At Dante's Service (13 page)

‘No, thanks.’ Rebekah could not face the idea of sleeping in the same house as Dante. Not because she was worried he would try to persuade her into his bed, but because she knew he wouldn’t. Seeing him again had made her realise just how much she had missed him. She must be even more of a fool than she’d thought because even though he was demanding proof that the baby was his she still ached for him to take her in his arms and stroke her hair, as he had often done during their heartbreakingly brief affair.

‘Charlie is expecting me. If you wouldn’t mind calling me a taxi, I’d like to go now.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Dante said roughly when he realised he could not force her to stay. ‘I’ll take you to your friend’s.’

‘You can’t; you’ve been drinking.’

She was right—the amount of whisky he’d downed meant that he could not get behind the wheel of a car. He controlled his impatience and fought the urge to pull her into his arms and tell her he believed the baby was his. His brain told him to wait for proof, and so he ignored what his heart was telling him.

‘My chauffeur will drive you to where you are staying,’ he said curtly, ‘and I’ll collect you in the morning.’

Rebekah’s parents’ farm was in Snowdonia National Park. If Dante had not had other things on his mind he would no doubt have admired the dramatic landscape of lush green valleys and rugged mountain peaks, the highest of which bore the first snowfall of the winter. But he was concentrating on driving along the tortuously twisting
lanes and whenever his mind wandered it returned inevitably to Rebekah and the baby she was carrying.

Was it only two days since she had turned up at his house in London and told him she was pregnant? It felt like a lifetime ago. He frowned at the memory of how pale and fragile she had looked when he had collected her from her friend’s house where she had spent the night, and driven her to the clinic for the prenatal paternity test to be done.

He had felt worried about her, especially as the dark circles beneath her eyes had been evidence that she had not slept.

‘Come and stay at the house for a few days while we wait for the results,’ he had urged her. But she had shaken her head.

‘I bought a return train ticket to Wales. I want to go home,’ she’d told him when he had started to argue. ‘I need to be with people who care about me. My family have been brilliant and I know that whatever happens I can count on their love and support.’

Had she been making a dig at him for his lack of support? She had been perfectly within her rights to, Dante acknowledged grimly. For the past two days he had thought about her constantly and he’d come to the conclusion that he should be shot for the appalling way he had treated her.

Yesterday he had phoned her, not really knowing what he wanted to say but aware that he needed to apologise. She had answered his queries about how she was feeling with a coolness that had been infuriating and worrying.

‘Obviously we will have to decide what will happen if the test proves the baby is mine,’ he had said and
had frowned when he realised how stilted he sounded. Her silence had rattled him. ‘There will be things to discuss—financial matters and so on.’ Once again his words hadn’t reflected what he really wanted to say. And he’d realised as he wiped beads of sweat from his brow that he was the biggest fool on the planet.

He forced himself to concentrate as the road narrowed to a muddy track, and a few moments later he swung the car through some iron gates and came to a halt outside a rather tired-looking grey stone farmhouse. The farmyard appeared deserted apart from a few chickens pecking in the mud. As he approached the house a dog began to bark. The front door looked as though it hadn’t been opened for years, but at the side of the house a door stood ajar and led into the kitchen.

No one came when he knocked, but he could hear voices talking in a language he had never heard before, which he presumed was Welsh. He supposed he should have phoned Rebekah to tell her he was coming, but he hadn’t because he wanted to catch her off guard, before she had a chance to erect the barriers he had sensed she’d put in place when he had spoken to her yesterday.

A cat wound through his legs as he walked across the kitchen. He hesitated for a second and then pushed open the door in front of him and stepped into a crowded room. At least a dozen people were sitting at a long dining table, and numerous children were seated around a smaller table. At the head of the main table sat a giant of a man, grey-haired with a weathered face, who he guessed was Rebekah’s father. Dante glanced at her brothers, all as huge as their father, but his eyes moved swiftly to Rebekah and he felt a sudden pain in his chest, as if an arrow had pierced between his ribs.

She was smiling, and for some reason that hurt him. He hadn’t felt like smiling since … since Tuscany, when she had made him laugh with her dry wit and atrociously bad jokes.

The sound of chatter slowly died as the people in the room became aware of a stranger in their midst. The suspicious stares from the army of Welshmen and their wives emphasised that he was an outsider.

Dante had a sudden flashback to when he had been ten years old, at boarding school. It had been the end of term and most of the boys were gathered in the quadrangle, waiting for their parents to collect them to take them home for the holidays. But his parents weren’t coming. His father had arranged for him to stay with the headmaster and his family for the Easter break. Staring out of a classroom window, he had felt detached from the other boys’ excitement. All his life he had never felt that he belonged anywhere.

He certainly did not belong here in this Welsh farmhouse. But Rebekah did. He could almost sense the invisible bonds that tied her closely to her family—a family that at this moment were unified in protecting her.

Her father made to stand up, but the younger man sitting beside him got to his feet first, saying, ‘I’ll deal with this,
Tada
.’

Rebekah’s smile had died on her lips and she was staring at him as if he had two heads. She scraped back her chair and, as she stood up, Dante felt a surge of emotion as his eyes were drawn to her rounded stomach. His child was growing inside her, his flesh and blood. He looked around the sea of faces all gazing warily at him
and he no longer cared if they regarded him as an outsider. Rebekah was carrying his baby and he was determined to convince her that he wanted to be a father.

‘S
IT
down, Beka,’ her brother ordered.

She threw him a sharp glance, her eyes flashing fire. ‘It’s my problem, Owen, and I’ll deal with it.’ Turning back to face Dante, she lifted her head proudly and shook back her long silky hair. ‘Why are you here?’

Since when had she viewed him as a
problem
? He felt a sudden fierce blaze of anger. How dared she speak to him in that coolly polite voice, as if he were a casual acquaintance rather than the man whose child’s heart beat within her? With great effort he swallowed his temper and said quietly, ‘We need to talk.’

One of the women seated at the table stood up. Rebekah’s mother was short and plump, her dark hair was threaded with silver strands but her violet-coloured eyes were sharp and bright. It occurred to Dante that the Evans women were formidable and he suspected that, for all their huge size, the men of the family would think twice about arguing with them.

‘You must be Mr Jarrell. I am Rowena Evans. This is my husband, Ifan—’ she waved a hand towards the other end of the table ‘—and our sons and their families. Our daughter you already know, of course,’ she said
calmly. ‘Rebekah will take you into the parlour so that you can talk in private.’

Rebekah knew better than to argue with her mother but her legs felt unsteady as she walked out of the room, and she was desperately conscious of Dante following closely behind her. He was the second shock she had received today, but not the worst, she thought, feeling a stab of fear as she remembered her hospital appointment earlier in the day. She ushered him into the parlour and closed the door, taking a deep breath before she turned to face him.

He was wearing a soft oatmeal-coloured sweater and faded jeans that hugged his lean hips. His dark Mediterranean looks seemed even more exotic here in Wales. He would certainly attract attention in the village, she thought wryly. But it was unlikely he had come to sample the delights of Rhoslaenau, which boasted a population of four hundred, a post office and a pub.

‘Would you like to sit down?’ She offered him the armchair by the fire, but when he shook his head she crossed her arms defensively in front of her. ‘Why are you here? I wasn’t expecting you.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘Have you had the results of the paternity test already? I thought we wouldn’t hear for a week.’

‘No, I haven’t had the results.’ Dante hesitated, uncharacteristically struggling to find the right words. ‘But I don’t need a test to confirm I am the baby’s father.’

Rebekah stared at him warily. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean I believe you,
cara
. I know the child you are carrying is mine.’

She bit her lip. ‘I understand why you would want proof. Anyone who had been deceived as you were by
your wife would feel the same way. I know you must find it hard to trust.’

He held her gaze steadily. ‘I trust you, Rebekah, and I’m here to discuss what we’re going to do now. How we can do the best for our child.’

His child—Dante felt a weird feeling inside: disbelief that he was going to be a father, but as the realisation sank in he felt awed and excited.

Rebekah’s words sent a chill down his spine.

‘You mentioned on the phone that you wanted to discuss financial matters. Please don’t feel obliged to give me money,’ she said with excruciating politeness. ‘My parents have been wonderful and have offered to support me and the baby until I can move to St Lucia to work at Gaspard Clavier’s new restaurant.’

Dante could not hide his shock. ‘You intend to take the baby to live in the Caribbean?’

‘Not immediately after it’s born. But Gaspard assures me it’s a wonderful place to live and bring up a child.’

On the way to Rebekah’s parents’ farm he had rehearsed what he planned to say to her but now he was groping for a response. He felt as if a rug had been pulled from beneath his feet. ‘And where do I feature in this wonderful new life you’re planning?’ he said harshly. ‘Do you expect me to allow you to take my child to the other side of the world where I can have no part in its life?’

‘Allow?’ She gave an angry laugh. ‘You have no right to tell me where I can or can’t live. To be frank, I hadn’t anticipated you would want anything to do with our child. That’s the impression you gave when I told you of my pregnancy. But if you insist on some sort of contact I imagine you know more about access rights than I do.’

Contact and access rights were surely the ugliest words in the English vocabulary, Dante thought bleakly. He could not think rationally and his words were torn from his heart. ‘I’ll be damned if I’ll let you take my baby away from me to St Lucia.’

Rebekah was startled by the raw emotion in Dante’s voice. He spoke about the baby as if he cared about the new life inside her, as if it was a real little person to him, as it was to her. She swallowed the lump in her throat. Maybe he did care for their child even if he did not care about her.

‘It’s a boy,’ she told him huskily. ‘They asked me at my ultrasound scan if I wanted to know the sex of the baby.’

Originally she had intended not to find out, but when the scan had revealed a possible problem she had wanted every scrap of information she could get.

He was going to have a son! Fierce joy surged through Dante. ‘If you had told me the date of your appointment I would have made sure I was here,’ he said curtly, unable to hide his disappointment that he had missed the special moment of seeing his baby for the first time.

‘I didn’t realise you would want to.’ Rebekah bit her lip. ‘You are under no obligation to be part of this. I’ll manage perfectly well if you decide to have nothing to do with the baby. He will be born into a big, loving family.’ A tremor shook her voice as she offered a silent prayer that her son
would
be born safe and well in a few months’ time. ‘My parents will adore him, he’ll have cousins to play with and as I have seven brothers, he’ll have plenty of male influence.’

In other words,
he
wasn’t needed, Dante thought grimly. He was the father of Rebekah’s child but she
did not consider it necessary for him to play a role in his son’s life.

He recalled how he had looked around the table at all her relatives and sensed the close bond between them. Something hardened inside him as he had a sudden stark image of the future and him arriving at the farmhouse to visit his son. Would his little boy stare at him warily and regard him as an outsider who did not belong to the tight-knit Welsh family?

Pain burned in his chest.
No
, he would not let it happen. His son belonged with him, as well as with his mother.

‘There’s no chance I will simply walk away and allow my child to be brought up here with your family, however well meaning they are. I want my son, and I will go to any lengths to claim my role as his father.’

He exhaled heavily. ‘When you came to see me in London I was shocked about your pregnancy and I reacted badly. I’m sorry,’ he said gruffly. ‘I accept the baby is mine and I want to take care of you and our child.’ He took a swift breath, conscious that his heart was beating painfully hard. He had barely slept for the past two nights as he had debated what to do, and he had concluded that only one solution made sense. ‘I want to marry you, Rebekah.’

If only he did truly want her, Rebekah thought emotionally. Fool that she was, his words had evoked a fierce longing to accept his proposal. But she was not so naïve that she did not understand why he had suddenly decided that marrying her was a good idea.

‘The only reason you want to marry me is because of the legal implications regarding the baby. Let’s face it, you specialise in Family Law and you know you will
have equal parental rights if we are married,’ she said curtly.

He did not deny it, but the flare of colour along his cheekbones told her she had guessed right. She stared at the flickering flames in the grate and willed the tears blurring her eyes not to fall.

‘I realise we will have to make arrangements about how we can share bringing up our son—if you are certain you want to be part of his life. But I can’t think about that now. There … there’s something you should know.’ She hugged her arms tighter around her. ‘The scan revealed there might be a problem with the baby’s heart.’

Dante felt his own heart drop like a stone. ‘What kind of problem?’

‘I don’t know—something to do with a possible defect with a heart valve. The consultant at my local hospital is trying to organise for me to have a more detailed scan at a better equipped hospital in Cardiff, but it probably won’t be until the middle of next week.

‘Oh, Dante!’ Rebekah’s voice shook, the nameless dread that had swamped her since her hospital visit suddenly shattering her determination to remain calm. ‘I’m so worried.’

Dante’s stomach clenched when he saw the strain etched onto her face. He knew she was thinking of the child she had lost, who had died inside her and been stillborn. He strode towards her and pulled her into his arms, holding her tight as he felt her tremble uncontrollably. ‘You should have called me the minute you knew. I would have come immediately.’

‘I only found out this morning. I haven’t told my family. My parents have been through enough with my
father’s accident.’ She stared at Dante as he pulled out his phone. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I have a friend in London who is a cardiologist. I’ll call him and tell him we need an urgent appointment. The sooner we find out if there is a problem, the better—don’t you agree?’

‘Yes, but it’s Friday afternoon. He won’t be able to see us before Monday.’ It was only two days, Rebekah reminded herself. But the thought of waiting and worrying all over the weekend was unbearable.

‘James will see you as soon as we reach London.’ Dante’s voice softened when he saw the tears in her eyes. ‘Try to keep calm. I’ll take care of everything,
cara
.’

Dante was as good as his word. His jet was waiting at Manchester Airport and within a few hours they were in London. They had an appointment at the hospital, where his friend James Burton was a consultant cardiologist, first thing the following morning. It was strange to be back in the staff apartment she had occupied when she had been Dante’s cook, Rebekah thought as she climbed into bed. It had been equally strange that Dante had cooked her dinner.

‘You’re dead on your feet,’ he’d said when she had offered to cook. ‘Go and sit down while I make you something to eat. Just don’t expect miracles,’ he’d added with a wry smile that for some reason had made her want to burst into tears.

In fact the herb omelette he served was delicious, and after they’d eaten they watched a couple of TV programmes, which helped to occupy her mind for a while. To her surprise, they slipped into their old companionship that reminded her of the month they had spent in Tuscany, and she wished they could turn back the clock
to those golden days when they had been friends as well as lovers.

Worrying about the baby meant that Rebekah barely slept that night and she was pale and tense the next morning when she lay on the couch in the hospital room while a more detailed scan was carried out. James Burton’s calm manner was reassuring, but as the minutes ticked by and he continued to study the baby’s heart on the screen, Rebekah could not hide her fear.

She remembered when she’d had a scan during her first pregnancy, the nurse had grown quiet and had called for a doctor, who had broken the news to her that her baby was dead.

Panic surged through her. ‘There’s something wrong, isn’t there?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid there is,’ James said gently.

Terrified, she gripped Dante’s hand and felt him squeeze her fingers. His expression was shuttered, but she sensed his grim tension.

‘What exactly is the problem?’ he asked.

‘Your son has a partial atrial septal defect, which is sometimes known as a hole in the heart. It is a treatable condition, but the baby will require heart surgery, probably when he is a few months old—’ the consultant hesitated ‘—but possibly sooner after birth, depending on his condition.’

Rebekah swallowed hard. ‘Could … could he die?’

‘My medical team will do everything possible to help him.’ James’s expression was gravely sympathetic. ‘But I would be lying if I said there was no risk.’ He studied Rebekah’s ashen face and glanced at Dante. ‘While Rebekah gets dressed, why don’t we go into my office and I’ll give you as much information as I can?’

Dante felt numb. He moved like an automaton, and once inside James’s office he sank onto a chair and dropped his head into his hands. In his mind he could see the scan image of his son. Although the image had been grainy, he’d seen that the baby was already fully formed, right down to ten tiny fingers and toes, and Dante had wanted to touch the screen, as if he could somehow make contact with his unborn child.
Dio
, he had been so concerned with demanding his paternal rights. But now there was no certainty that he would have a child. He felt an agonising pain like a red-hot knife skewering his stomach as the realisation sunk in that his son’s life was in danger and there was nothing he could do to help him.

He swallowed the shot of brandy James handed him and concentrated hard on the medical information regarding the baby’s heart problem so that he could explain it all to Rebekah later. What must she be thinking? He recalled the stark fear in her eyes as the cardiologist had broken the news of the baby’s heart condition. Slamming his glass down on the desk, he jerked to his feet.

‘I have to see Rebekah,’ he said raggedly. ‘I need to be with her.’

‘Take it easy, old man.’ James put a hand on his shoulder and steered him over to a door at the back of the office that led to a small private garden. ‘Have five minutes to calm down. You’re going to need to be strong for her.’

Rebekah still had a door key to Dante’s house, which she used to let herself in. He wasn’t at home, but she hadn’t really expected him to be. When she had walked
out of the changing cubicle after the scan she’d walked up and down the corridor, searching for him. Eventually she had gone back and asked James Burton’s secretary if she knew where he had gone.