Page 18 of The Venetian One-Night Baby

She frowned. ‘You don’t want to...?’

‘I don’t think it’s a good idea.’ He released her hands and stepped back. ‘Not until you get through the first trimester. Then we’ll reassess.’ His tone was so matter-of-fact he could have been reading a financial report.

Sabrina couldn’t quell her acute sense of disappointment. He didn’t want her any more? Or maybe he did but he was denying himself because he’d set conditions on their relationship. ‘But how will we keep our...erm...relationship or whatever we’re now calling it a secret from our families if we’re living under the same roof?’

‘In some ways, it’ll make it easier. We won’t be seen out and about together in public. And I travel a lot for work so we won’t be on top of each other.’

Doubts flitted through her mind like frenzied moths. Sharing a house with him was potentially dangerous. Her body was aflame with lust as soon as he came near, living with him would only make it a thousand times worse. She ached to feel his arms around her, his kiss on her mouth, his body buried within hers. What if she made a fool of herself? Wanting him so badly she begged him to make love to her?

What if she fell in love with him?

He wasn’t offering her love, only his protection. Food and shelter and a roof over her head. And a stable but loveless marriage if the pregnancy continued. But wasn’t that a pathway to heartbreak? How could she short-change herself by marrying someone who wasn’t truly in love with her?

Max came closer again and took her hands. ‘This is the best way forward. It will ensure your safety and my peace of mind.’

She looked down at their joined hands, his skin so tanned compared to the creamy whiteness of hers. It reminded her of the miracle occurring inside her body, the cells dividing, DNA being exchanged, traits and features from them both being switched on or off to make a whole new little person. A little person she was already starting to love. ‘I don’t know...’

His hands gave hers a small squeeze. ‘Let’s give it a try for the next few weeks, okay?’

Sabrina let out a sigh and gave him a wry glance. ‘You know, you’re kind of scaring me at how convincing you can be when you put your mind to it.’

He released her hands and stepped back with an unreadable expression. ‘I’ll wait for you out here while you get changed out of your nightgown. Any toiletries you need from the bathroom before we get going?’

She sighed and turned back for the bedroom. ‘I’ll get them once I’ve got changed.’

* * *

Max waited for Sabrina while she gathered her makeup and skincare products from the bathroom. He would have paced the floor but there wasn’t the space for it. He would have taken out a window with his elbow each time he turned. It was true that he hadn’t noticed how appalling her flat was when he’d brought her home that night all those weeks ago. The flat wasn’t so bad inside—she had done her best to tart things up with brightly coloured scatter cushions and throw rugs over the cheap sofa, cute little knick-knacks positioned here and there and prints of artwork on the walls. There was even a bunch of fresh flowers, presumably supplied by her best friend Holly, who was a florist.

But it was what was on the outside of Sabrina’s front door that worried him. Apart from the stale cooking smells, there were no security cameras, no intercom to screen the people coming in and out of the building. How could he sleep at night if he left her here with who knew what type of people milling past? Criminals? Drug dealers? Violent thugs?

No. It was safer for her at his house. Well, safe in one sense, dangerous in another. He had made a promise to himself that he would keep his hands off her. He knew he was locking the stable door even though the horse was well on its way to the maternity ward, but he had to be sensible about this. Sleeping with her before the three-month mark would make it even harder to end their relationship if the pregnancy failed.

Something tightened in his gut at the thought of her losing that baby. His baby. He had never imagined himself as a father. For most of his life he had blocked it out of his mind. He wasn’t the type of man who was comfortable around kids. He actively avoided babies. One of his friends from university had asked him to be godfather to his firstborn son. Max had almost had a panic attack at the church when his friend’s wife had handed him the baby to hold.

But now he was going to be a father.

Sabrina came out after a few minutes dressed in skinny jeans and a dove-grey boyfriend sweater that draped sensually over her bra-less breasts. On her feet she was wearing ballet slippers, and on her face an expression that was one part resignation and one part defiance. He tore his gaze away from the tempting globes of her breasts, remembering how soft they had felt in his hands, how tightly her nipples had peaked when he’d sucked on them. In a few months her body would be ripe with his child.

A child he had planted in her womb.

He had never considered pregnancy to be sexy but somehow with Sabrina it was. Damn it, everything about her was sexy. Wasn’t that why he’d crossed the line and made love to her last month in Venice?

But now he had drawn a new line and there was no way he was stepping over it.

No. Freaking. Way.

* * *

Sabrina hadn’t realised she had slept during the drive from her flat to Max’s house in Notting Hill. She woke up when the car stopped and straightened from her slumped position in the passenger seat. She hadn’t been to this new house of his before—but not for want of trying by his and her parents. She had walked past it once or twice but was always so keen to avoid him that she had stopped coming to the Portobello Road markets for fear of running into him.

The house was one in a long row of grand four-storey white terrace houses. Each one had a black wrought-iron balustrade on the second-floor balcony and the same glossy black decorative fencing at street level.

When Max led the way inside, she got a sense of what Lizzie Bennet in Pride and Prejudice had felt when seeing Pemberley, Mr Darcy’s estate, for the first time. This could be your home if you marry him.

She turned in a circle in the black and white tiled foyer, marvelling at the décor that was stylish and elegant without being over the top. The walls and ceiling were a bone white but the chandelier overhead was a black one with sparkling crystal pendants that tinkled with the movement of air. There was a staircase leading to the upper floors, carpeted with a classic Persian runner with brass rods running along the back of each step to hold it in place. Works of art hung at various points, which she could only presume were originals. He didn’t strike her as the sort of man to be content with a couple of cheap knock-offs to adorn his walls, like she had done at her flat.

‘I’ll show you to your room,’ Max said. ‘Or would you like something to eat and drink first?’

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