SHE’D BEEN TO Venice once before, and she’d loved the city then. It had been like a fantasy, an implausible city built on water with twisting streets and secret courtyards, whimsical arched bridges and mysterious exteriors that hid fairy-tale interiors.
She’d spent her entire visit wishing she could get lost inside one of the grand private homes lining the canals, exploring the historic palazzos, discovering the Venice that tourists never got to see. Four years later, she was back, a guest in one of the finest Venetian palazzos, and her guest suite took her breath away.
“Your room, Signorina Bern,” Anna said, opening the tall wood shutters, allowing light to pour in.
Despite the gray gloomy day outside, the room glowed with color. The thick wood moldings and beamed ceiling were a lustrous gold, and the walls were covered in a fine blue silk the color of aquamarine above a teal and ivory marble wainscoting. A plush carpet in a brilliant blue with a gold and cream border nearly hid the dark hardwood floor, while the soaring four-poster canopy bed dominated the middle of the room, the posts completely hidden by opulent silk curtains and swags of fringed valances in the same gleaming aquamarine hue as the walls. The effect was dazzling, and would have been overwhelming if not for the crisp white bed coverlet and line of plump pillows against the blue painted headboard.
Anna pointed to the tall antique wardrobe with the mirrored doors. “Il vostro guardaroba.” She struggled to remember her English. “For your clothes, yes?”
Rachel nodded, patting Michael’s back. “Yes, thank you.”
Then Anna crossed the room, moving to the center of the far wall, and opened the tall door, showing her through to a connected room where a gentleman was putting together a crib. “For the bambino.”
It was another bedroom, smaller and far less opulent, the walls a pale shade of green, and the bed was smaller as well, anchored to the wall and featuring a cornice with green brocade fabric. The room was pretty and fresh with a pair of armchairs flanking the marble fireplace, but nothing like the grandeur of her room.
“Very nice,” Rachel said, thinking it a lovely room, the colors reminding her of a nursery, but she didn’t need Michael in a separate room. “But he could sleep in my room. His crib can be set up in mine.”
Anna frowned. “Non so quella parola.”
Rachel had no idea what the maid was saying and was too worn-out to try to make herself clear, when really, Michael’s crib was not all that far, especially if she kept the door open between the rooms. She nodded, giving in.
Anna’s gaze skimmed the baby’s room and then the blue bedroom. She seemed satisfied with what she saw. “Vorresti pranzo?” she asked.
Rachel hated how stupid she felt. “Pranzo?”
Anna made the motion of feeding herself. “Eat. Lunch? Pranzo, yes?”
Actually Rachel was suddenly quite hungry. “Yes, please. Thank you.”
As the door closed behind the maid, Rachel sat down with Michael in the blue velvet upholstered chair, and sighed, flattened. It had been quite the morning. Her head was spinning. She closed her eyes, and didn’t open them until the knock at her door woke her.
Glancing down at Michael, she saw that he, too, was sleeping. She smiled a little and carefully rose, opening the door for Anna, who had brought her a lunch tray.
Anna positioned the tray on the small table next to the blue chair, shifting the small plates of crostini topped with truffle-laced cheese, prosciutto and whipped salted cod forward, leaving the bowl of salad behind, before opening the bottle of fizzy water and filling a glass for Rachel. “Thank you,” Rachel said gratefully.
Gio entered the room as Anna slipped out. He was carrying Michael’s diaper bag and he placed it on the foot of the bed.
Rachel was between bites. She slowly set the toast down and just looked at Gio, who seemed impossibly tall and imposing.
“Do you need anything?” he asked gruffly.
“I’m fine,” she answered, giving a strained smile. “I’ve gotten quite adept at eating one-handed.” But just then Michael shifted, stretching, and slid across her chest. She readjusted him and grimaced. “Perhaps adept isn’t the right word, but we get by.”
Giovanni’s forehead creased. “Have you really had no help?”
“Friends will sometimes pop by, and when they do, I practically shove Michael into their arms before dashing off to shower and shampoo my hair.”
“If I was one of your friends, I don’t think I’d stop by very often.”
She grinned ruefully. “They don’t, not anymore. I think they’ve all realized I’ll just put them to work...and then I’ll disappear.”
He stood in front of her, looking down at her, a crease between his strong black brows. “He looks very much like Antonio,” he said after a long moment.
“I wondered,” she answered.
Another uncomfortable beat of silence passed. “Hand him to me. My arms work, and you can eat.”
* * *
Giovanni didn’t have a lot of experience with babies. He hadn’t thought about being a father since he ended his engagement to Adelisa. But seeing Michael nestle against Rachel’s breast stirred something within him.
Love. Longing. Pain.
Not for his own children, but for this baby. Antonio’s son.
He missed Antonio. He missed his best friend. Antonio had been warmth and humor, wit and charm. He’d balanced Gio and provided perspective. Just seeing the baby—Antonio’s baby—made the grief more acute. Maybe it was because the baby also made Antonio real again.
In Michael, Antonio still lived.
Gio took the baby from Rachel and awkwardly settled him on his shoulder. Michael fussed a little, and then relaxed, back asleep.
The small body was warm. The infant’s hand flexed and relaxed against Gio’s neck. The feel of Michael’s tiny fingers made the air trap in his lungs. His chest tightened—more sensation, more uncomfortable sensation.
Even without a DNA test, Giovanni was increasingly certain that Michael was Antonio’s. There was definitely something in the baby boy’s face that reminded him of the Marcellos, and not just because the infant had a thatch of jet-black hair and the dark bright eyes. The six-month-old had a habit of pulling his brows, frowning in concentration, making himself look like a world-weary old man. It was something Antonio had always done, even as a very young child. He’d focus intently, thinking whatever he was thinking, and then when satisfied he’d smile.
The smile was Antonio.
The frown was Antonio.
Which meant, Michael belonged here in Venice. The Marcellos were Venetian. They didn’t grow up in America, much less on the West Coast in a city like Seattle.
“Won’t you miss him if you return to work?” Gio asked quietly.
“Yes,” she answered, looking unhappy.
“Then stay home with him.”
“But I have bills—”
“You’ve come to me for help. Let me help.”
“How?”
“You wanted financial help. I’ll give it.”
“You’d pay my rent? And make my car payment? And give me an allowance for food and incidentals?” Her brows pulled. “I don’t think so. I couldn’t accept that. I don’t want to be that dependent on anyone.”
“Don’t think of it that way. Think of it as earning a salary. Instead of paying for a nanny, I’d pay you.”
“Which would make you my employer.” Her cheeks flushed a dark pink. “No, thank you.”
“But you need an employer.”
“I have one. And it’s a job I like very much, too. I need help paying for a nanny, that’s all.”
“But that’s not all you need. You’ve made it clear that you want my family to be part of his life. You want us to ease some of the responsibility. So let us do that. Let me do that.”
She pushed the tray back and rose. “I can take him now. I’m finished.”
“No need. I have him. Why don’t you relax?”
Her jaw tensed. She tried to smile but it was strained. “I’m sure you have things to do, whereas I have nothing.”
“You could rest. Take a nap—”
“Can’t. I don’t really sleep anymore.” But she did sit down again, and her hands folded in her lap. She was still smiling, but the smile was brittle. He saw for the first time the tension at her mouth and the shadows under her eyes.
“Is Michael sleeping?” Gio asked.
“He still wakes up at least once each night.”
No wonder she was exhausted. “At what point do babies sleep through the night?”
“He should be able to sleep through the night now. I’m afraid it’s a habit he’s developed. He doesn’t drink much when he wakes up. He likes to socialize.” Her lips pressed into a line. “I’m trying to convince him that daytime is much better for play.”
“Perhaps I should hire a night nurse while you’re here—”
“No! Don’t do that. He’d be frightened. It’s hard enough not being in his own bed, in his own room. Having a stranger care for him would surely confuse him.”
“But what about you? Couldn’t you use a night of uninterrupted sleep?”
“Yes, but I would feel guilty, and then I wouldn’t sleep and it’d be a pointless exercise all the way around.”
Gio glanced down into Michael’s face and then at Rachel. “But if you hope to return to work, you need to get used to help. Soon you’ll be away from him for eight hours or more a day.”
He could see the misery in her eyes. She wasn’t happy about that, either.
Gio gave her a long thoughtful look. “I’m glad you’re here. It’s time I did my part.” He carefully eased the baby back into her arms. “We’ll discuss this tonight. Let’s meet for drinks in the library at seven. Signora Fabbro will stay with Michael.”
“Mrs. Fabbro?” she repeated.
He nodded once and walked out.
* * *
Heart pounding, Rachel watched Gio leave, her insides a jittery mess.
Everything was changing. She could feel it. Once again her life was being upended.
But before she could sort out why she felt so uneasy, Anna arrived with Rachel’s luggage. The maid wheeled in the large suitcase, and then removed the lunch tray.
Suddenly everything felt different—not just precarious, but overwhelming, and she didn’t even understand what was changing.
While Anna insisted on unpacking the suitcase, Rachel placed Michael in the crib, and then she didn’t know what to do with herself.
Jet lag didn’t help anxiety, and right now her anxiety was at an all-time high. Sleep would help. Sleep always helped, but instead she paced the luxurious suite on the fourth floor of the palazzo, a fist pressed to her mouth as she chewed mindlessly on a knuckle, trying to ease the sick, heavy panicked sensation filling her middle.
She understood why Giovanni wanted her in his family palace. Notoriously private, he was trying to limit the media’s access to Rachel and the baby. He was trying to protect his family name, and he wanted security and safeguards in place, but for her, it was suffocating. It was hard giving up her personal space, and she couldn’t help feeling as if she’d lost her independence and control. Control was important in this instance because she needed room to move and think.
Before lunch she would have said that she didn’t think Gio knew the first thing about babies, and she’d thought his coldness had been due to inexperience with small children, but when he’d taken Michael from her, he’d handled his nephew with an easy confidence and almost affection.
What if Giovanni wanted to do more than provide financial assistance? What if Gio wanted Michael to stay in Venice?
The thought turned her insides into ice. She wasn’t just accustomed to caring for Michael now, he was part of her. She loved him. She never used the words out loud, but she was his mother now. He was her son. If Giovanni challenged her for custody, Rachel would be in trouble. Juliet didn’t have a living will. There had been no instructions for Michael, nothing to indicate her preference for guardianship.
Gio had a legitimate claim if he wanted to sue for custody.
She prayed he didn’t want to be guardian. She prayed he didn’t want to be responsible for a baby, because truthfully, she didn’t want him making decisions about Michael’s life or physical care. She just needed Giovanni’s financial support so that once she and Michael were back in Seattle, she could hire a good sitter or nanny, buy the basic things a small person needed and move on with her life, a life as a single mother.
Mrs. Fabbro arrived at Rachel’s door promptly at six-forty-five, announcing herself with a firm, loud knock.
Small and sturdy-looking, Mrs. Fabbro had steel-colored hair, shrewd dark eyes and a firm mouth that didn’t seem likely to smile as she marched into the room. Introductions were awkward as her English was worse than Anna’s and Rachel struggled in her limited Italian, but conversation was no longer an issue once Mrs. Fabbro spotted Michael in his fleecy pajamas on his blanket on the floor.
Rachel had placed him there so he wouldn’t fall or get hurt while she dressed for dinner, and he seemed perfectly happy playing with his hands and kicking his legs in the air and just enjoying his freedom. But from Mrs. Fabbro’s rapid Italian, the older woman didn’t seem pleased to find her charge on the floor. She walked across the room and scooped him up from his blanket, crooning to him in Italian as if they were long-lost friends.
For a long moment Michael stared at Mrs. Fabbro, not sure whether she was friend or foe, but then his eyes crinkled and he grinned and put a wet fist on her chin.
“Bello raggazo,” she said approvingly.
Michael chortled, and Mrs. Fabbro put him on her hip for the tour of the rooms. “His bed is in here,” Rachel said, walking into the adjoining room that had obviously been a sitting room before someone added the crib.
“His bottle is here,” she added, pointing to the sideboard, where she’d laid out his bottles and formula. “One bottle before bed, and then I burp him and put him down. He sleeps on his back, no covers, or toys with him.”
She’d already made a bottle so it would be ready, but she made a second one up, just so the woman could see how they were made. “Do you have any questions?” Rachel asked.
Mrs. Fabbro shook her head and took Michael’s hand and helped him wave bye-bye before taking him on a walk around his room.
Rachel was now free to finish preparing for dinner but she stood a moment in the doorway watching the older woman talk to Michael and point things out, giving him his first lessons in Italian.
Rachel’s eyes stung, and she blinked back the prickle of tears. She wasn’t sure why she suddenly felt so emotional. She ought to be happy that Mrs. Fabbro was efficient and quick to take charge of Michael, but Michael had been her responsibility long enough that without him, she felt painfully empty.
Things had been chaotic and stressful for months, and it was only recently that she’d begun to feel more settled and comfortable as Michael’s mom. They’d begun to find a rhythm, and they’d created a schedule that helped them both, and she understood that it was her and Michael together now. She understood that it would probably always be just the two of them, at least in terms of them as a nuclear family.
If only she could take Michael with her to drinks and dinner. She’d feel better. Safer. Michael was a good distraction. Whenever she’d felt too much earlier, she’d patted Michael’s back and kissed his sweet soft cheek, and he’d helped calm her. But tonight she wouldn’t have Michael as a buffer. It would just be Giovanni and her. Alone.
Rachel returned to the tall painted wardrobe where she’d hung up the two dresses she’d brought. The rest were trousers and sweaters and coats, winter wear appropriate for Venice’s chilly wet weather. The dresses were ones she might have worn to a business dinner, a long-sleeved black velvet sheath dress with a V-neckline, or a chocolate-colored lace dress with cap sleeves and a tiered skirt that went from high to low, with the shortest ruffle at her knees and then the longest touching the ground.
She’d brought the dresses thinking that maybe there would be a dinner with Giovanni Marcello, imagining he might invite her and Michael to his home one evening, or maybe to meet at a local restaurant, but being here was nothing like she’d imagined. She felt so unsettled, so nervous.
Aware that she’d soon be late, she quickly slipped into her black velvet dress and pulled her hair back into a loose chignon before slipping into heels and reaching for a dark gray velvet wrap with a pretty black and silver beaded fringe. It had been her great-grandmother’s, and even though it was a vintage nineteen-twenties shawl, it still looked exquisite and just a little bit well-loved, but perfect for a night like tonight when Rachel needed confidence.
The elderly butler from the morning was waiting on the third landing for Rachel and he walked her slowly down the hall. The butler gravely opened the door and stepped back, and Rachel entered the Marcello library, a windowless room where the walls were covered in antique ruby brocade paper and narrow gilded bookshelves rivaled massive oil paintings. The center of the room was filled with oversize crimson sofas and thickly padded upholstered armchairs, pieces promising comfort and not just style.
Rachel spotted Gio across the room, dressed in a dark suit and white dress shirt. He looked immaculate and handsome—far, far too handsome—and it suddenly struck her as odd that he hadn’t ever married. He was a man who had everything. Why was he still a bachelor in his late thirties?
* * *
Giovanni turned at the sound of the door quietly closing. He’d been pouring a drink and he straightened when he spotted Rachel hesitating on the threshold. She looked different this evening. Younger, softer, a little less sure of herself.
Earlier today she’d reminded him of Adelisa, but tonight she was just Rachel, and he didn’t know if it was due to the simplicity of her black velvet dress, or perhaps the way she’d styled her hair, the long thick strands twisted and pinned at the back of her neck in a style that struck him as Edwardian. Even her dress and shawl had a hint of old-world elegance. Maybe that was the difference. She looked pretty and fresh without being overdone.
“I’m sorry for being late,” she said a little breathlessly.
He shook his head. “Not late.”
“I think I am, by about ten minutes.”
“It’s just an aperitivo, a predinner drink. Our schedule is not set in stone.” He nodded at the tray with the crystal decanters and glasses. “What can I pour for you?”
“Do you have any wine, or is that not a suitable aperitivo?”
He smiled faintly. “Sparkling wine is definitely suitable. Would you prefer Prosecco, Fragolino, or perhaps Brachetto?”
She moved slowly toward him, expression shy. “Are they all wine? Will you think me terribly gauche when I say I don’t know the difference?”
“They’re all wine with bubbles. And does my opinion matter? Earlier today you said you didn’t care what I thought of you.”
Her shoulders twisted. “I was feeling defensive earlier.”
“And you aren’t now?”
“I’ve had a chance to nap and relax, and gain a little more perspective.”
“And what is that?”
“If we’re to be allies, not adversaries, we need to get along, right?”
For a long moment he just looked at her. “We shall see what you have to say after I show you the papers.”
“What’s in the papers?”
“Let’s have that drink first.” He saw her quick glance, and the worry in her brown eyes. She wouldn’t like what she saw. He wasn’t surprised at the newspapers. It’s what he’d intended, but it changed everything. For him. For her. For all of them.
“It sounds as if a quick lesson is in order,” he said casually. “Prosecco is Italian, it’s a sparkling wine made here in Veneto from Glera grapes. Fragolino is a sparkling red wine, also made in the Veneto, from the Isabella grape, while Brachetto, also a sparkling red, comes from the Piedmont region.” He looked at her. “What sounds good?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Too many choices.”
“Let us simplify. Red or white?”
“White, please.”
“Prosecco it is.” He opened a bottle and filled a flute for her. “I think you made a good choice. This comes from the Marcello vineyard.”
“You have a winery?”
“It’s a small one, but I’m proud of it. The wines are beginning to win awards and receive international recognition.”
“Are you very involved?”
“I bought the ailing vineyard six years ago. We’re just starting to turn a profit. Winemaking is a labor of love. You don’t do it to get rich.”
“Is the Marcello vineyard your labor of love?”
“More than I expected.”
“Now I’m even more embarrassed that I knew nothing about Italian wine.”
“I don’t pretend to be a vintner. I’m an engineer. I build things.”
She took the flute from him, and then looked up into his eyes. “I’d like to see the papers. You have me worried now.”
He walked her to the long table behind the couch. He’d cleared the table of everything but the newspapers and pages he’d printed from various digital media sites.
Every story ran with one or more photos, and every story had a shot of Rachel with Michael, but there were far more photographs of Rachel in Giovanni’s arms than of Michael himself. The baby was a secondary story to Giovanni Marcello passionately kissing the mother of his child.
He watched Rachel lean over the table to get a better look at the different pages, her lashes lowering as she scanned the headlines, and then glanced over the photos. As she studied the papers, color suffused her cheeks, turning her pale ivory skin to a hot pink.
“I can’t read the headlines since they seem to be in every language but English,” she said quietly. “Can you please translate for me?”
“‘Marcello’s Love-Child! Gio Marcello’s Secret Affair! Mystery Mistress and Mother to His Child! Is This the Marcello Heir?’”
As he read the translated headlines to her, the pink color receded, leaving her face pale. “Is there no mention of Antonio? Do they all think that the baby is yours?”
“They all seem to think that Michael is ours.”
“But I told them the baby was the Marcello heir—” She broke off, lips tightening. She gave her dark head a shake, the coiled knot at her nape glossy in the soft lighting. “The kiss. That changed everything, didn’t it?” She looked up at him, frustration etched on her face. “You said it would, and you were right.”
“I had to control the story.”
“But we’re not a couple, and he’s not our child, which makes every bit of this a lie!”
“The tabloids don’t care. They just want to sell copies and increase their advertising.”
She began to quickly stack the pages. “Thankfully these are not stories on the front page of the papers,” she said, irritably. “And these are not serious newspapers—”
“Well, two of the papers are national newspapers. The story and photos are not on the front page, but placed inside the lifestyle and society pages.”
Papers stacked, she folded them in half, and then folded them again, hiding all the headlines and incriminating photos. Once she’d finished hiding the headlines, she reached for her flute and gulped the fizzy white wine as if she, too, could disappear into the crisp bubbles. “No one will take me seriously at work if this story gets traction.” She shot him a desperate look. “You must smash this story, before I no longer have a job.”
“You were the one that contacted the media. You started this.”
“I didn’t start this, I shared the truth. Facts—”
“Facts that could wreck the Marcello name and reputation. I couldn’t have that.”
“But my name and reputation doesn’t matter?”
“One’s reputation always matters, but you’ve far less invested in your name and brand than I do.”
“No, I’m not a billionaire. No, I don’t head up a huge corporation. But my name is also very important. Maybe not to you, but it is to me.” She exhaled hard. “I’m going to correct them.”
“We’re not going to correct them. This is what I wanted.”
“Even though the stories are false?”
“We know that, but the public doesn’t, and in this instance, fiction is preferable, because these are headlines we can shape and control.”