a deep, fascinating red. ‘I don’t know what—’
‘Remember when I took you so hard you thought we’d broken the bed?’ There was a devil inside him, wanting to push her, or maybe simply to punish her. ‘But we hadn’t. The only thing that broke was the condom. I told you we’d deal with it in the morning. But in the morning, you were gone.’
Her flush became even deeper, matching her hair. Making her eyes glow silver. She’d looked exactly like that in his arms those two nights he’d had with her, burning like a flame, just as hungry as he was, just as desperate.
And he knew he shouldn’t get any closer, but he couldn’t stop himself from putting the other hand on the wall on the other side of her head, caging her between his palms. ‘You got pregnant,’ he went on, rage and desire burning a hole inside him. ‘And you didn’t tell me. You didn’t even bother to send a message. No, you went ahead and married another man and let him claim my son.’
She was very still, her jaw tight, her chest rising and falling fast and hard. Another couple of inches and the tips of her breasts would be brushing up against his chest. And he’d stake all his money on the fact that her nipples would be hard. He remembered how sensitive she was there.
‘Come any closer and I’ll scream for help,’ she said tautly.
He gave a short, hard laugh. It would be so easy to push. To put his mouth to her throat, taste that frantically beating pulse and see whether she’d really scream for help or whether she’d just scream. For him.
But she wasn’t his. And he wasn’t that desperate.
‘Oh, don’t worry. I wouldn’t dream of it. I only wanted to discuss what do about our son like civilised people, but I see you’re not capable of that. Which unfortunately leaves me with no choice.’ He shoved himself away from the wall, disturbed by how difficult it actually was to step away from her. ‘If you continue to deny the truth staring us both in the face, I must insist on having a paternity test done. As soon as possible.’
Anger flickered through her fascinating eyes. ‘I won’t allow it. You can’t—’
‘I can,’ he interrupted harshly. ‘I will.’
‘But Henry—’ She stopped all of a sudden, as if she’d given herself away.
‘But Henry what?’ Enzo demanded, fighting the sudden need to reach down, take that determined little chin in his hand and hold it so she’d have to look at him. But touching her would definitely be a mistake so he clenched his hands into fists instead.
She bent her head, her reddish lashes sweeping down to hide her gaze, and raised a hand to her forehead, rubbing at it as if she had a headache.
If it had been at a different time and she a different woman, he a different man, he might have been sympathetic. But the time was now and she wasn’t a different woman. And he wasn’t different man.
She was the mother of his child, a child he’d had no idea even existed until now, which made sympathy the very last thing he felt towards her.
‘Henry doesn’t know,’ she said at last, quietly, her attention still on the floor. ‘He knows that Simon isn’t his. He just...doesn’t know that you’re Simon’s father.’
The triumph that went through him at the acknowledgement surprised him. Not that he needed it when the truth of the boy’s parentage was so obvious. But there was something about her saying it that got to him, that made possessiveness turn over inside him.
He wanted to put his hand on her lovely throat, claim her the way he had years ago with a kiss. And more.
But she wasn’t his and, as he already knew, he wasn’t that man. Not any more.
Now the only thing he wanted was his son.
Ignoring the urge to touch her, he shoved his fists into his pockets instead. ‘Well, that was easy.’ He kept his voice hard, not giving anything away. ‘Feels good to tell the truth, does it not? But tell me, Matilda, would you ever have admitted it to either of us if you hadn’t seen me downstairs? Or would you have remained the coward you were when you ran out on me that morning?’
* * *
The wall at Matilda’s back was the only thing holding her up. Or at least, given the current state of her knees, she was pretty certain it was the only thing holding her up. Certainly, if she’d taken even one step away from it, she probably would have fallen into a heap at Enzo Cardinali’s expensively shod feet.
The questions he kept firing at her were like a thousand tiny cuts. Each one not so painful on its own but, thrown all at once and with such fury, they had the power to make her bleed.
And it didn’t help that he was right. That he was entitled to every single ounce of his righteous anger.
Or that, apart from her son, he was the single most beautiful thing she’d ever seen in her life.
When he’d caged her against the wall, she’d thought she was going to catch fire right where she stood.
He’d been so close, radiating rage, those mesmerising golden eyes making her breath catch hard in her throat. Making her so aware of him she could feel it in every cell in her body. And, even though his deep, rough voice was frozen all the way through, the way his accent curled each word only deepened that awareness still further.
God, how she’d loved that accent of his. Loved how it had made the name she’d chosen for herself sound exotic, especially when she’d known she was anything but. And then the dialect of Italian that he’d whispered to her in the depths of the night, words she didn’t understand, soft and lyrical as he’d touched her, as he’d moved inside her...
Matilda sucked in a silent breath, fighting the relentless pull of desire. But it was difficult.
Although he’d pushed himself away, it felt as if he was still close, the warm, spicy scent of his aftershave lingering, the heat of his body like a furnace in front of her.
Her heartbeat was loud in her ears, deafening her.
Henry had always told her that, as long as she kept everything out of the media, she could have lovers. He hadn’t wanted to deprive her of sex if that was what she wanted. But she hadn’t wanted. The passion she’d shared with Enzo had scared her for reasons she couldn’t articulate, so she hadn’t wanted to go there again. Not with anyone.
She’d thought it would be easy, that she wouldn’t miss it but, now that Enzo himself was standing right in front of her, she realised that it hadn’t been easy. And she did miss it. She missed him.
No, she couldn’t do this with him. Not again. Not with Henry downstairs and Simon in his bedroom behind her.
Not even for herself this time.
Forcing the ache away, she made herself concentrate on the here and now, not the past, because she was in danger and so was her son. Not physical danger—Enzo would never hurt either of them; she knew that for truth—but she was wary of the emotional chasm that awaited her if she played this wrong.
And she’d already taken a misstep by denying him the truth. She didn’t even know why she’d pretended she didn’t
