Page 140 of Modern Romance Collection February 2025, 1-4

And I won’t let myself be upset by it—whatever it is. I won’t—I can’t! I have to think not about myself, only about my baby.

That was the resolve she’d made, sitting by the now useless portfolio that had won her a place at art school she could no longer take up. Letting Vincenzo upset her wasn’t good for her—let alone the baby. Vincenzo himself had told her that—and, gall her though it did, he was right.

I have to stay calm—not let my emotions boil over. Whatever he throws at me.

His eyes—dark, long-lashed and quite unreadable, so no change there, she thought resignedly—were resting on her.

‘How are you?’ he asked, his voice cool and accented.

‘The baby,’ replied Siena pointedly, because the question was not about her, and she knew that perfectly well, ‘is fine.’

A frown flashed briefly, as though her answer, and the pointedness with which she’d made it, displeased him.

‘And yourself?’ he pursued.

She gave half a shrug. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’m having, it seems, a very healthy pregnancy.’

She took a breath, wanting to cut to the chase, not wanting to let her fragile, flammable emotions flare up when she was trying so hard to stay cool and calm—the way he was being. For now, at least.

‘Your text said you had something to say to me.’

Tension had entered her voice. She could hear it. So, it seemed, could he. Because he made a slight gesture with his head, as if to negate her reaction.

‘Yes, but not right now.’ His voice was clipped. His stance changed, and so did his tone. ‘Tell me, have you eaten?’

Siena shook her head. Was she supposed to provide dinner for him?

‘In which case,’ he went on, ‘there’s a restaurant nearby on Holland Park Avenue that appears tolerable.’

‘OK...’ she said guardedly.

Eating out was preferable to eating in—and, whatever it was that Vincenzo wanted to say, doing so in public might be preferable too.

She glanced at him. ‘I had better change first,’ she said.

She was wearing cotton pedal pushers and a long-sleeved tee shirt—not good enough for a swanky restaurant. Memory darted, of how she’d deliberately not dressed up the previous time. But that had been to make a point. A point she didn’t need to make a second time.

‘I’ll be two minutes,’ she said.

She kept to it, too, having simply swapped what she’d been wearing to a pair of smarter, dark blue trousers and a blue striped shirt, worn loose. She didn’t think her pregnancy showed much, but it definitely wouldn’t in the shirt. She didn’t bother with make-up, simply brushed her hair, drawing it back with a barrette. Then, staring at her reflection, she grabbed some lip gloss after all and touched it to her lips. Then she stared again.

Memory intruded suddenly—of how Megan had dolled her up that fateful evening, for that swanky party at the Falcone. Squeezing her into that tight dress, doing her make-up—overdoing it, by Siena’s standards—leaving her hair loose and tumbling down her back, seeing her legs lengthened by the high heels she’d persuaded her to wear.

She’d looked totally vamped. Sex on legs...

It wasn’t me.

It hadn’t been her. The reflection that had gazed back at her that evening, with its deep eyes, lavishly lashed, scarlet mouth, wanton hair and skin-tight dress. Dressed to kill.

No wonder he thought I was up for it...

She swallowed. Shehadbeen up for it, hadn’t she? She could hardly deny it.

She shut her eyes to block out the memory of what she’d looked like that evening. Then opened them again.

Now she looked nothing like that.

Thankfully...

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