‘Yes. It’s just coming from the sun into the shade.’
The broad tree-lined drive wasn’t very long and soon they were mounting stone steps beneath a cool overhang supported by substantial pillars.
Zandro punched numbers into another keypad by the heavy door and swung it open, then steered her across a tiled floor to a large, airy room furnished with dark-wood occasional tables and cabinets, and tapestry-fabric chairs. ‘Sit down, Lia,’ he said, halting at a deep, velvet-covered antique sofa. ‘I’ll get some ice.’
She wondered why he didn’t just summon a servant. Perhaps he didn’t want them asking how she’d been hurt; it could be embarrassing for him.
He was back quite quickly, carrying a bowl of crushed ice and a hand-towel which he fashioned into a cold compress. Then he knelt on the floor before her to wrap the cloth firmly about her wrist, tucking the end in to hold it.
‘You’re good at this,’ she said involuntarily, unable to hide her surprise.
‘I’ve dealt with sports injuries.’ He was on a level with her now, and only inches away as he looked up from his task, his gaze somehow distant despite his physical proximity.
She could see a few fine lines at the corners of his eyes, and the faint beard-shadow on his taut, closely shaved cheeks. A hint of some pleasant, woodsy scent came from him—aftershave or something like it. His hair was glossy black, with a slight wave. He’d removed his tie and opened the collar of his white shirt, revealing naturally olive skin. She found herself fascinated by the almost invisible beat of a pulse at the base of his throat.
Dragging her attention from it, she said, ‘You still play?’ Vaguely she recalled some mention of him having been a tennis champion in his earlier years.
‘Enough to keep me fit. Rest your arm here.’
He placed it on the arm of the sofa, but she immediately lifted it away to support it with her other hand. ‘I’ll make the upholstery wet.’
Zandro looked briefly nonplussed. With the kind of money his family had, she supposed a spoiled sofa would be a minor inconvenience. But he said, ‘I’ll fetch another towel.’
He brought a larger one and folded it so there was little chance of water seeping through. When he straightened from arranging it for her he stood regarding her with a penetrating stare before swinging away to sit in a chair facing her.
‘What are you doing here, Lia?’
She hesitated, moistening her lips. This was the point of no return. Her last chance to retreat, walk away. Steadying her voice with an act of will, she said, ‘I’ve come for my baby. To take him home.’
Zandro was so still, so expressionless, he might not have heard her. Seconds passed, and then an almost infinitesimal movement showed in his cheek, a slight tightening of the muscles in his jaw. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
Raising her chin a fraction, she fixed her gaze unwaveringly on his darkling one. ‘He belongs with…with me.’
Something glimmered in his shadowed, hostile eyes. ‘You think I’ll give him up to you, just like that?’
‘I’m his mother!’ Putting every ounce of conviction she could into her voice.
‘And I’m his legal guardian, committed to looking after his interests.’
The words sounded more suited to a business meeting than a discussion of a child’s needs. ‘You mean the interests of the Brunellesci dynasty.’
The resolute brows rose a scant millimetre. ‘I hardly think the family business qualifies as a dynasty.’
‘Isn’t Pantheon listed as one of the top ten richest Australian companies, worth how many millions? Or is it billions?’
His gaze sharpened. ‘Is that what this is about?’ The steel in his voice was unsheathed. ‘It isn’t your son you’ve come for, is it? Let’s dispense with the pretence, shall we?’
Her eyes widened, and her stomach made a sickening revolution. ‘How—’ she started to say weakly.
But he wasn’t listening. ‘You’re hoping we’ll pay you to go away again and leave him with us.’
The accusation stunned her at first. Then she shot to her feet. ‘That’s a foul suggestion! You’re even worse than I thought!’
He too stood up, meeting her hot-eyed gaze with a glittery stare. ‘I might return the compliment.’ A small pause, and then, ‘If I’m wrong, what do you really want?’
‘I told you! I want Dominic—I want…my son.’
‘You gave him up.’
A brutal reminder, further hardening her against him, if that were possible. ‘I wasn’t myself, didn’t know what I was doing.’
‘And,’ he inquired with deadly irony, ‘are you yourself now, Lia?’
Stupidly, the question sent her heart into a crazy, terrified revolution. She knew her face showed confusion, perhaps guilt, and he gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘Were you thinking of kidnapping Nicky? You’d never have got away with it.’
Nicky? Who…? After a moment light dawned. Dominic had acquired a nickname. ‘I wasn’t going to kidnap him!’ No need to tell him the idea had been briefly considered, and discarded.
‘So why lurk about watching the house?’
‘What makes you think I was?’ Neither confirm nor deny. That was safest.
He looked impatient. ‘My father and the nanny saw you yesterday, and she recognised the same car parked in the same place today. They thought your behaviour was suspicious, and called me.’
On a cell phone, she presumed. They hadn’t yet returned from the beach. ‘I wanted to be sure Dominic was still here. And being properly cared for.’
‘He’s had the best care possible,’ Zandro said.
‘The best that money can buy, you mean.’ Allowing her scepticism to show. ‘You hired a nanny.’
His head tilted slightly. ‘My mother is no longer able to keep up with a lively young child. And I have a business to run. Barbara is highly qualified and came from a very reputable agency. She’s extremely competent.’
‘A professional can’t afford to get too emotionally involved with her charges.’
‘A good nanny is better for a child than an incompetent mother.’
‘Incompetent?’ Her voice shook with anger.
He was looking austere again. ‘You know you were incapable of looking after a child, Lia.’
‘A temporary state!’ she argued. ‘That you took advantage of to snatch Dominic away!’
‘We took responsibility for a vulnerable member of our family. His safety and wellbeing was our first priority. He’s a Brunellesci, after all.’
‘He’s a Cameron!’
‘The fact that his father didn’t marry you is immaterial,’ Zandro said. ‘Rico’s name is on the birth certificate, and my parents have accepted Nicky as their grandchild.’
‘That doesn’t make him yours—or theirs.’ If the Brunellescis had charge of his upbringing, would they turn that laughing, innocent little boy into an unfeeling, hard-headed brute in a business suit, like his uncle and his grandfather? It didn’t bear thinking of. ‘A mother’s claim comes first.’ Rashly she added, ‘Any court would back that!’
‘The court would take into account the best interests of the child. A mother with a drug dependency who abandoned her baby isn’t a very trustworthy prospect.’
‘I don’t…’ She should probably have