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“‘I can’t get pregnant, ever,’” he mimicked. “‘It’s impossible.’”
“You are such a jerk.” Belle shivered, sweating beneath the hot Texas sun.
His voice had been low, controlled, but she felt his cold fury. He was all gorgeous on the outside, she thought, like melted chocolate with his soulful Spanish eyes and black hair and hard-muscled body. Too bad his soul was even harder than his body. He had a soul like flint. Like ice.
Just when she’d been counting her blessings that he was out of their lives, here he was, pushing back in. For what purpose?
“You made your choice,” she whispered. “You abandoned us. This baby is mine now. Mine alone.”
He lifted a dark eyebrow. “That’s not how paternity works.”
“It is if I say it is.”
“Then why tell me you were pregnant at all?”
“Because three days ago I was foolish enough to hope you could change. Now I know it would be better for my baby to have no father at all than a man like you.” She lifted her chin. “Now get off my land.”
Growing dangerously still, Santiago stared at her, jaw tight. Without a word, he turned to stare across the stark horizon against the wide blue sky. Against her will, her eyes traced the golden glow of the sun gleaming against his olive-colored skin, the chiseled cheekbones, the dark scruff on his jaw.
“Let me tell you what’s going to happen, Belle.” When he looked back at her, his voice was low and deep, almost a purr. “Today, you’re going to get a paternity test.”
“What? Forget it!”
“And if it’s proven that the baby’s mine,” his black eyes glittered, “you’re going to marry me.”
Was he crazy or was she?
“Marry you?” Belle gasped. “Are you out of your mind? I hate you!”
“You should be pleased. Your plan worked. Admit you purposefully got pregnant with my child to trap me into marriage. Have that much respect for me, at least.”
“I won’t, because it’s not true!”
“I’ll admit I made a mistake, trusting you. I should have known better. I should have known your innocence was a lie. I shall pay for that.” He moved closer with a gleam in his dark eyes. “But so will you.”
A shiver went through her.
“I would never marry someone I hate,” she whispered.
“You’re acting like you have a choice. You don’t.” He gave a cold smile. “You’ll do what I say. And if the baby is mine...then so are you.”
CHAPTER THREE
SANTIAGO VELAZQUEZ HAD learned the hard way that there were two types of people in the world: delusional dreamers who hid from the harsh truth of the world, and those clear-eyed few who could face it, and fight for what they wanted.
Belle Langtry was a dreamer. He’d known that the day they’d met, at their friends’ wedding last September, when she’d chirped annoyingly about the bridal couple’s “eternal love” in face of their obvious misery. Belle’s rose-colored glasses were so thick she was blind.
But then, you’d have to be blind to see anything hopeful about love or marriage. Love was a lie, and any marriage based on it would be a disaster from start to finish. It could only end in tears. He should know. His mother had been married five times, to every man in Spain except Santiago’s actual father.
But for some reason, when he’d met Belle, so feisty and sure of her own illusions, he hadn’t been irritated. He’d been charmed. Petite, curvaceous, dark-haired, with deep sultry eyes and a body clearly made for sin, she’d gotten under his skin from the beginning. And not just because of her beauty.
Belle hated him, and wasn’t afraid to show it. With one glaringly big exception, Santiago couldn’t remember any woman scorning him so thoroughly. Not since he’d grown into his full height at twenty, and especially not since he’d made his fortune. Women were always hoping to get into his bed, his wallet, or usually both. He hadn’t realized just how boring it had all become until that exact moment that Belle Langtry had insulted him to his face.
She was different from the others. She drew him like a flame in the darkness. Her tart tongue, her apparent innocence, her brazen honesty, had made him lower his defenses. Their single night together had been transcendent and joyful and raw. It had almost made him question his cynical view of the world.
Then, three nights ago, he’d discovered how wrong he’d been about her.
Belle Langtry wasn’t different. She wasn’t innocent. She’d only pretended to wear rose-colored glasses to hide the fact that she was a cold-eyed liar, just like everyone else, plotting for her personal gain. She wasn’t like his mother had been, pathetically desperate for love, deceiving herself to the end of her self-destructive life. No. Belle was like Nadia. A mercenary gold digger who would say or do anything, her eyes always on the glittering prize.
