CHAPTER THREE
‘SIT DOWN.’
It was a definite command.
Cara tightened her arms around her chest and pressed harder into the wall, which was the only thing keeping her upright—her legs were shot. Not that she could trust the wall. For all she knew, it might be hiding a secret bathroom. The only saving grace was that her dress was long enough to hide her knocking knees.
But even if her legs could be trusted to behave, there was no way she would obey. She didn’t care how rich and powerful Pepe was in his world, she would not grant him power over her, no matter how petty. Not without a fight.
‘Suit yourself.’ He lowered himself onto one of the oversized chocolate leather sofas, stretched out his long legs, kicked off his shoes and flashed a grin.
Her knees shook even harder.
How she hated that bloody grin. It was so...fake. And it did something ridiculous to the beat of her heart, which was hammering so hard she wouldn’t be in the least surprised if it burst through her chest.
‘I can see you are in a difficult predicament,’ he said, hooking an arm behind his head and mussing his hair.
She inhaled slowly, getting as much oxygen into her lungs as she could. ‘That’s one way to describe it.’
‘I have a solution that will suit us both.’
Her eyes narrowed.
‘It involves sacrifice on both our parts.’ He shot her a warning glance before displaying his white teeth. ‘But I can assure you that if I am the father of your child as you say, the sacrifice will be worth it.’
What the heck did Pepe Mastrangelo know about sacrifice? His whole life revolved around nothing but his pleasure.
She nodded tightly. ‘Go on.’
‘You will live with me until the child is born. Then we shall have a paternity test. If it proves positive, as you say it will, then I will buy you a home of your choice. And, of course, support you both financially.’
‘You want me to live with you until the baby’s born?’ she asked, certain she had misheard him.
‘Sì.’
‘Why?’ She couldn’t think of a single reason. ‘All I need from you at the moment is enough money to rent a decent flat in a nice area, and buy some essentials for the baby. Obviously you’ll have to pay child support when the baby’s born.’
‘Only if the baby proves to be mine. If it isn’t, I won’t have to pay you a single euro.’
Cara spoke through gritted teeth. ‘The baby is yours. But seeing as you’re proving to be such a disbeliever, I’m happy to sign a contract stating I have to repay any monies in the event the paternity test proves the Invisible Man is the father.’
He gave a quick shake of his head and turned his mouth down in a regretful fashion. ‘If only it were that simple. The problem, for me, is that there exists the possibility that the child you carry inside you is mine. I cannot take the risk of anything happening to it.’
‘I told you I delayed telling you about the baby so you couldn’t force me into an abortion. I’m four weeks too late for one in Sicily and it’s completely illegal in Ireland.’ She blinked rapidly, fighting with everything she had not to burst into angry tears. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She would not give him the power her mother had given her father.
She might have no choice but to throw her pride at his feet but she had to retain some kind of dignity.
‘I never said anything about an abortion,’ he pointed out. ‘What does concern me is your health. You’re clearly not taking care of yourself if your weight loss is anything to go by, and by your own admittance you don’t have enough money to support a child. Or so you say. For all I know, you could be on the make, using this pregnancy as a means to help yourself to my bank account.’
It was Cara’s turn to swear under her breath. ‘Do you have any idea how offensive you are?’
He shrugged, utterly nonchalant. He clearly couldn’t care less. ‘Finances aside, if that is my child growing inside you then I want to make damned sure you’re taking care of it properly.’
‘I am taking care of myself as best I can under the circumstances, but, I can promise you, our child’s welfare means more to me than anything.’ Her unborn child meant everything to her. Everything. Its well-being was the only reason she was here.
Did Pepe think she wanted to throw herself at his financial mercy?
He shook his head in a chiding fashion and stretched his arms out. ‘My conditions are non-negotiable. If you want me to support you during the rest of the pregnancy then I will. But I will not give you cash. All you have to do is move in with me, travel where I travel, and I will feed and clothe you, and buy anything else you may need. If paternity is established after the birth, then I will buy you a house in your name, anywhere you choose, and give you an allowance so large you will be set up for life.’
He made it sound so reasonable. He made it sound as if it were such a no-brainer she wouldn’t even need to think about it.
And there she’d been, worrying for months against telling him because she’d convinced herself he would demand an abortion.
‘You see, cucciola mia, I am not the baby-aborting monster you thought I would be,’ he said chidingly, reading her mind.
A sharp rap on the main door to the wing provided a moment’s relief for her poor, addled brain.
At Pepe’s invitation, a maid entered the room carrying a tray with a pot of coffee, a pot of tea covered by a tea cosy and two cups.
‘It’s decaf,’ he explained when it had been placed on the glass table and the maid left.
‘I told you I didn’t want anything.’
‘You need to keep your fluid levels up.’
‘Oh, so you’re a doctor now? Or have you an army of illegitimates scattered around the world that’s made you a pregnancy expert?’
He quelled her with a glance.
She refused to bow to its latent warning. ‘Sorry. Am I supposed to believe this is the first time you’ve had a paternity suit thrown at you?’
His eyes were unreadable. ‘I always use protection.’
‘And you’re expecting me to take you at your word for that?’
His features darkened before his lips gave a slight twitch and he bowed his head. ‘A fair comeback.’
He really was ridiculously handsome.
She castigated herself. As far as she was concerned, Pepe’s looks and masculinity were void. She would not let her hormones create any more havoc.
It was unfair that she was the one standing yet it still felt as if he, all chilled and relaxed on the sofa, had all the advantage.
A whorl of black hair poked through the top of his shirt. She remembered how that same hair covered his chest, thickening across his tightly defined pecs and down the middle towards his navel, and further down... She’d always assumed chest hair would be bristly, had been thrilled to find it as soft as silk. It was the only thing soft about him; everything else was hard...
She swallowed and pressed the tops of her thighs together to try to quash the heat bubbling within her.
Her throat had gone dry.
Damn him, she needed a drink.
Lips clamped together, she moved away from the wall and poured herself a cup of the steaming tea before carrying it to the sofa opposite him. She only intended to perch there but it was so soft and squidgy it almost swallowed her whole. She sank straight into it, her legs shooting out, the motion causing her to spill the tea all over her lap.
Cara cried out, kicking her legs as if the movement would stop the hot fluid seeping through her dress.
Immediately Pepe jumped to his feet and hurried over, snatching the cup from her hand. ‘Are you okay?’
In too much pain to do anything more than whimper, Cara grabbed the hem of her dress and bunched it up to her thighs, flapping it to cool her heated skin. Making sure to keep the dress up and away from the scald, she yanked the tops of her black hold-ups down.
‘Are you okay?’ he repeated. For some silly reason, the genuine concern she heard in his voice bothered her far more than the scald.
The milky white of her left thigh had turned a deep pink, as had a couple of patches on her right thigh. She took a deep breath. ‘It hurts.’
‘I’ll bet. Can you walk?’
‘Why?’
‘Because we should run cold water over it.’
Her thighs—especially her left one—were stinging something rotten, so much so she didn’t even think of arguing with him.
‘Come, we’ll run the shower on it.’
Wincing, she let him help her to her feet.
Her legs shook frantically enough that she almost fell back onto the sofa, only Pepe’s grip on her hand keeping her upright.
He frowned and shook his head, then, before she knew what he was doing, lifted her into his arms, taking great care not to touch her thighs.
‘This is unnecessary,’ she complained. She might be in pain but she didn’t need this. Besides, she was vain enough to know she must look ridiculous with her dress bunched around the tops of her thighs, her modesty barely preserved. Her stupid black hold-ups had fallen down to her knees like the socks of a scatty schoolgirl.
‘Probably,’ he agreed, heading through the living area and into a narrow corridor, carrying her as if she weighed little more than a child. ‘But it’s quicker and safer than you trying to walk.’
The position he held her in meant her face was right in the crook of his strong, bronzed neck. A compulsion to press her face into it almost overcame her. Almost. Luckily she still retained some control. But she’d forgotten how delicious he smelt, like sun-ripened fruit. Her position meant her senses were filled with it and she had to use even more restraint not to lick him.
Pepe’s bathroom was twice the size of her bedroom and resembled a miniature black, white and gold palace. She had no time to appreciate its splendour.
‘You’re going to have to take your dress off,’ he said as he carried her down some marble steps and carefully sat her on the edge of the sunken bath.
‘I jolly well am not.’
‘It will get wet.’
‘It’s already wet.’
‘Suit yourself.’ He knelt before her and placed a hand on her knee.
She tried not to yelp. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Taking your stockings off.’ He tugged the first one down to the ankle. While she hated herself for her vanity, Cara could not help feel relief that she’d remembered to wax her legs a few days ago.
‘They’re hold-ups,’ she corrected, breathing deeply. The trail of his fingers on her skin burned almost as much as the scald.
‘They’re sexy.’
‘That’s inappropriate.’
His lips twitched. ‘Sorry.’
‘Liar.’
Hold-ups removed and thrown onto the floor, Pepe helped manoeuvre her into the empty bath before reaching for the shower head that rested on the gold taps.
He held it over his hand then turned it on. Water gushed out, spraying over them both.
Adjusting the pressure, he smiled with a hint of smugness. ‘Still happy to keep your dress on?’
‘Yes.’ She would rather suffer third-degree burns than strip off to her underwear in front of him.
‘I’ve seen you naked before,’ he reminded her wickedly, turning the shower onto her thighs.
‘Not under bright light, you haven’t.’
The cold water felt like the greatest relief in the world. Cara closed her eyes, rested her head back and savoured the feeling, uncaring that the cold water spraying off her thighs was pooling in the base of the bath, sloshing all around her bottom. It was worth it. Slowly, wonderfully, her tender skin numbed.
It was only when she opened her eyes a few minutes later that she realised her dress had risen higher and that her black knickers were fully exposed.
One look at the gleam in Pepe’s eyes and she knew he’d noticed.
‘I think that’s enough now,’ she said, leaning up and yanking her sodden dress down to cover herself.
Pepe screwed his eyes shut to rid himself of the image.
It didn’t work.
The image of Cara’s soaking knickers and the memories of what they hid burned brightly, almost as brightly as her flushing cheeks.
His trousers felt so tight and uncomfortable it was hard to breathe.
He gritted his teeth and willed his erection to abate.
He turned the tap off, replaced the shower head and crouched back next to her, making sure to look at her face and only her face. ‘Your thighs should be okay—it doesn’t look as if they’re going to blister—but to play safe I’ve got some salve in the medicine cabinet you can put on them. I’ll get it for you and then you can get changed—where’s your change of clothes?’
‘I didn’t bring any.’
‘Why not?’ Whenever Cara came to Sicily she always came for at least a week.
‘I only came for the day.’
‘Really?’ He’d arrived from Paris with barely twenty minutes to spare before the christening started, avoiding the inevitable for as long as humanly possible. He hadn’t imagined Cara had done the same.
‘I didn’t want to risk spilling the beans to Grace before I’d had a chance to speak to you.’
‘That was good of you,’ he acknowledged.
‘Not really.’ Her face tightened. ‘I was worried she’d be unable to keep it from Luca and that Luca in turn would tell you.’
Upon reflection, Pepe was certain that if his sister-in-law had known she would have tracked him down at the earliest opportunity and given him hell. ‘I’ll ask Grace if she has any clothes you can borrow...’
‘You jolly well won’t.’ Cara glared at him.
‘You’re right. Bad idea.’ If he sought Grace out he’d have to explain why her best friend was sitting with scalded thighs in his bath, and then everything about the baby would become common knowledge... ‘Have you told anyone about the baby?’
‘Only my mother, but she doesn’t count.’
‘Good,’ he said, ignoring the tightening of her lips as she mentioned her mother. He had enough to think about as it was.
‘Why’s that, then? Worried all those doting Mastrangelo aunts and uncles will try and marry us off?’
‘They can try all they like,’ he answered with a shrug. Given a chance, they’d have him and Cara up the aisle quicker than it had taken to impregnate her.
That was if he had impregnated her.
He didn’t care that she’d been a virgin, he didn’t care that the dates tallied—until he saw cast-iron proof of his paternity he would not allow himself to believe anything. ‘I bow to no one.’
‘Well, neither do I. Your suggestion that I move in with you is ridiculous. How the heck would I be able to get to and from work if I have to travel all over the place with you? You work all over Europe.’
‘And South America,’ he pointed out. ‘You’ll have to give up your job.’
He noticed her shiver and remembered she’d just had a cold shower pressed against her for the best part of ten minutes.
‘Let’s get you out of the bath. We can finish this argument when you’re dry and warm.’
‘I’m not giving up my job and I’m not moving in with you.’
‘I said we can argue the toss when you’re dry.’
He could see how much she hated having to use him for support. Not looking at him, she allowed him to help her to her feet. He held her arms and kept her steady while she climbed out of the bath.
She looked like a drowned rat. Even her face was soaked.
Too late, he realised it was tears rolling down her cheeks.
‘You’re crying?’
‘I’m crying because I’m angry,’ she sobbed. ‘You’ve ruined my life and now you want to ruin my future too. I hate you.’
He took a large, warm towel off the rack and wrapped it around her shaking frame before taking a deliberate step back. ‘If you’re telling me the truth then your future is made. I’ll give you and the baby more money than you could ever hope to spend.’
‘I don’t want to be a kept woman. I just want what our child is entitled to.’
‘You won’t have to be a kept woman. The option will be there for you, that’s all. If your child is mine, you’ll have enough money to do whatever you want. You can hire a nanny—hell, you’ll be able to hire an army of them—and return to work.’
Her teeth clattered together. ‘But I won’t have a job to go back to.’
‘There are other jobs.’
‘Not like this one. Do you have any idea how hard it is getting a foot on the ladder in the art world without any contacts?’
‘There are other jobs,’ he repeated. Deep inside his chest, a part of him had twisted into a tight ball, but he ignored it. He had to. He could not allow any softening towards her, no matter how vulnerable she looked at that particular moment.
Luisa had shown her vulnerable side numerous times. It had all been a big fat lie and he had been the sucker who had fallen for it. Every day he looked in the mirror and saw the evidence of her lies reflecting back at him. He could have had surgery to remove his scar. Instead he had chosen to keep it as a reminder not to trust and, more especially, not to love.
‘You don’t have to move in with me,’ he said. He drew the towel together so it covered her more thoroughly and forced himself to stare into her damp eyes. He refused to break the hold, no matter the misery reflecting back at him. ‘You can catch your flight back to Ireland and carry on eking out an existence. Or you can stay. If you stay, I will support you and we can take the paternity test as soon as the child is born. But if you leave now, you will not receive a single euro from me until my paternity—or lack of it—has been proven. And if you choose to leave, you’ll have to go through the courts to get a DNA sample from me. That’s if you can find me. As you know, I have homes in four different countries. I can make it extremely difficult for you to get that sample.’
He knew how unreasonable he must sound but he didn’t care.
He could not afford to allow himself to care.
If Cara really was carrying his child then he must make every effort to protect its innocent form, and the only way he could do that was by forcing her into a corner from which the only means of escape was his way. Short of tying her up and locking her in a windowless room, this was his best chance of keeping her by his side until the birth.
He would not risk losing another child.