‘Listen to me,’ she continues. ‘I have something to tell you.’
I fold my arms, continuing to stare down at her, watching her face for what, I don’t know.
‘I…can’t spend Christmas with you,’ she says and, though she sounds calm, there’s a slight catch in her voice.
It hits me then that, while I know what she means to her brother, I don’t know what he means to her. Obviously she loves him, but she sounds a little…upset.
It’s Christmas Day, you bastard. Don’t you think she might have feelings about being separated from her only family?
‘No,’ she says. ‘I’m not in any danger. So you can stand down the battle stations.’
A whisper of unfamiliar shame ghosts through me. I have never cared about other people’s feelings. Since my parents’ deaths I’ve let no one matter enough for me to care, but now I feel some discomfort at the thought of her being alone on Christmas Day, with only me for company.
‘Look, I really am safe, Ulysses. I’m not in danger at all. I just…can’t come to you right now.’ Her amber gaze flickers in my direction. ‘I’ve got a few things to sort out.’
I study her again, my discomfort growing. She’s wearing the only dress she has, her hair a mess, the little round bump of her stomach making her seem even smaller and more delicate, and I’ve torn her away from her family. I, of all people, know the pain of that so intimately and yet I’ve done to her what her brother did to me and that’s…not a good feeling.
‘I know, I know.’ She sighs then mutters something filthy. ‘I didn’t want to have to tell you like this.’ Her hand comes to rest gently on her stomach ‘No. I’m not going to tell you where I am or who I’m with, because then you’ll start looking for me, and I don’t need that drama, okay?’
That distracts me from my discomfort. So she’s not going to tell him where she is? Interesting. I wonder why she doesn’t want him looking for her, because she sure as hell doesn’t want to be here with me.
There is a pause and I can hear his voice, deep and furious down the other end of the line. ‘Ulysses,’ she says cutting into his tirade. ‘I’m pregnant.’
She told me he didn’t know and I’m pleased that he didn’t. That I knew before he did.
‘You’re going to be an uncle,’ she continues, a husk in her voice, her fingers spreading protectively over her bump. ‘It’s early days, but I wanted you to know, and I didn’t want you to worry about me. I’m with the father and I’m safe, but please, please, don’t come looking for me.’
‘Enough,’ I snap, tired of the conversation and the faint threads of emotion in her voice that are making me feel things I don’t want to feel. ‘Give the phone to me.’
She glares at me angrily. ‘I haven’t finished.’
‘I don’t care.’ I snatch the phone from her hand. ‘She’s with me, Zakynthos,’ I growl down the phone. ‘Rafael Santangelo. And I’m the father of her child. Merry Christmas, motherfucker.’ Then I hit the end button.
‘Why did you give him your name?’ she demands. ‘He’ll find you, you know. You won’t be able to escape him.’
‘What do you care?’ I fire back. ‘Don’t you want him to rescue you?’
Her gaze flickers, the fire of her temper blazing high. ‘Rescue me?’ she echoes, as if she’s never heard of anything so ridiculous. ‘I’m not Rapunzel, Rafael. I don’t need any rescuing.’
Looking at her, all hot temper and cold steel, I can well believe it. She might seem a fragile, delicate flower, but this rose has sharp thorns and she’s not afraid to use them.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘You’re not Rapunzel, but I’m not a man easily frightened. I can handle your brother. I told him who I was because I wanted him to know that I’m the father of his niece or nephew.’
‘Why?’ Her gaze is searching. ‘He sometimes talks about his business, but I’m pretty sure he’s never mentioned your name.’
He wouldn’t. He doesn’t know I exist. The demise of my family’s company meant nothing to him. Just another small company crushed beneath the weight of a multinational conglomerate, and who cares about the human cost? Who cares about the consequences to the people whose lives are ripped apart by it?
‘And that’s why.’ I can’t keep the relish out of my tone. ‘I want him to know who took you and who’ll eventually own his fucking company.’
‘Excuse me,’ she says coolly, drawing herself up. ‘Iwill eventually own his fucking company.’
‘No, you won’t. Not after you marry me.’
‘But I’m not going to marry you,’ she disagrees, oh, so calmly.
I stare at her. ‘You said you would. You agreed to—’
‘I lied.’ Her amber eyes are challenging and it strikes me suddenly that by rights she should be afraid. I’ve taken her away from her brother, from the only home she’s ever known, and now she’s hundreds of miles away from him and from safety. Yet there’s no fear in her eyes, only challenge, and something hot and raw rises inside me.
