grin. ‘You, of all people, should know that I don’t!’
That had certainly silenced her, he noted with satisfaction. That poutingly kissable mouth was set firmly as the two of them got into the private lift to go up one floor to his apartment.
Meaning that Hebe would enter his completely private domain for a second time!
‘Is an omelette okay with you?’ he rasped tersely, releasing her arm to stride through to the open-plan kitchen with its white and chrome fixtures.
Hebe took her time following him, obviously no more comfortable being back here than he was to have her here.
He would feed her the omelette, get some straight answers out of her, and then she could leave—
Where the hell was she?
He strode back out into the sitting room, coming to an abrupt halt as he saw her holding and looking at one of the photographs that usually stood on the coffee table in front of the window. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he bit out coldly, his face devoid of all expression.
Hebe almost dropped the photograph she had picked up to have a better look at, grasping it with both hands against her chest, knowing from the furious look on Nick’s face that his question didn’t require an answer—that he knew exactly what she had been doing.
The photograph was of a little boy about three or four years old. A gorgeous little boy grinning happily into the camera lens. A little boy, with Nick’s dark hair and blue eyes…
Nick moved forcefully across the room to snatch the photograph out of her hands, those blue eyes glacially cold as he glared at her through narrowed lids.
She swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry. I—he’s very beautiful.’
A nerve pulsed in his tightly clenched jaw. ‘Yes, he was,’ he ground out harshly.
Was. It was his son, then.
Hebe felt a tightening of her chest at the thought of all that life and boyish happiness no longer existing.
How much worse was that realisation for Nick…!
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.
Nick put the photograph carefully back on the table before giving her a sharp glance. ‘You know who he is?’
‘I—yes,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘One of the other girls told me that you had a son.’
‘Luke,’ he bit out harshly. ‘His name was Luke.’
Luke…Four years old. His death simply too much for his parents to deal with together, driving them irrevocably apart.
‘I really am sorry,’ Hebe repeated huskily. ‘I shouldn’t have—Please believe me when I tell you I never meant to—’
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