‘You don’t have to.’

‘Oh, but I do. You may not need me, Justina—but my baby does.’ He pulled a business card from his wallet and put it down on the table next to her handbag. ‘You’ll find all my details there, including my private number.’

‘Gosh, I am privileged. Or maybe not. How many women are in possession of one of these, I wonder?’

‘You’ll also find the number of my assistant, who has been instructed to help you,’ he continued smoothly, as if her interruption had been nothing but a minor irritation. ‘Anything you want, you ring Tiffany—she’s very efficient. If you can’t face furnishing the nursery yourself—as seems to be the case—then she can do it all from New York.’

Justina’s post-orgasmic lethargy was replaced by a growing feeling of rage. Tiffany? Who the hell was Tiffany? He wanted his assistant to go out and buy stuff for her baby, did he? While managing to make her sound useless and helpless in the process?

With an effort she stopped slumping against the cushions and sat up to glare at him. ‘And what else does Tiffany do?’ she questioned. ‘Is it part of her job description to provide extras for the boss?’

‘I try never to mix business with pleasure,’ he answered coolly. ‘And you really shouldn’t be getting yourself worked up like that. You’ve already had enough excitement for one afternoon, so why don’t you go and get some rest?’

‘Oh, just go,’ she said, shutting her eyes to block out the sight of his undeniably gorgeous face. She kept them closed until she’d heard the front door click behind him, and when she opened them again he was gone.

She sighed. If only it was as easy to get rid of the memory of what she’d just let him do to her.

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘DANTE WANTS TO KNOW whether you’ve received the brochure, Miss Perry?’

Justina’s fingers tightened around the telephone receiver as she listened to the transatlantic accent of Tiffany Jones and wondered why the hell she hadn’t just let this call go through to her answering service. She was feeling lumpy and lethargic enough without having to endure yet another of these polite and all-too-frequent queries which had been coming from Dante’s personal assistant in his New York office.

But it would be demeaning to give in to what she really wanted to say, which was: Are you sleeping with the father of my baby? Surely a situation like this demanded that she act with an unflappability equal to that of the cool-sounding Tiffany.

‘Yes, thank you. I’ve received it,’ said Justina, recalling the ritzy attachment which had pinged through on to her computer last week, offering a cornucopia of luxurious items for the more privileged baby.

‘And did you like it?’ Tiffany’s voice was eager. ‘Would you like us to go ahead and order the crib for you—and the stroller?’

Us? Us? Justina’s hand wrapped itself around the receiver as if it was Dante’s neck she was squeezing. Resisting the urge to tell the woman that in England they were called a cot and a buggy, she walked into the smaller of her two bedrooms to see one of each standing there, all new and shiny-bright. The primrose-yellow walls of the nursery been adorned with a giant jungle scene, and a mobile of tigers and lions swirled down from the ceiling, adding to the storybook feel of the room. A smile of satisfaction curved her lips. From all the fuss that Tiffany had been making from New York you’d have thought that decorating and furnishing a nursery was right up there with brain surgery.

‘Can you please tell Dante that none of that will be necessary?’ she said crisply.

‘I can tell him,’ said Tiffany doubtfully. ‘But I think he’d prefer to speak to you himself, Miss Perry.’

Well, why didn’t he pick up the phone himself, instead of asking his wretched assistant to make the call? ‘I’m afraid that I don’t really have the time—’

‘Justina?’

Dante’s velvet-edged drawl came on to the line and Justina could have screamed. Why weren’t any of them listening to what she was saying?

‘What do you want?’ she questioned ungraciously.

‘I want to know how you’re feeling today.’

‘Honestly? I’m tired, and I’m feeling like a whale, and I’m fed up with these regular interrogations of yours—’

‘And have you given any more thought to my question?’ he interrupted smoothly.

‘I’ve given it a good deal of thought and my feelings haven’t changed.’ She sucked in a deep and determined breath. ‘I don’t want anyone there with me at the birth—especially you. It isn’t mandatory to have a birthing partner, you know.’

She could hear what sounded like Dante tapping his finger against the phone. ‘I know it isn’t mandatory,’ he said. ‘But it’s certainly preferable. You can’t do it all on your own, Justina.’

‘On the contrary, I can—and what’s more, I intend to.’ She paused for a moment as her abdomen tensed with a sharp and disturbing kind of twinge. ‘I don’t need anyone while I go through what is a perfectly natural procedure. And it isn’t as if we’re in some kind of relationship, is it?’ Her mind took her back to the last time she’d seen him, when a seemingly innocent massage of her shoulders had turned into a sensual act which still made her cheeks burn with embarrassment whenever she thought about it. No wonder he thought she was some kind of puppet when she’d behaved like that. So show him you’re not some kind of puppet. ‘I’m an independent woman, Dante. Just in case you’d forgotten.’

‘How could I possibly forget,’ he questioned acidly, ‘when you never fail to remind me?’

‘Then why don’t you try listening to me for a change instead of forcing your will on me? I could—’ But the rest of the sentence froze in her throat as an iron-hot band of pain clamped itself around her belly.

‘Justina? Are you still there?’

The intensity of the pain was so unexpected and so powerful that she clapped her hand over the phone so that he wouldn’t be able to hear her panting her way through it. It wasn’t until it had passed that she spoke again, in a voice which was unnaturally bright. ‘Sorry about that—I thought I heard someone at the door.’

She could hear the frown in his voice. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘When you did you last see the doctor?’

‘When I was supposed to see him—last week. I have all my appointments written down neatly in my diary and I have been following them to the letter. Now, will you stop fussing?’ she said. ‘I’m perfectly capable of having a baby without having you checking up on me every five minutes like some kind of demented midwife. And I really have to go—I’m in the middle of writing a song and I must get the words down before they go out of my head. Don’t worry, Dante. I’ll let you know the minute something happens.’

She cut him off without another word and walked over to the window, trying to shake off her strange feeling of restlessness and the power he always had to unsettle her. She didn’t need to feel any more unsettled than she currently did and it couldn’t be good for her or the baby. She felt as if the air was pressing down on her, and the rain which had been falling for seven days straight showed no sign of stopping. She’d been stuck inside all day, and yet the last thing she wanted was to go outside and brave the elements.

She should watch a film—or read that book she’d bought, which everyone was raving on about—the one whose hero seemed to have modelled himself on the Marquis de Sade. She knew that relaxation was vital during these late stages of her pregnancy, but her strong work ethic meant that she always felt guilty if she did nothing.

She flicked through the TV channels and found a woman yelling at a weaselly man who really needed to do something about his skin. The woman’s inarticulate insults were at first amusing—and then a touch disturbing. Because Justina realised that what motivated them was frustration that the man wouldn’t do what the woman wanted him to do—which was to love her.