Page 9 of A Baby Scandal in Italy

What if she had made a terrible mistake by bringing Bertie to Italy? She had no idea how the newspapers had got hold of the story that Rafa was the baby’s father. If the paternity test came back negative, would he carry out his threat to sue her for slander, and could she really be sent to prison?

Ivy turned her head and met Rafa’s enigmatic gaze. She wondered what he would do if she leaned closer and pressed her lips against his stubbled jaw. Would he angle his mouth over hers and kiss her? She wanted him to, she admitted to herself. But she resented her intense awareness of him. He had a reputation as a womaniser, and he was the last man she would ever get involved with.

‘We’re here.’ Rafa released Ivy’s hand and she felt oddly bereft.

‘I thought we were going to your apartment.’ The car had slowed outside one of Rome’s most famous hotels, the Palazzo Degli Dei. Opposite was the city’s iconic historical landmark, the Colosseum.

‘I live in the hotel’s penthouse suite.’

‘Why do you live in a hotel?’

He shrugged. ‘I own the hotel, although my interest is purely as an investment, and I am not involved in running it. I like the convenience of living in a serviced apartment.’

There was a crowd of paparazzi near the hotel’s grand entrance, although they were kept away from the door by security guards. Ivy tensed, thinking that they would be mobbed by the photographers, but the car drove past the entrance and turned down a ramp that led to an underground car park. Rafa carried Bertie in the baby seat and ushered Ivy into a private lift that took them directly up to his apartment.

She preceded him inside and her tension increased when she took in her surroundings. The penthouse was ultra-modern and sophisticated with black marble floors, and white velvet sofas were arranged in groups in the vast, open-plan living space. From every window there was a view of the ancient Colosseum.

Everything about the apartment screamed serious money, but it felt like a high-end hotel suite rather than a private home, and there was nothing on show that gave a clue to the personality of the man who lived there.

She turned to find Rafa watching her, and her heart skipped a beat as her gaze locked with his. She wished she knew what he was thinking, but his chiselled features revealed nothing.

‘I’ll show you where you and the baby will sleep tonight,’ he said coolly.

Ivy followed him down the corridor and into a room where there was a cot and a baby-change unit. There was also an impressive looking pushchair with a carry-cot attachment suitable for young babies.

‘Do you have another child—or children?’ It suddenly occurred to her that Rafa might already be a father. Why else would there be nursery furniture in his swanky apartment?

‘No.’ Beneath his curt reply, there was something in his voice that stirred Ivy’s curiosity. ‘The hotel provided the nursery equipment, and I ordered the push chair from a supplier.’

‘I’ll pay for the push chair,’ she said at once, not wanting him to think she was after freebies.

He ignored her and opened a door into a connecting bedroom. ‘I assumed you would want to sleep near the baby so that you can attend to him if he wakes in the night.’

The room was at least three times bigger than Ivy’s bedroom at the flat in Southampton where she had lived with her sister. She would have to move out of the flat in a matter of days, and finding somewhere affordable for Bertie and her to live was another worry to add to her already long list.

Rafa set the car seat down on the floor and lifted a now awake Bertie out. The baby gave a winsome smile that never failed to melt Ivy’s heart, but there was not a flicker of response on Rafa’s face as he handed Bertie to her.

‘The doctor will be here in a few minutes to take samples for the DNA test. I have been assured that the procedure is a simple cheek swab and Bertie won’t feel a thing.’ He dropped Ivy’s backpack onto the bed. ‘I will need yours and the baby’s passports so that I can book your return flight to England.’

In twenty-four hours they would know the truth, although Ivy did not doubt her sister. Pride made her want to tell Rafa that she would pay for her own plane ticket, but the reality was she did not have enough money in her account for the flight.

She searched in the backpack for the passports. When she pulled them out, a card fell onto the bed. She had intended to throw the reporter’s business card into the bin before she left her hotel, but somehow it had ended up in the backpack, and it silently condemned her. Rafa said nothing, but the icy fury in his eyes sent a shiver through Ivy when he plucked the passports from her fingers and strode out of the room.

Rafa woke the next morning with a pounding headache. His hangover was not surprising, after the train wreck his life had become in the past forty-eight hours. He was in dire need of strong black coffee and he pulled on a pair of sweatpants before he padded barefoot down the hall to the kitchen.

His stomach tightened when he saw Ivy perched on a stool at the breakfast bar, drinking orange juice out of the carton. It had been a mistake to bring her to his apartment, he brooded. He did not want any involvement with her, or Bertie, who he was certain was not his son. He wished he’d arranged for them to stay in a hotel room, but it had seemed sensible to keep Ivy close to stop her talking to the press and making up more lies about him.

‘I couldn’t find a glass,’ she said when Rafa glowered at her. ‘I hope Bertie’s crying didn’t disturb you during the night.’

The inroads he’d made on a bottle of single malt hadn’t blocked out the baby’s cries, which had evoked poignant memories of when he’d believed he was the father of an adorable little daughter. Nor had getting drunk banished Ivy from his erotic dreams. The sight of her first thing, looking perkily pretty and as sexy as hell in an over-sized tee shirt that kept slipping off one shoulder, did nothing to improve Rafa’s mood.

He took two glasses from a cupboard, filled both with juice and pushed one towards Ivy before he downed his drink in a couple of gulps. On the counter was a selection of the daily newspapers that the maid had delivered to the apartment. The front page of many of the papers had a photo of Rafa carrying Bertie in the baby seat, seemingly hustling Ivy out of a run-down hotel and into a car. She looked young and appallingly innocent with her pink hair and Bambi eyes, beneath the headline.

Il magnate, il suo amante e il loro bambino!

‘What does it say?’

‘It says, “the tycoon, his lover and their baby”.’ Rafa translated the headline.

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