My temper prowls, provoked by her apparent calm and sarcastic tone, so I don’t reply immediately, studying her instead, watching as the colour floods into her cheeks. ‘No, thank you,’ I say eventually, mimicking what she said about touching me back in Spain. ‘Perhaps later.’
Her gaze flickers and I feel a brief surge of triumph. Was she truly hoping I’d ask her to do that? How satisfying not to oblige her.
This petty war you have with her is pointless. What do you hope to accomplish by it? She lost her husband, she’s pregnant, and you’ve dragged her all the way to Paris purely for spite’s sake.
The thought comes without warning, a reminder from my largely atrophied conscience, and I have to turn abruptly away so she doesn’t see it, striding over to the mantelpiece instead.
I don’t normally regret my decisions. The only one I’ve ever regretted is the choice I made to tell my mother about my father’s affairs. Considering the consequences of that choice both for her and me, I may have chosen differently if I’d spent more time thinking about it and less time being furious at my father for lying.
Since then, though, I’ve never let my emotions dictate my choices. I’ve always made them logically and after due consideration of the facts, and that’s why I brought Beatrix here to Paris.
I didn’t trust her word about the blood test, because she’s lied to me before, and I couldn’t leave her to complete it herself for that reason. And as for her grief over my father, I saw her eyes at the funeral. They were dry.
That comment was petty, though, and needlessly cruel.
I stare down at the ornate carriage clock on the mantelpiece. It’s one of my mother’s favourite pieces. I bought it for her when I got my first decent pay cheque after working in a lab in Madrid. I had this room decorated just for her, but she’s never been in it. She’s still in the rehab facility in Switzerland. I haven’t told her anything about the child, or about Beatrix, and I won’t. Not until she’s well enough to bear it, though I suspect she never will be.
Which is your fault.
No, none of that wasmyfault. She was the one who chose to heal her broken heart by drinking…no one forced her. Besides, I was only a child at the time, and she wouldn’t listen to me when I told her to stop. I even hid the gin bottles she kept buying, but she would always find them. So why should I feel guilty? I don’t. And looking after her now isn’t about guilt, it’s about duty.
It’s true, though. Iwasbeing petty. I wanted to get at Beatrix because she gets at me, but that’s hardly a reason to be cruel for the sake of it. Also, I can’t forget that she’s pregnant. I’ve given no thought to how she might be feeling, pregnant and alone after my father’s death. And thatismy fault. While I’m gifted in physics and mathematics, I’m very bad when it comes to understanding other people’s feelings. I have to work at it. Which means that, since her pregnancy is my responsibility, I should be working on understanding hers.
Restlessly, I pick up a small black figurine of a cat then put it down again. Apologies are difficult for me, since I’m wrong so rarely, and I’m finding it difficult now. ‘Do you need anything?’ I force myself to ask, trying to be conciliatory. ‘Some tea? Or perhaps something to eat?’
‘Do you really care what I need?’ Her voice behind me is cool. ‘After all, that didn’t seem to bother you when you dragged me away from the hacienda.’
Weren’t you supposed to be different from your father?
I grit my teeth. I amnothim. Yes, I’m used to getting my way and yes, I don’t give the needs of others much consideration, but she should be the exception. She’s pregnant with my child, therefore her physical needs are important to the health of that child.
I turn around and meet her cool stare. ‘The health of my child is dependent on you, so yes, I care.’
This time there is no flickering in her gaze. She holds mine steadily and without flinching. ‘You care about the child, then? Interesting.’
A burst of defensive anger fills me, though I thrust it aside. It’s that biological imperative again, the primitive in me wanting to defend my ability to care, protect and defend my child.
‘Why should that be interesting?’ I ask, keeping my tone very neutral.
‘Because you seem to care very little for anything or anyone but yourself,’ she says, as if she hasn’t just fired a harpoon at me. As if the sharp barbs haven’t pierced the plates of my armour and sunk deep into my flesh.
However, she doesn’t know the vulnerability she’s just uncovered and I’m not going to show it to her. It’ll only give her more ammunition to use against me, so I thrust the anger away.
‘You would be wrong,’ I inform her coldly. ‘The health of my child is of the utmost importance.’
I move from the mantelpiece, pacing back over to the window seat where she’s sitting, only slightly appeased by the slight widening of her eyes at my approach.
I have to remember that. I have to remember that she’s not as cool and calm as she looks, that she’s just as much at the mercy of our chemistry as I am, and maybe it’s time to remind her.
Weren’t younotgoing to do what she expects?
I wasn’t. But now I’m thinkingwhy not?instead.
‘Perhaps you’d rather take your clothes off.’ I fold my arms and stare down at her. ‘I wouldn’t object, of course.’
She doesn’t seem to find me staring a problem, her gaze steady. ‘Make up your mind,MrVeracruz,’ she says, again with that tart emphasis on my title. ‘You wanted me in your bed; that was what you said. I’d just like to know when that will occur, so I can prepare myself.’
I need to stop reacting to her, yet I can’t help myself. The cool challenge in the words slides under my skin, testing my already limited patience and my fraying temper. ‘Tell me, how exactly will you prepare yourself?’ I counter. ‘Will you lie there like a virgin sacrifice, thinking only of England?’
