Читать книгу Modern Romance April 2019 Books 5-8 - Шантель Шоу, Chantelle Shaw - Страница 16

AMELIA STARED AT the name across the foyer, emblazoned in solid gold letters: Herrera Inc. Her tummy was in knots as she waited in the echoing silence.

Not knots of anxiety, she hastened to remind herself. Knots of anger. Fury. Panic. Disbelief that six weeks after spending the night with a wolf in sheep’s clothing—or no clothing, as the case had been—it had been necessary to fly to Spain and wait in his office on a day that was hot and sticky, when she would have far preferred to be home in her lovely little cottage with only her books and an enormous pot of tea for company.

She’d thought about calling him and breaking the news to him over the phone. It would have been satisfying to have the power to deliver the life-changing words and then disconnect the call, letting him stew on the discovery as she had been for almost a week. But this wasn’t news one delivered over the phone, and she’d accepted that, even when it meant she would need to see Antonio once more.

Her face was pale and, though she didn’t realise it, the immaculate secretary of Antonio Herrera was watching her from beneath hooded eyes.

‘He won’t be much longer, madam,’ the woman assured her.

Did she really look that bad?

She’d mostly escaped the dreaded morning sickness, but of course it had reared its head that morning and she’d been feeling queasy all day.

She’d be better once this part was over. She had a plan, and it was simple.

Antonio, I’m pregnant, but I’m sure you won’t want any part of the pregnancy or the baby’s life, given that it’s the devil’s spawn.

Or, Antonio, I’m pregnant, and you can’t offer any amount of money that will induce me to sell this baby to you. Not everything is for sale.

Then there was the option where she just blurted names at him, every single one she could think of, obscenities and curses, in all the languages she knew.

She ground her teeth together, her hand curled around the strap of her bag, her mouth dry. She thought about getting another cup of water from the dispenser, but she must have already drunk a litre since arriving in his office almost an hour earlier.

If he’d known she was coming, she would have blamed him for keeping her waiting. But she’d intentionally used a fake name to see him, pretending to be a journalist writing an opinion piece for a broadsheet newspaper. Eventually the assistant had cracked, offering a fifteen-minute slot. But apparently Antonio viewed journalists with disdain, if his inability to stick to the schedule was anything to go by.

Another fifteen minutes later and the door cracked open. A man emerged first—not Antonio. Blond, with green eyes and tanned skin, wearing a suit but looking like he’d much prefer to be in board shorts and riding a wave. When he spoke, it was with an American accent. ‘Great to see you again, brother.’ He grinned, and he was film-star-handsome. Sigh...

Damned hormones. She stood up, knowing Antonio’s appearance was imminent and that the last thing she wanted was to be at a height disadvantage from the outset. Strength was imperative, even when it was simply a fraud.

Sure enough, a moment later he was in the doorway, only he wasn’t alone. A young boy was in his arms—only four or five, she guessed, but with the unmistakable facial features of a child born with Down’s Syndrome. And the young boy was smiling at Antonio as though he were the second coming.

‘You give your mother a high five from me, okay?’

And the little boy, on cue, lifted his hand and whacked it against Antonio’s. ‘Again!’

Antonio laughed, his eyes crinkling in the corners, and obliged, and Amelia had to dig her fingernails into her palms to stop from reacting.

Hormones! Tears were stinging her eyes suddenly at the sight of this man she hated, who happened to be the father of her baby, looking so perfectly at home with children. She blinked the tears away, assuming a look of passive impatience that was at odds with the lurching in her gut. And she felt it, the moment his eyes began to move to hers.

She glared at him, her expression icy.

‘Amelia?’ He looked genuinely surprised, and she was glad.

His friend followed Antonio’s gaze and then reached for the little boy.

‘We’ll get out of your hair, man. Just don’t leave it long before you get out to Venice Beach, yeah?’

Antonio didn’t respond. He was staring at Amelia, not speaking, simply looking. Did he think he could intimidate her? That he could make her feel anything at all any more?

She squared her shoulders and straightened her spine, staring at him with all the disdain she felt.

He’d used her.

He’d come to her house and charmed her into bed and she’d fallen in with his plans like the naïve, innocent fool she was, and hadn’t she learned her lesson? The reason she’d kept men like this at bay her whole life had unravelled before her.

The blond man and child left, the latter waving enthusiastically at Antonio as he went. But Antonio didn’t notice. His gaze was fixed squarely on Amelia.

After several moments, he crossed the foyer, his stride long, and in that time he pulled himself together.

‘I didn’t realise you were in Madrid,’ he said conversationally, as though they communicated regularly and she had simply omitted to mention the detail.

‘I came to see you,’ she said, glad when he didn’t hold a hand out to shake hers, nor attempt to kiss her cheek. There was ice between them now.

‘Really?’ He arched a brow and she wanted to slap him then, and his smug assumption that she’d come for personal reasons. For sexual reasons.

Her glare, she hoped, would put paid to any such ideas.

‘I presume you have an office in which we might speak privately?’

‘Of course,’ he murmured throatily, putting a hand in the small of her back.

And trumpets flared in her mind, bleating ‘hallelujah’ at the simple touch and she ground her teeth together in utter rejection of that. ‘I’m quite capable of walking, thank you very much,’ she said flatly and stepped to the side, away from him.

She only just caught the look of bemusement on his secretary’s face before she spun on her heel and stalked towards his office.

* * *

So she was still furious with him, obviously. But she was here, in his office, and he had to think it had something to do with Prim’Aqua. No doubt the moves he was making against Carlo were starting to worry her family—and so they should. So had she chosen to come to him, like a lion to the slaughter? To beg him to back off?

It was pretty obvious she hadn’t turned up in Madrid looking for round two of their off-the-charts sexual chemistry. His body jerked with disappointment because, no matter what he told himself about that night, there was a reason it had been tormenting his dreams.

Physically, they made some strange kind of sense.

Their bodies had moved as though they’d been designed for one another, but that meant nothing. Sex was sex. He walked a pace behind her, hating that he was staring at her as though she was a dessert on a buffet, knowing he could hardly stop himself.

Instead of the jeans and casual shirt she’d been wearing that night at Bumblebee Cottage, she’d chosen a pair of sleek black pants and a silk blouse that was a dangerous reminder of the robe she’d pulled on after her bath. She wore heels too, thin and spindly, giving her an extra few inches of height.

She’d dressed up.

For him?

At the door to his office she stepped aside, waiting. He pushed the door open then held it for her, noting with what he wished was amusement that she gave him as wide a berth as the doorway allowed.

* * *

His office was everything she’d expected. Just like her father’s. And her brother’s. And no doubt all the other dictatorial, selfish corporate tycoons who ruled the finance world. Enormous, with huge windows that framed a stunning view, impressive oak desk, state-of-the-art computer screens, a wall-mounted smart TV for conferences, a boardroom table of shiny timber surrounded by leather chairs, and white leather sofas. Different materials perhaps, but the same essence as the offices she’d been in before.

There were some indications of his personal taste. A black and white photograph of the Millau Viaduct, a small pottery toro on his desk, a stunning modern sculpture that was gunmetal grey and silver, and utterly striking.

She ignored these details though, and all the ostentatious signs of wealth, placing her handbag on a chair and turning to face him.

And she felt as if she’d been kicked in the gut.

God, he was handsome.

So handsome, with eyes that were laced with enquiry and hair that she ached to run her fingers through.

Stupid, stupid traitorous body.

Pushing any such thoughts from her mind, she tried to summon the words she’d prepared.

‘Would you like a drink?’

Her stomach heaved at the very suggestion. ‘No.’ The word was abrupt, and she winced. ‘No, thank you,’ she corrected softly.

She paced to the window overlooking Madrid and stared out at the ancient city. In the distance, she could see a slice of Gaudí poking impishly from behind a far more sensible high rise, and she was reminded of a child hiding around the corner, awaiting a scolding. Gaudí’s irreverence was one of her favourite things about Spain.

‘Well,’ he said quietly, and the word ran down her spine like warm honey. ‘What can I do for you, Amelia?’

Her name on his lips tripped her heart up a thousand gears and she took a steadying breath, reminding herself that she was in control of her body, not the other way around.

When she hadn’t spoken, after a moment, he said, ‘I have an appointment any minute.’

‘No, you don’t.’ She swallowed. ‘I’m your appointment.’

When she turned to face him, she could see he was analysing this, examining her statement for meaning. ‘You pretended to be a journalist, simply to see me again?’

She nodded crisply.

‘Why not just give my assistant your name?’

‘Because I took a perverse pleasure in surprising you,’ she said honestly, and was rewarded with the hint of a smile at the corners of his lips.

It was too familiar—too familiar for what they were to one another, and what they’d shared. Theirs had been no love story; it had been two strangers in a thunderstorm. She’d been caught up in the romance—the storm had raged and he’d arrived, offering refuge from a clawing sense of isolation. She’d been a means to an end for him, her virginity unimportant collateral in his quest to draw her under his spell.

‘You have surprised me,’ he agreed.

You haven’t seen anything yet, she thought to herself with a wry shake of her head.

Was she really going to do this?

Of course! What was the alternative? Have his baby and never tell him? Just like her mother had done to her father?

No way would her baby know the pain of that. Amelia had grown up with no idea who her father was—half the time she wasn’t even sure her mother knew. She’d been a secret baby, a shameful love-child, unwanted, an accident, and there was no way her baby would ever grow up feeling like she had.

And didn’t Antonio deserve to know? Not just for the sake of their baby, but because this was his baby too?

Amelia might not have liked what had happened with her and Antonio; she certainly didn’t like the fact that he’d come to her cottage and seduced her without telling her they were part of an ancient blood feud, then expected her to hand over thirty per cent of a family business to him, but he was still a person. A person with inalienable rights. A man who would soon become a father and of course he deserved to know that.

Heaven help her if he decided he wanted to be a part of the child’s life on a regular basis, because that would mean she would also have to see him too, she supposed.

But Amelia doubted he’d want much to do with their child. It would be, after all, a diSalvo.

The thought had her tilting her chin, her eyes sparking defiantly with his. ‘This won’t take long,’ she assured him, thinking gratefully of the return flight she’d booked for later that same day.

‘Go on,’ he encouraged, perching his bottom on the edge of the desk, stretching his long legs in front of him, crossed at the ankles.

She ignored the throb low in her abdomen, the instant recognition of power and strength, the memory of how those legs had held her to the wall, pinning her with total ease, or straddled her body as he moved inside her. She looked away, her mouth dry. ‘Perhaps I will have some water,’ she said, stalking across the room to where the drinks were set up. She poured a small glass with hands that weren’t quite steady and sipped from it, then shut her eyes as her stomach instantly rejected the offering.

Damn it. She pressed her fingertips to the bench, blinking, willing her insides to calm down, not to be ill. Not here! Not now!

‘At the risk of appearing rude, I don’t have all day.’

It was exactly what she needed to bring herself back to the moment. She spun around, then wished she hadn’t when the room swayed a little. ‘You’re so far past appearing rude,’ she promised firmly. ‘And I won’t take much of your time.’

His eyes were studying her and she hated that. She hated that he could probably read every emotion that crossed her face, every feeling that was shredding her insides.

‘Go on,’ he prompted.

‘Don’t rush me.’

His laugh was sardonic. ‘You just told me this won’t take long.’

‘Yes, well, it doesn’t help when you’re staring at me as though you’d like to...’

* * *

She didn’t finish the sentence but that didn’t stop the immediate flash of desire in response to her suggestion. His expression softened as he allowed himself to do exactly what she’d said—to stare at her openly, to run his gaze over her body, remembering it precisely, and then lift to meet her eyes.

‘I’m staring at you,’ he corrected finally, ‘like a man wanting a woman to get to the point.’

* * *

That wasn’t completely true. Like Scheherazade’s King, he was willing her to spin out a story to elongate this encounter.

He was, frankly, still reeling from the fact she was here, in his office. In the weeks after that night, he’d thought about calling her. Hell, he’d contemplated flying back to England, driving to Bumblebee Cottage and demanding she listen to him—ideally in bed.

If she understood the nature of their families’ dispute, perhaps she’d look more sympathetically on his offer.

But he’d done neither in the end. Because he couldn’t think of seeing her again without seeing her as she’d been that night. The look of betrayal and hurt on her face had made him feel, almost for the first time in his life, ashamed.

And he’d hated that.

So he’d relegated her to the back of his mind, to his ‘past’, and told himself he’d forget about her.

Because she was a diSalvo, and what point was there in trying to get her to forgive him?

There were more issues between them than a simple one-night stand.

Wrong thought. Wrong thought. His mind threw up the memories and he sank into them, remembering her body, the sounds she’d made as pleasure had caressed her, the way she had kissed him as if her very life depended on it.

‘Have you reconsidered?’ he prompted, thinking of his more than generous deal to buy her shares in Prim’Aqua—and the way he was deliberately tanking diSalvo interests around the globe. Did she know?

‘No—’ she narrowed her eyes ‘—my shares aren’t for sale. And I don’t think you’ll be able to do anything to hurt Carlo either. He’s very shrewd, great at what he does. You’re no threat to him.’

Antonio almost smiled. She wasn’t the first person to underestimate him, but truly she couldn’t be more wrong.

‘We’ll see.’ He shrugged with the appearance of calm.

Her eyes narrowed and he had the sense that she was analysing him now, looking for hidden meanings. ‘You really hate my family, don’t you?’

He expelled a soft breath. ‘Is it any wonder?’

Her neck moved delicately as she swallowed, and he realised suddenly that she looked tired. Beneath the make-up she wore—another change since the night in Bumblebee Cottage—he detected the hint of darkening beneath her eyes and a pallor that hadn’t been there before.

‘So that night, when we slept together, you knew that we could never be more than that one experience?’

The question floored him. But only for a moment—he was Antonio Herrera and he recovered quickly. ‘Do you want it to be more?’

She pulled a face and her answer dripped with sarcasm. ‘Yeah, right.’

He smirked to cover his irritation. He didn’t like the ease with which she rejected that suggestion. Hell, at that moment he could barely remember that she was a diSalvo, let alone muster enough enthusiasm for their rivalry to care. She was simply Amelia and he was hungry—starving—for her.

‘So you are not here to sell me your stake in Prim’Aqua,’ he said, straightening, pushing off the desk and taking a stride towards her. ‘And you say you are not here to rekindle what we shared that night.’ Another stride, bringing him level with her, and the sweetness of her scent almost had him reaching for her and kissing her. How he wanted to relive that experience!

But every line of her body was a warning and a rejection. She was mentally distancing herself from him and he hated that.

‘So why have you come?’

* * *

Amelia clamped her lips together and dug her fingernails into her palms and she stared at him and reminded herself that he was just a man! There was no need to feel so anxious! Besides, she was absolutely certain he wouldn’t want to be a part of her life—or her child’s.

‘You look pale,’ he added with a frown, and inwardly she groaned. She’d done her best to hide the evidence of the past few weeks, but apparently hadn’t succeeded.

Some women glowed when they were pregnant and it seemed Amelia wasn’t going to be one of them. This very recent bout of nausea combined with a sudden insomnia—no doubt brought on by the realisation she had to tell the father of her baby that she was pregnant—had left her looking drained.

‘How I look is hardly relevant,’ she murmured.

His frown was infinitesimal. ‘Are you sick?’

‘Yes, in a sense,’ she said, and an urge to laugh, maniacally, overcame her. She ignored it with effort and reached for her water glass once more.

It wasn’t that she was afraid of him, but she knew that once she spoke these words aloud, her world would change for ever. Up to this point, she hadn’t mentioned her state to a soul, and she’d been allowing herself time to absorb the news and make her own plans.

She had decided she would need to have her own wishes firmly in place before meeting Antonio. This was her baby, her body, her life and, while she knew she had a moral obligation to inform him of her pregnancy, she sure as hell wasn’t going to let him think he had any right to weigh in on the situation.

‘I don’t like you,’ she said, her eyes locking to his with a defiance that underscored her feelings. ‘I think you’re cold-hearted, ruthless and manipulative.’

He didn’t visibly react, save for a slight tightening around his jaw.

‘Go on.’

‘You’re a Herrera and I’m part of the diSalvo family, but this is hardly some real-life Romeo and Juliet situation. I have no interest in being dragged into a crazy feud that should have ended two generations ago.’

‘It is your brother who sought to ruin—’

She lifted a hand to silence him and though he obliged, closing his mouth, his eyes sparked with hers, his impatience obvious.

‘He did something. You did something back. What a waste of energy—for both of you!’ she denounced scathingly. ‘You could have stopped at shoring up your own business interests. But you didn’t. Instead of taking the high road, you’ve sought to ruin him right back. And there’s no way I will ever be a party to that.’

Antonio’s expression tightened further. There was a look of such ruthless determination in his features that many people might have been afraid. Not Amelia. She’d come up against arrogance and cold-hearted ruthlessness before. No, now, she was angry!

‘You made this position clear already,’ he said finally, the words cold and more heavily accented than usual.

‘True. But I feel the need to underscore it.’

‘For what purpose?’ he demanded. ‘Our business together was concluded six weeks ago. There is nothing to be gained from you being here now.’

Her eyes narrowed and for the briefest of moments she thought about leaving. How much easier it would all be if she were to turn on her heel and stalk out of his office, insisting that he never contact her again!

But how could she live with herself? A baby wasn’t something you could hide—she was living proof. To know that she’d spent twelve years being raised with her parentage a mystery, that her father had had no idea of her existence. What had they both been denied? Would she have had an actual family if her mother had made a different decision?

Memories and past hurts had her straightening her spine, staring at him with renewed intent.

‘I’ll go soon,’ she promised. ‘In fact, I’m booked on a flight in a few hours,’ she added for good measure, liking the safety and security that fact offered.

His frown was one of non-comprehension. ‘You’re flying commercial?’

At this, Amelia rolled her eyes. ‘As opposed to?’

‘DiSalvo Industries has many planes...’

She angled her face away from his. He was right. She could have flown in a private jet, but that wasn’t—and never had been—Amelia’s style. ‘What an environmental nightmare,’ she stated disapprovingly. ‘Any billionaire gets a whim to go here or there and they power up their own plane, when there are dozens of flights scheduled to that same destination every day.’

‘But then you have to fit in with someone else’s schedule,’ he pointed out with infuriating logic—and despicable arrogance.

‘Oh, heaven forbid a little inconvenience.’ They were getting off-topic and she didn’t particularly want to stand in Antonio’s office, arguing the merits of flight timetables with him.

‘My schedule allows very little room for flexibility,’ he said with an arrogant shrug of his shoulders.

And now Amelia did laugh, just a soft, panicked noise of utter disbelief. ‘You’re going to hate this, then.’ Babies were the very definition of inconvenience, and this one particularly so, given how little either of them could have expected her pregnancy.

‘Hate what?’ He was wary.

When it came to it, there was no need for any preamble. Like ripping off a Band-Aid, she was simply going to tell him—to get it over with and then go home. With a deep breath and a voice that shook ever so slightly, she said into the silence: ‘I’m pregnant, Antonio. And you’re the father.’