“Who the fuck did you think I was talking about?”
“My grandfather.”
He blinks. “Tom? Why would I be talking about Tom?”
“I don’t know. Why are you talking about Peter?”
“Fuck me. Because he’s the father!”
“No he’s not.” I say it softly. “You are.”
This time, it’s his jaw that almost hits his chest. “What?!”
Everything becomes clear. His fury. His confusion. His hurt. He thought Peter was the father. He thought I was pregnant by another man when we went to Blackridge.
“The baby’s yours,” I confirm quietly.
His chest heaves again. “Well, isn’t that convenient?”
“What do you mean?”
“Claiming you were on the pill so I didn’t use a condom. Was your plan to get pregnant all along?”
Jesus, he thinks it happened at the cottage. How dense are these men? Fury billows through me at the implication that I let him fertilize me so I could trap him for the company.
I roll my eyes. “You didn’t make me pregnant at Blackridge. I said I was on the pill and you didn’t need to use a condom because I wasalreadypregnant. Christ, I thought you were a scientist. If I only ovulated at the weekend, I wouldn’t know I was pregnant yet. I’m ten weeks pregnant. It happened at the ball.”
He stares at me again. “I used a condom.”
I shrug. “Condoms break.”
“I don’t believe you.” His gaze hardens. “I think you were already pregnant by your ex, and you’re trying to blame it on me. That’s why you lied to me about your identity. You knew you were pregnant, and you saw it as the perfect opportunity to trap me. What were you going to do, blackmail me?”
“What? Why would I blackmail you? You’re not making any sense.” I’m getting frustrated now. “The dating scan lines up with the ball.”
“Sperm can survive for up to five days. It could still be your ex’s.”
My eyes sting. He’s desperate to get out of being the father. “The last time I had sex with Peter was on his birthday,” I whisper. “The second of December. Before my last period. We didn’t sleep together again after that.”
I turn to my purse, open it, and fumble inside for the piece of paper I carry around with me. I take out the black-and-white photo and hold it out in front of me, facing him. “This was taken at the scan two weeks ago. The embryo is eight weeks old. My Little Raspberry.” I swallow, look at the photo, and touch a little white spot with a finger. “That’s its heartbeat.”
Caesar stares at the photo for a long time. Then he looks back at me. “It doesn’t prove anything.”
I lower it slowly. Emotion washes over me, and I have to fight not to dissolve into tears. “I didn’t get pregnant on purpose,” I say in a low voice. “This is as inconvenient for meas it is for you. I wasn’t trying to trap you into anything. I wasn’t even sure I was going to tell you. At Blackridge, I was still deciding whether to keep it. I made that decision on the spur of the moment, at a family meeting yesterday, and it just came out.”
He studies me, his expression hard. Then he says, “I don’t believe you.”
My chin quivers. “Well, fuck you.”
“You’ve lied to me consistently,” he states, stabbing a finger in my direction. “About knowing who I was at the ball, about being pregnant at Blackridge, about sending the text to Tom… I have no idea if any of the words coming out of your mouth are true.”
I get to my feet. I need him to leave before I have a complete meltdown. “Frankly, my dear Caesar, I don’t give a damn. Think of it as if you were a sperm donor, the way you were going to be with Wren. I’m keeping this baby, and you don’t have to be involved at all.”
“I want a DNA test,” he demands.
Fuck, that stings. He really doesn’t trust me. “Absolutely not. I’m not risking the pregnancy for your peace of mind.”
“They can do a non-invasive test just by taking a blood draw from you. They’ll compare the baby’s DNA found in your blood to a cheek swab from me.”
