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“Good evening,” she replied a little stiffly. She was conscious of her crumpled dress, her complete lack of makeup, and the fact that her hair was still damp, curling in ringlets all the way down to her waist. Well, Count Christos Amanti would simply have to take her as he found her.

Take her…

No, she was not letting her mind go there. Not at all.

“Come in,” Christos invited as he stepped aside. “Our dinner will be here shortly, but in the meantime, would you like a drink?” He gestured to the galley kitchen off the main living area of the suite. “There are several fruit juices and sparkling water…?”

“Water, please.” Rose’s voice sounded squeaky. She was, she realized, nervous, really nervous, and not in the way she had been earlier today, when she hadn’t been sure who Christos was or what he wanted. This nervousness was more of an awareness, even an expectation.

This whole situation was all feeling weirdly date-like, and Rose knew that had to be only in her own mind. She doubted Christos thought there was anything remotely date-like about this experience. He’d given no indication that he was thinking like that about her.

He got them both crystal glasses of sparkling water clinking with ice and then gestured to the French windows that opened out to a wide terrace overlooking Central Park, which was no more than a dark swath of trees surrounded by the tall buildings and glimmering lights of the city. Rose followed him out, gazing in amazement at the city stretched below.

“This is incredible,” she remarked as she took a sip of water. The summer air was a balmy caress against her skin, and she was very conscious of Christos, standing no more than a foot or two away from her, one elbow propped on the balustrade, his profile cast into shadow as he looked down at the view. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the city like this before.”

“Where are you from originally?” he asked, his voice low and mild, with a huskiness that seemed to steal through her senses.

Laughing a little, she made a face. “A Podunk town in upstate New York. My parents were teachers, but they had this dream of being totally self-sufficient, you know, chickens, vegetable garden, the whole setup. They bought a little plot of land, a falling-down farmhouse, tried to eke out a living that way.” A small sigh escaped her as she remembered those years. She’d made it sound idyllic, but in reality, it had been anything but. “It was their absolute joy,” she told Christos, “but I ate a lot of turnips, and I always felt like the house was falling down around our ears. My bedroom ceiling had a leak for years.” It had been an isolating way to live, even if her parents had loved it.

“Turnips…” Christos repeated, sounding bemused as well as curious.

“That was the only thing they seemed to have figured out how to grow,” she explained with a smile. “They were loving parents, but if you think I’m a little ditzy and scattered…” She shook her head, her hair flying, as she remembered her mom’s dreaminess, her dad’s crazy plans, how involved they got in their whole homesteading experiment. Sometimes it had seemed as if they had forgotten she existed.

There had been a lot of missed meals, forgotten pickups at the bus stop, and a general sense that she was more of an affectionate afterthought to their far more important dreams. It had been a chaotic way to grow up, and truth be told, she hadn’t always liked it, but she’d sure as heck missed it when they’d gone. “They were something else,” she finished, and she heard the note of wistful sorrow in her voice and suspected from the way Christos’s expression softened that he heard it, too.

Eight years on, she still missed them. Moreover, she missed the concept of them, of parents who helped move you into your first apartment, who hosted Thanksgiving and Christmas, who were always on the other end of a phone call. Not that her parents would have even done those things, but she wished somebody had.

“And you said they died in a car crash,” Christos stated quietly, his expression thoughtful, his eyes heavy-lidded over the rim of his glass. He looked as if he were studying her, and it made Rose feel like she was under a microscope. At the same time, she enjoyed the attention. She’d been a solitary figure for so very long, and even though she was usually loath to talk about her life, somehow she found she wanted to tell Christos.

“Yes,” she answered, “when I was seventeen. They were coming back from a farmer’s market. A truck driver fell asleep at the wheel and veered into their lane. An eighteen-wheeler. They never stood a chance.” She could speak about it matter-of-factly now, but every time she mentioned it, she could feel the utter shock of that moment, recall exactly the wash of the siren’s blue against the curtains as a police car had pulled into her driveway. How in that moment she’d known, and yet she still hadn’t been able to believe it. Even all these years later, she struggled to believe they were truly gone.

“What happened to you then?” Christos asked. “If you were only seventeen?”

She swallowed hard, determined to keep her tone matter-of-fact and even upbeat no matter how much this part of her story hurt. “My aunt and uncle took me in,” she explained. “My aunt was my mother’s sister, but they were never close. In fact, they were estranged, and pretty much polar opposites in every way.” A small, unhappy sigh escaped her before she continued, “She and my uncle took me in out of duty, and, well…they made that pretty clear.” Which was all she really wanted to say about that.

Christos frowned, his gaze skimming over her in concern. “That doesn’t sound pleasant.”

“Nope,” Rose told him, injecting a cheerful note into her voice because she wasn’t looking for pity, no matter how much Christos might be willing to give it. “It wasn’t.” It had been agonizing to feel so alone in the worst throes of her grief, to feel like an interloper when what she’d so desperately wanted and needed was to be loved. And she’d tried so hard…being as helpful as she could, never asking for anything or ever making a fuss…but they’d still only put up with her, and she’d felt it every single day.

“I stayed a year,” she told Christos. “As soon as I was done with high school, I moved out.” Actually, her Aunt Peggy had packed her bags and left them at the front door the day she’d graduated, her aunt and uncle’s form of a farewell. She still recalled their stern faces and folded arms as they’d told her she needed to make her own way in life now, and they’d done their duty.

Rose had told herself she’d been going to leave anyway, but it had still hurt. A lot. And it had made her wonder if there would ever be a person in her life who really wanted to be there.

Now there was…this baby, born of her flesh…and Luca Amanti’s. It was an inconvenient truth she was still wrestling with.

“So you moved out at eighteen years old?” Christos asked. He sounded surprised. “That is very young to live completely alone these days. What did you do then?”

“I went to college, for art. My parents hadn’t left me any money, so it wasn’t easy, but I managed. I worked part-time and did it slowly, so I didn’t graduate until I was twenty-three. And then I moved to New York, which might seem like another crazy decision, considering the state of my finances at the time, but I’ve always believed in following your dreams no matter how impossible they seem, and I’d always wanted to live in the city and pursue my art.” She shifted where she stood, suddenly conscious of how much she’d shared. She wasn’t used to talking about herself, and even though part of her had enjoyed and even craved the attention, it still felt uncomfortable. Revealing. “But what about you?” she asked. “Did you grow up knowing you’d take over your family’s vineyards? And what about Amanti Investments? How did that get going?”

“I did,” he confirmed with a short nod. “My family…the estate and the vineyards…they have been…everything to me. They have had to be.” He paused, his expression distant, a tension emanating from him that Rose didn’t really understand. She imagined the pressure that must have been put on a young boy with the whole fate of his family’s future on his shoulders, and she supposed she understood why Christos seemed so serious.

“And I started my own investment company as a way to protect some of our assets,” he continued. “It was the easiest way.”

“I can’t believe your grandfather created that will,” Rose told him. “That seems so medieval. And I thought royalty wasn’t even a thing in Italy.” At least, that’s what she’d read during her Google deep dive.

“It isn’t. Most titles are just courtesy ones,” Christos replied with a small, humorless smile. “And my grandfather thought he was safeguarding his legacy. I don’t think he could ever imagine a future where he did not have a direct descendant.” He nodded meaningfully toward her. “That is the child you carry, Rose. He or she has an immense and incredible legacy.” His voice thrummed with the import of what he was saying, and Rose felt a ripple of trepidation mixed with a heady sort of excitement. It was the stuff of fairy tales, and yet it was her life. Her baby’s life…maybe.

“It doesn’t seem real,” she whispered. It was such a strange and surreal thought, that this little child nestled in her womb might inherit a fortune, an estate and a title and all the expectations and demands that came with it. Most people would be thrilled at the prospect, Rose suspected, but along with that flicker of excitement was a deep and pervading anxiety. There was so much at stake, for the Amantis, yes, but also for her and her child. As much as she craved a sense of belonging, and as enticing as the thought of entering into this fairy tale and being part of it could be…she was still deeply afraid. For her child, and also for herself.