Page 34 of Back to Claim His Italian Heir
They had arrived at his private island yesterday, after the overnight flight to Rome, where they’d left the Santini private jet and boarded a small hire plane to fly directly to the island, a few miles from Capri, near the Bay of Naples. By the time they’d arrived, Emma had been too jet-lagged and exhausted to do much but look around blearily and collapse into the bed Nico’s housekeeper Maria had shown her—a huge, soft king-sized one with views of the sea. His bedroom was adjoining, but the door between the rooms had stayed firmly closed, and after nearly fourteen hours of sleep she’d felt much refreshed and ready to explore.
They’d breakfasted together on yogurt, fresh fruit, and pastries, and then Nico had offered to give her a tour of the island, which Emma had accepted with enthusiasm. After their conversation on the plane the day before, she’d felt reassured they were on the same page when it came to the nature of their relationship. They could be friends, they could even be lovers, but they wouldn’t beinlove. It was an important and necessary distinction, and one Emma was glad she’d made, even as she castigated herself for seeming so arrogant—as arrogant as Nico once had been!—to think he would actually fall in love with her.
Of course he wouldn’t, she’d scolded herself when she’d gone to rest in the private jet’s sumptuous bedroom during the flight to Rome, and Nico had stayed in the main cabin to work. The reminder had been more for her than for him, not that she’d had any intention of telling him as much. But a man like Nico Santini—rich, powerful, and yes, attractive as all get-out, just as she’d told him—wasn’t about to fall headlong in love with someone like her, a gutter rat who’d been bounced around so much because no one had ever wanted her enough to keep her. That much was obvious, and it was clear Nico hadn’t needed the warning, which was a good thing. Of course it was.
Or so she’d told herself as they’d spent a very pleasant few hours wandering around the island, among the twisted trunks of an ancient olive grove, through the villa’s gardens with its climbing bougainvillea and tinkling fountains, down to the sweep of white sand where Nico’s private yacht was moored. He’d kept the conversation light and easy, and Emma had relaxed into the chat and banter, grateful that they could enjoy each other’s company without having another intense ‘getting to know you’ talk that she knew she wasn’t ready for.
It had been hard, admitting as much as she had, the day before on the plane. She wasn’t used to being so vulnerable and tended not to talk about her childhood, the conveyor belt of foster families she’d rotated through, never spending anywhere very long. Except, of course, the last family...she’d spent a whole year with them, in some ways the happiest year of her life...or so she’d thought.
But she definitely hadn’t wanted to go into all that with Nico, although perhaps she would one day. In any case, he hadn’t asked any invasive questions and she hadn’t either, and it had been enough simply to enjoy each other’s company, learning little things about him that she hadn’t known before—that he liked chess, was scared—or slightly wary, as he’d put it—of spiders, that he’d had a dog growing up and would like one again.
And she’d told him bits and pieces about her own interests—that she loved cooking although she’d rarely got the chance to cook much of anything, living in bedsits, that fantasy novels had been her escape of choice as a teen, and she’d never had a pet but thought she might want one one day, although perhaps she’d start small, with a fish or a lizard.
‘A lizard!’ Nico had exclaimed, laughing. ‘They’re not very cuddly.’
She’d shrugged, smiling, not wanting to admit that she was a bit nervous to be wholly responsible for a pet. It hardly seemed like a good thing to admit to the father of the baby you were carrying, after all.
‘How about a dog and a cat?’ Nico had suggested, his arm around her as they’d strolled back up to the villa for lunch. ‘We could teach them to get along.’
‘Maybe.’ She was still getting used to the whole idea of thatwe; that she and Nico were going to build their lives together. He seemed to have got on board with it remarkably quickly, but Emma knew she needed time to catch up. How could she, who had never known her parents or what it meant to be in a family, build one?Beone?
After lunch, Nico excused himself to catch up on work and Emma spent a few hours exploring the villa itself, wandering through its many comfortable rooms, all with views of the sea, and ending up in the cheerful, red-tiled kitchen with the housekeeper, Maria.
‘Of course, you must do as you like with the kitchen and food,’ Maria assured her while Emma glanced around at the bright copper pans hanging from the ceiling, the bowl of oranges on the table, the ropes of onions and garlic and bunches of herbs hanging from a wooden rafter. ‘A woman must always be in charge of her own kitchen.’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind.’ Emma wasn’t sure she was confident enough to take charge of a kitchen like this, as much as she liked cooking. Maria seemed more than capable, and she couldn’t imagine more or less elbowing her out of the way so she could have a go.
Perhaps she just needed more time, she told herself as she headed upstairs to her bedroom to get ready for dinner. During their walk Nico had encouraged her to think of the villa as her own, and yet she struggled not to feel like a guest, and a temporary one at that. Nico talked about buying houses and getting pets and she still wondered when he was going to turn around, frown regretfully, and say,Actually, Emma, this isn’t going to work.
The way everyone else in her life had.
Would she ever get over that deep-seated fear? she wondered as she changed into a pale pink sundress with spaghetti straps. Nico had thoughtfully had an entire wardrobe of clothes shipped to the villa for their arrival, and he’d insisted she keep what she liked and returned what she didn’t.
‘And I’ll need to go to Rome on business soon, so perhaps you can accompany me, and we’ll make a shopping trip of it, as well.’
Emma had stammered her thanks, even as the question had hammered through her head:Why are you being so good to me?She’d thought it before, and when she’d believed he’d died in that crash, it had almost been as if she’d been expecting it, or something close to it, because when had anything in her life gone right?
And yet now something was. Wonderfully. She really just had to trust it. Lean into it. Let it happen.
It had only been a few days, she reminded herself, and they had weeks, months, maybe even years to get used to each other, to grow. She needed to stop second-guessing herself and enjoy what was right in front of her—Nico included.
Her stomach dipped as she remembered how he’d held her hand as they’d walked through the olive grove, their fingers loosely entwined. How, when he’d helped her over a piece of driftwood on the beach, his hand had spanned her waist and his gaze had briefly, blazingly, met hers. Emma knew Nico meant what he said—he would wait for her to be ready; the ball was firmly in her court when it came to that aspect of their relationship.
And maybe that was the missing piece that would help her feel settled. That would build trust as well as intimacy. That would remind her of how wanted this man made her feel, and how safe.
As long as she kept guarding her heart...
‘There you are.’ Nico came out onto the terrace, smiling, looking relaxed and rather wonderful in a pale green button-down shirt and dark trousers, his feet bare, his teeth gleaming in his tanned face.
‘I was just enjoying the sunset.’ She glanced back at the ribbons of lavender and orange that were streaming across the sky as the sun sank towards the placid surface of the sea. ‘This feels like paradise.’
‘I’m glad.’ He brushed her cheek with his fingers. ‘You deserve a little paradise.’
Instinctively she tensed at the note in his voice, something she feared might be a bit too close to pity. ‘Don’t feel sorry for me, Nico,’ she warned quietly. ‘Because of my childhood or whatever.’ She didn’t think she could take his pity, not when all she’d ever had was her own strength. She needed to keep it; she couldn’t bear for him to feel sorry for her. They wouldn’t be equals then; they couldn’t be partners.
He raised his eyebrows, his fingers still lingering on her cheek, making it hard to think. To stay strong. ‘Do you feel sorry for me?’ he asked. ‘Because of my childhood...or whatever?’
‘Am I supposed to?’ she returned tartly, but smiling too, glad he’d flipped it back on her rather than giving her assurances she wasn’t sure she could believe.