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She was adamant though, and just the sight of her determinedly making her way to the top of the stairs then gripping the bannister as she took the first step pulled at something inside his gut.
He’d noticed when she’d climbed the tree how athletic she was, how coordinated, and he saw that again now. It was clear that every movement was difficult. About four steps down, she paused, her hand shaking a little.
“Georgia—,” her name was torn from him. He wanted to help her. He wanted to apologise to her, to explain, but he also needed her to leave before he could do anything of the sort. To have slept with her was bad enough. To speak to her more, to talk to her, maybe even enjoy talking to her, was the ultimate betrayal. He straightened his spine, squared his shoulders, walked behind her, close enough that he could catch her if he needed to, but not so close that either of them could object.
At the bottom, she stopped to catch her breath and when he came level with her, he saw that her face was drained of colour. From pain? From the difficulty of that?
He’d never felt like more of a bastard. He hated every part of himself.
Even when they reached the car, she still wouldn’t accept his help, beyond his opening the passenger door for her. She averted her gaze as she lowered herself to the seat. She was stronger than Dante—he couldn’t look away, so he saw the way she grimaced in pain as she lifted her ankle into the car.
And inwardly he swore. Every curse he knew ran through his mind, but didn’t pass his lips. He wouldn’t reveal, to anyone, the depths of his despair at what he’d done. What he was still doing. He should apologise to Georgia; should explain to her. But he didn’t.
He just needed her gone. He needed Georgia to go, so she could become a part of his past. The only comforting thought he had, as he drove away from his villa, down a road that was covered in debris courtesy of the storm, was that he would never have to see her again.
CHAPTER FIVE
EVER SINCE GEORGIA COULD REMEMBER, she’d wanted to be a surgeon. She’d wondered, over the years, exactly what had led to that desire, but the truth was, it had just always been a part of her, like her arms and legs and nose and ears. And not once had that determination wavered.
If anything, life and the twists hers had taken, had embedded that desire far more firmly in her heart.
Losing her mother to a stroke had made Georgia ache for all the answers. Her father’s death a scant two weeks later, from a heart attack, had made her understand that she would move heaven and earth to fix everyone she possibly could.
It was all she’d wanted to do.
Only the far more pressing need of raising two boys who were actual Mensa-level geniuses had temporarily pushed her to move her dream to the back burner.
And while she couldn’t study surgery—she wasn’t stupid enough to think it was a degree she could attempt around the edges of essentially being a mother and father to her brothers at such a vital stage of their lives—she had maintained a rabid interest in medicine. She’d read hundreds of pre-print studies, volunteered at the hospital so she could observe whatever she could, and she’d learned a lot.
So when, four weeks after being summarily dismissed from the home of Dante-whoever-he-was, her breasts began to ache and throb, she knew.
She knew.
In the way she’d always known she wanted to be a surgeon and that she would move heaven and earth to care for her brothers.
But even without that knowledge, the absence of her cycle, which had always been like clockwork, would have made it impossible to doubt. Nonetheless, ever the optimist, and aware that a pregnancy to anyone would be the last thing Georgia wanted, a pregnancy to that horrible, awful, rude beast of a man would be by far the absolute worst thing that could happen to her. Even someone like Georgia, with an enviable ability to look on the bright side of life, couldn’t dress up such a scenario.
There was no alternative though.
There was no physical possibility of anyone else being the father.
So, with all her fingers and toes crossed, she bought three pregnancy tests, different brands, and took them back to her hostel. She’d long since left Lake Como, and was now in the stunning south of Italy, so when she used three different test sticks and they all showed the horrifying, dreaded second line, it was easy to contemplate booking the next flight out of Italy and never seeing him again. Never telling him.
But how could she? Two wrongs didn’t make a right. As much as she hated the idea of so much as seeing him, she was the least morally-bankrupt person on earth. Her parents had instilled a strong value system in her and Georgia had felt it was her job to honour them by following that system every day of her life. She had faithfully raised her brothers because of it, because love and decency guided her every action and now, with a sinking feeling of despair, she realised she was destined to yet again fall into the service of others.
It was selfish. And horrible. She knew how many women struggled with fertility and infant loss, and if she’d been asked, she would have said that parenthood was a true blessing, that each child was a gift. These sentiments were true, but not for Georgia.
For Georgia, this pregnancy, at this point in time, was her worst nightmare.
All she’d wanted was one year to finally see the world and live for herself. To go where she wanted to go, whenever; to not be answerable to anyone else’s needs.
She curved a hand over her belly and sobbed, because already, stirrings of love were wrapping around her heart, but there was also fear. How could she do this? Denial was her saving grace. She couldn’t even bring herself to go to a doctor to confirm the pregnancy or have a scan or do anything that might make this more of a reality.
Instead, she continued her exploration of Italy, ignoring every symptom, willfully refusing to think of her pregnancy until the date on her calendar that indicated she’d hit the second trimester. Only then would she deal with this. And that meant, she grudgingly accepted, contacting Dante.
It was not an easy matter to inform a man whose last name she didn’t even know of her pregnancy. She’d phoned the hostel and tried to find out who he was, but without knowing his address, or any other pertinent detail besides his name, and given the staff in the hostel were ever-changing, and not local, she realised she’d have to travel back to Como, to do this face to face. Maybe that was for the best anyway?
She booked a flight, far more expensive now that the depths of winter were behind them. Spring beckoned, and it did so wonderfully, but on a trip such as this, even Georgia couldn’t appreciate the beauty of the area. She barely registered the burgeoning of new green leaves on trees and blossoms on the ground, the azure shade of an early-spring sky. She thought only of the jagged, angular face of the man she’d sworn she’d never see again.
