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She waved her hand in front of her face again. ‘There’s not really anything to talk about. Short of waiting out the next six to seven months, there’s nothing you or I can do about this.’

He narrowed his eyes, raking his gaze over her face, trying to understand if she was truly that naïve.

‘I know you know who I am.’

Her lips parted, and her expression betrayed something like caution. ‘Yes. No thanks to you.’

‘I didn’t lie to you.’

‘You didn’t tell me the truth, either.’

‘I don’t remember you using your full name.’

‘I’m not a Carrigan. My last name doesn’t mean anything.’

Her cheeks were pink, and the sun was high overhead. ‘Come back to the house. You’re going to burn to a cinder here.’

‘I’m fine.’

Irritation had his voice deepening. He took one step behind her, reached into the car and removed her keys, shoving them into his pockets.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked, indignant.

‘Taking you back so we can talk.’

Her lips parted. ‘I can drive myself. If I was going to come to the house, which I haven’t agreed to do.’

‘You can’t seriously think I’d trust you to follow me back, after you’ve just tried to leave the country without telling me?’

‘I beg your pardon. That’s a ridiculous misconstruction of this situation.’

‘Is it? How so?’ He crossed his arms, staring down at her, feeling a rush of something a hell of a lot like desire. Even then, arguing with her, his blood was throbbing through him, making him very aware of her as a woman.

‘I came all the way out here specifically to tell you. I could have flown home and sent you an email or whatever, but I didn’t. I thought this was the kind of thing better done face to face. Clearly, I need my head read.’

He hated that she was right. That she’d been right all along and he’d been the one who’d messed this up, who’d very nearly lost a chance to be in this baby’s life. At least, to be a part of it from the beginning.

‘You’re angry with me.’

She tilted her head in unspoken agreement.

‘I was rude to you, at the house.’ He hesitated, knowing someone else might apologise here. But Hunt Carrigan had taught his children, again and again, never to show that weakness. Never to admit fault. Whether with the force of his hand, the sting of his belt, or the vibrating rage of his screaming fits, they’d learned it quickly enough. ‘Come back and let’s start over.’

Apology or not, he could see that his concession had done something to soften her, but she quickly rallied, shaking her head once.

‘It’s not necessary. I’ve got a long journey; I’d prefer to get on my way.’

When he was nine, his older brother, Rex, had tricked their driver into thinking Tate had already been collected from school by a friend, to be taken home for the weekend. It hadn’t been true. Tate had been left sitting outside, waiting for a car that had never come. He’d been too proud to go back into the office to ask for help, so he’d hidden behind a tree until the staff had left, and then he’d gone back to wait, sure that someone would come for him.

It was after ten when the car had pulled up, and by the time he’d reached their city penthouse, Rex had been furious with Tate—for the punishment he’d been given when the truth had been discovered.

Tate had been scared, and then he’d been hurt. He’d felt alone and unwanted, the hallmarks of his childhood, for such a long time.

He didn’t know enough about this woman to know if he could trust her or not, but he knew he would never allow his child to be raised by anyone but him. He would never allow his child to feel, for even one moment, that they were not wanted. That they were not safe.

‘I barely know you,’ he said thoughtfully, eyes locked to hers, so he saw the wariness that stole over her features.

‘True.’