Melanie Milburne - The Scandalous Sabbatinis

‘A week after you told me our relationship was over.’ She bit into her lip again and another flick knife of guilt caught him off guard.

Luca took a breath but it felt as if he was breathing through barbed wire. His throat felt raw and his chest so tight it ached unbearably. He scored his hair with his fingers, not surprised to see how unsteady his hand was. He could feel the tremors of rage rolling through him. Rage and remorse, a juxtaposition of emotions that made it hard for him to think clearly.

He had a child.

A little girl.

Fourteen months old and he had not shared a second of it. He had not seen her growing in Bronte’s womb; he had not been at the birth. He knew nothing about the birth, how long the labour was, whether she had given birth naturally or by Caesarean. He didn’t know whether she had fed the child herself or given her a bottle. He knew nothing about his daughter: the sound of her voice, the feel of her baby skin, the softness of her hair or the touch of her little hands. How could he ever get that time back? How could he forgive Bronte for stealing it from him? It had already poisoned what he felt for her. He had come back with such hope at resuming their relationship. But now he felt as if he didn’t know Bronte at all. She had changed. She was a scheming little thief, and his loathing of what she had done made him want to cut her from his life all over again. But he couldn’t because of his little daughter. His heart tightened again at the thought of that little girl in the photos he had seen.

His daughter.

‘I wanted to tell you in person,’ Bronte said in a small voice. ‘But you didn’t return my calls or emails. I went to your villa in Milan but I was turned away at the door. Your housekeeper said you were with your mistress in the US.’

Luca felt an avalanche of guilt come down on him. He had made it impossible for her to contact him. He had covered his tracks so well, not even his family had been aware of where he was and what he had been doing. He had spun them the same tale: a whirlwind affair in the States. And it had worked, perhaps rather too well. ‘You could have sent a letter,’ he said, still not quite ready to take the whole blame.

‘Is that how you wanted to hear you had fathered a child?’ she asked.

‘It would be a damn better way than finding out in a restaurant in front of complete strangers,’ he shot back.

She lowered her gaze and did that thing with her bottom lip again. ‘I told you, I was about to tell you when they arrived.’

‘When?’ he asked. ‘Between the main course and dessert? How were you going to slip it into the conversation? “By the way, I had your child fourteen months ago; I thought you might like to know now that you’re here in Melbourne.” For God’s sake, Bronte, what the hell were you thinking?’

She looked at up at him with tears shining in her eyes. ‘I didn’t expect to ever see you again. You made it so clear our relationship was over.’

‘So you punished me by keeping my child a secret,’ he said. ‘Is that it? Is that why you didn’t try harder to get the message to me?’

Guilt flooded her cheeks a cherry-red. ‘I didn’t want any of this to happen.’

‘Meaning you never intended for me to find out,’ he said heavily. ‘Well, I’ve got news for you, Bronte Bennett. I want my child. You have got one hell of a fight on your hands if you think you’re going to keep me away from her.’

Bronte felt a rod of anger straighten her spine. ‘You can’t take her from me, Luca. I won’t allow it. She’s my child. I’ll fight you until my dying breath.’

‘You and whose legal team?’ he asked with a malevolent look. ‘You do realise who you are up against here, don’t you? You haven’t got a hope of winning this, Bronte. Not a hope.’

Bronte hated herself for doing it but right at that moment her temper got the better of her. ‘First you have to prove she is yours,’ she said with a jut of her chin. ‘Have you thought about that, Luca? How do you know she isn’t another man’s child? You only saw me two or three times a week when we were together, sometimes even less. I had plenty of time to play around behind your back.’

His expression went as dark as the thunderous sky outside. His hands went to tight fists, his breath hissing out from between clenched teeth. ‘A paternity test will soon sort out that. I will apply for one in the morning. If you don’t agree, expect to hear from my lawyer.’

Instead of feeling she had won that round, Bronte felt as if she had lost much more than a few verbal points. She had lost his respect. She could see it in his eyes, the way they had stripped her bare. It was one thing for him to have the freedom to see who he liked when he liked but quite another for her to do the same. She had been his possession, his little plaything on the side, and it would infuriate him to think she had given herself to someone else while involved with him.

‘Who was it?’ he asked through tight lips. ‘Anyone I knew at the time?’

Bronte turned away. ‘I don’t have to explain myself to you. You certainly gave me no explanation for what you got up to when you weren’t with me.’

He grabbed her arm and spun her around to face him, his expression still as menacing as the storm raging outside. ‘Who the hell were you seeing?’ he asked.

Bronte tugged at his hold, squirming at the bite of his fingers. ‘Stop it, Luca. You’re hurting me.’

His hold loosened, but not by much. ‘Tell me who you were seeing, damn it.’

She felt tears approaching and fought them back valiantly. ‘Tell me who you were with in LA,’ she said. ‘What was her name? Was it someone famous or someone married so you had to keep it a big secret?’

His eyes flickered for a moment, his mouth pulled so tight it was white-tipped at the corners.

‘Was she very beautiful?’ Bronte asked, struggling now to keep her voice from cracking. ‘Did she love you? Did you love her?’

He dropped his hand from her arm and stepped away. He rubbed the back of his neck as if trying to soothe a knot of tension there. He didn’t speak. He just stood in front of the bank of windows and looked at the last of the storm’s activity outside. His back was like a fortress, a thick impenetrable wall she had no hope of scaling. In spite of his hostility, she wanted to go to him, to put her arms around his waist, to hold him, to breathe in the aching familiarity of his scent.

‘Luca?’

He turned to face her, his expression rigid with determination. ‘I want to see her,’ he said. ‘I want to see my child.’

Bronte took a little step backwards. ‘You mean… now?’

‘Of course I mean now,’ he said, scooping up his car keys from the coffee table.

‘But she’s asleep,’ Bronte said. ‘And… and my mother’s there and—’

‘Then it’s time your mother met the father of her grandchild,’ he said. ‘She’s going to have to get used to me being a part of the child’s life.’

‘“The child”,’ Bronte said, throwing her hands out wide. ‘Can you please use her name? It’s Ella.’

‘Does she have a middle name?’ he asked, his eyes hard and black with contempt as they pinned hers.

Bronte compressed her lips. ‘Her full name is Ella Lucia Bennett.’

He blinked and the strong column of his throat moved up and down over a swallow. ‘You named her… for me?’

She let out a small sigh. ‘I wanted her to have something of you, even if it turned out she never met you. I felt I owed you that. I felt I owed her that.’

A little muscle in his jaw worked for a long moment. ‘I want my name on her birth certificate,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose it’s there?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t see the point at the time.’