‘Yes. Any eagle-eyed observer would spot it—and there are hundreds of those out there.’

‘I know. And once word gets out everyone will want to know who the father is—and I won’t know what to say.’

‘But you do know who the father is!’

‘And think of the questions if we tell them! Are we getting back together? And if we aren’t then why am I pregnant by you? Or what about the worst-case scenario? Some sleazy journalist bribing someone at the hospital to get my due-date! Then they could work it back to the Cannes Festival—and I’ll bet that at least one of the staff at the hotel could be bribed into giving them a story that we came out of the lift in a state of partial undress! Can you imagine the scoop that would provide?’

‘Jenny—’

She shook her head. ‘Or, if we don’t tell them, then the questions and conjecture will be even worse! Every single man I’ve so much as said good morning to will come under intense scrutiny! There will be all kinds of tasteless headlines—Who Is The Father Of Jennifer’s Love-Child?

‘Jenny, Jenny, aren’t you getting a little carried away?’

‘Am I?’ Her blue eyes were clear and defiant. ‘Think about it, Matt—is it really such an incredible idea?’

And that was the worst of it—he could see it, quite plainly, as if someone was playing a film inside his head. In a way, fame robbed you of simple humanity. They had become things—to be dissected and picked over. He shook his head and his eyes were clouded with a bleak kind of sadness. ‘And I brought you into this crazy world of showbiz,’ he said huskily. ‘What kind of a lover would do that?’

A few months ago she might have agreed with him, but so much had changed—and not just the baby. Though maybe because of the baby. And it was all to do with responsibility—acknowledging it and accepting it. It took two to do everything in a relationship—to fall in love and then to wreck it. You couldn’t place the blame on one person’s shoulders.

She shook her head. ‘Oh, Matt—that’s not what I’m saying! You didn’t frogmarch me into the studios with a gun at my head, did you? I wanted fame, too. I saw what you had and I wanted it with a hunger which sometimes frightened me—but not enough to stop me! But none of that’s important. Not now—we can’t change the past. But I don’t want any more pressure—because that will put pressure on the baby.’ She looked at him with an appeal in her eyes. ‘Just what kind of story are we going to give the press?’

He swore in Italian, getting up to pace up and down the polished oak floors of a flat in which he had slept for barely more than a dozen nights in the two years he’d owned it—he, a man who’d grown up in a cramped tenement building in New York? How crazy was that?

‘Why should the press be our first consideration?’ he exploded.

And, in spite of everything, Jennifer’s lips curved into a rueful smile. ‘That’s like asking why the grass is green!’

He let out a pent-up sigh and went to look out of the window. Below lay Hyde Park in all its glory. Joggers moved along the paths and mothers and nannies strolled with pushchairs beneath trees which were beginning to be touched with autumn gold. Soon winter would arrive. The London streets would be washed with rain or dusted with frost or even—if they were very lucky—heaped with snow.

And Jennifer might trip and fall!

He turned round. ‘Have you told your mother?’

‘Are you kidding?’

‘Don’t you think you should?’

‘Why? The first thing she’ll do is think that being a grandmother is going to make her sound old. And the second will be to give me a hard time over the damage this is going to do to my career.’

‘She hates me,’ he observed.

‘She hates all men, Matt, not just you. Ever since my father walked out her view of the world has been distorted.’

It occurred to him that Mrs Warren had influenced her daughter more than Jennifer had perhaps ever acknowledged. Had she learned at her mother’s knee that all men were inherently unfaithful? Was that why she had always been so suspicious of him? Only now could he see—too late—that maybe he should have sat down and talked about it with her instead of becoming increasingly frustrated at her lack of trust and her willingness to believe the rumours instead of listening to him.

‘You’re going to have to tell her some time.’

Jennifer briefly closed her eyes. ‘I know I am. Just not yet. If we think outside interest would be intrusive, then just imagine…’

Matt shuddered. ‘I would rather not.’

It occurred to him that the two of them had not spoken with such ease for a long time. And that was good, he told himself. Jenny was right—they could not change what had happened, and in the conventional sense their relationship was over. But civility between them must be maintained. He had wanted that before, but in view of the baby it had now became imperative.

‘Shall we go to Pantelleria?’ he asked softly. ‘To the dammuso? We could both do with a little rest and recuperation.’ His eyes narrowed as they took in her pinched face and pale skin. ‘Particularly you,’ he added.

Her mouth suddenly dried, but only her attitude of mind could save her from plunging into regret. For surely Matteo’s suggestion made sense? A place which she knew offered refuge and peace. Possibly the only such place in the world—at least for them.

Pantelleria—the black pearl of the Mediterranean. The beautiful island where they had spent their honeymoon. Where wild flowers bloomed and rare birds visited.

There, Matteo owned a simple square white house built of volcanic stone, with shallow domes and thick white walls which stayed deliciously cool in summer. She remembered them lying together in bed on the last morning of their honeymoon and vowing to return as often as they could. But of course that had been one of many promises broken by a lack of that most precious commodity…time.

And nothing had changed there.

She stared at him blankly. ‘How can we? I’ve got two films lined up.’

Matteo shrugged. ‘Cancel them.’

‘I can’t do that!’

His black eyes glinted. ‘Can’t? Or won’t?’ he challenged softly. ‘What’s more important to you—your work or your marriage?’

‘I notice you’re not offering to do the same!’

‘Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, Jenny.’ He gave a brief, hard smile and his eyes were as brittle as jet. ‘If I have to cancel a couple of films to take this course of action, then so be it.’

It was like seeing a side of Matteo she’d never seen before—it was certainly the first time she’d ever seen a chink in the tough armour of his ambition, and Jennifer was momentarily taken aback. ‘You’d risk your career?’ she whispered. She nearly added for me, until she reminded herself that it wasn’t for her—but for their baby. And what was wrong with that?

‘My career will always pick up,’ he said arrogantly. ‘But films can wait. This can’t,’ he finished, with another shrug of his broad shoulders.

Jennifer knew that despite his almost careless air this was a supreme sacrifice for Matteo. He had made films almost back to back ever since she’d known him—and way before that. As if he was frightened of stepping off the merry-go-round of successful work which bred still more work.

And now that it had become a real possibility—instead of a throwaway remark—Jennifer could see the sense in Matteo’s suggestion that they escape together, to a place which she could see might act like a balm on their troubled spirits.

The island lay halfway between Africa and Sicily—where Matteo’s ancestors had come from and where secret-keeping was legendary, taught from the cradle. On Pantelleria Matteo wielded the influence of his birthright, not that of the fickle fame brought about by celluloid.

They had been happy there—and part of her wanted to hang on to those precious memories and leave them intact.