’

But she didn’t want to stand there watching the blue glints of amusement dance in his eyes or listen to that unbelievably sexy laugh again, so she only gave him a disdainful look and got into the limo without a word.

Sometime later, the limo pulled up outside a stately house in Kensington. Clearly old and eye-wateringly expensive, it was white, with a black wrought iron paling fence in front and ivy covering the walls.

As Cesare showed her and Maya inside, she caught a glimpse down the wide hallway of a lovely garden out the back, with trees and green lawns. But there was no time to look properly because then he settled her and Maya in one of the huge front rooms. New baby toys were scattered on the pale carpet and Maya squealed delightedly at the sight of them.

Cesare seemed to have vanished, so Lark wiped her daughter’s banana-covered hands clean, then set her down, watching as she toddled happily over to a large plastic truck—she loved trucks—and banged it enthusiastically on the floor. She was still banging it when a woman in a white lab coat came in and asked Lark if she could take a swab from Maya’s mouth.

Lark nodded and it was over painlessly, Maya going back to her truck as the woman left.

Lark watched her, trying to ignore the slow creep of dread.

You already know he’s her father and continuing to deny it is only going to make things worse.

It was true. In which case she needed a plan, because she was sure Cesare already had one.

Upstairs, Cesare paced around in his study, gripped by a strange restlessness he couldn’t quite describe. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to be with Maya, watching her play with the toys he’d bought her. Watching her play full stop.

She was amazing. Perfect in every way.

His daughter.

You don’t know that for certain.

Oh, he was certain. He’d been certain since the moment he’d seen her photo on Lark’s phone, and meeting her in person had only solidified that certainty.

She was a Donati from her curling rose-gold hair to the tips of her tiny toes.

He’d never held a child before and never wanted to, yet as soon as he’d seen her in Lark’s arms, he knew his life wouldn’t be complete unless she was in his too. And when Lark had given her to him and he’d held her, so small and fragile, he’d looked down into her blue eyes and known in an instant that he’d give his life for hers. Without hesitation. In a heartbeat.

Then he’d had the strangest thought. Had his parents ever felt that way about him? Had they ever experienced this moment of instant connection? He didn’t want to call it love because love was a terrible, toxic thing and there was nothing toxic about Maya.

Perhaps it was protectiveness then, this feeling. A fierce, burning need to keep her from harm even to his own detriment.

No. Your parents never felt that way about you.

They couldn’t have, could they? Otherwise they wouldn’t have done what they had to him. His mother wouldn’t have accused him of loving his father more than her, and his father wouldn’t have punished him for being good for his mother.

He didn’t care. They were gone now and good riddance to them.

What was important was her. She was the clean slate, the little innocent. Untouched by his family’s toxicity, nothing but pure joy. She’d ruined his suit and his tie by grabbing at them with her little banana-covered hands, but he didn’t care about that either. He’d wanted to keep holding her, his suit be damned.

Cesare paced around a bit more then reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone and called Aristophanes. His friend answered immediately, as he always did whenever Cesare called him since neither of them liked waiting for the other.

‘I gather from this call that you’re waiting for the paternity test results?’ Aristophanes asked. His Italian was perfect, though there was the faintest hint of his native Athens in his voice.

‘Yes,’ Cesare said.

‘Is that nervousness I hear?’

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