Oh, God. He saw.
I attempt to pull away again, desperate to protect myself, but his grip is unbreakable.
‘Did I do that?’ he demands. ‘Did I make you cry?’
I blink the remaining tears away hard. ‘Why do you keep asking me questions?’ I can’t quite hide the shake in my voice. ‘Why do you even care?’
His gaze flickers and quite suddenly he takes his finger away.
I’m just catching my breath and armouring myself once again, when his hands settle under my elbows and he pulls me to my feet, and this time he doesn’t let go.
A startled breath escapes me, my heartbeat continuing to thud in my head. His hands are warm, his grip gentle, yet his gaze burns, demanding things once again.
‘I don’t want to make you cry,’ he says forcefully. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’
‘If you don’t want to hurt me,’ I snap, ‘then maybe you should stop being such a prick to me.’
It’s too late to pretend that he doesn’t affect me or that I’m not hurt by the things he says, or by his anger. Too late to pretend to myself that his opinion of me doesn’t matter. Far, far too late.
Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones, but it’s not that I care about him per se, it’s more that he’s just one more person who hates me, and I can’t bear it. I don’t have the bandwidth for it, not any more.
Defensive fury rises in his eyes in response, and I brace myself for whatever horrible thing he’s going to say. But just as my muscles tighten his fury flickers and dies, leaving behind it puzzlement again, and something else. Something that looks a lot like regret.
‘I… I’m sorry.’ He releases me and takes a step back, his expression shuttered. ‘I’ll send Helene in. Please let her know if there’s anything you need, anything at all.’
Then, without another word, he turns and leaves the room.
Chapter Ten
Santiago
I’m in myground-floor study with the view of the garden and fountain, listening to my mother’s voice down the phone as she tells me about her day. This is a daily occurrence, and it’s reassuring to hear her voice, especially when the doctors’ reports of her progress are less so. She’s not doing too badly, all things considered, but she’s not well enough to come to Paris yet.
Maybe that’s for the best, especially in regard to the situation I have here at present, which is not settled in any way, shape or form.
‘How are you, darling boy?’ she asks. ‘Have you found a wife yet?’
My mother is always more affectionate in the evenings after her meds—it’s not about me personally, it never is—and she regards me finding a wife as the thing that will finally ‘fix me’. And yes, she uses those words. She’s always thought I was broken in some way. It’s the only thing she and my father ever agreed on.
‘No,’ I tell her as patiently as I can. ‘That’s not a priority right now and you know that.’
She sighs as if I’m the world’s biggest disappointment, which I’m sure is true, no matter how big my company gets or how much money I make. She views my interest in science with abhorrence, and has never understood it or me.
‘You should make it a priority,’ she says with dogged determination. ‘You need a wife, Santiago. Trust me on this.’
I don’t know why I’d trust her when her own marriage ended so appallingly, and she ended up being so burned by it. She has a very selective memory about some things.
I should tell her that she should stop trying to fix me, that I’m not broken, but I’ve told her that before and she never listens. She only gets hurt and tells me I’m being mean to her. Mean to her like Antonio was mean to her.
‘Yes, Mother.’ It’s the only thing I can say to her these days. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow evening, okay?’
I put the phone down, then check my watch. The results of the paternity test should be available any time now, not that I’m at all worried about the results. Not after Beatrix finally stopped lying to me.
I lace my hands behind my head and lean back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling, going over what happened between us an hour ago.
Her, telling me that she was a virgin before our encounter in the church.
Her, on her knees, giving me the most intense pleasure I’ve ever experienced.
