One-Click Buy: November Harlequin Presents (96 page)

‘The real me being someone who grew up on one of the roughest council estates in Birmingham, ran with all the wrong people. My mother died from a drugs overdose when I was eight and at sixteen I left school altogether to take care of my father. He was an alcoholic, you see, and—well, somebody had to take care of him so that's what I did. I didn't mind. I was fed up at school anyway. They tried to get me back but I wasn't having any of it. Dad was on benefits and we had enough to just about struggle through.'

Angelo, sitting in complete silence, was trying hard to equate the glamorous model he had met, dated and loved with the person she was now describing. She had always avoided questions about her past but the impression she had left him with was of someone who had lived a fairly ordinary middle-class life. Her revelations now were peeling off the layers of what he thought he knew and exposing the face of someone who was a complete stranger to him and always had been. It left a harshly sour taste in his throat, the sour taste of deception.

‘Then Dad died, quite suddenly, and I was left with nothing. I had no education to speak of and, anyway, it was too late for me to think of going back to school. Where I grew up, people didn't think about
going to school
, they thought of ways to get out of it. Even if I had wanted to, I would never have been able to, the peer pressure would have been too much.' Francesca watched Angelo's expressionless face with a sinking heart. Maybe if she had given him some indication in the past that her life had been troubled, then he wouldn't now be sitting there, looking at her as though he was seeing her for the first time.

She took a deep breath and ploughed on. ‘Jack was one of the lads in our group and my best friend. I didn't have many girlfriends. They didn't like the way I looked, but Jack and I were mates. It was his suggestion that we just clear off, head for London. It seemed a good idea at the time. I was seventeen by then but I knew that with Dad no longer around, the Social Services might be inclined to get involved and I didn't want to go down that road. The minute Social Services get involved there's a good chance that you'll end up worse off than you were to start with.'

‘So you just…took off…'

‘We stole a car, something else that seemed a good idea at the time. I didn't think about whether it was right or wrong, it was all just a means to an end. Jack drove.' In retrospect, she could see the craziness of it all but she could remember how she had felt at the time. An orphan, missing her drunken but humorous father, just trying to escape the trap she had seen other girls fall into. The baby at seventeen, then another two years later, the pathetic desperation of endless relationships with abusive boyfriends who disappeared after a few months or a few weeks. The hopelessness.

She just wished that he would say something, even if it was to condemn her, but his silence was complete and, really, wasn't his complete silence damning in itself?

‘Of course, we were caught. We hadn't even made it halfway down to London when Jack was picked up for speeding. It didn't take long before we were hauled into a police station and, because there had been a lot in the press about joyriders, we were dealt with pretty harshly. Fingerprints, the lot. I got off because I was just a passenger, but Jack went to prison for six months.'

‘And where were you at the time?'

‘Back in Birmingham, sleeping rough. I managed to get some casual work at one of the department stores, which was good. When Jack got out, he had changed. He was into drugs.'

Looks or no looks, if Angelo Falcone had met her then, he would have crossed to the other side of the road to avoid her.

‘He bummed around for a few months, getting worse and worse…'

‘And yet you stuck by him.'

‘Because that's what friendship is all about. It was while I was working in that store that I was spotted. It was all a matter of chance. The
Clothes Show
was on and there must have been scouts around. A month later and chances are that I would have ended up in the same place as lots of other girls I knew, pushing a pram at eighteen and dreaming of better things.'

‘But you ended up on the other side of the Atlantic, wearing designer clothes…'

And meeting you.
‘As soon as I had accumulated some money, I arranged for Jack to be privately treated at a rehab centre. The top one in the country. It's where a lot of my money went.'

Secrecy and lies, Angelo thought.

‘He was there for quite a while…and then the balance is, well…'

‘History? You paid for him to go on a caterer's course and it turned out to be your refuge as well when you returned to England.'

Francesca nodded and stood up. ‘I have a murky past, Angelo, and that might not matter to a lot of people but it would matter to you. The paparazzi would have a field day if they ever found out. Georgina obviously has, but I don't suppose she'll say anything, not after you've issued your warnings…' She couldn't meet his eyes. It was one thing to know the scales had dropped but another thing to actually see it for herself. ‘I couldn't get involved with you then and I can't get involved with you now. I certainly can't marry you. I won't be responsible for ruining your reputation.' And his reputation would be ruined. It was all true what he had said about the small but powerful circle of movers and shakers in London. Gossip could spread like wildfire and not only would he personally be tarnished by his contact with her, but he might very well be professionally tarnished as well.

‘So all we have to decide is how we deal with this…situation…' No longer travelling down memory lane. She was crisp and businesslike now, not giving him any opportunity for those eyes to express what he thought of her. ‘I intend to move away from London, but not too far, perhaps towards Warwick. I know that part of the world and it's a good place to raise a child.' For the first time she looked at him. ‘Nothing you can say or do will stop me.'

F
OR
the past week Francesca had been on bedrest. She had been feeling sick and light-headed. She couldn't eat. The sight of food, any food, just made her feel sicker. The doctor who had initially warned her that she needed to get her energy levels up had given her a stern warning about the effects of stress on her unborn baby and added some extra spice to his lecture by referring to the vulnerability of women during the first three months of their pregnancy. He had thrown her some scary statistics but by that point Francesca had been too busy thinking about the possibility of losing her baby to pay him much attention.

Bedrest. Dr White had been kind but firm, cutting through her protests about having to work with one raised hand that had stopped her in mid-flow. Bedrest or risk losing the baby—it was as simple as that. And she needed to start eating properly, not just a handful of crackers on the go to stave off nausea.

He had tried to encourage her into chatting about whatever was on her mind but Francesca had just smiled politely at his kindly, encouraging face and assured him that she would take his advice, put her feet up and do something about regulating her diet.

Dr White presented a very sympathetic father figure but Francesca had no desire to spill her feelings out to him or to anyone else. Angelo had walked out of her house, apparently taking her at her word, which was good, and she had not heard a word from him since. Maybe he had gone away, had thought about the ramifications of what she had told him and decided to take the most logical path to dealing with the situation. He was, after all, a highly logical man. He would be in touch, she assumed, in due course, when the need to discuss financial arrangements for the baby became necessary. That wouldn't be for months yet, by which time she intended to be out of London for good, which would be all to his advantage. A child living an hour and a half out of the city was a child he could visit maybe once or twice a month, just enough to salve his conscience and certainly not enough to arouse any suspicions amongst his friends and colleagues. So much for all that talk about wanting to be involved in every aspect of his baby's life. So much for marriage.

Well, could she blame him? He had reacted exactly as she had predicted. Her past had brought the shutters crashing down because, at the end of the day, he just couldn't afford to go out with someone whose credentials were not just average but downright insalubrious.

Francesca, lying flat on her bed, stared up at the ceiling. Next to her was a tray with the remnants of breakfast, brought in by Jack, who had taken to checking up on her three or four times a day and insisting that she eat, like a tyrannical mother hen chivvying a poorly chick into obedience. She half expected that guilt had something to do with that. She hadn't delved into the details of Angelo's reaction to what she had told him, but she had disclosed enough for Jack to realise that there had been no cheerful brushing aside of the past. So now he had taken to fussing around her, even though, with her out of action, he was handling the catering business pretty much on his own, only allowing her to do the books and whatever else she could accomplish from the end of a telephone.

In a couple of hours' time the breakfast tray would be replaced by a lunch tray, complete with a flower in a vase, and some bracing chat about lots of positive things that she should be looking forward to.

Francesca was learning fast how to avoid the concern in his eyes by a barrage of light-hearted patter, just the sort to put his mind at rest, while her own mind relentlessly continued to gnaw over her memories of Angelo. Several times she found herself poised to dial his number. She could always use the excuse of needing to sort things out, but the thought of hearing from his own lips that he wanted nothing further to do with her, that she should cease calling him, that he would do what was necessary but no more, terrified her. In his eyes, she would have been tarnished by her past and she knew that he would not want her to infect his own golden future.

She could feel herself being sucked down the familiar grim path when she became aware of the door downstairs being unlocked and Jack's footsteps coming up the stairs. Earlier than usual.

Francesca wearily plastered a welcoming smile on her face. She made herself go to the chair by her window, which she knew would make him happy because it would show that she was doing a little bit more than just lying down in bed in a maudlin, defeated manner, and was smiling when he strode into the bedroom.

‘You're a bit early for lunch, Jack,' she greeted him cheerfully. ‘I know you want to feed me up, but a hot meal at ten forty-five in the morning is a bit much!' The smile made her jaws ache. ‘Tell me how that job went last night. Did you have to provide waiter service in the end? I've called up the Hamiltons and confirmed that we'll cater for them on the twenty-third and they're going to let us do our own thing with the food, thank Heavens.'

Jack tossed a newspaper on her lap and then stood back with his arms folded. ‘Something in there you need to read.'

Glancing at the headlines, Francesca wondered what the urgency was to read a report on pre-election opinion polls.

‘Centre spread,' Jack elaborated. ‘And, while you're reading that, there's someone downstairs who wants to see you.'

‘Who?' Francesca asked suspiciously.

‘The same person who brought me the newspaper. I think your ex might have guessed that in the normal run of things I wouldn't go near a broadsheet. You know I always try to steer clear of any newspaper that has enough pages to wallpaper my lounge.'

‘You mean Angelo, don't you?' she asked in rising panic but Jack was already backing out of the door, leaving her at the mercy of a visitor she didn't want to see. Not now. Not yet. Not when she felt sure she was finally getting to grips with everything. Hadn't she made an effort with some make up just this morning? Wasn't that a clear sign that she was turning a corner?

She waited with pounding heart and when Angelo was finally standing in the doorway she found that her voice had seized up. He looked haggard. The smart suit which he should have been wearing mid-morning on a weekday was noticeably absent. In its place was a pair of cords and a faded rugby sweater.

He ran his fingers through his hair and entered the room tentatively.

‘How are you?'

‘Fine.' Francesca smiled brightly, one of those high wattage smiles she had mastered to put Jack at ease.

‘Jack told me that you've been confined to bedrest by the doctor.'

‘It's nothing. Just a bit of raised blood pressure. What are you doing here?'

‘We have to talk. Have you read the article?'

‘No. What's it about?' Her mind was slowly cranking into gear. A centre spread in a serious newspaper pointed to a declaration of some sort. It wouldn't be simply some business coverage. He wouldn't be looking at her like that, his eyes burning into her, if he wanted her to read something about the latest deal he had done. Her hands were trembling as she turned the pages, finally finding the middle of the newspaper.

Her eyes skimmed over the words on the page, the glaringly big caption at the top, the picture of Angelo taken at some important function and reproduced to show the man in all his eligibility. She felt bright patches of colour flood into her face and, when she finally raised her eyes to meet his, she barely knew what to think. The article was all about her, the significant woman in his life, and nothing had been spared. From the miserable circumstances of her childhood to her rise as a model, it was charted with scrupulous honesty to detail. His intentions were entirely honourable, the spread ran; the man presumed to be one of the country's most eligible bachelors was going to hitch his wagon to a woman who came from the wrong side of the tracks.

‘I don't understand…'

‘What's there not to understand?' Angelo said thickly. ‘You look thin. Is that normal? Shouldn't pregnant ladies be fat? And glowing? Is that why the doctor told you to take it easy?'

‘Why would you do this? Ruin your career?' She hadn't read it all but she had read enough.

‘I'm not ruining my career. I'm proposing to you.' He dragged the chair by the dressing table over to the window so that he was sitting next to her.

‘Why did you let them print all that stuff?' Francesca whispered. ‘Now the whole world knows about…our involvement…and my background…' Her eyes flickered down, seeking out the details of her past once again and re-reading them. In stark black and white it sounded even grimmer because there was no attempt to portray extenuating circumstances.

‘It was the only way.' He shook his head and did something that was unbearably touching. He played nervously with her fingers. Francesca watched his down-bent head as the questions raced through her mind. In the most public way possible, Angelo Falcone had proposed to her, taking the bull by the horns and giving the media what they would eventually discover anyway, namely her past. But why? Did it mean that much to him that his baby was born with the Falcone name? Because there was no mention of love.

He raised his eyes to her. ‘When I left you a week ago, I didn't know what to think. Not only was there the fatherhood situation to deal with, but in the space of an hour you had managed to trample everything I thought I knew about you into the ground.' It was only when she had revealed everything to him that Angelo had realised, with a sickening sense of utter shock, exactly how much he had drifted into a comfort zone. Despite all his declarations of non-involvement, he had grown used to her. Like ivy curling around a column she had entwined herself around him and the pieces of her past, the past that made the present, dammit, had been like the bitter stab of treachery.

‘I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner, years before, but I knew that things would end the minute you found out about me. You're not an ordinary man, Angelo. If you were, it wouldn't have been so bad.' She risked stroking his hair and he pulled her hand to him and held it. ‘Ordinary men aren't in the public gaze. They can handle a woman with a dodgy background.'

‘I've been to hell and back this week, Francesca, but the one thing I know is that I want this baby of ours to have a family.'

‘And if I weren't pregnant, Angelo? Would you still have taken out an ad in the newspaper letting the world know that you wanted to marry me or would you have counted yourself lucky to have got away?'

‘If you read the article carefully, my darling, you would see that at no point did I mention the fact that you are pregnant. Everything else, yes, but that, no.'

So he hadn't mentioned anything about being in love with her, but nevertheless a little tendril of hope began to uncurl inside of her.

‘Because…?'

‘Because I want you for my wife, Francesca, whether you happen to be carrying my child or not.' He looked at her steadily, willing himself to say what he needed to say in a way that wouldn't frighten her off. ‘When we embarked on this crazy…affair, we both knew the rules. Sex without commitment. We would finish what had been started years ago and emotion wouldn't get in the way.'

Why was he reminding her of things she didn't want to remember? After he had called her
my darling
and looked at her with eyes that promised even if they hadn't delivered?

‘But emotion did get in the way, after all. At least, it got in my way.'

‘I beg your pardon?' She leaned towards him, straining to hear every single word he was saying.

‘I thought I was in control, but it turns out I wasn't.' He shot her a rueful smile. ‘And, before you say anything, just hear me out and then decide what you want to do. Whatever you want, Francesca, I'll fall in line with.' He breathed in deeply and expelled his breath in one long sigh. ‘I know you didn't choose to become pregnant. I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts and then so gutted by what you told me that it never even crossed my mind to ask how you felt about having a baby and for that I'm…I'm sorry. This…is difficult for me…'

He stood up and paced the room, his movements agitated. Francesca had never seen him like this before, and she reckoned she had probably seen him in all his moods. It was a revelation of vulnerability. Finally he returned to the chair and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘I've spent the week going over in my head everything that's happened between us. You made a big deal of letting me know that you were willing to let me walk away from you, or rather you walk away from me, because you didn't feel that your background would do me any favours. It occurred to me that maybe I had got it all wrong from the start. Maybe you just didn't want to be hooked up with me. Maybe behind the smokescreen was someone who just wasn't willing to spend her life with someone who had all the privileges of wealth. It struck me that you might be physically attracted to a man like me but emotionally attracted to a man like Jack when it came to a permanent relationship.' He took a deep breath and shook his head. Was he even making sense? He knew exactly what he wanted to say but he could feel that the words were not emerging from his mouth in quite the order he would have liked. For the first time, his formidable grasp of the English language had deserted him. ‘Women are attracted to me. They like the wealth, the power, the status.' He gave a dry laugh. ‘Georgina being a case in point. Fact is, though, you're not like other women and so all the usual yardsticks no longer apply. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?'