You’re givinghima chance by trusting him not to take the baby away.
I don’t trust him. I trust his word, that’s all. And if he betrays that trust? I’ll fight him with everything I have.
The helicopter lands on a helipad in the inner city, and from there Santiago whisks me into a car that takes us through Paris’s ancient, winding streets. Fifteen minutes later the car turns into the gated courtyard of a magnificent old mansion with a walled garden. Once we’re parked we get out, and Santiago ushers me into the house.
It’s breathtakingly beautiful inside. The golden-brown parquet floors have been worn by the constant tread of people over hundreds of years, and there’s a beautiful staircase that curves elegantly up to the second floor. Chandeliers sparkle with light from the setting sun, casting glitters of pink and gold along the white walls, the same colours echoing in the silken rugs that cover the floors.
Santiago leaves me in the care of a housekeeper, whom he introduces as Helene, who then shows me into a pretty sitting room that looks over the garden outside. It’s so peaceful-looking, you’d never know you were in the middle of a city. There are pots full of flowers and herbs, and green lawns and hedges, plus an elegant pond with a fountain, as well as a couple of large oaks.
The sitting room itself has white walls, with gilded moulding around the doors and windows. The furniture, too, is delicate and white, with pops of gilt and gold in the cushions scattered on the sofa and window seat. It feels almost feminine and a strange decor choice for a man like Santiago, who is so very…masculine in all ways.
After a moment or two of looking around, I sit down on the cushioned and very pleasant window seat and prepare myself. I’m going to need every ounce of will I possess to face what’s to come, both from the results of this test and from my promise to him.
A shiver whispers over my skin, my body already softening at the thought of being in his bed, the ache between my legs deepening. It’s been four months since those frantic moments with him in the church, and, as much as I’m loath to admit it to myself, I’ve been dreaming about them. Thinking about them. Going over and over them as I lie in my lonely bed at night, and itislonely. Antonio and I slept in separate beds, because he had health issues that required him getting up in the middle of the night, and he didn’t want to disturb me. I was more than happy with that, since I didn’t want to be disturbed either. I never felt lonely in my bed before Santiago, but I felt it in those months after Antonio’s funeral, and it galls me that, even now, all I can think about is him.
Perhaps he’s right, though. Perhaps a physical affair with him is what we need to finally get each other out of our systems.
And then where will you be?
I push the thought away. I can’t think about that now. What I have to get through first is him finding out that he really is the father of my baby, and what demands he’ll make of me. Because if there’s one thing Idoknow about Santiago Veracruz, it’s that hewillmake demands. In which case I need to have a response ready.
I’ve only been sitting here for five minutes when the door opens and Santiago strides in, followed by another man carrying a small medical bag.
I steel myself, my hands gripped tightly together in my lap.
Santiago’s black gaze finds mine instantly. ‘This is Dr Dubois,’ he says, gesturing at the man. ‘He’s already done a cheek swab for me. Now it’s your turn to provide a blood sample.’
I nod, giving the doctor a polite smile as he comes over to the window seat and takes some equipment from his bag. Within a few minutes he takes a sample of my blood, and once that’s done he says something in French to Santiago, who nods. Then the doctor leaves the room.
‘The results will be available in a couple of hours.’ Santiago’s black stare pins me to the window seat. ‘I have my own lab and assistants, naturally.’
Of course he does. Not that I’d expect anything less.
Once again, though, the room feels too small with him in it and more than anything it’s making me want to escape. To run out of the door and lose myself in the streets of Paris, far away from his maddening, demanding, inciting presence. But that would be letting him win, and I can’t give him the satisfaction. I won’t. Besides, even if I did run, he’d probably track me down and find me, and anyway, I have a baby to think of now. We’ll be a family, my child and I. The family I used to dream about having during those long, lonely years in foster care, yet never had. And this time I’ll be the one choosing who gets to be in that family. I will never have to suffer not being chosen again.
So instead of running, I make a show of sitting here calmly, ready for any eventuality. ‘So, what would you like to do while we wait?’ I ask. ‘Shall I take my clothes off for you now or later?’
Chapter Eight
Santiago
She’s the verypicture of self-possession as she sits in the window seat, so very cool, so very calm. The sunset casts rays of pink and orange light through the window, making her hair gleam like spun gold as it falls over her shoulders and making her skin seem almost pearlescent. She looks like a stained-glass window, glowing with colour and light.
I want to tell her that yes, she should take her clothes off for me right now, but, since she’s expecting me to say that, I won’t. I can’t have her be so calm, not when I’m pushed to the limit.
The trip from Spain was long, and Beatrix sitting next to me in the helicopter the whole time was unbearable. She said nothing, while I tried to concentrate on a research report—‘tried’ being the operative word.
Science has always been my escape, where logic and facts rule. It’s real, tangible, and when I’m working on my research, nothing else matters. But I couldn’t concentrate on the report, no matter how hard I tried, because she was right there. Smelling of flowers, her body radiating the kind of soft, feminine heat that I find utterly irresistible. Every so often I’d find myself glancing at her, studying her undeniably beautiful face, wondering what was going on in that pretty head of hers, which is something I almost never think about, since I don’t care what goes on in other people’s heads. It’s what they do that matters to me more than what they think.
But not with her. It’s maddening. I don’t understand why she’s different, since it’s not something I’ve ever thought about with any of my other lovers.
Perhaps it’s because she’ll be the mother of my child, and I need to know what kind of mother she’ll be. Money is important to her—that’s why she married my father—and I could assume she’ll be just as mercenary about motherhood. Then again, she was adamant that she wanted to keep the baby, going so far as to extract a promise that I wouldn’t take it away from her, so it’s clear she feels very strongly about it.
I admire that strength of feeling in her, as much as I hate to admit it. A mothershouldfeel strongly about her child. Parents in general should put their child first, regardless of their own wants and needs. I’m not here for anyone’s selfishness, not after my own upbringing, and my father’s masterclass in being a self-centred bastard is not something I’m going to emulate.
Yet how I’m going to raise my own child once it’s born is a question I’ll have to think about later, once the results of the test come back and I have all the facts at hand. For now, I have my father’s widow to manage.
She’s waiting for me to reply, her hands clasped in her lap, the very picture of serenity. But she’s not as serene as she likes to make out, not when her knuckles are so white.
