Dante Claiming His Secret Love-Child(20)

He moved the pitcher of water, the glass, the teapot, did a handful of absolutely unnecessary things and then he stepped back.                       
       
           



       

"Okay," he said brightly. "As I said, if you need anything … "

"Thank you."

"Do you feel better?"

"I'm fine."

The hell she was. Her face was almost the same shade of ivory as the  pillow. The baby, at least, looked okay. He was sleeping, lashes dusting  his cheeks, mouth pursed in a small bow.

Cute.

Dante frowned. Wrong. The baby didn't look cute as much as he looked,  well, like a miniature of a familiar face. A very familiar face …

He swallowed hard. Turned his gaze on Gabriella.

"Yeah. Well, we'll see what the doctor has to say."

"Dante. I don't need a-"

"Yes. You do."

"I don't. Honestly, Dante-"

"Honestly, Gabriella," he said, and then, because he damned well had to  do it, he bent and kissed her, very lightly, on the mouth. "Ring the  bell if you need me," he said, and then he was gone.

Gabriella glared at the closed door. Damn the man! Did he think he could  give her orders? Kiss her into obedience? He had not changed at all. He  still acted as if he owned the world.

She had hated that about him.

She had adored that about him.

Until he'd come into her life, she'd never known you could be furious at  a man and crazy about him at the same time, but how could anyone hold  Dante's macho arrogance against him? It was part of him and it was  incredibly sexy. He'd shown it the first time he phoned to ask her out,  except he hadn't "asked" her anything. He'd said hello, reminded her  they'd met at a party a few nights before, and then he'd told her he'd  be by at eight to take her to dinner.

"Did I miss something?" she'd said, even though she'd been hoping he would call. "I mean, exactly when did you ask me out?"

"Why should I ask you for something we both want?" he'd said in a low, husky voice.

Being sure of himself was part of who Dante Orsini was.

The trouble was, he was sure of her, too. Sure that she was mesmerized  by him. And she had been. For all her air of cool sophistication, she'd  been his from the start.

"I don't want you seeing anyone but me," he'd said, that very first  night. She'd been in his arms by then. In his bed. In this bed. And he'd  been deep, deep inside her. "You belong to me," he'd added, his voice  rough. "You're mine. Do you understand that?"

Yes, she'd said, yes, yes, yes.

Gabriella blinked back the sudden threat of tears. Ridiculous. It had  been fun. She had been faithful. So had Dante. He was, after all, a  moral man. It was just that his interest in a woman never lasted all  that long.

As for what seemed to be happening now … it meant nothing. He was a virile male in his prime.

And she-she was a woman who had not had sex in quite a while.

All right.

She had not had sex since the night before he'd gone away on business.

The baby gave a little cry in his sleep. Gabriella drew him closer. She  would get them out of here as fast as she could. A few phone calls would  start the process. Then she'd thank Dante for all his help and say  goodbye.

Another knock at the door.

Dante again. This time with a physician in tow. He introduced them, then  left the room. If the doctor was surprised at finding a woman and an  infant in Dante Orsini's bed, he gave no sign, simply examined her and  then Daniel, who reacted to the insult to his small person with  earsplitting wails of protest.

The doctor packed away his stethoscope.

"You have a virus."

"I could have told you that," Gabriella said grumpily.

"The baby's fine," he said, ignoring her bad manners. "Has he ever had formula?"

"Yes, but why? Will it be dangerous for me to nurse him while I'm sick?"

"Not dangerous. Tiring. You need to rest. And to drink plenty of fluids.  Let Mr. Orsini take care of things while you concentrate on getting  better."

The doctor left. Dante reappeared. The ease with which he had taken  over, making decisions for her, was, for some reason, infuriating. When  he held out his hand and showed her the two capsules in his palm, she  shook her head.

"No."

"No, what?"

"No, I'm not taking those things. Your doctor should know better than to prescribe antibiotics for a virus."

Dante rolled his eyes. "They're Tylenol."

Of course they were. And they'd help ease the ache in her bones, in her  head. Another decision she'd let Dante make … and what did it matter? It  was only temporary.

She took the capsules. Drank some water.                       
       
           



       

"More," Dante ordered.

She glowered at him but she finished what was in the glass.

"Thank you," Dante said, straight-faced. He took the glass, put it on  the night table. Then he scooped the baby from the improvised crib where  the doctor had put him.

"What are you doing?"

"Lie back. Close your eyes. Get some rest."

"Listen here, Dante, I am not yours to command. I am not a child-"

"Listen here, Gabriella," he said, spoiling it by flashing a grin that  made her want to grin in return. She didn't, of course, and he swooped  in to press a quick, soft kiss to her parted lips.

"You'll catch the flu," she said, because she had to say something or run the danger of kissing him back.

He touched the tip of his finger to her nose. "Time to take a nap."

"But Daniel … "

"Daniel and I will do just fine."

Hearing her son's name slip so softly and simply from Dante's lips did  something to her, something that left her knowing she dared not reply  for danger of doing something stupid … like weeping. Instead she watched  Dante stroll from the room, the baby pressed to his shoulder, her son's  pale eyes filled with curiosity.

All right. She'd lie here for a few minutes. Then she'd go rescue the baby from a man who knew nothing about babies.

She awoke and knew that hours must have gone by.

Experimentally she stretched her limbs. She hurt a little but nowhere near as much as before.

Cautiously she sat up. Got to her feet. Her legs felt a little like  undercooked pasta, but nothing major seemed wrong except that she needed  to pee, desperately, and there wasn't a way in the world she was going  to ring for Dante and ask him to help her with that.

She made it to the bathroom, sank down on the toilet, sighed with relief  as she emptied her bladder. She flushed, gave the huge walk-in shower a  longing glance but decided not to push her luck. Instead she washed her  hands and face, used Dante's brush on her hair, automatically opened  the drawer that had always held a couple of packaged toothbrushes, tried  not to think of how many women had opened this same drawer in the past  months, unwrapped a brush and cleaned her teeth.

She looked in the mirror.

Not great but it would have to do.

Dante's soft terry robe hung, as it always had, behind the door. She put  it on over the T-shirt, paused in the bedroom to get a pair of panties  and set out in search of her baby.

The enormous two-story penthouse was quiet. What time was it? It was light outside, but barely.

Was it night or was it day? Amazing, how she'd lost track of the hours.

She went down the wide, curved staircase, a cautious hand on the carved  banister. Her legs had gone from feeling like undercooked spaghetti to  spaghetti al dente. A good sign, surely …

Was that a sound? A voice? She paused at the foot of the stairs.

Yes. There was bright light at the end of the wide corridor she knew led  to Dante's big, if rarely used, showplace of a kitchen. Slowly she made  her way there, her bare feet soundless against the cool marble  floor-and stopped at the entrance, eyes widening.

The voice she'd heard was Dante's. Barefoot the same as she, wearing  jeans and a T-shirt that clung to his muscled torso, he sat in a  high-backed swivel stool at the granite counter, Daniel in the curve of  his arm.

The baby was staring up at him and sucking contentedly at a bottle of formula.

The two of them looked as if they'd been doing this kind of thing forever.

"Hey, buddy," Dante said, "you're doing a great job. That's the way.  Drink it all down. I know it isn't what you're used to but it's good for  you just the same. It'll put hair on your chest, you'll see."

Gabriella's eyes filled with tears. She leaned back against the wall,  determined not to let Dante see her until she got herself under control.  Seeing her lover-her once-upon-a-time lover-and her son like this was  almost more than she could bear.

And yet she knew better than to read anything into the scene.

Dante was an intelligent, capable man. Faced with a problem, he would  always attempt to solve it: she was sick; the baby needed to be cared  for; he'd taken charge. He was good at that. Still, it was hard to see  the two of them together without feeling almost indescribable joy.