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‘You’re sure, ma’am?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ From somewhere, she summoned up a smile. ‘Quite sure.’
But during her shivering journey back to Raffles Hotel, where she always stayed when she was in the city, Justina couldn’t seem to halt the thoughts which seemed determined to keep any peace of mind at bay. Round and round in her head went the indisputable truth. She was pregnant with Dante’s baby and terrified he would find out.
Distractedly, she rubbed at her temples. He was bad news. He was a player. He was everything that was dangerous in a man—especially where she was concerned. He had taken her to bed and soared with her to the stars before they crashed back down to earth again. And she couldn’t just blame Dante for what had happened, because she had been culpable, too. She’d practically ripped his clothes off and ravished him, despite all the terrible history between them.
She felt the sudden clench of her heart, but it was more with anger than with pain. She had been headstrong and stupid. She had given in to desire without thinking about the consequences and that’s why she found herself in this position. But there was no way she was going to go running to him. Not when he’d made it clear that what had happened had been a regrettable one-off.
She kept telling herself that interest would die down if she kept her counsel. She lived the kind of international life where it was perfectly acceptable to be vague about the identity of her baby’s father. The people she wrote songs for wouldn’t have cared if the devil himself had claimed paternity. The only person who was really interested was the London doctor whose care she was under—and he wasn’t making any moral judgements. That was the sum total of people it really affected. She certainly wasn’t relying on any help from her mother, whose reaction to the news had been entirely predictable—if a little sad.
‘I’m not ready to be a grandmother!’ Elaine Perry had snapped, not seeming to notice Justina’s white-faced response.
Justina had stared at the woman with whom she had such a complicated relationship. Her once-beautiful mother, who was unable to accept that her looks were now fading and who tried to compensate for that by slapping on far too much make-up. ‘But, Mum—’
‘Don’t “Mum” me! If you think I’m spending my time knitting bootees or acting as an unpaid babysitter, then you’re mistaken, Justina.’ A coy smile had followed as the older woman had fiddled with hair which was growing thinner by the year. ‘I do still have a busy social life of my own, you know.’
And Justina, feeling sick for all kinds of reasons, had not responded. What compassion could she expect from a woman whose life had been spent as mistress to a series of wealthy men she’d milked for every penny she could? Who was now reduced to living with some creepy and aging roué in the centre of Paris?
Justina still felt shaky as her cab drew up outside the hotel and she went inside to collect her key from the desk in the spacious lobby. The atmosphere of the iconic hotel usually had a soothing effect on her. The faded brocade chairs and tall potted palms always made her think of a more elegant time, and whenever she stayed there she felt part of it. Only today the magic of Raffles wasn’t working. She felt as if she was on a tiny raft, bobbing around in an unforgiving sea, with no real place to go and drop anchor.
Maybe she needed the restorative power of a deep bath and a strong cup of tea, and then she would—
‘Justina.’
Someone was saying her name in a way which only one person ever could. Disbelief made her skin turn to ice as she heard the voice which had haunted her waking thoughts and troubled dreams for the past seven and a half months. She shook her head in hopeful denial. She was imagining it. She had to be imagining it.
Slowly she turned to see the dark and forbidding figure of Dante D’Arezzo, and her heart began to flutter wildly in her chest. No. She wasn’t imagining it. Nobody else spoke like that. And nobody else looked like that either. Dante was here in the flesh—vibrant with life and looking immaculate in cool, pale linen, his face an intimidating study of dark fury as his gaze seared into her.
The angled slant of his cheekbones cast shadows over his features and his mouth was grim and unsmiling. She had never seen his powerful body look quite so tense. The only thing about him which moved was a little muscle which was flickering at his temple. For a moment she swayed with the sheer shock of seeing him, but maybe he’d anticipated that kind of reaction for his hand reached out towards her. Strong fingers clamped around her forearm to steady her, and she could feel the burning warmth of his flesh digging into her icy skin. And God forgive her but her body instantly thrilled to that touch, even though it was more the touch of a captor than a lover. She could feel her shivering response to him, and she wondered if he could feel it, too.
‘What...what are you doing here?’ she demanded shakily as his brilliant gaze scorched through her.
Dante’s heart began to accelerate with anger as he looked into her white face. What did she think he was doing here? Doing a leisurely tour of the Far East and bumping into her quite by chance? Did she imagine he was going to ask her to the bar to join him for one of the hotel’s famous Singapore Slings?
‘You and I need to talk,’ he said grimly.
Justina bit her lip as distracted, crazy thoughts began to rush into her head. What if she called out and told the staff that she was being harassed? Wouldn’t that sound bad, coming from a heavily pregnant woman? Wouldn’t he instantly be ejected from the hotel, and probably from the country itself?
She wasn’t so sure that he would. Dante could smooth-talk his way through most things.
She could imagine him turning the full force of his charm on hotel security and managing to convince them that it was her hormones at work. And when it all boiled down to it her hormones were the only reason he was here. He wasn’t here because he missed her or because he wanted her back in his bed. He wanted to speak to her about something which was glaringly obvious to both of them and she must accede to his wishes. She owed him that much, at least.
‘Not here,’ she said, her throat so dry that her words sounded strangled. ‘We can go and have coffee in the Writers’ Bar and—’
‘No,’ he snapped, imperiously cutting through her suggestion. ‘I don’t intend to have this conversation while you play to the crowd, Justina. Take me to your room.’ He saw the brief look which hovered in her eyes and his mouth twisted with derision as he lowered his voice to a deadly hiss. ‘Oh, please don’t worry that I’m about to seduce you. Because let me assure you that’s the last thing on my mind right now. In fact, let me put it even more plainly, just so that we can be very clear about where we stand. If you and I were alone on a desert island I think I’d gladly embrace celibacy rather than risk coming within two feet of you, you manipulative little bitch.’
The vitriol in his voice made Justina’s hand fly to her lips in horror as she looked at him. Did he really hate her that much? But even if he did he had no right to talk to her that way. She was carrying a baby beneath her heart, and even if he wished it wasn’t his baby it was certainly her baby, and she would defend it with every ounce of strength in her body.
So stop letting him intimidate you. Have the talk he wants—the talk you know you owe him.
Because wasn’t this what she had been expecting—and dreading—for months? Wasn’t this very meeting the reason why she’d taken on so many travelling commitments since discovering she was pregnant? Not daring to be in one place too long in case he found her, she had become a kind of bulky fugitive. A woman who was running away from the inevitable—only now the inevitable had caught up with her.
She shrugged. ‘Okay. We’ll talk. But it might be a good start if you stopped manhandling me like that.’ Pointedly, she glanced down at the olive fingers which were still gripping her forearm, and then up into the hard gleam of his dark eyes. But the terrible thing was that she liked him touching her. For all his cruel words, and her fear of what he wanted, she liked the way he made her feel. And, shamefully, it was deprivation rather than relief which washed over her when he let her go, and her footsteps were a little unsteady as she turned and headed for the staircase.
Justina was aware of people watching them as they made their way from the public area of the hotel towards the residential part and guessed they must make a bizarre couple. She was all damp and bedraggled after being caught in the tropical storm, and Dante looked so indomitable as he shadowed her, his savagely beautiful face and powerful body making every female guest in the building glance at him twice.
In silence they walked towards her suite, and the dark gleam of the wooden verandas, the raffia furniture and the scent of flowers drifting up from the courtyard garden failed to calm Justina’s mounting sense of anxiety. By the time she pushed open her door she felt like a piece of elastic which had been stretched so tightly that the faintest movement would violently snap it.
