The Unwanted Wife(29)

“You don’t have to stay, Sandro…” she whispered. “Why don’t you go into the office and get some work done? I am sure you have better things to do than hang around here.”

“I’m exactly where I want to be,” he gritted implacably. He reached over and took the truffles and flowers from her arms. Dumping the box on her bedside table and sticking the flowers into the half full plastic water canister that a nurse had left on the over-bed table, he then dragged over the chair that Lisa had recently abandoned, moving the bag to the floor and sitting down almost defiantly.

“Okay.” She was too tired to argue, and truth be told, rather relieved to have him there. For a long time neither of them said anything. He leaned back in the uncomfortable-looking chair and stared off into space. Theresa lowered her lashes and watched him surreptitiously, marveling at his absolute stillness. He was usually filled with so much restless energy, always on the move, typing away on his laptop or fiddling with his smartphone or barking orders into the telephone. When he wasn’t doing anything work-related, he would swim endless laps or work out in their home gym. She had never seen him merely sit down and stare off into the distance, and it disturbed her in a way that she could not quite define.

“Do you think my father will come to see me?” Theresa broke the silence nearly half an hour later, having dozed off in the interim. Sandro’s eyes met hers and he shook his head grimly.

“Highly unlikely, since he doesn’t know that you’re here.” He shrugged and she gasped, struggling to sit up.

“But how could you not tell him?” she asked, rather offended on her father’s behalf. The man was a bully and a tyrant but he was her father.

“The doctor said you shouldn’t be upset and I can’t quite envision a visit from your father being anything other than stressful for you,” he said sarcastically. He was right, her father would antagonize Sandro, which would upset her and they would all wind up arguing. It was always the same. She sank back feeling depressed and sad and Sandro’s expression gentled.

“I’ll call him if you want me to, Theresa,” he offered quietly, and she shook her head, suddenly feeling an overwhelming urge to burst into tears again.

“You’re right, a visit from him wouldn’t be very pleasant,” she said in an alarmingly wobbly voice. “But I keep hoping…” She left the rest unspoken but he seemed to understand.

“I know.” He hesitantly reached for one of the limp hands resting on her stomach, engulfing it in both of his.

“I don’t know why he’s like that.” she kept her eyes averted. “All of my life, I tried so hard to make him love me, but he never could. For a short while I thought I found what I was looking for, someone who could love me…” She was barely aware of what she was saying while her blurred gaze remained fixed on their joined hands. There was a long silence while they both contemplated their entwined fingers and Sandro sighed heavily.

“Why don’t you take a little nap?” he suggested gently. “I’ll be here to keep an eye on things.” What things he felt he had to keep an eye on, she had no idea but just having him there made her feel better and she lay back with a contented sigh and was asleep almost immediately.





CHAPTER EIGHT

You are an extremely difficult patient, cara,” Sandro gritted out from between his teeth three days later. It was midafternoon and he had walked into her workroom, only to find her guiltily standing in the middle of the room. She was clutching the sketchbook that she had crept upstairs to retrieve, to her chest.

“I was bored,” she whined. “So I thought if I had my sketchbook handy, I could work on some designs.”

“Why didn’t you call me or Phumsile to get it for you?”

“You were catching up on some work,” and he had missed enough of it already, taking the week off to stay with her. “And Phumsile has dashed out to do some shopping.”

“This is ridiculous,” he growled, reaching her in one stride and swinging her up into his strong arms as if she were a featherweight. “You’re being impossible. Why didn’t you watch some TV or read a book or take a nap or anything until Phumsile got back?”

“Because I’m bored now,” she complained sulkily, and he muttered something in Italian beneath his breath.

“What does that mean?” she demanded to know, and he slanted a wry sidelong glance at her before snorting softly.

“I said, ‘God save me from stubborn women,’” he obligingly translated, and she scowled.

“I am not stubborn,” she insisted stubbornly, and his gorgeous lips twitched in amusement.

“Of course not.” He shook his dark head in a most condescending manner, one that Theresa immediately took exception to.

“And you don’t have to patronize me,” she seethed. “I’m not made of glass.”

“You’re just spoiling for a fight aren’t you?” he mused, his lips curling up slightly. She folded her arms over her chest and kept her eyes mutinously fixed on his strong jaw. He sighed dramatically and hoisted her farther up against his chest before making his way downstairs. When they got back to her room, he deposited her gently onto the side of her bed and stood staring down at her placidly with his hands shoved into the pockets of his navy blue cargo pants. She loved him in cargo pants; they rode low on his lean hips and certainly did wonderful things for his already gorgeous backside. Now, while he brooded above her, her mouth went dry at the picture of masculine perfection he presented in those pants and his favorite old T-shirt, a torn, stretched gray thing with a Batman emblem on the front. His hair was a mess and he was in serious need of a shave but he looked absolutely gorgeous and she was suddenly breathless with desire for him.

His eyes narrowed speculatively on her flushed face. The corners of his lips tugged upward as he stretched abruptly while adding a jaw-popping yawn to the movement. His T-shirt rode up over his toned, ridged abdomen and revealed his smooth bronze skin. Theresa nearly groaned out loud as she squelched the urge to reach out and stroke the satiny skin on display just inches from her face. The elaborate stretch finally ended and he groaned as he rolled his head on his shoulders, working the kinks out of his neck.

“I’m exhausted,” he informed her huskily, sinking down beside her, and she hurriedly scooted closer to the headboard. He ignored the evasive movement and threw himself backward, lying down with his knees over the side of the bed and his feet braced on the floor. Once again his shirt had ridden up and Theresa stared at the tempting skin of his ripped torso mutely. He lifted his hands to cover his face, hitching the shirt up even further, and he sighed again. “Just let me rest here for a couple of minutes, cara. I need to recover my strength after hauling you down those stairs. You have put on a lot of weight over these last few months.” She was so captivated by the delectable picture he made, laid out like a buffet in front of a starving woman, that it took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, she yelped in outrage and thumped his hard bicep in response. His mouth, the only part of his face that she could see beneath his hands, shifted into a lazy smile.

“You hit like a girl.” He smirked, keeping his eyes covered and she attempted to hit him again. He was ready for her this time and grabbed her clenched fist to tug her toward him until she was awkwardly sprawled on top of him. She tried to shift off him but his arm tightened like an iron band around her waist, keeping her in place with the barest of efforts.

“Let me go,” she demanded between clenched teeth, wriggling urgently as she tried to get away from him. To her frustration she could barely move and eventually she wore herself out and stopped moving. Her hands were braced on his hard broad chest as she tried to keep her upper body away from his; one of her feet was dangling over the side of the bed and the other was trapped between his legs. She glared down into his face but his eyes were closed and he looked so relaxed that for an implausible moment she actually believed that he might have fallen asleep. His eyelids lazily drifted up when she stopped moving.

“Just relax will you?” he implored wearily.

“I can’t relax like this,” she whispered, and he groaned before, with seemingly great effort, he shifted until they were both lying in the middle of the large bed. He was on his back, his sock-clad feet, because he had somehow managed to kick off his sneakers in the process, crossed at the ankles. She was stretched out beside him and he had one hard arm wrapped around her waist and the other curled up beneath his head. How he had managed to change their positions without once releasing her remained a mystery to her.

“You’re still not relaxed,” he observed after a few minutes of silence, and she lifted her head from where it was resting just beneath his armpit and frowned grumpily up into his face.

“Of course I’m not,” she snapped. “How am I supposed to relax when you’re exactly where I don’t want you to be?”

“You brought this upon yourself.” He shrugged, unconcerned.

“How on earth did I do that?”

“By not following the doctor’s orders,” he mumbled, sounding half-asleep. “This is the only way I can be sure that you’ll stay in bed.”