Читать книгу Bound By Their Scandalous Baby - Heidi Rice - Страница 9
ОглавлениеLUKAS BLACKSTONE HATED CROWDS. But he hated dark rooms a whole lot more. Tonight, he would have to endure both at the same time. A humiliating trickle of sweat eased down his temple. He brushed it away impatiently with the cuff of his tuxedo jacket. The tailored designer suit felt like a straitjacket, squeezing the air out of his lungs. The irrational fear made his stomach knot.
He cast a jaundiced eye over the array of VIP guests below him—crammed into the Art Deco ballroom of Blackstone’s Manhattan, his company’s flagstone hotel on the corner of Central Park West.
Hollywood A-listers bumped shoulders with masters of industry, legendary rock stars mingled with media moguls, priceless jewellery sparkled and glowed, and vintage champagne flowed alongside a lavish buffet of delicacies produced by an award-winning chef. A thirty-piece orchestra brought the closing strains of a Viennese waltz to an end. Blackstone’s Full Moon Ball was the classiest event of the season. There was more money on display tonight than the GDP of most European countries, but to Lukas, unlike his twin brother Alexei, it had always looked like a seething mass of humanity ready to swallow him whole.
‘Don’t sweat it, bro. You don’t want to dance in the dark with one of these babes, I’ve got this. But don’t come crying to me when I score and you don’t.’
His brother’s voice, smug and irreverent and full of the reckless charm that had made Alexei irresistible to women the world over, whispered across Lukas’s consciousness. A leaden weight joined the tangle of nerves in his belly.
He sunk his fists into the pockets of his suit pants and let the moment of loss wash over him as he stared down at the ballroom floor. The cloying cloud of expensive perfumes and colognes rose to the mezzanine level where he stood, concealed from prying eyes.
‘Mr Blackstone, sir. Mr Garvey wants to know if you’ve picked your partner for the Dark Waltz?’
Lukas swung round to see one of his publicity chief Dex Garvey’s minions. He glanced at his watch. Ten to twelve. Damn.
He pushed the shadow of reminiscence to one side. He had to make an appearance on the ballroom floor at midnight—when the lights would be dimmed—and claim a woman to dance alone with her, creating a spectacle for the press which had been a highlight of the Ball since the Roaring Twenties.
It was a tradition started by his great-grandfather—a murderous Russian bootlegger—who had used the first Blackstone Full Moon Ball as a uniquely barbaric way to claim his unsuspecting bride from the debutantes of New York high society.
Unfortunately, Dex Garvey had decided Lukas could do the same.
‘Tell Garvey it’s none of his business,’ he barked. The minion took the hint and scurried off.
Irritated by the need to make a public spectacle of himself, and the tight knots still competing with the hollow ache in his stomach, he scanned the dance floor for a suitable candidate as the Dark Waltz was announced and the eligible women gathered in the centre of the room.
He ignored the cluster of girls from some of Europe and America’s best families. He knew Garvey had invited them in the hope he would choose one to create a buzz around the planted story about his supposed search for a wife—as Blackstone’s prepared to open its first luxury family resort on a private atoll in the Maldives.
The move into the family market was a sound business decision, nothing more—a chance to consolidate Blackstone’s as the leading luxury brand in all sectors of the global hospitality industry—but Lukas had absolutely no intention of becoming a family man himself just to promote it.
The knots in his stomach tightened as he left his sanctuary and descended the staircase. A sea of eager female faces watched him. The opening bars of the Dark Waltz drowned out the hum of anticipation from the crowd—and the rush of blood in his ears—when his gaze landed on a young woman standing alone.
Unlike the others, who waited with barely concealed anticipation at the thought that he might pick them, she stood apart, her stance brittle and guarded.
The jolt of awareness hit him. Her slender body was temptingly displayed in a green satin gown, its classic style a lot simpler than the expensive designer gowns of the other women. Pale alabaster skin was offset by a mass of wild red curls swept up in a haphazard style that made him itch to tug away the pins keeping it aloft.
As the lights dimmed, the girl’s skin took on an ethereal glow in the moonlight and he got close enough to make out her features. The visceral blast of heat was followed by the shock of recognition.
Darcy O’Hara. The girl who had attempted to blackmail Alexei four years ago—just before his death. What the hell was she doing in New York?
He recoiled, fury and loss strangling him. But he couldn’t halt his steps or change direction as he strode across the floor towards her. A barrage of camera flashes went off around him like fireworks and the other women faded into the background—because the only woman he could focus on was her.
The knots of tension released in a rush, setting off a chain reaction throughout his body, the predatory instinct like a drug.
She tensed, her gaze fixed on his, and her body trembled as if she were poised to run—like a gazelle scenting a panther stalking her in the long grass.
But she stood her ground.
He would have given her points for that, except he didn’t buy the shocked and fragile act for a second. The sharp sweet taste of revenge overrode the familiar childhood fear that had dogged him for years as the darkness descended. The full moon’s beams through the ballroom’s glass ceiling provided the only illumination. The anxiety burned away on the focused wave of fury and the inexplicable flare of desire.
You should have run, Darcy, because you’re not going to like what happens next.
Reaching her at last, he grasped one narrow wrist in an iron grip and wrapped his other arm around her slender waist to yank her towards him.
Without asking permission, he swung her into a turn as the music began, trapping her against his body. She arched back against his restraining arm, the cello strings marking the beat. He could hear the gasp of distress, feel the shudder of her rapid breathing, the softness of her skin as his palm strayed down to where the gown’s back plunged low.
Holding her insultingly close, he forced her to follow his lead.
He didn’t care if he was treating her like a whore. Because that was exactly what she was.
Darcy O’Hara was going to pay for the lies she’d told Alexei, not to mention her decision to gatecrash this event. By the end of this dance, every single member of the paparazzi in Manhattan would know what a manipulative little gold-digger she was—because he planned to give the world’s press and every person here a graphic demonstration.
‘Mr Blackstone...’ she stuttered, the crisp English accent smokier than he remembered from their one brief meeting, as she struggled against his hold. ‘You’re hurting me,’ she said breathlessly.
He loosened his grip, but only enough to ensure he didn’t bruise her. He wasn’t the monster here—she was.
‘Call me Lukas,’ he snarled, thinking of Alexei—irresponsible, impulsive and far too easily fooled by a pretty face—and all he’d lost the day this woman had worked her way into his brother’s bed and messed with his head. ‘And stop wriggling.’
* * *
Bronte O’Hara’s head spun, her confusion almost as huge as her panic, as Lukas Blackstone’s arms closed around her like steel bands.
But as her brain knotted, trying to make sense of what had just happened, her body burned—so powerfully aware of this man she had never met before, further protests got lodged in her throat.
He whisked her around the floor, the kaleidoscope of flashing lights and sound whirling past her in giddying circles. Her skin stretched tight over her bones, and her breasts swelled in the too-tight bodice of the gown she’d found in a thrift store in the East Village the day before—so she could gatecrash this event and meet this man who might well be her nephew’s only hope. She’d already known Lukas Blackstone was a bastard, after the way he’d treated Darcy four years ago. Even so, she’d been prepared to beg him for his help, for his attention—but she hadn’t expected this.
The possessive press of one large hand scalded the base of her spine, her senses overwhelmed by the irresistible fragrance of juniper and pine from his cologne and his own musky scent.
She felt trapped, controlled, completely at his mercy. She’d never danced a waltz before in her life, but his confident, fluid steps made it impossible for her to stumble, her feet barely touching the ground.
The music built to a crescendo, her breathing becoming ragged, and her exhausted mind seemed no longer capable of engaging with anything but the sight and sound of him. The moonlight made it feel as if she were being propelled in a dream—a terrifyingly erotic dream—her body becoming one throbbing, pulsating bundle of nerve-endings. Through the maelstrom of conflicting emotions, her mind clung desperately to one coherent thought.
She hated this man, for everything he was and everything he stood for, and for everything he had done to Darcy and had tried to do to Nico. Four years ago, he’d attempted to bribe her sister into aborting his brother’s child.
But why then did she feel so alive in his arms? It was as if a veil had been ripped away to expose her, naked and yearning, the minute he had marched towards her and dragged her into his embrace.
Why did her body revel in his punishing hold? Why did she feel this desperate compulsion to rub against the unyielding lines of his powerful physique? Why did her lungs want to pull in greedy breaths of that intoxicating scent?
After what felt like an eternity, but could only have been a few minutes, the glide of violin and cello, the flutter of piccolo and flute faded into silence and they came to an abrupt standstill.
She could hear her own rapid breathing as her body hummed with a thousand tiny pinpricks of agonised sensation. Abruptly he let her go. She stumbled and his hand clamped around her upper arm.
Applause erupted around them. She heard his vicious curse, then suddenly she was in his arms again. But this time his lips were on hers, his tongue demanding entry. She opened for him instinctively, her gasp cut off as his tongue swept inside.
Strong fingers plunged into her hair, the stinging in her scalp as the pins scattered nothing compared to the brutal blaze of sensation firing up from her core.
Overcome, overwhelmed, she was unable to control her desperate, wanton response to the kiss. Part of her mind knew this was a punishment—she could feel his contempt, taste his disgust—but as he held her head and pillaged her mouth she was powerless to resist the heat firing through every one of those newly awakened nerve-endings.
She felt dazed, giddy with pleasure, as the darkness began to lift. But then he thrust her away from him. The applause had died, to be replaced with hissed whispers, taut silence.
She got her first proper look at the face that had haunted her for over three years. But he looked nothing like the pictures she’d seen of his brother. His identical twin. His dark onyx eyes glittered with heat and contempt. The scar that ran in an arc down the left side of his face mesmerised her for one crucial second—she had read he’d acquired the disfiguring injury in a childhood accident—but the wound which had marred the perfect symmetry of his features had turned what should have been a classically handsome face into something brooding and intense and a million times more compelling.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, which felt tender from the pressure of his kiss, and watched as if in a trance as his sensual lips moved.
‘I see you’re still the same little whore who seduced my brother,’ he said, his voice so low she almost couldn’t hear it above the rumble of speculation from the crowd.
The words exploded in her head, shattering the moment of stunned arousal, as he clicked his fingers above his head, signalling the security guards she’d been dodging all evening.
Fear and anger, and disgust—with herself as much as him—combined in the pit of her stomach and her fist shot out.
The thud of the punch sounded like canon fire. She heard the muscles in his neck pop as his head snapped back—and pain exploded in her knuckles.
‘Your brother was the whore,’ she shouted. ‘Not Darcy.’
Hard hands grabbed her from behind. She struggled against the security guard’s hold.
‘Get her out of here and hand her over to the police,’ Blackstone said as he tested his jaw.
Her hand throbbed but he looked barely fazed by the punch as he flicked a contemptuous glance down her body, then turned and walked away.
‘Wait, wait!’ she shouted as the guard hefted her backwards, the crowd in an uproar. But Blackstone didn’t even glance back.
Nico. What have I done?
Horror at her impulsiveness fired through her.
She’d spent the last of her savings, and precious days, trying to contact this man. Had used every last ounce of the ingenuity and bravery she possessed to set up this one chance to meet him. And now she’d blown it in a matter of minutes because of one insane dance and a mind-blowing kiss.
The despair that had dogged her for weeks—months—ever since her nephew had been diagnosed with a rare form of blood cancer threatened to descend, as the security guard kept a tight arm around her midriff.
She was going to be arrested, kicked out of the US, possibly even remanded in custody. Lukas Blackstone would take out a restraining order against her and Nico would have no one. And no chance.
Mustering the last of her strength, she kicked hard against the security guard’s shin. He dumped her on the ground with a muffled curse. Scrambling up, she raced through the phalanx of photographers after Blackstone, who was heading back towards the stairs he had come down, clearly intending to leave the dance floor as abruptly as he had arrived.
She grabbed his sleeve, tugged as hard as she could, her knuckles still stinging from connecting with a jaw harder than granite. He jerked round, the livid red mark on his chin taunting her.
‘I’m not Darcy. I’m her sister. Darcy’s dead—she died three years ago. But I have to speak to you about her son. Nico is Alexei’s son too. I... Oof.’
The hard arm of the security guard locked round her tummy again, with bruising force this time, but as she was hauled back, Blackstone raised his hand. ‘Put her down.’
She was dropped to her feet. She staggered and would have fallen, but for the iron grip as his hand snagged her upper arm.
‘What did you say?’ Blackstone demanded.
* * *
She’s lying.
Lukas fought to regain his cast-iron control. And locate the cold hard logic he relied on which had deserted him the minute he’d set eyes on the woman. But as he held the girl’s slender arm, watched her pulse batter her collarbone and studied her heart-shaped face, seeing the anguish and defiance in her vivid emerald eyes, the sprinkle of freckles across her nose, the full lips reddened by his angry kiss—one realisation blindsided him.
This girl was not the woman who had disturbed his brother’s mind with her insidious lies four years ago. The shape of her face was different; she was slightly shorter—and she had none of Darcy O’Hara’s guile.
Strangely, the knowledge quelled at least a little of his fury.
He would have hated himself if he had responded to Darcy in that way. If she were really dead, he certainly felt no regret. But then he registered what else the girl had said. She was Darcy’s sister, and still peddling the same damn lie her sister Darcy had used four years ago to extort money from Alexei.
So was his attraction to this girl really any better?
He shouldn’t have touched her, certainly shouldn’t have kissed her. But the compulsion to teach her a lesson had become mixed up in a host of unbidden and unwanted desires as her fresh, subtle scent had engulfed him and her body had surrendered to his during the steps of the dance.
One look at those damn lips as they’d finished dancing, her panting breaths making her full breasts rise and fall against the bodice of her gown—and all he’d wanted to do was feast on her mouth.
He didn’t like it. He mastered his urges. Controlled them. Unlike his brother, he had learned at an early age that impulse and need were a weakness, and dangerous if you indulged either one. But he’d never had that control tested until about five minutes ago, when he’d spied her in the crowd. Instincts beyond his control had taken over at that point. It was something he would have to examine carefully after he was finished with her—because he did not intend to let it happen again.
‘Please, you have to listen to me,’ she begged, even though the flash of defiance in her eyes told a different story.
He felt a certain admiration for her. She might be as much of a gold-digger as her sister, but she had none of Darcy’s acting ability—her enmity towards him was plain on her face.
‘I have to do no such thing,’ he said. But he didn’t let go of her arm. Instead he walked towards the staircase, hauling her with him—the crowd already closing in on him.
‘Mr Blackstone, the police are on their way.’ Jack Tanner, the head of his security team for Blackstone’s Manhattan, fell into step on his other side, looking ill at ease.
And well he should.
‘Find out how she got past security,’ he barked, fuming at that oversight. ‘I want a full report on my desk in an hour.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Tanner replied. ‘Do you want us to take her off your hands?’ he offered, two of his security detail following close behind as they mounted the stairs.
The girl hadn’t objected to being marched out of the ballroom, but he felt her stiffen at the suggestion.
Pausing at the top of the stairs, he could see the paparazzi firing off shots from behind the security cordon and Dex Garvey having a microphone shoved in his face. The eyes of the guests were on them. This little incident was going to be all over the gossip columns in the morning and would already have started hitting the celebrity blogs and websites. He’d helped with that—by not resisting the foolish urge to dance with her, and then kiss her—but the icing on the cake would be the girl’s fatuous claim about Alexei having a child.
The pulse of loss hit him hard. And then fury reverberated through him. He’d make sure she paid for that piece of theatre. He had no doubt at all she’d been waiting for an opportunity to announce the lie at a moment when it would get maximum exposure—to increase the price of her silence and her bargaining position. That he’d gifted her the perfect photo op with that kiss only made him more furious, with himself as much as her.
This girl was about to find out that he could not be as easily manipulated as he had been four years ago, when he’d parted with fifty thousand dollars simply to save Alexei the embarrassment of having to make a public announcement that he was not responsible for Darcy’s so-called condition.
Well, Alexei was gone now—the car crash that had killed him while he was out of his head on cocaine and champagne a direct result of Darcy O’Hara’s lies, to Lukas’s way of thinking. So Lukas had no reason and certainly no incentive to pay another cent. But this girl needed to be taught a lesson. Once and for all.
He wasn’t leaving that task to the police or anyone else. He owed it to Alexei.
‘I wish to talk to her in private,’ he said to Tanner. ‘Keep the police busy until then. And get rid of the press.’ He would speak to Garvey tomorrow about a press release to quell any rumours arising from this evening’s events. Alexei had always wanted to avoid just such a necessity, but Alexei was gone now. And the truth could no longer hurt him. If anything, it ought to stop any more gold-diggers like the O’Hara sisters coming out of the woodwork.
He felt the girl’s body sag, no doubt with relief. As he marched her down the corridor towards his private suite he felt an answering surge of satisfaction. She thought she’d just got what she wanted. He was going to enjoy proving the opposite.
He entered the suite and hauled her in after him, then let her go. As she stumbled to a stop in the centre of the room, he slammed the door and clicked the lock.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, angered anew by the pulse of heat in his crotch which hadn’t subsided since that ill-advised kiss.
She wrapped her arms around her midriff, the tremors racking her body a nice touch, he thought, as she lifted her chin and faced him, the leap of defiance still sparkling in the green depths of her irises. Her freckles stood out against the vivid flush of exertion on her cheeks—but he noticed for the first time the shadows under her eyes.
He ruthlessly quelled the prickle of sympathy.
Maybe she was an even better actress than her sister, after all. From the look of her, anyone would think she was an avenging angel on the verge of collapse, not an accomplished little blackmailer.
His gaze roamed over her, and he let every ounce of his contempt show. In the brighter light, the dress looked considerably less impressive. It didn’t even fit her properly, the soft mounds of her breasts pressed indecently against the satin. His gaze snagged on the outline of her nipples. He jerked it away again, before the heat in his crotch swelled.
She’d lost her shoes in the struggle with the security guard, her bare unpainted toes peeping out from underneath the gown’s frayed hem.
His gaze rose to examine her face. She wore no jewellery and minimal make-up. Her dewy skin was as soft and clear as a child’s. He flinched inwardly—exactly how old was she? She looked like a teenager, eighteen or nineteen at the most, playing dress-up.
The Little Orphan Annie look wasn’t one he’d been susceptible to before now—which only made the incendiary effect of having her in his arms, her mouth at his mercy, all the more galling and inexplicable.
‘Talk,’ he said. The curt demand made her flinch. ‘You’ve got five minutes to explain exactly how much you think your little revelation about Alexei fathering a son is worth before I hand you over to the cops.’
At which point he would take great pleasure in adding a charge of extortion to the ones of trespass and assault.
* * *
‘What?’ Bronte’s voice broke on the word, her shock almost as huge as her exhaustion. And her confusion.
‘You heard me. How. Much.’ The jagged scar on his cheek pulsed, emphasising his hatred.
And, as much as she hated him in return, she didn’t understand it.
Exactly how cruel and arrogant was this man? She’d just told him his dead twin had a child. And all he seemed concerned about was money—and humiliating her.
He’d treated her with complete contempt, from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. He’d as good as ravaged her in front of hundreds of people—and said the most vile things imaginable about a woman who couldn’t defend herself—and now he was accusing her of being some kind of blackmailer.
She bit into her lip, hard enough to taste blood. And held on to the diatribe she wanted to scream at him.
Don’t punch him again, Bronte. You need his co-operation. Nico needs his cooperation.
She flexed her fingers, pressing the bruised knuckles under her arm, and tried to channel Mahatma Gandhi. Not easy when she was feeling more like Genghis Khan.
Unfortunately, Lukas Blackstone was the one with all the power here. Not just in terms of his money and influence, but even within the confines of this room. He towered over her. In her bare feet she was barely five foot three; she suspected he was at least a foot taller, with an impressively fit build for a man who had probably spent every moment of his existence being pampered to within an inch of his life. There wasn’t an ounce of softness or give about him. He looked completely indomitable—and completely furious. Like a lion in his prime—who could devour her and all her hopes with one vicious swipe of his paw, and then forget about her.
‘I don’t want your money,’ she said, as clearly as she could while her knees were shaking.
She wasn’t scared of him, she told herself staunchly. This was just a reaction to everything that had happened in the last few minutes, and hours, and days and weeks. It felt as if all her hopes and fears, all her dreams and all her nightmares, were centred in this one room, concentrated on this one man—and, for better or worse, she had to come out on top in this battle of wills or she would lose everything that mattered to her.
Unfortunately, she had never been the sunny, flirtatious, irresistible sister. That had always been Darcy. Darcy with her sweet smile and her effervescent laugh and her determination to always see the best in people, even the father who had discarded them both to start another family. And Alexei Blackstone, who Darcy had been convinced had fallen madly in love with her, even if all the evidence from their one-night stand and its aftermath had suggested the opposite.
Alexei Blackstone had used Darcy. He’d been nothing more than a billionaire playboy who had hooked up with her sister for a night in Monaco, while her sister had been working at the casino bar and he’d been touring the tables. After a moonlit drive in his new sports car, he’d seduced her hopelessly romantic sister over champagne and canapés in the Blackstone Villa on the Côte D’Azur. He’d taken her virginity and then discarded her the next day. Darcy had lost her job and returned to London, confused and heartbroken, but when she’d found out she was pregnant, contacting Alexei had been impossible. He’d never responded to any of the frantic messages Darcy had left him. And then Lukas had appeared in London a few days later, his limousine taking Darcy to a private meeting at the Blackstone Park Lane. There he’d tried to bully and blackmail Darcy into having an abortion, which Darcy had been convinced had all been Lukas’s idea.
Bronte wasn’t convinced that Alexei wasn’t the one who had set his big brother on Darcy and told him to bribe her into silence, but Darcy wouldn’t hear of it.
Alexei Blackstone was as much of a creep as his brother to Bronte’s way of thinking—just a more charming one. But when Darcy had spoken of him that last time, months after his death, her eyes glazed with fever and love, an hour after Nico’s birth, Bronte had simply nodded, having lost the desire to destroy her sister’s comforting delusions.
‘Promise me you won’t tell Alexei’s brother I didn’t have the abortion. Lukas must never know about Nico.’
Bronte’s mind stalled, the fog of exhaustion burned away by the flash fire of memory. She flexed her fingers, feeling Darcy’s weak grip tightening on her hand as the sharp sickly smell of morphine and disinfectant clogged Bronte’s lungs. And the words that had haunted her and driven her for three years whispered across her consciousness.
‘I promise, Darcy. I’ll look after Nico. And Lukas Blackstone will never know he exists.’
She’d only been eighteen when Nico had come into her life and the double whammy of responsibility and Darcy’s death had cut her carefree existence off at the knees. The newborn baby had been nothing but a burden at first, especially in the depths of her grief, when just getting out of bed each morning had felt like an endeavour on a par with building the Taj Mahal singlehanded.
But eventually Nico, such a sweet, smiley baby boy, had become Bronte’s salvation, yanking her out of her grief and back into the world. She’d found a secure job as a nightclub cleaner and worked her backside off to raise Nico alone. And eventually she and Nico had found a rhythm. A rhythm which suited them. They’d weathered the highs and the many lows together. They were a team. And she’d kept her promise to Darcy. Until Nico’s paediatrician Dr Patel had told her two days ago—in her bright airy office at Westminster Children’s Hospital—that Bronte wasn’t the donor they needed for Nico’s treatment. And maybe they should look for a donor in his father’s family.
Unlike Darcy, Bronte had always been a realist, a pragmatist, the one who knew people rarely, if ever, were as good as they appeared to be on the surface. And if she’d ever been an optimist she wasn’t one any more. But if the paediatrician had believed the devil himself was Nico’s best hope she would have tracked him down—and forced him to cooperate. But having to dig deep and find a way to charm Lukas Blackstone now she’d found him felt impossible somehow—probably because her experience of charming any man was precisely zilch.
Just concentrate on the now. And get through this. For Nikky and Darcy.
Lukas’s brows drew down, making his harsh, brooding face look even more forbidding.
‘If you don’t want money,’ he said, the cynical note a clear indication he was humouring her with that supposition, ‘then why did you gatecrash this event?’
‘I told you why,’ Bronte snapped, then wished she could bite off her tongue. But he didn’t seem particularly fazed by her show of temper. Probably because he held all the cards. ‘Because I need to talk to you about Nico,’ she continued. ‘Who is your brother Alexei’s son.’
Lukas’s eyes flickered with an intense emotion she couldn’t name. But then the tiny reaction was gone, and the look he sent her could only be described as scathing. And dismissive.
She pushed against the despair threatening to engulf her. Had coming here been a terrible mistake?
‘Nico is your nephew,’ she reiterated, even though admitting the connection between this cynical, indifferent man and that innocent, funny, beautiful little boy made her stomach hurt. ‘He’s only three years old and he’s very ill—his only hope is an experimental stem cell treatment. We need at least a partial donor match but, with both his biological parents dead, Dr Patel says his best hope of finding a match is you—because you’re his father’s identical twin.’
Her voice trailed off because his face had remained impassive. Except for the tiny tic of a muscle in his jaw. Exactly how inhuman was he, that the plight of a child—his brother’s child—wouldn’t move him, even in the slightest?
But then his frown became more pronounced, as if he were considering what she’d said. Had he heard her? Would he at least consider helping?
‘If there even is such a child,’ he said, his tone laced with scepticism now as well as barely concealed contempt, ‘and he is actually sick, I think we both know there is no chance I will be a suitable donor.’
‘No, we don’t. How could we? If you haven’t been tested.’
‘Because there is no possible way Alexei could have fathered this boy. Something your sister knew when she tried to claim the same thing four years ago.’
‘Why are you saying that?’ she asked, confused now as well as frightened. ‘You knew Alexei was the father, or you wouldn’t have given my sister fifty thousand dollars to have an abortion.’
His eyebrows rose then, and for the first time she could see she’d surprised him. ‘Is that what your sister told you?’
‘Yes, and I believed her—she would never have lied to me.’ Darcy had never had a single duplicitous or greedy bone in her body. She’d taken this man’s blood money, yes, but only for the sake of her child—to put a down payment on the tiny basement flat where they lived in Hackney, East London.
‘How melodramatic,’ he said. ‘I didn’t tell her to have an abortion, for the simple reason that I didn’t believe her story about being pregnant. And if she was pregnant I knew damn well the child wasn’t Alexei’s. If she thought that was what the money was for, that was her interpretation. I simply told her I was paying her the money to rid myself and Alexei of the problem she presented.’
‘But she was pregnant and Alexei is the father...’
‘I met your sister exactly once,’ Lukas interrupted, the contempt in his voice slicing Bronte to the bone. ‘Obviously I underestimated the problem. I thought she was simply a good liar, an accomplished gold-digger. I didn’t realise she was delusional and that she actually believed Alexei was the father.’
‘But Darcy wasn’t delusional. She was telling the truth.’
‘No, she wasn’t. Alexei could not possibly have fathered her child.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because my brother was infertile. He had been since the age of sixteen.’
‘But that can’t be true.’ Bronte’s mind stalled, the revelation a crushing blow. Had Darcy made a mistake? About Nico’s father? Had this mission all been a pointless, futile exercise which was likely to get her arrested for no good reason...?
‘I assure you it is true. My father got it on good authority from a number of specialists after a bout of mumps caused severe inflammation of Alexei’s testes as a teenager.’ The stormy expression on Lukas’s face lifted the veil of indifference—so he did care, about his brother at least.
Bronte ignored the biting anger in his tone and struggled to get her head around this revelation. What Lukas was saying simply didn’t stack up.
Alexei had been Darcy’s first lover—her only lover. Clearly Lukas believed what he was saying about his brother. Which would explain why Lukas had offered Darcy money to get rid of her, and Alexei had refused to answer her calls. Obviously the two of them had both thought Darcy was some kind of conniving gold-digger looking for a pay-off, and they’d wanted to protect Alexei’s pride. The fifty thousand dollars hadn’t been to pay for an abortion, as Darcy in her panic and confusion had obviously assumed; it had simply been to stop her from going public with the news of a pregnancy they both believed Alexei could not have been responsible for.
But how did any of that explain why Nico looked so much like the Blackstone brothers? And how could Darcy possibly have got pregnant by someone else? If she’d never slept with another man?
Whatever Lukas Blackstone believed, he had to be wrong. Because Alexei had to be Nico’s father. And that meant Lukas was still Nico’s best chance of a donor.
‘I don’t care if the whole world thought your brother was infertile. He wasn’t, because Nico is his son. Darcy said so, and you only have to look at him to know it’s true.’
Lukas’s face hardened, the tic in his jaw going berserk. The lion was about to pounce, but she didn’t care any more; she would prod and provoke him until he accepted the truth—and gave Nico a chance.
‘Clearly you’re as much of a fantasist as your sister.’ He drew a mobile phone out of his pocket and began to key in a number as he spoke. ‘Your time’s up, Miss O’Hara, and this farce is over.’ He lifted the phone to his ear.
‘Stop!’ She grabbed his arm, horrified by the spurt of heat that snaked up her torso at the feel of his muscular forearm tensing beneath the sleeve of his tuxedo. ‘Before you have me arrested. Just stop and think for a moment. What if the doctors were wrong? What if, by some miracle, your brother did father a child and Nico is all that’s left of him?’
‘I don’t believe in miracles,’ he said flatly, not surprising her in the slightest, but then he lowered the phone.
‘Neither did I...’ she said, because she hadn’t until this very second, but she could see the spark of irritation—and she thanked God for it, because it was enough to give him pause. ‘Let me show you a photo of Nico,’ she said, pouring the last of her hope into the plea. ‘I’ve got loads of them on my phone—which is in my bag hidden behind the industrial dishwashers in the kitchens downstairs.’ As well as the waitress uniform she’d used to sneak into the event. ‘If once you see it you’re not convinced to at least investigate the possibility that Nico is related to you and your brother, I’ll never darken your door again. I promise.’
It wasn’t exactly much of a bargain. After all, he was about to have her escorted off the premises and thrown in jail. The chances of her ever being able to get within fifty feet of him again were unlikely. But it was the only bargaining chip she had.
She waited for a few pregnant moments. Her heart shrank in her chest when he glanced down at her fingers and she removed her hand from his sleeve. But when he lifted the phone to his ear again her breath clogged her lungs, the desperate bubble of hope expanding in her throat.
Please, God, let Lukas Blackstone give Nico this one chance. And I’ll never ask for another miracle again. I promise.
‘Tanner,’ he said into the phone—his voice seeming to echo from a million miles away as the painful hope began to cut off her air supply. ‘Get one of the team to go to the kitchens. There’s a bag hidden behind one of the dishwashers. Bring it here.’
The breath that shuddered out made her giddy, the light in the room becoming blinding. ‘Thank you.’
He tucked his phone into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket.
‘I’ll give it to you,’ he said, his scepticism still plain on his face. ‘You’re as good an actress as your sister.’
She nodded, suddenly feeling the urge to laugh at the odd note of admiration. But as the hollow chuckle worked its way up her chest, his face—dark and forbidding and unconvinced—seemed to float in front of her. Until all she could see was the scar, pulsing and glowing in the light.
She lifted a finger, which felt like a dead weight attached to the end of her palm—no longer able to control the urge to explore the rough skin.
Her fingertip touched his cheek. His eyes flared, the dark fire burning her from the inside out. But he didn’t move as she drew her finger along the jagged line, feeling the warmth of his skin, the flex of the muscle in his jaw. And the pain in her stomach clenched and released, his face melding with Nico’s.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, her heart breaking for him as she imagined him as a boy—like Nico—vulnerable and hurting.
He stiffened and drew away, the flare of irritation turning to something much more dangerous. She dropped her finger, blinking furiously to keep the exhaustion—and that strange foggy feeling of connection—at bay.
What on earth were you thinking?
‘Don’t touch me again, Miss O’Hara,’ he said. ‘I can’t be swayed by a beautiful woman the way my brother was.’
She collapsed onto the couch as he ordered the two bodyguards who had been outside the door to watch her. But as he left the room one foolish, shameful thought ran through her mind...
Did he just call me beautiful?
* * *
The next twenty minutes seemed to last a millennium or two, as Bronte tried to keep alive the vague hope that everything would work out okay when Lukas saw Nikky’s photo.
The huge picture window opposite the couch looked out onto the Manhattan night, the room’s muted lighting casting a warm glow over the white stucco walls. The exquisite cream and blue silk furnishings were a keynote of the Blackstone brand, expensive and stylish—and yet more evidence of Blackstone’s wealth and power, as if she needed it.
Their conversation—and her ignominious exit from the Ball—kept running through her brain, along with the visceral punch of heat. Her head started to ache as a flush of reaction worked its way up to her hairline. The two bodyguards remained by the door, apparently oblivious to her distress. Or maybe they were just being polite.
‘Do you think I’ll get arrested?’ she finally managed, hoping to distract herself with conversation.
‘That will be up to Mr Blackstone,’ said the older one, not unkindly.
Just as the guard said the words, the door opened and in marched the man himself, sucking all the oxygen out of the room. Bronte pulled herself upright, feeling desperately exposed in her faded ball gown as his gaze raked over her.
The two bodyguards straightened, like soldiers snapping to attention.
‘Leave us,’ Blackstone said, and they both left with a discreet nod.
Did Blackstone have that effect on all his employees? she wondered as her own heart galloped into her throat.
Blackstone had taken off his tuxedo and the black tie. The rolled-up sleeves of his white dress shirt emphasised the muscular power of his forearms—deeply tanned and furred with dark hair. The waves of hair on his head shone black in the room’s lighting and lay in deep grooves as if he’d run his fingers through it, but if he was at all unsettled by their encounter he certainly wasn’t showing it. His expression was as intent and controlled as before.
Bronte swallowed. She felt shaky but she had the distinct impression that showing any weakness to this man would be a major mistake.
Her head began to pound, the heat on her cheeks scalding her insides as his gaze travelled over the creased satin dress. Somehow her hair had collapsed—she couldn’t even imagine what a wreck she must look like, but she pushed the futile moment of vanity to one side. She didn’t have time to care about her appearance, or what he thought of her.
‘Have you seen the pictures of Nico?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘You have?’ The panic became huge. He still looked unmoved and impassive. How could he not have noticed the resemblance? Between himself and Nico? When it was so clear to her? ‘But surely...’
‘My medical team have contacted the paediatrician at Westminster Children’s Hospital in your phone’s contacts,’ he cut into her frantic reasoning.
‘Then you believe me?’ she said, the hope like a sunburst inside her.
But, instead of looking moved, he simply frowned. ‘There’s enough of a resemblance to require further investigation. That’s all.’
It’s not a no.
She clung to the lifeline, feeling light-headed again. ‘When?’ she asked, knowing that time was of the essence. ‘When are you planning to do this further investigation?’
Please let it be soon. Surely he could get tested in New York. That would work. They could feed the results back to the team in the UK, then they’d know if Blackstone was a suitable partial match for the new treatment.
He glanced at his watch. ‘We’re leaving in twenty minutes, once the helicopter is fuelled.’
‘We?’ she said, staggered. ‘Where are we going?’ And in a helicopter?
‘To JFK,’ he said, as if it were obvious. ‘The company jet is taking us to London. We should arrive by eight a.m. tomorrow. The hospital is expecting us.’
The leap of joy despite his sharp tone almost choked her. ‘Really? You’ll get tested straight away then?’
‘All I’m prepared to do is a DNA test,’ he said flatly. He still didn’t sound that convinced, but she didn’t care. Because she knew once the DNA results came in the truth would be revealed.
‘And when Nico turns out to be Alexei’s son?’ she asked, her joy hard to contain. Because she knew he wouldn’t have a choice then. He would have to get tested, once he knew for sure Nico was his nephew.
She hadn’t messed everything up by punching him. Nico still had a chance.
But, instead of saying anything about that, he simply said, ‘Then you’re going to have some serious questions to answer.’
He stalked out of the room and an assistant arrived with a borrowed coat and her bag. And as she got ready to leave it dawned on Bronte that her battle with Lukas Blackstone was far from over. Because he didn’t sound excited or remotely pleased that he might have discovered a long-lost nephew.
He sounded furious. With her. And the whole situation. And more formidable and unforgiving than ever.
