Page 12 of Pregnant in the Italian's Palazzo

Just call.

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Aria ran a finger over the embossed gold lettering from the boutique florist. There was no way he could have known that she’d just been made redundant, was there? No way he could have known how badly she’d needed some kind of pick-me-up as she’d found herself sitting around in her own self-pity. In the past three weeks, she had thought of that mile-high night of passion more times than she could count. She had wondered where he was, wondered if he was thinking of her too. But she also remembered how Nysio had admired her underwear design and listened to her plans, how he’d seemed to truly believe she had a chance at success. He’d called her passionate.

She didn’t feel especially passionate now, in the face of her defeat. But still she found herself digging out her plans and projections, an entirely new and infinitely riskier plan beginning to form in her mind. She was unemployed for the first time in a decade, but she had her nest egg from the redundancy pay-out, which had been generous in lieu of a long notice period, and she could get a bank loan for the rest. Starting up a plus-size lingerie line alone as an entrepreneur was a ridiculous idea...wasn’t it?

She smiled, picking up another sample design and feeling her brain hum with plans and ideas. She had spent so long trying to rein in her high-energy mind and not make mistakes. She’d finished her textile degree against the odds, she’d worked hard and advanced through her job all while sacrificing her love of travel and spontaneity. She had often dreamed of taking some time to wander, to fall back in love with the world and come up with a way to forge her own path on her own terms. Maybe it was time for her to stop hiding away her passion and let herself run wild with it?

As she stared at the vibrant flowers on her coffee table and opened up the envelope containing a number for a premier flight operator and details of a prepaid ticket, she felt tempted to be spontaneous once again.

Nysio cursed and slammed the lid of his computer down. His concentration had been atrocious over the past month and he’d just made yet another careless error in his projections, resulting in an unprecedented loss of capital that would have brought most investment firms to their knees. Luckily for him, he was not most investment firms and his unusual business practices meant that his reserves ran deep. Of course, this was now the third day this week that he’d made a mistake and his accountant had even called to ask what on earth was happening.

And what exactlywashappening? he asked himself, pushing his chair back from the antique mahogany desk in an effort to not give in to the impulse to hurl something against the wall. He had not been himself ever since that impulsive trip across the Atlantic. It was the only possible explanation. The return journey, specifically...

An image of flame-coloured hair and strawberry-scented skin filled his mind as though it had been waiting for the right moment to assault his senses. His stomach clenched, his fists tightening against the rush of arousal that always accompanied thoughts of her.

Her.

That single pronoun was how he’d been subconsciously referring to the woman who had occupied a space in his mind for almost a month now, as though the use of her name might cement his obsession any further.

Not an obsession, he corrected himself. He was not under some kind of thrall. Their night of passion on the jet had just knocked him off kilter, that was all. It had been far too long since he’d been with a woman, it was only natural that he wouldn’t be satisfied from just the scant few hours he’d had her. Especially when she had walked away from his offer so easily.

He had returned to Florence and thrown himself right back into his usual punishing work routine of eighteen-hour days spread across the various global stock markets. He’d got used to keeping odd hours, filling any downtime by working up a sweat in his gym or swimming length after length in the heated pool in the solarium. When he was physically and mentally exhausted enough, he eventually slept. But never for long enough and never quite as deeply as he had on that jet...

He stared out at the view from his window, wondering why memories of that one night felt like a drug. Other than that, the only time he broke his rigid routine was the bi-monthly weekend he set aside to spend visiting his parents in Sardinia. A visit he had postponed in the aftermath of last month’s revelations about the identity of his biological father. His mother had called numerous times and he was pretty sure they knew he was avoiding them. But the alternative was actually facing the reality that his father was not his father and his parents had lied to him for his whole life.

He had always adored the blissful silence and solitude of thepalazzoin the evenings after all the staff had returned to their homes in the city, but these past weeks he’d found it made him feel tense and on edge, as though he were waiting for something. Since his return, he had struggled to fall back into the few leisurely pursuits he allowed himself like reading or cataloguing his vast wine collection. He had tried, countless times, but his eyes would blur along the lines of text, his mind wandering to other, more X-rated thoughts.

As a result, the insomnia that he’d thought he had fully cured himself of with his exercise regime had now returned with a force that left him restless and wandering the halls.

One night in particular, he’d found himself in the pantry of the kitchens searching the shelves for jars of preserved sweet berries and jams, opening each one and inhaling deep, only to curse and move on to the next, furiously seeking the one particular scent that his memory was unable to fully recall.

Nysio hadn’t even realised he had left his office and begun pacing the halls until he found himself staring up at the vaulted ceiling of the ancient family gallery that ran the length of the ground floor along the vast east wing. He scowled up at the painted cherubs and imperious gods and goddesses, feeling their judgemental gazes bear down upon him. This had always been Arturo Bacchetti’s favourite place in thepalazzo, before his parents had retired to the vineyard in Sardinia. The gallery was a place that Nysio actively avoided, now that the more historic parts of the estate were occasionally opened to the public.

Their family’s status was one that was earned, not only by their vast fortune and collections of priceless art, but by their position as the city’s most prolific charitable benefactors. Their presence at their historic Florentinepalazzoprovided year-round tourism for the locale. They provided patronage for local artists and funded most community efforts. Many of the other noble family names had died out, but the Bacchettis had remained. And perhaps that had been a cushy position a hundred years ago and more, when the Bacchetti family had been far more numerous and able to widely delegate.

Now, there was only Nysio.

He ran a finger along a glass case that housed a four-hundred-year-old golden throne, wondering if smashing some priceless and irreplaceable Bacchetti heirloom might jolt him out of this wretched stagnation he’d fallen into.

As if on cue, Gianluca appeared in the entryway, as though he had sensed Nysio’s temptation to destroy a part of his beloved estate.

‘You’re not normally out of your office at this time,’ the other man said, dropping a box full of freshly printed tourist guides onto the floor beside the door before surveying him with concern.

‘I may as well be here.’ Nysio sighed, looking at his watch to find it was only early afternoon. ‘The markets are not my friend today. I decided it was best for all of us if I took a step away.’

Gianluca frowned. ‘That’s not like you. Are you ill?’

‘I’m fine,’ Nysio snapped. He was fine, he would be fine. Eventually... This feeling, it reminded him of the first few months after his father’s Parkinson’s diagnosis, after he had vowed to fully accept his role as Arturo’s heir. To perform his birth-given duty, even if it suffocated him. He had been restless, fresh out of a short-lived post-university period of debauchery and rebellion. But what was his excuse now?

Surely spending less than twelve hours with the most alluring woman he had ever encountered was not enough to completely change his personality? It was ridiculous and infuriating and he would not tolerate it. He made a few enquiries about the day-to-day running of the estate, happy to distract himself with Gianluca’s entertaining tales from the city before he turned to head back to work. As he moved through thepalazzo, he internally readied himself to prove to himself that he was above such distractions, only to have the other man appear behind him in his office, jolting him from his thoughts.

‘Nysio, I wasn’t going to say anything...but, do you remember yourguestthat we deposited in London a month ago?’

Nysio froze, his body turning around in slow motion as though pulled by an invisible string. ‘What of her?’

‘She’s in Florence.’ The older man met his eyes. ‘She called at the estate foundation office in town yesterday, and made a donation for the exact same price of her flight.’

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