Page 38 of The Housekeeper's One-Night Baby
‘Like a cherub,’ he affirmed as he walked across the room towards her. ‘I told him Babbo Natale would not come to visit children unless they were fast asleep.’
‘That’s what I said earlier, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He’s such a Daddy’s boy.’ She gave a contented sigh. ‘And did you tell him that tomorrow we can build a snowman?’
‘Yes, my love, we can build a snowman,’ he answered indulgently, sinking down onto the window seat beside her, because didn’t all parents live out their longings through their children? He put his hand on her knee. ‘So, what would you like to do now?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she murmured as she pushed the present aside. ‘I’m open to all suggestions.’
‘Well...’ Slowly, he stroked his finger over one silk-covered thigh. ‘We could go and drink a glass of champagne before dinner.’
‘We could. But there’s something much more important we need to do first.’
He knew exactly what she meant, even before she clambered on top of him and wrapped her arms around his neck. She bent her head and kissed him—long and slow and deep—and when the kiss was over, she gazed at him, those incredible green eyes dark with longing and as dazed as they always were whenever they got this close and personal.
‘Will it always be this good?’ he asked her, his voice suddenly urgent.
‘Always,’ she affirmed, just as fiercely.
Lizzie hugged him tightly as she felt the powerful beat of his heart against hers, basking in the beauty of her life, because wasn’t that what Christmas was all about? About counting your blessings...
It was hard to believe how far they had journeyed and how good it was. The logistics of their new life had taken quite a bit of planning and Niccolò had delegated a stack of stuff to his second-in-command, to concentrate on setting up a new branch of his business in England. It was why they had put extending their little family on hold for the time being, while they got used to their baby and, of course, each other. But they crossed ‘the pond’ whenever they could, and whenever they were in the States, they stayed in their new house in Westchester, close to Donna and Matt, after Lizzie insisted on moving from the sterile hotel suite, which had never really felt like home.
But it was here—their beautiful house in the Cotswolds—which had claimed both their hearts. They had renovated Ermecott together, moving into the restored manor house shortly after the birth of Federico—a lusty nine-pounder who was the spit of his handsome father. And, yes, there had been a tiny part of her which had worried that Niccolò would find it difficult to get used to fatherhood—a fear dispelled the moment the cord had been severed and her husband had cradled his newborn against his chest, his eyes bright with tears. Lizzie had met his gaze, and she had cried, too.
Her animal portraits had continued to sell to friends, and friends of friends, but it had been Lizzie’s impromptu painting of an adorable mutt from the nearby dogs’ home which had changed the trajectory of her life. The picture had been used in a national campaign to make people aware of the pitfalls of buying a pet without thinking it through and the animal’s liquid brown eyes, wonky whiskers and slightly anxious-looking mouth had touched a chord with the public. After repeated requests, Lizzie had turned him into a cartoon and these days one of the country’s biggest-selling newspapers ran a weekly strip about Pesto, the mongrel. She’d even agreed to help market a slew of dog-related products, the proceeds of which all went to charity. Apart from anything else, it was refreshing to find a pet with an original name!
Somehow, she had found the career she’d always wanted and was so grateful for that, but her priorities were always her son, and her husband—the two true lights of her life. She and Niccolò had married in Manhattan when Federico had been six months old, and honeymooned in Italy, because she’d never been there and had longed to see the land of his birth. They had been staying in the Cinque Terre when she had persuaded him to go and visit his father, who Lizzie had discovered was still alive.
‘Why should I?’ Niccolò had demanded, his face darkening. ‘He won’t have anything to say to me, and I certainly won’t have anything to say to him.’
But Lizzie had been resolute as she’d watched that old pain clawing at the features of the man she loved. ‘It’s the courageous thing to do, to confront your demons,’ she had insisted quietly. ‘To give you the chance to lay them to rest.’
It wasn’t what either of them had been expecting. Niccolò’s father had lain dying, a broken shell of a man, his cloudy eyes full of tears as he’d touched the face of the young grandson he would never see again. He had spoken in Italian, his words tremulous and faint—but Lizzie hadn’t needed to be a linguist to realise how much he’d regretted the past and the way he had behaved towards his son.
Her thoughts cleared as she looked into the jet gleam of Niccolò’s eyes.
‘Thank you,’ he said simply.
‘For what?’
‘For being the most wonderful mother and wife. For showing me love and how to love. For...’ He shook his head, for once seeming uncharacteristically lost for words. ‘I love you, Lizzie Macario,’ he growled. ‘I love you more than words could ever say.’
‘And I love you, too. More than you will ever know.’ Her throat was thick with emotion as she touched her fingers to the shadowed rasp of his jaw. ‘So, we could drink that champagne now, or...’
‘Or?’ he echoed softly.
‘We could start trying for another baby.’ She savoured the moment as she met his narrowed gaze.
‘You think?’ he said huskily.
‘Yes. Oh, yes, my darling. I’ve been thinking it for a while now. And I think you have, too.’
For a long moment he just held her, very tightly, and said something in Italian against her hair, his voice choked with raw emotion. And then he led her from the window seat to the flame-warm rug in front of the fire, a speculative smile curving his lips as, slowly, he began to unbutton her dress.
