Читать книгу Riccardo's Secret Child - Кэтти Уильямс, Cathy Williams - Страница 7

THE remainder of the drive was completed in uncomfortable silence. Rain slashed down against the window-panes, a harsh, clattering noise for which Julia was immensely grateful, because without that background din the silence between them would have been unbearable.

Towards the end she gave him terse directions to her house, which he followed without speaking.

By the time the sleek Jaguar pulled up in front of the three-storeyed red-brick Victorian house, her nerves were close to snapping. She pushed open the car door, almost before the car had drawn to a complete stop, and muttered a rapid thank-you for the lift. There was not much else she could thank him for. He had been insensitive, hostile and frankly insulting throughout those tortuous couple of hours in the wine bar. He had refused point blank to believe a word she had told him and had accused her of being a gold-digger.

Julia hurried up to her front door, the rain washing down on her as she fumbled in her bag for the wretched front-door key. She was only aware of his presence when he removed the key from her hands and shoved it into the lock smoothly.

‘I want you to tell me what you hoped to gain by spinning me that ridiculous, far-fetched story,’ he rasped, following her into the hall and slamming the door behind him.

Julia looked anxiously over her shoulder towards the staircase, which was shrouded in darkness.

And Riccardo, following her gaze, ground his teeth in intense irritation. She had clung to her fabrication like a drowning man clinging to a lifebelt and he was determined to hear her admit the truth. In fact, hearing her admit the truth had become a compulsion during the forty-minute drive to the house. If not, it would remain unfinished business, even if he never saw or heard from her again, and he was not a man interested in unfinished business.

‘I told you…’ Her voice was half-plea, half-resigned weariness. Both heated his simmering blood just a little bit more.

‘A lie! Caroline would never have kept such a thing from me, whatever her feelings.’

‘OK. If you want me to admit that I made up the whole thing then I admit it. All right? Happy?’

Wrong response. She could see that from the darkening of his eyes and the sudden tightening of his mouth. When she had set out on her mission to be honest she had had no idea about the man she would be meeting. She should have. She had heard enough about him over the years, and particularly in that first year, when Caroline had been pregnant and her hormones had unleashed all the pent-up emotion she had managed to keep to herself during her marriage. But time had dulled the impact of her descriptions, and certainly for the past six months Julia had begun to wonder whether her sister-in-law’s opinions might not have been exaggerated. Moreover, people changed. He would have mellowed over time.

Looking at his dark, hard face and the ruthless set of his features, she wondered whether anything or anyone was capable of mellowing Riccardo Fabbrini.

‘No. No, I am not happy, Miss Nash.’ He gripped her arm and leant down towards her so that his face was only inches away from hers. Julia felt herself swamped by him, struggling just to breathe, never mind control the situation.

But her eyes never left his. She was angry and, yes, intimidated, but he could see that inside she was as steady as a rock and he wanted to shake her until the steadiness turned to water.

No woman had ever roused him as much. This was a contest and he sensed that he was losing.

‘Come into the kitchen,’ she finally said wearily, shaking her arm, which he released. ‘I’ll explain it all to you, but you’ll damned well stop calling me a liar and listen to what I have to say!’

‘No one speaks to me like that,’ he rasped.

‘Sorry, but I do.’ Julia didn’t give him time to contemplate that assertion. Instead, she turned on her heels and began walking through the dark flagstoned hallway into the kitchen, her backbone straight, refusing to be totally squashed by the powerful man following in her wake.

She could feel him and the sensation sent little shivers racing along her spine. It was a bit like being stalked by a panther, a sleek, dangerous animal that was waiting to pounce.

‘Sit down,’ she commanded as soon as they were in the kitchen and she had closed the door gently behind them.

This had been Martin and Caroline’s house and she wondered whether he would recognise any of the artefacts in the room. Doubtful. Caroline had sold their marital home almost as soon as the divorce had come through and had disposed of the majority of the contents, sending the valuable paintings back to him and selling the rest of their possessions, none of which, she had later told Julia, he wanted. She, along with her lover and every single thing in the house, could go to hell and stay there, for all he cared. The few things she had kept had been little mementoes she had personally collected herself, ornaments and one or two small paintings that had been passed on to her by her own parents when they had been alive.

‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’

‘This is not your house, is it? Was it theirs?’

Julia looked at him, watched as his shuttered gaze drifted through the room, picking out the homely array of plates displayed on the old pine dresser, the well-worn, much-loved kitchen table with all its scratches and peculiar markings, the faded, comfortable curtains, now blocking out the dark, rain-drenched night.

‘Yes, it was. It belongs to me now.’

He began prowling through the room, divesting himself of his jacket in the process and slinging it on the kitchen table. The notice-board, pinned to the wall, was littered with Nicola’s drawings. He stared at them for such a long time that Julia could feel the tension searing through her body mount to breaking point. Abruptly she took her eyes off him and began making some coffee.

‘Your daughter’s works of art,’ she said with her back to him.

When she finally turned around it was to find him looking at her, his coal-black eyes narrowed. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

‘She started school in September and…’

‘Why do you insist on sticking to your ridiculous story?’

Julia didn’t reply. Instead, she moved to one of the kitchen drawers and with trembling fingers extracted a photo of her brother, which she handed to him. Martin had been the fair one of them. Even in his thirties, his hair had remained blond, never turning to the mousy brown that hers had. His eyes were blue and laughing.

‘That’s my brother.’

Riccardo glanced at the picture and very deliberately crumpled it and threw it on the table. ‘Do you imagine that I am in the least interested in seeing what your brother looked like?’ he asked in a frighteningly controlled voice. ‘I was not curious then and I am not curious now.’

‘I didn’t show you that picture because I thought you might be interested or curious,’ Julia told him. She walked towards the kitchen table and rested his cup of coffee on the surface. She had no idea how he took his coffee but somehow she assumed that it would be black, sugarless and very strong. And she was right. He took the cup, sipped and placed it back on the table, his eyes never leaving her face.

‘I showed you the picture so that you could see for yourself how fair Martin was. Almost as fair as Caroline. Of course, he was not nearly as striking as she was, but from a distance they could almost have passed for brother and sister, their colouring was so similar.’

‘Where is all this going?’

‘I want you to follow me. Very quietly.’ She didn’t give him time to question her. The more she tried to explain, the more obstinately dismissive he became, the more convinced that she wanted something from him. Money. She would reveal her trump card now and hope that proof of her words would make him see reason.

She put her cup on the counter and began walking back through the house but this time up the dark staircase, pausing only to turn on the light so that she could see where she was putting her feet. For a large man he moved with surprising stealth. She could barely hear his footsteps behind her and, once at the top of the stairs, she turned round just to check and make sure that he was still there. He was. His face grim and set. Julia placed one finger over her lips in a sign for silence and began walking towards Nicola’s bedroom.

Her mother, who was already asleep in the guest room, would have switched on the small bedside light on Nicola’s dressing table. Nicola had always been afraid of complete dark. Monsters in cupboards and bogey men lurking under the beds. The stuff of childhood nightmares which no amount of calm reasoning could assuage.

Julia pushed open the door to the room very quietly and went across to the bed and stared down at the child.

Nicola was a living, breathing replica of her father. Her hair, which had never been cut, was thick and long and very black and her skin was satiny olive, the colour of someone accustomed to the hot Italian sun, even though it was a place she had never visited. Her eyes were closed now, but they, too, were dark, dark like her father’s, who had joined Julia in contemplation of the sleeping figure.

‘You could take a paternity test, but look at her. She’s the spitting image of you.’

There was complete, deathly silence at her side, then Riccardo abruptly turned around and began walking out of the room. The sleeping child had aroused sudden, overwhelming confusion in him such as he had never felt before. It had instantly been replaced by rage.

Was it possible to feel such rage? He would have thought not, but he felt it now. Five years! Five years of being kept in ignorance of his own child’s existence! His own flesh and blood. Because the minute he had laid eyes on her he had known that the child was his. There could be no doubt.

He thought of his ex-wife and her husband, bringing up his child, laughing with his daughter, relishing the precious moments of watching those milestones, and his fingers itched with the desire to avenge himself for what he had missed. What had been his by right.

He heard Julia running down the stairs behind him and, in the absence of Caroline and her cursed lover, he could feel his body pulsating to unleash his terrible wrath on the slightly built woman following him.

She would have been party to the decision to keep him in the dark about the birth of his child. Whatever her motives for contacting him now, and those motives would surely have something to do with money, she had agreed with the plan to say nothing to him.

He reached the bottom of the staircase and strode into the kitchen. He had to stop himself from smashing things on the way, destroying the contented little nest around him, a contented little nest in which his daughter had been raised. By another man.

Once in the kitchen, he paused and tried to control himself, to regain some of his natural self-composure, which had been blown to smithereens in the space of three short hours.

Somehow he would deal with this. And somehow Julia Nash would be made to pay for the torture she had subjected him to. It mattered not that Caroline and her lover were now no longer around to be held accountable for their vile actions.

Julia Nash was here, accessory to the crime as far as he was concerned, and she would pay the price.

She ran into the kitchen, her face distressed, and he looked at her in stony silence.

‘Don’t even dare think that you can make excuses for Caroline and what she did! Don’t even imagine for one minute that you can justify the immorality of her decision!’

Their eyes locked, Julia helpless to break free from the ice-cold blackness of his stare.

‘How dared she think that she could play God and make decisions that would affect my life and the life of my own flesh and blood? And you…’ he added in a voice thick with contempt, ‘how did you feel watching your brother do the job that should rightfully have been mine?’

‘That’s not fair!’ Julia protested, even though she knew that she was doing little more than shouting in a wind because he was not going to listen to a word she said. But still, she had to defend them both. She might not have agreed with what they had decided to do, but she had been able to see their point. Caroline was terrified that Riccardo, had he known of the existence of his daughter, would do his best to gain custody. The thought of having the fruit of his loins raised by another man would have been anathema to him. So she had silenced Julia’s objections. She had reasoned that, however much the courts decided in favour of the mother, Riccardo Fabbrini had the power and the wealth to get exactly what he wanted.

‘How dare you talk to me about fair?’ he gritted. He slammed his fist on the counter, tipping the edge of the saucer resting beneath her cup, and sent both shattering to the ground. She doubted that he was even aware of it.

‘You wouldn’t have been married to her!’ she persisted, mutinously defying the warning in his eyes. ‘You’re not comparing like with like. You might have seen Nicola on weekends, but you still wouldn’t have shared the completeness of a family home. The marriage was over well before she was born. Before she was conceived, even!’

Riccardo refused to hear the sense behind what she was saying. He felt like a man who had suddenly and inexplicably had the rug pulled from under his feet and in the process found himself freefalling through thin air off the edge of a precipice. No, reason was the last thing that appealed.

The small brown sparrow in front of him might be pleading for his understanding, but understanding was the least emotion accessible to him right now.

‘Now that you know, we need to talk about Nicola, decide how often you want to see her.’ Julia spoke even though her mouth felt dry, and she had to move to the kitchen table and sit down, because her legs were beginning to feel very uncooperative.

She sat down and ran her fingers through her thick shoulder-length hair, tucking it nervously behind her ears. This meeting had all gone so very wrong that she had no idea where anything was heading any more. She had expected a more civilised reaction, a more accommodating approach. She knew that he was a force to be reckoned with in the world of business. She had reasonably deduced that, that being the case, he would respond with the efficient detachment which would have been part and parcel of his working persona. She had not banked on his natural passion, which now flowed around him in invisible waves, putting paid to any thoughts of a reasonable approach.

‘A calm, phlegmatic British approach to a problem, is that it? I am supposed to quietly accept years of premeditated deceit with a smile on my face and then get down to visiting rights. Is that it?’

‘Something like that,’ Julia admitted hopefully.

‘I might have been educated in your fine British system, but I am not a phlegmatic British man,’ Riccardo informed her icily. ‘When it comes to business I may don the clothes of the businessman and speak with the civilised tongue of your country and deal with the savagery of the concrete jungle with cold-headed judgement, but when it comes to my personal life I am a man of passion.’

Julia felt an involuntary shiver of awareness run through her body like an electric shock.

A man of passion. She had seen that for herself and how! When it comes to my personal life… The blood rushed to her head as she imagined the personal life he had in mind. His passion had overwhelmed Caroline. His powerful drive, instead of sweeping her along, had left her flailing. Had it been that way in bed too? Had his passion driven her into a state of numbed frigidity? She imagined that wild, un-tamed side of him making love, bringing all his suffocating masculinity to bear upon the object of his desire. The picture shocked her with its vividness and for a few seconds reduced her to a state of confusion.

She shook her head, feeling winded. ‘Passion won’t help us deal with this situation,’ Julia said carefully, treading on thin ice. ‘Nicola has never met you. She has no idea who you are and she’ll be terrified if you suddenly appear on the scene and try to take her over. She’s finding it hard enough to come to terms with losing her…’ she nearly fell into the trap of saying her parents and reined in the instinct at the last moment ‘…Martin and Caroline. She will need to be approached with gentleness.’

It took supreme will-power not to give vent to the violent host of objections Julia’s little speech produced inside him. He could understand her reason, but, like a wounded and raging bull, he simply wanted to strike out.

Had this calmly spoken girl ever felt anything like the hurt searing through his every muscle now? Had she ever felt what it was like to have your world upended through no fault of your own? Because that was how he felt.

This morning he had been in control of his vastly successful life. He had held his dynasty in the palm of his hand and was gratifyingly aware of the sensual magnetism with which he was blessed, and which could draw any woman he wanted to him.

Now he was being lectured to by this seemingly demure but frustratingly obstinate, mousy-haired woman on how to handle a situation the likes of which he had never expected to encounter. Now he was father to a child and a stranger to her as well.

‘I need something stiffer than a cup of coffee,’ he said abruptly. Julia thought that perhaps she did as well, especially considering that her own cup of coffee lay in splinters on the ground, something she had temporarily forgotten about. She wearily bent down and began gathering the shards of blue porcelain, tipping them into the bin, while he watched her, his face showing his own intense preoccupation with his thoughts.

She was so busy watching him from under her lashes, wondering whether she could second-guess what he would say next, that when the stray splinter of china rammed into her finger it took her a few seconds to register the pain, and only then because of the sight of the blood.

She stood up quickly, holding the injured finger and biting down on her lower lip to stifle the edge of pain. Pain was not a problem, but the blood threatened to bring on a fainting fit.

She hardly expected him to play the knight in shining armour to her damsel in distress, but perhaps it was just part of his nature to take over.

‘What have you done?’

‘What does it look like? I’ve cut my finger!’

He took hold of her hand, inspecting the gash left by the shard, and, with a gentleness that took her by surprise, slowly and efficiently pulled out the offending splinter. His hands were steady and assured. Julia felt the warmth of his hand around hers, the slight abrasiveness of his skin, and she stifled a tremor.

‘First-aid kit?’

‘It’s in the… I’ll just go and fetch it…’

Instead of releasing her hand, he walked with her to the small utility room, and when she indicated a cupboard to the left he reached up and extracted a cardboard box that was crammed to overflowing with medication of every variety, most of them suitable for young children. He still had her hand in his. Considering what they had just been through and the currents of hostility that had flowed between them, their physical closeness now was like a parody of intimacy.

‘This is your first-aid kit?’ he demanded, and Julia’s grey eyes clashed stormily with his.

‘Yes, it is. And before you start telling me that it’s not up to your high regulation standards, I’d just like to remind you that I didn’t ask for your help! I’m quite capable of seeing to a cut finger!’

‘You are as white as a sheet. Where are the plasters? All I can see are cough medicines.’

‘They’re in there somewhere.’ She rummaged through the box and extracted a sad-looking packet wherein lay a stack of plasters adorned with brightly coloured cartoon characters. ‘Nicola likes Winnie the Pooh,’ she told him tersely, extracting one of the plasters. ‘I’ll wash my finger before I put this on.’

There was no need. Before she could pluck it from his grasp, he took her finger to his mouth and sucked. The action was so shockingly intimate that Julia stared at him open-mouthed. His dark head was bent, but he raised his eyes to meet hers. Was he caressing her finger with his tongue? she thought dazedly. No, of course not. Her body appeared to be on fire. Another illusion, she thought, distracted.

‘Saliva is the best antiseptic,’ he said, finally removing her finger and holding it up to inspect it. ‘There, that looks a lot cleaner now. Give me the plaster.’

She handed him the plaster and, still ridiculously shaken, watched while he gently wrapped it around the slither of open skin. The sight of the blood must have destabilised her more than she had thought at first, Julia decided. She had always had a peculiarly strong aversion to blood. That was probably why her breathing was as laboured as if she had just completed a ten-mile marathon.

That was probably why she wasn’t even aware of her mother’s presence until she said, mildly but inquisitively, ‘Julia! What’s going on here? Have I interrupted something?’

‘No, of course not, Mum.’

Riccardo watched the play of emotion shadowing the fine-boned, pale face through narrowed eyes. Her mother had startled her, that was for sure, but more than that. She had sprung back guiltily. Afraid of what…?

‘You’ve been on a date? I thought you said you were going to the pub with some friends! You never told me you had a young man.’ Her voice was full of misdirected pleasure and Julia felt herself reddening.

She should have told her mother what she was going to do, that she was going to contact Nicola’s father, but she had kept it to herself, reasoning that she would confess when everything had been settled. If he had not turned up or else had walked away from the problem then there would have been no need for painful explanations to her mother afterwards.

‘Mum…’ Her eyes flickered resentfully towards Riccardo. ‘This is…’

‘Riccardo Fabbrini. Nicola’s father.’ The biting sting of anger resurfaced as he extended his hand towards the small, grey-haired woman standing in the doorway.

‘Nicola’s father.’ Jeannette Nash tentatively took his hand while her eyes flicked past him to search out her daughter. ‘I do apologise. I thought…’

‘Yes, Mum.’ Julia briskly stepped away from Riccardo and edged past her mother back into the sanctuary of the brightly lit kitchen. ‘I know what you thought. I didn’t want to tell you that I was contacting Mr Fabbrini, just in case…’ Her voice faltered and when she turned around it was to meet his steely gaze.

‘Just in case the meeting was unsuccessful,’ he expanded coldly on her behalf. ‘Just in case I was the sort of man who would walk out on his responsibilities. As your daughter has discovered, I am very far from being that sort of man.’

‘I wish you’d told me, Julia,’ her mother accused and Julia sighed. ‘What were the two of you doing in the utility?’

Julia had always known how deeply her mother had felt about Caroline’s deception and, in the absence of all those telling confidences about Riccardo’s personality, Jeannette had stifled her instinct to intervene with great difficulty. All she had seen was a brief, loveless marriage born in haste and rued at leisure. Something to be mourned but for which he should never have been punished by the absence of his own flesh and blood.

‘Cleaning up a cut finger,’ Riccardo answered. He shoved his hands inside his pockets and perched against the kitchen counter, his long legs casually crossed at the ankles.

‘Nicola isn’t awake, is she?’ Julia asked suddenly and her mother shook her head with a smile.

‘Sleeping like a log. I only woke up to use the bathroom and then I thought I’d come down here and fetch myself a glass of water. You know how difficult it is for me to sleep these days, my love.’ She turned to Riccardo and said, with forthright honesty, ‘This must be a very difficult situation for you. I’m so very sorry but, well, I’m glad that you’re here now.’

Riccardo found that he couldn’t resist the genuine sincerity in the faded blue eyes and he offered a half-smile, the first Julia had witnessed since she had first clapped eyes on him.

‘I’ll leave you two alone. I’m sure there’s a lot that you need to sort out between yourselves.’ She bustled over to a cupboard and poured herself a glass of water. ‘I shall see you again very soon, Mr Fabbrini.’

‘Riccardo. You can call me Riccardo.’ His mouth twisted. ‘After all, I am a member of the family now.

‘Several years too late,’ he said softly as her mother left the kitchen. ‘But here now, Miss Nash. Are you not thrilled to have accomplished what you set out to do?’ He flashed her a bitterly mirthless smile and pushed himself away from the counter.

How many more members of this cosy little unit from which he had been ruthlessly excluded? he wondered. Aunts and uncles in the background? Cousins maybe? A full life just lacking the ingredient of father?

Except, he thought with hard-edged cynicism, Nicola had had a father. This woman’s brother. The only father she had ever known. She’d called him Daddy and sat on his shoulders when they went to the park.

Riccardo’s shuttered gaze concealed his white-hot fury. For a few seconds back there, as he had dealt with her finger, he had felt a certain uninvited empathy with her. It hadn’t lasted. Nor would it return.

‘You said you wanted something stronger than coffee,’ Julia said, avoiding his rhetorical question. ‘I have some wine in the fridge, but that’s about it.’

‘As frugal in matters of alcohol as your sister-in-law was?’

‘I prefer to keep my head.’ Especially now, she thought as she opened the fridge and extracted a bottle of Sauvignon. She could feel his heavy-lidded dark eyes raking over her as she poured them both a glass of wine, his a large glass, which might do something to take the edge off that ferocious fury which she could feel him tightly keeping in check, hers a smaller glass, just enough to cope.

So in control, Riccardo thought, or at least determined to be. Which made her little slip-ups all the more intriguing. She hadn’t been in control when he had taken her finger into his mouth. Her body had become rigidly still and he had breathed in her unwilling response to him, to the warmth of his tongue rubbing against the soft flesh of her finger. And then when her mother had surprised them she had been startled. The obvious answer was that she felt guilty to have gone behind her mother’s back and contacted him, but there was something else.

He imagined what it would be like for her to see her carefully planned life brought to a standstill, just as his had been.

‘Why did you decide to contact me?’ he asked, sitting down at the table and pushing back the chair so that he could extend his long legs in front of him. His fingers caressed the rounded contours of the wine glass before he brought it to his lips, sipping some of the wine while he continued to direct his unsettling gaze on Julia’s face. ‘Would it not have been easier to have maintained the secret rather than risk kick-starting a situation you might end up having no control over?’ Here’s where the money angle comes in, he thought cynically.

Julia, sitting opposite him, elbows on the table like a child being interviewed, lowered her eyes. ‘I did what I thought I had to do,’ she said. ‘When Caroline was alive I respected her wishes…’

‘Because you agreed with her, because you saw nothing wrong in writing off my existence…’

‘Because it was what she wanted. Because I loved my brother and wanted what I thought was best for them both.’ Her jaw hardened and she challenged him to try and prolong the probing. ‘What we have to deal with is reality. What’s happening now.’

Riccardo forced himself to let it go. He was so unused to having to let anything go when his instinct told him to pursue that the withdrawal felt like bile in his mouth. ‘For which you no doubt have a plan.’

‘I don’t think you should tell Nicola who you are to start with…’ When his mouth opened in outrage she firmly stood her ground, refusing to back away. ‘I know this is hard for you to accept, but I don’t think she can cope with too much now. Get to know her and when she trusts you then perhaps you can tell her who you are, tell her that you are her blood father.’

‘As opposed to what your brother was, you mean?’ His lips curled and she met his eyes evenly.

‘That’s right. She’s always known that Martin wasn’t her real father. Neither he nor Caroline pretended to her otherwise.’

‘I will come and see her tomorrow. When she finishes school. What time does she get home? Do you bring her home with you? Does she attend the same school where you teach?’

More at home with being the one who answered the questions as opposed to posing them, Riccardo grudgingly acknowledged the shift in emphasis.

‘Yes, I teach at her school, but not in the junior section. I teach the older pupils, and I’ve been leaving school early so that she can come home with me. I do a lot of my work from home now, after school hours.’

Riccardo had a glimpse of her view of things and it irked him to realise that she was due some sympathy as well. Her life had been changed too, though, he reminded himself grimly, not quite to the same extent as his. He finished his wine and refused the offer of a refill. She, he noted, had toyed with hers, barely drinking any.

‘We’re normally back home by around four-thirty. If you like, you can drop by around five. She should have had her bath by then.’

Riccardo stood up. It had, he conceded, been the longest day of his life. He slung on his jacket while Julia hovered by the table, keeping herself at a distance, he noticed. He wanted to have another look at his daughter, drink in her sleeping face before he left, but no, there would be time enough tomorrow.

‘Does your mother live here with you both?’ he asked, as they walked towards the front door, Julia virtually sprinting to keep pace with his long strides.

‘She has her own place. She was here to babysit.’

‘And you? Where did you live?’ He paused by the door, frowning at her as he tried to complete the pieces to this jigsaw that had now become a part of his well-ordered life.

‘I rented a flat,’ Julia told him vaguely.

‘This arrangement must have dented your freedom,’ he said without the slightest indication of sympathy in his voice, and when she returned his look with a puzzled one of her own he shrugged. ‘Men. A five-year-old chaperon can’t have been welcome.’

‘It hasn’t been a problem,’ Julia told him stiffly. She yanked open the front door to find that the rain had softened to a steady, bone-chilling drizzle.

‘Because there’s no man.’ Riccardo watched as her face reddened and the defiant shake of her head couldn’t quite hide the fact that his offhand assumption had struck home. ‘Is that why your mama sounded so pleased when she thought you had brought home a date?’ He felt a curl of satisfaction as he watched her flounder. He had spent the past few hours floundering. Now it felt good to have the shoe on the other foot, even though the situations could not be compared.

‘You’re here because of your daughter,’ Julia informed him coldly. ‘My personal life has nothing to do with you.’ The jeering mockery in his eyes sent her reeling back to that secret place where all her insecurities lay hidden, but never in a million years would she let him see that.

‘Which suits me,’ he countered smoothly, the hard lines of his face accentuated by the play of shadows from the dim front porch light overhead. ‘Till tomorrow. And I am warning you, from now, I will not be open to debate on when I see my daughter. You may hold the upper hand at the moment, Miss Nash, but time has a nasty habit of changing things…’