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Not that he gave a damn. It was just that the mother of his unborn child should not be out drinking or dancing or being with a man.
With a man. A faceless stranger, holding her. Kissing her. Taking her into his bed…
The cup fell from Damian’s hand and shattered on the flagstone. He cursed, bent down, started scooping up the pieces…
“Son of a bitch,” he snarled, and he opened the French doors and marched to his bedroom.
He dressed quickly. Jeans, a cashmere sweater, mocs and a leather bomber jacket. Then he snatched his keys from the dresser and took the elevator to the basement garage where he kept the big Mercedes as well as a black Porsche Carrera. He’d bought the car because he loved it, even though he rarely had the chance to use it.
The Carrera was a finely honed mass of energy and power.
Right now, so was he.
He’d felt that way since he first laid eyes on Ivy Madison. Who in hell was she to come out of nowhere and turn his existence upside down?
The streets were all but deserted. He made the fifteen-minute drive in half that time, pulled into a space marked No Parking on the corner of her block. The front door to her brownstone was not locked. Even if it had been, that wouldn’t have stopped him.
Not tonight.
He took the three flights of steps in seconds, rang her doorbell, banged his fist on the door.
“Ivy!” He pounded the door again, called her name even louder. “Damn you, let me in!”
The door opened the inch the antitheft chain allowed. Damian saw a sliver of dimly lighted room, a darkly lashed eye, a swath of gold-streaked hair.
“Are you crazy?” she snarled. “You’ll wake the entire building!”
“Open the damned door!”
The door closed, locks and chain rattled and then the door swung open. Damian stepped inside and slammed it behind him. Ivy stared at him, hair disheveled, silk robe untied, feet bare.
She looked frightened, sleep-tossed and sexy.
The combination sent his already-racing heart into higher gear.
“Do you know what time it is?”
“The real question,” he said roughly, “is, do you?”
He heard the flat challenge in his voice, saw her awareness of it reflected in the sudden catch of her breath.
“Have you been drinking?”
“Not enough.”
He took a step forward. She took one back. “Your Highness…”
“I think it’s time we stopped being so formal.” Another step. His, followed by hers. “My name is Damian.”
“Your Highness. Damian.” The tip of her tongue swept across her bottom lip. He felt his entire body clench at the sight. “Damian, it’s very late. Why don’t we—why don’t we talk tomorrow?”
One more step. Like that. And then her shoulders hit the wall.
“I’m done talking,” he said, reaching for her. “And so are you.”
“No! Get out. Damian! Get—”
“Isn’t it amazing,” he said softly, his eyes hot and locked to hers, “that I’ve seen a piece of paper that says you’re pregnant with my child, I’ve had my hand on your belly.” He caught a fistful of her robe, tugged her closer. “But I’ve never seen you.”
