Justina pursed her lips together, afraid that she was going to do something stupid—like bursting into noisy tears of frustration. He still thought he could march right in and take over her life. Even worse, he didn’t just think it—he was actually going ahead and doing it, in that powerful and pig-headed way of his. He had her backed into a corner and she knew it—just as she knew that his forceful words were underpinned with truth. It was better for the baby, and this was no longer just about her.

And if she was being brutally honest hadn’t his words produced a flicker of comfort somewhere deep inside her? A feeling which was distracting, because comfort had been absent from her life for so long. For months now she’d carried on travelling and working as she’d done all her life while her belly had got bigger and bigger. She’d tried to convince herself that she was a perfect example of an independent woman who could do this on her own. But lately it had felt lonely, and sometimes in the middle of the night it had even felt scary.

At this precise moment she felt tired—and Dante was standing in front of her like a symbol of everything which was strong and vital. But it was dangerous to buy into that. Everything that he did came with some sort of clause. He never offered something without demanding a whole lot back in return. She should remember that.

‘It seems that you’ve got your own way as usual,’ she said.

Dante gave a bitter laugh as she spoke the sulky little phrase without any apparent sense of irony. Didn’t she realise that she was the one person who had stopped him getting his own way and thus had marred his personal track record of success? That she was the one and only person who had ever defied him?

‘Maybe you should hold on to that thought, Justina,’ he said. ‘It might save you from useless rebellion in the future.’

CHAPTER SIX

‘THIS IS WHERE you live?’

Justina fought against an inescapable feeling of weariness as Dante stood like a dark avenger in the centre of her apartment and bit out his critical question. Despite the undeniable luxury of his private jet she was exhausted after the long flight, and the traffic from the airport to her East London home had been horrendous. And now she was being forced to stomach the sight of Dante dominating her private space, which was making her feel edgier still. She wished he would just go away and leave her alone—and yet she knew him well enough to realise that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Because nothing between them had been settled.

No decisions had been made about the baby during that flight from Singapore. He had settled down to tackle a huge pile of work and largely ignored her. At the time she had been grateful for the respite—relieved not to have to tackle a difficult subject beneath the eyes of the gorgeous stewardesses who worked on his plane. She’d even pulled her notebook from her bag in a retaliatory gesture, but she’d been far too het-up to be able to concentrate on her latest song.

She had tried to buffer herself against the curious volatility of her emotions during that long journey, and yet it had proved almost impossible to remain calm and immune to him. She despaired of the ever-present desire she experienced whenever he was near—as if her body had been hard-wired to make her want him even when she was this pregnant. She didn’t know how to make it go away. And now she was beginning to realise that they couldn’t keep putting off the inevitable talk about the future.

‘Yes, it’s where I live,’ she said, putting a pile of unopened mail down on the table. ‘What’s the matter with it?’

Dante glanced around, not bothering to hide his disapproval. It was a vast open-plan apartment which was perfect for a career woman, but not for a baby. There were too many sharp corners, too many glass surfaces—and the furniture was coloured an impractical shade of oatmeal. He’d been to many sophisticated apartments like this but they always left him cold. In Tuscany he had a palazzo which was centuries old, and in New York his home was a faded brownstone filled with antiques. He didn’t do modern—and wasn’t that yet another great difference between him and this woman? She had no great love for the past. She’d once told him that was because her own history was so full of gaps—and yet his history was what defined him.

Walking over to the window, he stared out at the stately dome of St Paul’s Cathedral and the glittering skyscrapers beyond, before turning round to face her.

‘This is no place for a baby,’ he said.

There had been several times recently when Justina might have been inclined to agree with him, but hearing Dante say it was different from thinking it herself. ‘Don’t tell me—a baby can’t be happy unless it’s living in some cute little house with roses growing around the door?’ she said sarcastically. ‘Or, as in your case, some whacking great palazzo nestling in the Tuscan hills?’

‘Don’t be naïve, Justina. How many other women in this block have babies?’

She frowned. ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘So already we’re talking social isolation.’

‘For a newborn?’

‘For you, too!’ he snapped. ‘New mothers need people around them for all kinds of reasons. And what about that tiny elevator?’

‘What about it?’

‘How the hell are you planning to get a buggy in there?’ He looked around again, only this time he appeared to be seeking out something in particular. His dark gaze finally settled on her. ‘Where is the buggy?’

‘Buggy?’

His voice was dangerously quiet, and he appeared to be choosing his words with care. ‘Please tell me you’ve bought our child something in which to transport it. Just like you’ve bought a cot and clothes and all the other things he or she will require. Do you have all those very necessary things, Justina—and, if so, would you mind telling me where they are?’

Still reeling from that wholly possessive ‘our child’, which had flowed so fluidly from his lips, she met his eyes, unprepared for the wave of guilt which washed over her. ‘No,’ she said, and her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘I haven’t bought a thing. Not yet.’

For a long moment there was silence, before Dante slowly took in her words. ‘Not yet’ she had said, while looking so ripe with child that he wouldn’t have been shocked if she’d suddenly gone into labour right there on the oatmeal sofa. No, that wasn’t quite true—he would be pretty shocked if that happened.

‘Why not?’ he demanded. ‘What are you waiting for?’

His words were like bullets, and Justina felt as if she’d just removed the vest which might have bounced them back at him. All the fight went out of her—because how could she possibly explain that her life had been non-stop activity for the past thirty-five weeks? That she’d been afraid to turn down any work since she’d first stared aghast at the telltale blue line which had confirmed her pregnancy? That she hadn’t wanted people to think she was going to retire or start taking things easy because she still needed to work—baby or no baby? She was going to have to work for all kinds of reasons—the main one being her own sense of crippling insecurity, which always lurked just below the surface of her life.

Hadn’t it been easier to cram her life full of jobs? Much easier to have things which kept her busy rather than to have to think about a future she’d never envisaged and which she still couldn’t quite imagine. But as she met Dante’s gaze she could see that her actions might easily be interpreted as selfishness. And hadn’t that always been one of his number one accusations against her? That she was one of a terrible breed of women who refused to put other people first—or rather put their man first?