they were alone though, the smile dropped. ‘Let’s get out of here before any more of my relatives try and talk to me.’ He set off in a direction within the converted monastery she’d never been in before.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To my wing.’
He made no allowances for her legs being half the length of his, and she struggled to keep up. ‘What for?’
He flashed her a black look over his shoulder, not slowing his pace for a moment. ‘You really wish to have this conversation in front of fifty Mastrangelos and Lombardis?’
‘Of course not, but I really don’t want to have it in your personal space. Can’t we go somewhere neutral?’
‘No.’ He stopped at a door, unlocked it and held it open. He extended an arm. ‘I’m getting on a flight to Paris in exactly two hours. This is a one-off opportunity to convince me that I have impregnated you.’
She stared at him. She couldn’t read his face. If anything, he looked bored. ‘You think I’m lying?’
‘You wouldn’t be the first woman to lie over a pregnancy.’
Throwing him the most disdainful look she could muster, Cara slipped past him and into his inner sanctum.
Thank God she had no hankering for any sort of future for them. He was a despicable excuse for a human being.
Pepe’s wing, although rarely used, what with him having at least three other places he called home, was exactly what she expected. Unlike the rest of the converted monastery, which remained faithful and sympathetic to the original architecture, this was a proper bachelor pad. It opened straight into a large living space decked with the largest flat-screen television she had seen outside a cinema, and was filled with more gizmos and gadgets than she’d known existed. She doubted she would know how to work a quarter of them.
She stood there, in the midst of all this high-tech luxury, and suddenly felt the first seed of doubt that she was doing the right thing.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘No. Let’s just get this over with.’ Of course she was doing the right thing, she castigated herself. Her unborn child deserved nothing less.
‘Well, I need one.’ He picked up a remote control from a glass table in the centre of the room and pressed a button.
Eyes wide, she watched as the oak panelling on the wall behind him separated and a fully stocked bar emerged.
Pepe mixed himself some concoction she didn’t recognise. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you anything?’
‘Yes.’
He tipped it down his neck and then fixed his deep blue eyes back to her. ‘Go on, then. Convince me.’
Pursing her lips, she shook her head in distaste. ‘I’m pregnant.’
‘So you’ve already said.’
‘That’s because I am.’
‘How much?’
‘How much what?’
‘Money. How much money are you going to try and extort from me?’
She glared at him. ‘I’m not trying to extort anything from you.’
‘So you don’t want my money?’ he said, his tone mocking.
‘Of course I do.’ It gave great satisfaction to watch his ebony brows shoot up. ‘You have lots of money. I have nothing. I am broke. Boracic. Poor. Whatever you want to call it, I am skint. I’m also carrying a child whose father can afford to pay for a decent cot and wardrobe and a decent place for him or her to live.’
He sucked in air through his teeth. ‘So you are trying to extort money from me.’
‘No!’ Clamping her lips together, Cara opened her handbag and took out a brown envelope, from which she pulled a square piece of paper. She handed it to him. ‘There,’ she said tightly. ‘There’s your proof. I’m not trying to extort anything from you. I’m sixteen weeks pregnant. You are going to be a father.’
For a moment Pepe feared he would be sick. His stomach was certainly churning enough for it to happen. And his skin...his skin had gone all cold and clammy; his heart rate tripled.
And no wonder.
If this were a forgery, Cara had done an excellent job.
The square piece of paper clearly showed a kidney bean. Or was it that alien thing he had watched as a child? E.T.? Either way, this was clearly an early-stage foetus. He studied it carefully. There was the name of the Dublin hospital on it, her name, Cara Mary Delaney, her date of birth and the due date of the foetus. He did the maths. Yes. This put her at sixteen weeks pregnant.
It had been sixteen weeks since he’d been to Dublin...
‘You don’t look very pregnant.’ She looked thinner than he had ever seen her. She’d never been fat as such, more cuddly. While she hadn’t transformed into a rake, she’d lost some of her, for want of a better word, squishiness.
‘I’ve been under a lot of stress.’ She gave him a tight smile. ‘Unexpected pregnancy can do that to a woman. But the baby’s perfectly healthy and I’m sure I’ll start showing soon.’
He looked again at the scan picture. Cara was a smart woman but he doubted even she could forge something of this standard. The resolution on this picture was more clearly defined than the one he had held and gazed at for hours on end over a decade ago, but everything else was the same.
Cara was pregnant.
He looked back at her, realising for the first time that she was shaking. It took all his control to keep his own body still.
Dragging air into his lungs, he considered the situation as dispassionately as he could, which was hard. Very hard. His brain felt as if someone had thrown antifreeze into it. ‘Congratulations. You’re going to be a mother. Now tell me, what makes you so certain I’m the father?’
She opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. ‘What kind of stupid question is that? Of course you’re the father. You’re the only man I’ve been stupid enough to have sex with.’
‘And I’m supposed to take your word on that, am I?’
‘You know damn well I was a virgin.’
‘I am not disputing that you were a virgin. What I am questioning is my paternity. I have no way of knowing what you got up to after I left. How do I know that after discovering all you’d been missing, you didn’t go trawling for sex—?’
Her hand flew out from nowhere. Crack. Right across his cheek, the force enough to jerk his face to the side.
‘Don’t you dare pull me down to your own pathetically low standards,’ she hissed, her face contorted with anger.
His cheek stung, smarted right where her
