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She winced. “Yes. Her father is after her.”
He eyed her with great skepticism. “I didn’t think you knew who her father was.”
She didn’t know whether to be shocked, offended or pleased that he thought her capable of having an anonymous interlude.
For heaven’s sake, she’d only ever been kissed one time in her life. A regrettable evening out with Katie in Rome where she’d tried to enjoy the pulsing music in the club, but had instead felt overheated and on the verge of a seizure.
She’d danced with a man in a shiny shirt—and she even knew his name because she wouldn’t even dance with a man without an introduction—and he’d kissed her on the dance floor. It had been wet and he’d tasted of liquor and she’d feigned a headache after and taken a cab back to the hostel they’d been staying in.
The idea of hooking up with someone, in a circumstance like that, made her want to peel her own skin off.
“Of course I know who he is. Unfortunately… The full implications of who he is did not become clear until later.”
“What does that mean?”
She could tell him the truth now, but something stopped her. Maybe it was admitting Isabella wasn’t her daughter, which always caught her in the chest and made her feel small. Like she’d stolen her and like what they had was potentially fragile, temporary and shaky.
Or maybe it was trust. Dante was a good man. Going off the fact he had rescued her from a fall, and helped her up when her knee was skinned, and bailed her out after her terrible humiliation in high school.
But to trust him with the truth was something she simply wasn’t brave enough to do.
Her life, Isabella’s life, was at risk, and she’d lied on live stream in front of the world.
Her bravery was tapped out.
“Her father is part of an organized crime family. Obviously something unknown to me at the time of her…you know. And he’s after her. He’s after us.”
“Are you telling me that you’re in actual danger?”
“Yes. And really, the only hope I have is convincing him that he isn’t actually the father.”
“And you think that will work?”
“It’s the only choice I have. I need your protection.”
He regarded her with dark, fathomless eyes, and yet again, she felt like he was peering at her as though she were a girl, and not a woman at all. A naughty child, in point of fact. Then something in his expression shifted.
It shamed her a little that this was so like when he’d come to her rescue at the party. That she was manipulating his pity for her. Her own pathetic nature being what called to him, yet again.
But she would lay down any and all pride for Isabella and she’d do it willingly.
“If she were, in fact my child, then we would be family.”
“I… I suppose,” she said.
“There will need to be photographs of us together, as I would not be a neglectful father.”
“No indeed.”
“Of course, you know that if Isabella were really my child there would be only one thing for us to do.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.” He began to pace, like a caged tiger trying to find a weak spot in his cage. And suddenly he stopped, and she had the terrible feeling that the tiger had found what he’d been looking for. “Yes. Of course, there is only one option.”
“And that is?”
“You have to marry me.”
