The pencil lead snapped in Farrah’s hand as she sketched the urn of flowers on the round table in the middle of the lobby. Drawing wasn’t her favorite medium, but it was the most transportable. Usually, once she picked up a pencil, paintbrush, or lump of clay, she was transported to another world—one of peace and beauty.
She needed tranquility, some semblance of serenity before she saw Cristo again. Before the lust that swept through her at the mere sight of him overwhelmed her once more. She wanted him. The pleasure she’d found in his arms that one night still induced a warm glow and a toe curl when she thought of it.
And she thought of it.
A lot.
But worse than the attraction was the ache for him to smile at her, to react to her announcement with joy. To want to be with her. Hundreds of her tiny, girlhood dreams had shattered in the past months: fantasies of a loving, devoted, supportive husband who was as excited to become a parent as she was.
She searched in her pencil case for another yellow umber. Her fingers froze, and the hairs on her arm stood at attention. Cristo had arrived.
“That’s beautiful,” he said, gazing at her half-complete drawing. “You have an amazing talent. I hope our child inherits that from you.”
Her eyes met his, and for a moment neither moved nor said a word.
“I hope they have your eyes,” she said at last, breaking the spell he had cast over her.
A smile creased his face. “Now that we’ve got our child’s talents and looks settled, why don’t we discuss how we’re going to raise him?”
She frowned.
“Or her,” Cristo added quickly. “I will be happy with either a son or a daughter.”
“Really?” She quickly shoved her sketchbook and pencil case in her large bag so she could stand. His looming over her put her at a disadvantage.
“I was … surprised. Now that I’ve had time to adjust to the idea—”
“You’re suddenly ecstatic?” She didn’t try to hide her cynicism. It had taken three pregnancy tests and a night of staring at her bedroom ceiling to reconcile reality with her plans for the future. If she couldn’t get Mario to sell his shares in Independent African Artisans, she was prepared to start a new company. Now she’d do it with a baby slung over her shoulder.
“Let’s just say I’m a man who plays the cards handed to him. We’ll make this work, Farrah. But first, let’s find somewhere more private to talk.”
She nodded; her throat was too full of emotion to speak. But as he’d said, they needed to face the situation and find a way forward. She should be glad he was being practical about this. Romance was for people who still had their options open.
His hand rested briefly at her back as he led her out onto the sidewalk, and she longed to turn and be sheltered in his embrace, just for a moment. To hear him whisper, “It will all be okay.” But that wasn’t the relationship they had, or possibly ever would.
She was prepared to raise and love this baby on her own. Her child’s happiness was what she had to concentrate on now, not her own dreams and desires for a loving partnership.
A black London taxi waited outside the hotel, and Cristo opened the rear door for her.
“Where are we going?” she asked as the cab pulled away from the curb.
“A colleague has loaned his flat to me for the night while he’s out of town.”
Was Cristo expecting a repeat of their night together? She slid a glance his way but couldn’t tell from his expression. He might play the cards handed him, but he did it with a poker face.
Evidently, she didn’t.
“We’re just going to talk, Farrah. I want us to be honest with each other. A private setting will ensure that. And if you feel the need to throw something at my head, well, at least we won’t put anyone else in danger.” He smiled, so she wasn’t sure if he was serious or not.
“I will do my best not to attack you.”
“Excellent. See, we’re getting things resolved already.”
The taxi deposited them in front of a townhouse with a white-pillared portico. A dark-haired man with two large cooler bags waited out front. After paying the fare, Cristo turned to the delivery person.
“Ciao, Nico. Come stai?”
“Bene. Uncle Tito says hi.” The young man put the bags on the ground as he and Cristo hugged.
“Farrah, this is Nico and vice versa.” Nico looked like he was about to hug her as well, so she stuck her hand out. While the handshake was cool, the look in Nico’s eyes wasn’t. Cristo put his arm around her waist. “Thanks for the delivery,” Cristo continued. “I’ll get the bags back to the restaurant tomorrow.”
Nico shrugged, his eyes making a sweep of Farrah. “No worries, we have plenty. We mostly use delivery companies for our takeaway orders now.”
Cristo handed a banknote to Nico, forcing his gaze from her. “I appreciate the personal service. Give my love to your mother and sisters.”
“I will. Ciao.” Nico pocketed the money and strode toward a small moped parked incongruously on the pavement.
“You can take a boy out of Italy, but you’ll never separate him from his scooter—or, it appears, his appreciation for a beautiful woman.”
She ignored the last bit. “Is he a relative?” she asked as Cristo unlocked the black, eight-foot door. If they were having this discussion in her tiny Tunis apartment, he’d have to duck to get through the entryway.
“Yes. I have a very large extended family. Some have managed to escape the shadow of Mount Etna. My cousin Tito owns one of the best Italian restaurants in London. Nico is another cousin of some sort.”
At least her baby would have relatives on the father’s side.
How often had she toyed with the idea of returning to her birth village with enough money to raise her family from poverty? Having fled an arranged marriage to one of her father’s friends, she’d been too afraid to return without the protection of a husband at her side. Now, with an illegitimate baby in her belly, her ultra-traditional father would be horrified. And her sisters would be tainted by association. No, her family was truly lost to her now.
“Looks like they’ve brought us their entire menu,” she said as he hefted the two large bags, nodding for her to precede him through the door.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked or could eat. So there’s a selection.”
He indicated the way to the back of the house. The all-white kitchen was immaculate, and she ran her fingers over the marble countertop. This was luxury and style. French doors led to a patio and a backyard delicately illuminated with tiny, twinkling lights.
“Do you have a place like this in Italy?” She knew so little about him.
“No. When in Sicily, I stay with my parents. Their home is … cluttered with a lifetime of shared memories.” He said it with a slight grimace on his face but love evident in his tone. “I have an apartment in Rome and another in Hong Kong, although that one is for investment purposes and it’s currently leased by a colleague. I have a couple other places, all currently rented out, but none I’m especially attached to.”
Did he not want her to know the extent of his wealth, or was he just not into bragging about it?
He began unpacking the food, and a whiff of garlic made her nose twitch. For the first time since the positive pregnancy test, her stomach growled with hunger.
“That’s a good sign,” he said.
“It seems baby likes Italian food.”
He grinned. “What about you?”
“I love it.”
“Another thing we share.” He opened a few cupboards and drawers until he found the plates and cutlery. “What do you fancy?”
You. “I’ll have a little of the cannelloni and some salad.”
He portioned out a bit but hesitated before handing her the plate. “That’s it?”
“I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to keep down, and I’d hate to waste this gorgeous food.”
He added a slice of cheesy garlic bread to her plate before placing it on the kitchen table with a view of the backyard. “I’ll get you a drink. Sparkling or still water okay? Or would you like a ginger ale or other soda?”
“You don’t have to wait on me,” she replied. He just raised an eyebrow and waited for her answer. “Sparkling water would be lovely.”
He pulled a chilled bottle from the other bag and poured her a glass. After piling a plate high for himself, he joined her at the table, sitting next to her at the end rather than across as she’d expected.
“This is very good. Thank you,” she said as the silence lengthened.
“It’s the least I can do for the mother of my child.”
She swallowed. Is that all I’ll ever be to him?
Do I want more?
***
During the one or two occasions when Cristo had pictured himself proposing to a woman—usually after he’d been desperate enough to watch a romantic movie on an endless flight—he’d never once envisaged the scene unfolding over a half-eaten piece of lasagna.
But one broken condom and here they were.
“We’re doing this slightly backward,” he began, “but I guess the first step is getting to know each other. We can pretend we’re on a first date.”
Farrah pushed her plate away. At least she’d managed to eat most of it. And he didn’t see the green look she’d had earlier in the café that had heralded a trip to the washroom.
“Okay,” she replied, rather warily. “You already know my name, what I do for work, and where I live. As for hobbies … working with clay is my joy. I love taking a lump of something ugly and turning it into a beautiful work of art.”
Her favorite pastime was not what he wanted to know, but they had to start somewhere. “And your family?”
A flash of apprehension crossed her features, and he instinctively reached out to put a hand over hers. Jesus—not the expected reaction.
“I take it they won’t be overjoyed to hear you’re expecting?”
“No, they wouldn’t be. My father is very conservative. But I have no intention of telling them. I ran away from home at seventeen and haven’t spoken to anyone in my home village since.” She set her lips firmly—there would be no further disclosures about her family or why she’d left. At least not yet. There was a mystery there, and if she was to be his wife, he was determined to find out. Mario trusted her. For now, he’d have to be content with that endorsement of her character.
With a defensive set to her shoulders, she asked, “What about you? I met some of your relatives at the wedding. They seemed very nice.”
“I’m an only child. My mother was nearly fifty when I was born and my father fifty-five, so they are elderly now. But they are both from very large families. I have hundreds of cousins who have been equally fertile. My mother is the oldest child in her family and is considered the matriarch. She keeps me informed of everyone’s lives, whether I want to know or not.”
“And how will she react to hearing you’re going to be a father?”
He took a swallow of his water to give himself time to formulate a diplomatic answer. A discussion like this usually required copious amounts of wine, but he didn’t think it fair to indulge when Farrah couldn’t. The truth was, telling his extremely pious mother that he’d fathered a child outside of wedlock was not going to be fun. That he’d done so with a woman she’d never met and who was from a different culture would make it even harder.
“It will be a shock to them. But they’ll come around. My mother has been harassing me to get married for years now, so she’ll be happy about that at least.”
And if that wasn’t the worst proposal ever, he didn’t know what was. Farrah was too astute not to pick up on his gaffe. She moved her hand from under his and grabbed her water glass with a death grip.
“Who said anything about getting married?”
“Farrah, it’s the best solution for everyone.” And it was the only way forward he was able to accept. He couldn’t look himself in the mirror each day if he knew he wasn’t doing everything possible for his child’s welfare. And that meant being a hands-on father.
“I don’t need—”
“You do. Despite the great strides Tunisia has made acknowledging women’s rights, it’s still not socially acceptable for a woman to have a child outside of marriage. And while I agree that this sentiment needs to change, I can’t bear for my child to face the stigma of being fatherless while I have the means to prevent it.” This proposal was getting worse by the minute. He pushed his chair back, moved the table out of the way, and got down on one knee next to Farrah.
“I realize that I am asking a lot of you—not only to have my child but to marry me as well. But I promise that I’ll be a good husband, and you’ll never want for anything materially.” Perfetto. Now he’d made it sound like he was buying her.
“I … I need time to think. I never imagined you’d offer marriage. I figured you’d be willing to financially support us—not that I need money.” Her gaze switched to the garden through the glass doors. “It’s just that I’d always wanted to marry for love,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He’d imagined love would lead him to the altar as well. But, if nothing else, he was a pragmatist. “We like each other. And we’re compatible physically.” Her gaze bounced back to him as a soft blush crept into her cheeks. Yeah, compatible was a lame word for their explosive chemistry. At least he had that to look forward to in his marriage. His gaze snagged hers and wouldn’t let go. “Who’s to say what might come in the future? With a child to bond us together…”
“But what if you fall in love with someone else? I know you felt something for Bella. I saw it in your eyes at the wedding.”
No matter what had prompted the proposal, no woman would want to go into a marriage thinking her husband loved someone else. On that point at least, he could reassure her. “Bella made her choice. The right choice, I might add. I realized at the wedding that my feelings for her were based more on a longstanding friendship and the easiness of our relationship than a burning desire to be her mate for life. I’m happy for her and Mario. They belong together.”
Hold on. Could Farrah’s reluctance to wed him be based on her lingering feelings for his best friend?
He sat back on the chair. “Farrah, are you harboring hopes that Mario—?”
“Mario made his choice. I wasn’t it. Besides, now there’s this.” She gestured to her still-flat stomach.
“This is an awesome miracle. And the sooner we view it like that, the easier everything else will seem.” He was doing his damnedest.
“I’m trying. I’m excited to be a mother. I’m just not sure about being a wife.” She stared into his eyes for a long moment. “I bet you wish you’d never taken me to your room.”
“Regrets are a waste of time. And I don’t think I could ever lament that night with you. It was spectacular.”
Her blush deepened. “What about your job? Bella told me you have career ambitions. Will being connected to a woman”—she didn’t say wife; he still needed to do some convincing—“and child impact those?”
He pushed down the niggle of apprehension. Would this marriage derail his potential promotion? He’d deal with that tomorrow. Hopefully, he’d do a better job convincing the board that he could handle the new position than he was currently doing persuading Farrah that he’d make a decent husband. For the present objective, maybe he should take a hint from some of those movies he’d watched.
“Have you finished eating?”
“Yes.” She stood and picked up her plate and made to grab his.
“Leave them for now. Let’s enjoy the garden.”
He took her hand in his and led her out the doors to the backyard lit with moonlight and tiny bulbs strung in the trees. There was a bench with roses growing over an arch above. That would do. He headed there, and thankfully Farrah perched on the seat without him having to ask.
He sank to one knee in front of her. Merda, he’d forgotten to get a ring. They could probably pick one out together tomorrow. Dampness crept through his pant leg where he kneeled on a wet patch.
“Farrah Meddeb, will you marry me?” In the movies they added something like “and make me the happiest man alive,” but that seemed like overkill given their situation.
“Cristo, I’ll … think about it.”
And that was why he didn’t do romance.