The Italian's Pregnant Virgin Read online

  The noise from outside filtered through the single-pane windows, joining the thoughts in her head, swirling around, making her feel dizzy. “Okay,” she said, only because she could think of no discernible reason to refuse him.

  She knew there were other consequences to consider. Concerns for her safety, perhaps? She didn’t know him. Didn’t know him in any way beyond a brief understanding of his reputation as a businessman.

  She also knew that he had been married to Ashley. Ashley, who had proved to be untrustworthy. Manipulative and—if Renzo was to be believed—a liar.

  So, she imagined that said something about his character.

  But she didn’t see another option. Not one beyond putting herself through something that would undoubtedly be both physically and emotionally demanding without any kind of recourse. Not for the first time, she felt a deep sense of guilt and regret.

  She tried not to traffic too much in guilt. Mostly because she had spent so much of her life neck deep in it. Every time she found a book at the local book exchange and slipped it into her bag—one she knew she shouldn’t have. Every time she figured out a way to smuggle in a CD she shouldn’t have had.

  When she’d been kicked out after the discovery of her smuggled items, she’d become determined to live life on her own terms. To shamelessly adore pop music, and sugared cereal and movies. To read all the books she wanted, including books with dirty words and dirty scenes. And to feel not even a hint of shame.

  But on this score, it was difficult for her to feel anything but a creeping sense of shame. She had seized this opportunity because it had seemed like a chance for her to make her dreams come true. To go to school. To continue to travel. To start a life that would remain completely separate from where she had come from.

  She had been so single-minded, so focused, so determined to keep herself from ever returning to her family, to that small, claustrophobic existence, that she had ignored any and all twinges of discomfort over this arrangement.

  But now, it was impossible to ignore. Impossible to wave her hand over the fact that she was carrying a baby. That she had some kind of responsibility in all of this. That it would be incredibly hard on her body. That it would likely wreck her emotionally. And that if she didn’t comply with what Renzo was asking her to do...

  There was a very good chance she would come out of it diminished. That the strength she had gained, strength enough to strike out on her own, would be gone. And for what? For money she wouldn’t even be able to get.

  So, she found herself cinching her backpack back up. Slipping her feet into her sandals, and turning to face Renzo.

  “Okay,” she said, her lips feeling slightly numb. “I’m going with you.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  ADRENALINE AND ANGER coursed through Renzo in equal measure on the car ride back to his villa. It did not escape him that the woman—whose name he had read in the documents, but whom he had yet to be formally introduced to—was looking around the Italian-made vehicle with an expression akin to a country mouse. But he found he could spare little thought to it.

  Not when the reality of the situation was so sharp. When his pulse was beating a steady tattoo in his throat, when his blood was running hot and fast beneath his skin. A baby. Esther Abbott, this American backpacker, was pregnant with his baby. Yes, he would have to verify all of this with Ashley, but he was forced to believe Esther. Though he had no real reason to.

  Nothing beyond gut instinct. The idea of trusting his gut nearly made him laugh. But then, he rarely trusted his gut. Usually, he trusted in parts lower. And his own quick intellect, which he often allowed himself to imagine was above reproach.

  In matters of business, it was. When he was consulted on where a certain business should be built, when he was tasked with seeing to a major bit of real estate development, he never failed. Instincts, inherited from his father, drove him in that arena.

  Apparently, in other matters he was not quite so discerning. Or so unerring. His ex-wife was one of the very prominent examples of that truth.

  Jillian being another.

  Women. It seemed he had a tendency to be a fool for women. No matter that he kept his heart out of any such entanglements, he seemed to have a knack for finding women who got him in other ways.

  He looked sideways at Esther, then quickly turned his focus back to the road. He would have no such issues with her. She was plain. Pretty, he supposed. But her wide brown eyes were unlined, unenhanced in any way. Her dark eyebrows a bit heavier than he typically liked on a woman. There were vague bruised-looking circles beneath her eyes, and he couldn’t work out if that was because of exhaustion, or if it was simply part of her coloring.

  He was so accustomed to seeing women with a full face of makeup that was near enough to airbrushing in real life that he found it very hard to say.

  Her lips were full, dusky, and he thought probably the most attractive thing about her. Though, her body was also nice enough. Her breasts weren’t large, but they were beautiful shaped, and it was clear she wasn’t wearing a bra beneath that black tank top of hers.

  But her breasts were immaterial. The only thing that mattered was her womb. And whether or not his child currently resided inside it.

  He turned sharply into his driveway, leaving the gate wide open, and not particularly caring. Then, he got out of the car, rounding it and jerking open the passenger door. “Welcome to your new home,” he said, knowing that his tone sounded anything but welcoming.

  She bit her bottom lip, gathering her backpack from the floor of the car, and getting out, holding the offensive canvas bag to her chest. She looked around, eyes wide, a sort of sickly pallor appearing beneath her tan skin.

  “You were just here a couple of days ago,” he said. “You can stop looking so intimidated.”

  “Well,” she said, directing her focus to him, “you’re intimidating. A house like this... One that is practically a castle... That’s intimidating.” She took a deep breath. “And I know I was here earlier. But this is different. I was focused on telling you about the baby. I wasn’t thinking I would stay here.”

  “Are you going to pretend that you would prefer the hostel? There is no need to pretend with me. You agreed to carry a child for money. It isn’t as though you can suddenly make believe you have no interest in material things.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t. I mean, not the way that you think. I want to go to college.”

  He frowned. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  He held back a curse. She was the same age as his sister, Allegra. Possibly a bit younger. Had he been the sort of man who possessed the ability to feel sympathy for strangers, he thought he might feel some for her. But those softer feelings had been bled from him long ago, empathy replaced by a vague sense of concern.

  “And you couldn’t access any scholarships?”

  “No. I had to pay to take the SATs. I didn’t exactly go to high school. But my scores are good enough to get into a few places. I think. I just need to get my financial ducks in a row.”

  “You didn’t go to high school?”

  She pursed her lips together. “I was homeschooled. Kind of. Anyway, it isn’t like I was trying to get myself a yacht. And even if I was, nobody does surrogacy for free for a stranger.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “I suppose not. Come this way.”

  He led the way into the villa, suddenly completely at a loss. His housekeeper had already retired to her quarters, and here he was with an urchin whom he suddenly had to manage. “I imagine you’re tired,” he said.

  “Hungry,” she replied.

  He gritted his teeth. “The kitchen is this way.”

  He led her through the expensive house, listening to the sound of her shuffling footsteps behind him as they made their way to the kitchen. The house itself was old. Stonework dating back centuries. But inside, all of the modern conveniences had been supplied. He made his way to the large stainless steel fridge and ope
ned it. “You may have your pick of what’s inside.”

  As soon as he said that, he realized that most of the food was still ingredients, and not exactly a meal. But surely, there would be something. Then he remembered that his housekeeper often left portions in the freezer for him just in case.

  He didn’t often eat at home, and he would just as soon go out if there was no staff on hand to make him something. But he was not going back out tonight.

  He looked until he found what looked to be a container of pasta. “Here you go,” he said, setting it down in front of a wide-eyed Esther.

  He didn’t stay to see what she did after that. Instead, he strode from the room, taking the stairs two at a time and heading toward his office. He paced the length of the room for a moment, then turned to his desk, taking hold of his phone and dialing his ex-wife.

  It took only two rings for Ashley to answer. That didn’t surprise him. If she was going to answer, of course she would do it quickly. Otherwise, had she intended to ignore him, she would have done so steadfastly. She was nothing if not extreme.

  “Renzo,” she said, sounding bored. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “You may not find it such a pleasure to speak to me, Ashley. Not when you hear what I have to say.”

  “I have not actually found it a pleasure to speak to you for quite a few months.”

  “We were only married for six months, so I hope that’s an exaggeration.”

  “It isn’t. Why do you think I had to find other men to satisfy me?”

  “If you are talking about emotional satisfaction, I have several answers for that. However, if you mean to imply that I did not satisfy you physically, then I’m going to have to call you a liar.”

  Ashley huffed. “There’s more to life than sex.”

  “Yes indeed. There is, in fact, the small matter of the woman who is currently downstairs in my kitchen.”

  “We’re divorced now,” Ashley said, her voice so sharp it could cut glass. “Who is or is not in your kitchen—or bed—is none of my concern.”

  “It is when it’s Esther Abbott. A woman who claims that she had an agreement with you. For her to carry our child.”

  There was a pause. He was almost satisfied that he had clearly succeeded in rendering Ashley speechless. It was such a difficult thing to do. Even when she had been caught in bed with someone else, she had done her best to talk, scream and cry her way out of it. She was not one to let it rest. She was never one to let someone else have the last word.

  Her silence now was telling. Though, of her absolute surprise, or of her chagrin at being found out, he didn’t know.

  “I thought it might save us. But that was before... Before the divorce was final. Before you found out about the others.”

  “Right. The five other men that you were with during the course of our marriage?”

  Ashley laughed. “Seven, I think.”

  It didn’t matter to him. Five, seven or only the one he had actually witnessed. He had a feeling the truth didn’t matter to Ashley either. It was all about scoring points.

  “So this is true,” he said, his tone harsh.

  “Yes,” she replied, her voice tight.

  “How?” he bit out.

  She huffed out an impatient-sounding laugh. “Well, darling, the last time we were intimate you used a condom. I just...made use of it after you discarded it. It was enough for the doctor.”

  He swore. At her. At himself. At his body. “Is there nothing too low for you?”

  “I guess that remains to be seen,” she said, her tone brittle like glass. “I have a lot of living left to do, but don’t worry, Renzo, you won’t be part of it. My depths will not be of any concern to you.”

  “This woman is pregnant with our child,” he said, trying to bring it back around to the topic at hand. To the reason he had some creature-ish backpacker in his home.

  “Because she is stubborn. I told her she didn’t have to continue with it. In fact, I told her I refused to pay the remainder of the fee.”

  “Yes,” he bit out. “I have had a discussion with her. I was only calling you to confirm.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  That was a good question. An excellent question. He was going to raise the child, naturally. But how was he going to explain it? To his parents. To the media. These would be headlines his child would read. Either he would have to be honest about Ashley’s deception, or he would have to concoct a story about a mother abandoning her child.

  That would not do.

  But surrogacy was not legal in Italy. No agreement would be binding within these borders. And he would use that to his advantage.

  “There is nothing to be done,” he said, his tone swift, decisive. “Esther Abbott is pregnant with my child. And I will do the responsible thing.”

  “Renzo,” she said, her voice fierce, “what do you intend to do?”

  He knew. There was no question. He had been in a situation similar to this before. Only then, he had had no power. The woman involved, her husband, his parents, had all made the decisions around him. His ill-advised affair with Jillian costing much more than his virginity.

  At sixteen, he had become a father for the first time. But he had been barred from having anything to do with the child. A story carefully constructed to protect her marriage, her family, that child and his reputation had been agreed on by all.

  All except for Renzo.

  He would not allow such a thing to happen again. He would not allow himself to be sidelined. He would not put him, or his child, in such a precarious position. There was only one thing to do. And he would see it done.

  “I shall do what any responsible man would do in this situation. I intend to marry Esther Abbott.”

  * * *

  Esther had never seen anything quite like Renzo’s kitchen. It had taken her more than ten minutes to figure out how to use the microwave. And even then, the pasta had ended up having cold spots and spots that scalded her tongue. Still, it was one of the best things she had ever tasted.

  That probably had more to do with exhaustion and how long she’d gone without eating than anything else. Pasta was one of her favorite newly discovered foods, though. Not that she’d never had noodles in some form. It was just that her mother typically made them for soups, and not the way she’d had it served in Italy.

  Discovering new foods had been her favorite part of travel so far. Scones in England with clotted cream, macarons in France. She had greatly enjoyed the culinary adventure, nearly as much as the rest of it.

  Though, sometimes she missed brown bread and stew. The kinds of simple foods her mother made from scratch at home.

  A swift kick of loneliness, of homesickness, punched her low in the stomach. It was unusual, but it did happen sometimes. Most of her home life had been difficult. Had been nothing at all like the way she wanted to live. But it had been safe. And for most of her life, it had been the only thing she’d known.

  She blinked, taking another bite of her pasta, and allowing the present moment to wash away the slow-burning ache of nostalgia.

  She heard footsteps and looked up. Renzo strode into the kitchen, and that dark black gaze burned away the remaining bit of homesickness. There was no room for anything inside her, nothing beyond that sharp, cutting intensity.

  “I just spoke to Ashley.”

  Suddenly, the pasta felt like sawdust in Esther’s mouth. “I imagine she told you the thing you didn’t want to hear.”

  “You are correct in your assessment.”

  “I’m sorry. But it’s true. I really didn’t come here to take advantage of you, or to lie to you. And I really couldn’t have forged any kind of medical documents. I had never even been to a doctor until Ashley took me for the procedure.”

  He frowned. She could tell that she had said something that had revealed her as being different. She did that a lot. Mostly because she didn’t exactly know the line. Cultures were different, after all, and sometimes she thou
ght people might assume she was different only because she was American.

  But she was different from typical Americans, too.

  “I lived in a small town,” she said, the lie rolling off her tongue easily. She had always been a liar. Because if ever her parents asked her if she was content, if ever her mother had asked her about her plans for the future, she’d had to lie.

  And so, covering up the extent of just how strange she was became easier and easier as she talked to more people and picked up more of what was expected.

  “A town so small you did not have doctors?”

  “He made house calls.” That part was true. There had been a physician in the commune.

  “Regardless of your past history, it seems that you were telling the truth.”

  “I said I was.”

  “Yes, you did. It is an unenviable position you find yourself in—or perhaps it is enviable, depending on your perspective. Tell me, Esther, what are your goals in life?”

  It was a strange question. And never once had she been asked. Not really. Her parents had spoken to her about what she would do. About what her duty was, about the purposes of women and what they had to do to be fulfilled. But no one had ever asked her if it would fulfill her. No one had ever asked her anything at all.

  But he was asking. And that made something warm glow inside her.

  It made her want to tell him.

  “I want to travel. And I want to go to school. I want to get an education.”

  “To what end?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do you wish to major in? Business? History? Art?”

  “Everything.” She shrugged. “I just want to know things.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything I didn’t before.”

  “That is an incredibly tall order. But one that is certainly possible. Is there a better city in the world to learn about history? Rome.”

  “Paris and London might have differing opinions. But I definitely take your point. And yes, I agree I can get quite an education here simply by being here. But I want more.”