Cold pours through my veins, icy as snow melt, because of course I know.
It’s Santiago Veracruz. Who else could it possibly be?
He called me out of the blue yesterday, telling me he knew about the pregnancy, and, though he didn’t answer my question when, struggling to conceal my shock, I asked him who’d told him, I knew all the same. Sofia, the housekeeper who’s worked for the Veracruz family for years and doesn’t like me, must have passed it on. Not that I’ve done anything to her, but she’s been deeply suspicious of me since I married Antonio and has remained so.
I don’t blame her, considering all the rumours about me—gold digger taking advantage of a poor old man et cetera. But she didn’t know the truth about Antonio and me, that we had an agreement and one that Antonio didn’t want known. Like most Spanish men, he wanted everyone to think that he was virile enough to snare a pretty, young woman, and, since I needed his money, I went along with it.
But I’m tired of the constant stream of hate that flows in my direction, and the last few weeks I’ve been feeling so sick that I don’t have the emotional energy to confront her about it. I don’t have the energy to confront Santiago, either, and that’s no one’s fault but my own.
If I were a better liar he’d have believed me when I told him the baby was Antonio’s. If I were a better liar I wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. I’d have shoved him away that day in the church before he could get any closer to me, but…
I didn’t. Antonio never managed to perform in bed—Santiago was right about that—so of course the baby isn’t his. And here I am, pregnant with Santiago’s child and that’s my fault. What I was afraid of happening, did happen. He overwhelmed my self-control so completely I didn’t even think about stopping him, or about protection either. So when I first started feeling sick in the mornings and more tired than usual, a pregnancy didn’t even occur to me.
Soon, though, it became clear that it wasn’t the flu, that it was more than that, and an appointment with the village doctor soon proved it. The timing is terrible and the father being who he is makes things even worse, but even so, as soon as I found out, I knew I’d be keeping the baby. There was never going to be any other decision for me.
My birth mother died having me and my birth father put me into foster care almost as soon as I was born, so I have no family. But this baby is my blood, the only blood I have, and I want it with every breath in me. We’ll be a family together, and now I have a home, we’ll also have a place to belong.
The Veracruz estate, with its orange groves, whitewashed hacienda, rolling lawns, and village just down the road, will be that place. No cheap, mouldy, mildewed flats or bedsits too small to even turn around in. No couches of casual acquaintances when the rent money runs out, or food banks when the food money runs out too.
My child will have this beautiful house to call home, and they’ll be brought up speaking Spanish, and they’ll make friends with all the kids in the village. They’ll never be alone the way I was alone
I don’t want Santiago to be part of that, though, which isn’t very sympathetic of me, and I know that. But I’m sure that if he ever finds out that the child is his, he’ll take it away from me. Which is why I can’t take that paternity test he demanded, because the results will make it very clear he’s the father. And I can’t let him find out. This child is mine and I’m keeping it. When the child is older, I’ll tell him or her who their father is, but not until later. Much, much later.
Out on the lawn, the helicopter settles on the grass, then the door opens, and a very tall man leaps out. He strides across the lawn in the direction of the hacienda, and yes, there’s no mistaking him. It’s Santiago and he’s no doubt here to demand that paternity test he mentioned on the phone yesterday.
I suppose he has a right to ask for one, but I have no idea why he’d even care if the child is his or not. Family’s clearly not that important to him or else he and Antonio would have made up long ago—not that Antonio gave me any real details about why he seemed to hate his son so much. He only ever said that that Santiago was cold, heartless, and a terrible son, and that he would never forgive him for ‘what he did’. Whatever that was. I didn’t press, since it seemed to be a sensitive topic, and I didn’t want to get involved anyway.
Certainly, Antonio was right about one thing: Santiagoiscold and heartless, and I’m dreading seeing him again.
I take a steadying breath, and try to find my usual icy mask. My heartbeat is racing, but I ignore it as I sit myself down on one of the salon’s deep, comfortable sofas. Pulling a magazine from the coffee table in front of me into my lap, I leaf through it as if I’ve been sitting here for hours peacefully reading. So when the doors open and Santiago strides in, I’m more than calm. More than ready to deal with him.
Except then I look up, and I realise that I’m not ready to deal with him at all, because he’s in a suit of midnight blue, his shirt black, his tie a splash of crimson, and the room is full of the force of his electric presence.
His black eyes pin me to the sofa cushions, and for a moment all I can think about are those desperate minutes four months earlier in the church. When his hand gripped my throat as he pushed inside me, his hot mouth devouring me even as I tried to devour him. All that heat and hunger overwhelming us both.
He’s thinking the same thing, too, I can tell, because his dark gaze loses its chill, turning into a blaze of heat that sears me all the way through.
Antoniowasn’tright. He’s not cold at all.
‘Miss Morgan,’ he says with icy formality, his voice betraying none of the heat in his gaze.
‘Mr Veracruz,’ I reply in the same tone, trying to ignore the thunder of my heart and the flames in his eyes. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘You know why I’m here. Let’s not play this game.’
I glance down at the magazine in my lap and turn the page slowly, taking my time so my hands don’t shake. ‘I presume this has something to do with the conversation we had yesterday?’
‘Yes.’ The word is sharply bitten off.
I turn another page. ‘And I suppose you want—’
Except I don’t get to finish as the magazine is abruptly jerked from my fingers. ‘Excuse me?’ I demand in outrage, looking up at him and forgetting that I’m supposed to be cool and calm. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
Santiago throws the magazine back onto the coffee table and folds his arms across his broad chest. He’s standing right in front of me now, towering over me the way he likes to do, and I realise I made a mistake in sitting down. ‘The paternity test,’ he snaps. ‘I want it done.’
I swallow and fold my hands in my lap, trying not to let him get to me. ‘If you recall,’ I say coolly, ‘I told you to go to hell.’
‘That is not an option.’ His expression is like granite, no give in it whatsoever. ‘If there is the slightest chance that the baby is mine, I want to know about it.’
