Page 27 of Back to Claim His Italian Heir
‘Are you going to be sick again?’ she asked gently, and he shook his head.
‘I don’t think so...thankfully.’
‘Do you have any painkillers or medication?’
He nodded and then managed, ‘It’s in my washbag, in the bathroom. A brown bottle.’
‘I’ll get it.’
She found it easily enough, noting the prescription was to be taken as needed, in the case of migraines. Back in the living room, Nico had tried to ease himself into a sitting position, only to slump back down again, with a grimace. He had to hate being seen as so weak, Emma realised with a wry pang. She might not know a lot about him, but she knew he was a proud man, and he’d admitted a lot to her today. A lot of weakness and vulnerability. She realised it made him more appealing to her, not less, as he might have thought. As to their future...well, she couldn’t think about that just yet.
‘Let me help you to bed.’
‘I can do it—’
‘No,’ she replied with a laugh and a shake of her head, ‘you really can’t. Not unless you want to crawl there on your hands and knees. Let me help you, Nico.’
With no real choice but to acquiesce, he nodded, and she was able to help him to his feet as he struggled to manage as much as he could on his own, even though his face was taut with pain, his whole body tense. Somehow, with one arm around his shoulders and another around his waist, Emma managed to help him stumble to bed. He collapsed on top of the sheets with a groan as she took off his shoes, unbuttoned his shirt and trousers while he gazed up at her through half-closed lids.
‘Are you ravishing me, Signora Santini?’ he asked, his voice slightly slurred from the pain, as well as, no doubt, the heavy medication he’d been given that was now kicking in.
She laughed as she slid his trousers from his legs, admittedly enjoying the feeling of his powerful thighs and taut calves under her hands. He had a beautiful, powerful body, even if he seemed weak as a kitten now. ‘I’d certainly have to be the one to ravish you rather than the other way round, considering the state of you right now,’ she teased as she dropped his trousers onto the floor.
He gazed up at her through half-closed lids, wearing only his boxers and unbuttoned shirt, his tautly muscled chest visible through the parted fabric. He looked as sexy as a male centrefold, Emma acknowledged, even with his grey, pain-filled face.
‘You could let me try, at least...’ he mumbled, reaching one hand up to her before it fell slackly to his side.
‘Some try, Casanova.’ Emma brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, disarmed by his obvious vulnerability and even more dismayed by her own reaction to it—a sudden, surprising welling up of tenderness. It had been better, she realised, when he’d been arrogant and angry, because it had been much easier to keep her distance. Or even when she’d worried she couldn’t trust him—because she knew she did now. She trusted him and shelikedhim, and she knew she really couldn’t afford to feel that way. Not now, and not ever. Letting someone in was too risky. She knew that, and so, it seemed, did Nico. They’d both, in their own ways, been hurt by their families, by the love they’d offered but hadn’t had accepted. She didn’t think either of them wanted to risk in the same way again. If they were going to stay married, it was going to have to be one strictly of convenience, no tender emotions involved.
Which was a much-needed reminder in this particular moment.
‘You should sleep,’ she said as she pulled the duvet up over him and, with his eyes fluttering closed once more, he reached out to her, encircling her wrist with his fingers, the touch enough to cause a shower of sparks racing all the way up her arm, a swift blaze of yearning to start in her centre. Maybe she would ravish him after all...
‘Stay with me?’ he asked, his voice low and rough, and her desire melted into something deeper. Something dangerous that she kept trying to steel herself against.
‘But you need to sleep...’
‘Please?’
It was the please that did it, the unabashed yearning in his voice. ‘Yes, all right,’ she said, and he pulled her towards him until she fitted against him, her head on his shoulder, the steady thud of his heart beneath her cheek, her body curled into his. They’d lain like this during their one month together, she remembered, and every time it had been bittersweet.
Bitter, because she’d tried to caution herself against feeling too much, trusting too much, and sweet because he’d made her feel safe and wanted and even loved. There hadn’t been love involved, not really, sheknewthat, and, more importantly, there wouldn’t be this time, either.
But could they forge some kind of future together, for the sake of their child? Could they learn to get along, to like one another, to be a family? Could she trust him with her child, if not her heart?
Maybe she could, she thought sleepily, her eyes fluttering closed as she snuggled closer to Nico. Maybe, if they both kept their heads—and definitely their hearts—this could work out. It could work out wonderfully.
Nico lowered his phone as he stared out at the hazy blue sky, the city shimmering under the late morning sunlight.
‘Your wife is really rather unwell, Signor Santini.Something simply must be done.’
The OB’s words, spoken so censoriously, still rang in his ears. She hadn’t addedand that’s your fault, but she might as well have done. He certainly felt it was.
What had he been thinking, dragging Emma around the city, forcing pointless confrontations, when she was pregnant, tired and emotionally overwrought? And, as the OB had told him, underweight, seriously anaemic, and with high blood pressure. He’d thought she’d looked a little pale and gaunt when he’d first seen her, but he’d had no idea of the seriousness of the situation. And now he needed to rectify it. Immediately.
He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, doing his best to banish the remnants of yesterday’s headache that still lingered at his temples. He’d slept for sixteen hours straight, right around the clock, waking this morning to an empty bed and the phone ringing—the OB telling him what she’d learned about Emma, all of it alarming and even disturbing. He’d had no idea about so much...and, he realised, he still didn’t, at least not entirely. Not enough. But he wanted to.
He ran a hand through his shower-damp hair and turned to the bedroom door, needing to find Emma.