the child was Gemma’s. His desire to see the boy had shattered Abby’s composure; she didn’t even realise she’d given herself away.
Instinct warned him to proceed with caution. He said neutrally, ‘Her mother wasn’t maternal, but she made sure Gemma had the best care available. And my father had duties he couldn’t avoid, as well as a corporation to run. He did his best for her.’
Hands clenching into fists at her side, Abby skewered him with an outraged glance and carried on in full, indignant fervour. ‘By sending her off to boarding school the minute she turned eight, where she was wretchedly, miserably unhappy? That was his best?’ With an elaborate dismissive shrug she finished scathingly, ‘In that case, I’m really, really glad to hear that he didn’t dislike her!’
‘That’s enough!’
Caelan’s harsh, deep voice drowned her in cold menace. Damn, she thought, mortified; don’t let emotion get the better of you! She could see contempt in his eyes, in the hard line of his mouth, the still tautness of his powerful body. No matter how angry he was, the prince remained in full control.
‘Admit that he’s Gemma’s child.’ At her obstinate silence, he said coolly, ‘You asked for proof that he’s not yours. Here it is.’
He drew a sheet of paper from the pocket of his casual, superbly cut jacket. When he offered it to her she took it and tried to read, but the words danced and blurred in front of her eyes. Blinking, she forced her brain to focus.
Couched in scientist’s prose, it was quite definite; there were enough points of similarity between tissue samples one and two for there to be a familial connection.
‘I don’t understand,’ she whispered, fighting off dark dread. The paper dropped from her nerveless fingers.
Watching her with unsparing eyes, the prince made no attempt to pick it up.
When she regained enough composure to be able to speak again, she said stiffly, ‘This could be anyone’s samples. There’s no way you could take a blood sample from Michael without my knowing, and I know you didn’t get one from me.’
His beautiful mouth relaxed into a sardonic smile. ‘Blood isn’t necessary for DNA testing—any tissue will serve.’ His inflexible tone warned her. Heart hammering, she listened as he went on. ‘And I didn’t need one from you. It was easy enough to send in a worker at the child-care centre; she stayed three weeks before deciding she didn’t like living in the backblocks, and she came away with saliva samples and blood from a grazed knee. The results prove that you’re not Michael’s mother—that you’re no relation to him.’
Blood roared through her head as outrage manhandled fear aside. She grabbed the back of the sofa and fought for control, finally grinding out, ‘How dare you? You had no right to—’
‘You had no right to steal my sister’s child,’ he cut in, his lethal tone quelling her anger as effectively as a douche of ice water. ‘Why did you do it? What satisfaction did it give you?’
‘Gemma asked me to take care of him.’
The strong bone structure of his face was very much in evidence. Dispassionately he said, ‘If she did, it was typically dramatic and thoughtless of her to demand that you put your life on hold for Michael, but that’s irrelevant now.’ He paused, his hooded eyes keen and watchful. ‘The next step is a court case, where the first thing any judge will do is order another DNA test. And we both know how that will turn out.’
An acceptance of defeat rose like bitter anguish inside Abby. She was going to lose Michael. But not, she thought grimly, until she’d made this arrogant prince fight to the last for his nephew.
Pride and disillusion gave her voice an acid edge when she said, ‘If all you’re planning for Michael is a lonely, loveless childhood like Gemma’s, why on earth do you want him?’
‘Because he is a Bagaton,’ he said coldly.
‘Gemma was a Bagaton too, but it didn’t make her happy. She wanted me to look after him.’ When he raised his brows she cried, ‘I’ve got a letter to prove it.’
She stooped to her bag, holding her shoulders stiffly and her spine so rigid she thought it might splinter. With trembling fingers she unzipped an inner pocket in one suitcase and took out an envelope.
Thrusting it at the man who watched her with eyes as translucent and cold as polar ice, she said, ‘Here.’
He took it, but didn’t look at it. His startlingly good-looking face was set in lines of such formidable determination that she flinched, yet a melting heat in the pit of her stomach astonished and frightened her. It was one thing to acknowledge that he had a primitive physical power over her; it would be shameful to let her body’s treachery weaken her.
‘Read it,’ she said desperately. ‘It will make any judge think about his decision.’
Frowning, the prince examined the single sheet of notepaper.
Abby waited tensely, mentally going over the words she knew by heart.
Dearest Abby, If you’re reading this I’m dead. See, I told you I could foretell things! Take Michael to New Zealand, but make sure neither Caelan nor my mother find you—or him. I know you love my baby, and I know you’ll take care of him. And thanks for being my wise, sensible friend. Don’t grieve too much. Just keep on loving Michael, and look after him.
In a voice without the slightest trace of emotion, Caelan said, ‘It certainly looks as though Gemma wrote it—I recognise the aura of drama and doom.’ His long fingers tightened on the sheet of paper and he looked at her from half-closed eyes, his mouth twisting. ‘You’re too trusting, Abby. What’s to stop me tearing it to shreds and lying about seeing it?’
Oddly enough, it hadn’t occurred to her. His reputation for fair dealing matched the one for ruthlessness. Her mouth tightened. ‘It’s a copy; the real one is in a solicitor’s office,’ she said steadily.
The hard, uncompromising determination stamped on Caelan’s lean, bronze face was replaced by a gleam of humour.
Her susceptible heart missed a beat. Although Gemma had told her that he despised people who used their charm to dazzle others, he possessed an inordinate amount of it himself. His smile was a weapon, a dangerously disturbing challenge that had penetrated stronger defences than hers.
Lazily he said, ‘I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t made sure of that. But this means nothing; I can produce evidence to show that Gemma was a fragile, emotionally unstable woman, incapable of knowing what was best for her child.’
Abby opened her mouth, but honesty stopped the fierce words that threatened to spill out. Yes, Gemma had been fragile, as well as funny and delightful, but she’d been absolutely determined Michael wouldn’t grow up without love and attention.
Caelan looked around the small room furnished with cheap, shabby cast-offs. The harsh central light turned Abby’s skin sallow and robbed her hair of highlights or any depth of colour. It was, he thought with cool cynicism, a sin to hide that glorious mane of red-gold hair.
And an even greater one to cover her slender body with a loose black T-shirt and pair of dust-coloured corduroy trousers.
He banished tantalising memories of the figure beneath
