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“I don’t need that,” she snapped, but she took the towel anyway and pressed it to her wrists.
He took the time to take a long look at her.
She looked worn out. Dark shadows were visible under her eyes despite a layer of heavy makeup. She hadn’t worn makeup the other day. Why would she, when her natural beauty was so breathtaking?
His gaze swept over her.
She had on a loose-fitting, heavy sweater. A matching skirt. And, Thee mou, what was she doing, wearing those shoes? They were the kind that would normally make his blood pressure rise but that wasn’t going to happen when he could see the straps denting her flesh.
Damian looked up. “Your feet are swollen.”
“How clever of you to notice.”
“Are you so vain you’d wear shoes that hurt?”
“I am not vain—what are you doing?”
“Taking off these ridiculous shoes.”
“Stop it!” Ivy tried slapping his hands away as he lifted one of her feet to his lap. “I said—”
“I heard you.”
His fingers moved swiftly, undoing straps and tiny jeweled buckles. The shoe fell off. Gently he lowered her leg, then removed the second shoe. When he’d finished, Ivy planted both her bare feet on the floor.
It was all she could do to keep from groaning with relief.
“Better?”
She didn’t answer. Thee mou, he had never known such an intractable female.
Damian muttered something under his breath and lifted her feet to his lap again.
“Of course they’re better,” he said, answering his own question. His tone was brusque but his hands were gentle as he massaged her ankles, her toes, her insteps. “Why a woman would put herself through such torture—”
“I just came from a cover shoot. The stylist gave me the shoes as a gift. They do that kind of thing sometimes,” she said, wondering why on earth she was explaining herself to this arrogant man.
“And you were so thrilled you decided to wear them home even though they were killing you.”
Ivy’s eyes narrowed. “Yes,” she said coldly, “that’s right.” She tugged her feet from his hands and sat up. “Now that you’ve told me what you think of my decisions, try telling me something that matters, like what you’re doing here.”
A muscle knotted in his jaw. Then he took an envelope from his pocket and tossed it on the coffee table.
Ivy caught her breath.
“Are those the test results?”
He nodded.
“They were supposed to send them to me.”
“And to me.”
“Well, that’s wrong. That’s an invasion of privacy. The results of my test are my business—”
Ivy knew she was babbling. She stopped, reached for the envelope but she couldn’t bring herself to touch it. They’d tested for pregnancy. For paternity. For the first time, she realized they could also have tested for maternity…
Her hands began to shake. She sat back.
