Dante Claiming His Secret Love-Child(25)

"She has a niece, did you know that?"

"No. No, I didn't."

"Stacia. She is studying to be a teacher. She's been an au pair the last  few summers. Mrs. Janiseck says she's excellent with babies. She  suggested she could stay with Daniel-when I am out on interviews."

This entire conversation was starting to sail over his head.

"Interviews?"

"Yes. I telephoned my old agent and asked him to see if he can get me  some work. Why are you frowning? I need work, Dante. I have no money  and … and I already owe you a fortune."

He supposed she did need to work. Not to repay him for anything; he'd  never take a dime from her, but instinct told him not to tell her that  just now. But, yes, she needed to work for the same reason he did, for  the fulfilment of it-except, she could feel all that, the fulfilment of  just being with him. He was sure of it because it was how he felt, being  with her, and what in hell was he doing, heading for the office after  only a handful of days alone with his Gabriella?

"I have," he said, "a brilliant idea."

She gave a soft laugh. "Such modesty."

"We'll tell Mrs. Janiseck we'll hire Stacy-"

"Stacia."

"We'll ask Stacia if she'd like to be Daniel's nanny. I'm sure we can work out a schedule flexible enough to suit her."

"Yes, but-"

"But," he said solemnly, "you can't afford it."

She flushed. "No. I can't."

"Well, you won't have to. See, I'll employ her, not you."

"I cannot impose on you this way, Dante."

"I need the tax break," he said, lying with aplomb. Who even knew if a  nanny's wages were deductible? More to the point, who gave a damn?

"So many tax breaks," she said, raising her eyebrows. "The fazenda, a nanny-"

His mouth captured hers. His hand delved deeper, cupping her bottom, seeking her sweet heat.

She caught her breath, rose to him, wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Dante," she whispered, her lips an inch from his, "we have to talk."

He answered by scooping her into his arms, saying to hell with the office and carrying her back to bed.

An hour later he phoned his AP, told her he wouldn't be in for the week.

"Still out of town," she said, because he was using his cell and one of  the best things about cells was that they didn't give away your  location. "Want to give me an alternate phone number or stay with your  mobile?"

"The mobile," he said casually.

It wasn't as if he were avoiding telling her he was home. Or telling his  brothers. It was just that he didn't feel like explaining things just  yet to them or, God forbid, his sisters and his mother.                       
       
           



       

The situation-that word again-was still complicated. While he worked  things out, it was probably best to keep the news about Gabriella and  the baby to himself.

A man was entitled to privacy, wasn't he? Besides, he hadn't taken any time off in months.

He asked Mrs. Janiseck to invite her niece over for an interview. Stacia showed up late morning.

She was charming; she had great references and when she took Daniel from  Gabriella's arms, he gave her a solemn look and said, "Ba-ba-ba-ba!"

"Oh, he's babbling," Gabriella said happily. "Right on time!"

Dante felt like asking why babbling was such a big deal. He did it all  the time-but he had a feeling the three women would have given him the  kind of look a man did not want women to give, so he nodded wisely.

"Such a big, beautiful boy," Stacia cooed.

He could actually see the tension ease from Gabriella's shoulders.

"Okay, sweetheart," he said softly. "How about we go out for lunch?"

"Do, please," Stacia said. "That will give Daniel and me time to get acquainted."

Gabriella and Stacia talked about diapers. About formula. About a  zillion things until, finally, Mrs. Janiseck clucked her tongue and  shooed Dante and Gabriella gently out the door.

"Just go," she said softly. "Enjoy being together." And to Dante's  amazement, she rose as high as she could in her sturdy black orthopedic  shoes, grabbed his face, hauled it down to hers and planted a kiss on  his cheek.

It was the kind of perfect fall day that made New Yorkers forget the  hot, sticky summers and the bone-chilling winters when the snow turned  into gray slush. Arms around each other, Dante and Gabriella strolled  through Central Park.

She commented happily on everything. Babies. Runners. An elderly couple holding hands.

People walking, and being walked by, their dogs. There was no need to  ask his Gaby if she liked dogs. By the time she'd stopped to pet at  least a hundred of them-okay, a slight exaggeration but not by much-by  then, even he could tell that she didn't like dogs, she loved them.

When she got to her feet after a conversation with a miniature schnauzer, Dante asked the obvious question.

"Did you have a lot of dogs when you were a kid?"

She looked at him in surprise. "Oh, I never had a dog."

It was his turn to look surprised. "No dogs? On that big ranch?"

She gave a little shrug. "My father did not like dogs."

"Why not?"

Another little shrug. And, perhaps, a tiny hesitation. And then, "He just did not like them."

Something was up. Her English was taking on that just-learned-it nuance.  Dante took her hand, decided to take the conversation in a new  direction.

"I wanted a dog like crazy when I was growing up."

She smiled at him. "But your mother said no, no dogs in an apartment."

Had he never told her he'd grown up in a house? There was an awful lot  they didn't know about each other, he thought, lacing their fingers  together.

"I grew up in a house. A pretty big one, in the Village."

"But still, no dog?"

He shrugged. "Mama was convinced dogs would give us germs."

"Mama," Gabriella said, smiling.

"We're Sicilian." Dante grinned. "Calling her anything else might have won me a smack."

"And your father is Papa?"

His smile disappeared. "I never call him Papa, or Dad, or anything but Father."

"Hey. I'm sorry I-"

"No." He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the palm. "You have a right to ask. The thing is, he's … he's-"

"Old-fashioned?"

"Old-country." A deep breath. She would surely know some of this from  having read it in the papers; she'd even tossed that famiglia insult at  him, but talking about it-that was something he never did. "Remember  that Marlon Brando movie? My old man's kind of like that. The head of  what he likes to refer to as a big company but in reality-"

"Dante." Gabriella stepped in front of him, laid a hand on his chest. "I  don't care what he is," she said softly. "I am simply grateful that he  gave you life."

Could you really feel your heart lift? The answer seemed to be yes, and  right there, under the arch in the Ramble, he took Gabriella in his arms  and kissed her.

Where else to take her for lunch on such a glorious day but The Boathouse?

It was early autumn but the temperature was in the low 70s, the sun was  bright. Perfect for dining on the outdoor terrace beside the Central  Park boat lake.                       
       
           



       

There were no tables available-but, yes, of course, there was a table  for Mr. Orsini. Gabriella sat back, watching the turtles sunning  themselves on a rocky outcropping. He ordered for both of them. Tuna  Niηoise for her-he remembered she loved it-and a burger, well-done, for  him.

"And a bottle of Pinot Grigio," he added, remembering she loved that,  too, but she shook her head, glanced at the waiter, blushed and told  Dante, in a low voice, that she couldn't drink because alcohol wouldn't  be good for the baby.

The waiter gave a discreet smile. "Sparkling water, perhaps," he said, and Dante said yes, that would be fine.

The bottle of water arrived, along with glasses filled with ice and slices of lemon. Dante reached for Gabriella's hand.

"I wish I'd been with you when you were pregnant," he said softly. "And when you delivered. You shouldn't have been alone."

Gabriella shook her head. "I told you, I wasn't alone. Yara was there." She paused. "And my brother."

Dante watched her face, the sudden play of emotion in her eyes. "You know," he said carefully, "you never talk about him."

"There isn't much to say." Her voice trailed off; her eyes met his.  There was a sudden fierce glow in them. "He is dead, but I suppose you  know that."

"Sweetheart. I didn't want to make you sad. If you don't want to tell me-"

"He died of AIDS." The glow in her eyes grew even more fierce. "He was a good man, Dante. A wonderful brother."