CAROL MARINELLI - In the Italian's Bed - Bedded for Pleasure, Purchased for Pregnancy / The Italian's Ruthless Baby Bargain / The Italian Count's Defiant Bride

It was none of his business, Zarios reminded himself.

Whatever mess she was in—well, it was hers . In a little less than a week they would both walk away and never have to see each other again.

It killed him to even think about it.

He held her fragile frame against his, wanted to wrap himself like a shield around her and discount everything he had learnt today.

What had that counsellor on the helpline he had rung said?

That addicts were cunning and manipulative…Zarios’s eyes were shuttered for a moment. He found it so easy to discount the brutal summing-up, when he was holding her in his arms.

He had been told that she first had to admit to the problem before Zarios could do anything to help.

‘Emma?’ She stirred into semi-wakefulness as he rolled onto his side and stared down at her. ‘Nothing’s ever too big that you can’t tell me.’

He smiled as her groggy eyes tried to focus on his.

‘If there’s something worrying you it’s better to face it.’

‘I know,’ she mumbled.

‘And,’ Zarios ventured on, ‘if I can do anything to help, I will.’

‘Even after this morning?’ Her sleepy voice begged.

‘Especially after this morning. Emma.’ He was playing with her hair again, but this time it was her fringe, pushing it out of her eyes, feeling the damp stream of tears on her cheeks. He’d have given anything to lower his head and kiss her—would at that moment have given anything for her…

Which was the reason he didn’t.

Pressure from any quarter, according to the counsellor, was the very last thing she needed.

‘NO, THERE’S no chance that I’m pregnant.’

Her GP glanced down at her rather obvious engagement ring, then flicked through Emma’s notes. ‘I see you’re not on the pill.’

‘There hasn’t—I mean, we haven’t—’ Emma flushed purple. ‘Not since Mum and Dad’s accident.’

‘Which was about eight weeks ago?’ Dr Ross checked.

‘Nine weeks now.’ Emma gulped. ‘I had my period on the day of the funeral.’

‘And have you had a period since then?’

‘No,’ Emma admitted. ‘But stress can affect that, and I’m not very regular at the best of times…’

‘And you’re vomiting?’

‘Once or twice,’ Emma lied, just a little bit. She could feel her stomach churning now, just from the smell of the coffee on his desk. ‘But that’s not what I’m here for—it’s more about the nightmares—’

‘Let’s just get a sample…’ her GP broke off her ream of excuses with a rather more practical suggestion ‘…and then we’ll talk. I don’t want to prescribe anything till we’ve covered all the bases.’

He was certainly thorough, checking her blood pressure and temperature, listening to her chest, feeling her neck, before unscrewing the little jar Emma had wrapped in tissues.

‘Insomnia’s a very normal part of the grieving process,’ he explained—only Emma wasn’t really listening. She was staring at the white card he had placed on his desk, at the moment of reckoning nearing. She watched him load the pipette, and the arrow she had for so long buried rustled from the leaves. Emma braced herself to face it. ‘Sleeping tablets won’t necessarily stop the nightmares,’ the doctor went on, as two minutes seemed to drag on for ever. ‘Would you like me to refer you to a counsellor? Talking things through might help…’

But it was pointless. Emma knew that. Oh, she had nothing against counselling, but there was no point going and them telling a counsellor only half of what was going on in her life.

‘Emma…’ The shift in his voice made her look up. He wasn’t smiling, his face was emotionless and, Emma realised, it would remain that way until he had gauged her reaction. ‘You’re pregnant.’

‘I can’t be.’

‘You are.’ He pushed the little plastic card towards her—the pink cross on it told her she’d failed this test. But even if the evidence was irrefutable, even if at some level she’d already known that she was, still she tried to deny it.

‘But I’ve had my period.’

‘If you’re sure about your dates, then it was probably breakthrough bleeding…that can happen in the first trimester.’ Now he smiled—and it was a gentle smile that was kind. ‘You are pregnant, Emma.’

‘I can’t be,’ she said again, only in an entirely different context. ‘I can’t possibly be pregnant now.’ Not by a man who didn’t love her—a man she owed a small fortune to—a man whom, she was fast starting to realise, she mightn’t be able to pay him back…

‘Emma, accidents happen.’ The doctor cut into her pleadings. ‘You need some time to get your head around the idea. Now, I want to arrange some blood tests and an ultrasound, just to check your dates, and then we’ll schedule an appointment to work out your options.’

She had no options.

She could feel the walls closing in, with every exit route blocked—could see his pen scribbling on pads—could hear him, talking about dates and LMPs and foetal sizes. She felt as if she’d suddenly landed in France, with only a schoolgirl guide to aide her, no accommodation booked and just a handful of coins. Completely and woefully unprepared for the journey.

‘We’ll get those tests done, and I’ll see you in the next couple of days. Once we know your dates…’

She didn’t hear anything else. Somehow, on autopilot, Emma paid for her consultation and made a follow-up appointment. Then, clutching her referrals, she stepped out into the bright afternoon and, for how long she wasn’t sure, sat in the car, staring at the world rushing by at a million miles an hour as for just a little while hers stood still.

She tried to fathom Zarios’s reaction—tried to fathom being bound to a man who would want his heir more than he wanted her.

She tried to fathom her own reaction, but that proved just as elusive.

Oh, she’d miss her mum for ever, but never as much as now. Leaning onto the steering wheel, she sobbed as if Lydia had died that very morning. Weeks of grief were no prelude to the pain that ripped through her now. They’d never see, never know, never hold their grand-child…And then her tears stilled. The sign that she’d begged for, pleaded with God for, had come—in the moment when she’d least expected it.

Loneliness lifted as realisation crept in—this little scrap of life, growing inside her now, had been conceived while her parents had still been alive; had been created on the day they had left this earth.

Surely that was no accident?

Sink or swim.

Despite her near drowning, only today did Emma actually understand the meaning of the saying.

Now, when life seemed to be falling apart, it was time to pull it together. There was no rescuer this time, no strong arms to haul her out of the water—she had to make it to shore by herself.

And she would.

If Jake was gambling again—and his avoidance of her attempts to contact him certainly hinted at that—then he wasn’t going to pay her back. She’d have to pay Zarios back herself—and then, when she was no longer indebted to him, she’d work out what to do about the baby.

She’d have nothing. A surge of panic gripped her at the prospect, but she deftly knocked it aside. She’d have her baby.

She had talent.

Somehow they’d survive.

Turning on the ignition, Emma took in a steadying breath, felt the wheel beneath her hands and the pedals beneath her feet, and for the first time since the accident started to take control.

She told herself, even if she didn’t quite believe it yet, that she would be okay.

Because—for her baby’s sake—she had to be.