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She hated this feeling of powerlessness. Because it reminded her of the little girl she’d once been with an absent father and a mother who couldn’t cope. But she had to stand her ground, to state her case, no matter how intimidated or overwhelmed she felt.
Lukas Blackstone was clearly a man used to having his every order and command obeyed without question. But she was Nico’s sole carer, the person who had always had his best interests at heart.
Lukas had just said he wanted no real part in his own nephew’s life—which also made her the only one in this room who loved Nico and would continue to love him and care for him long after Lukas’s involvement in saving his life was over. That gave her some rights. Rights that he seemed intent on taking away.
‘Nico’s not transferring to a private hospital,’ she said, as succinctly as she could while her whole body was shaking with reaction. ‘Any more than we’re both moving into a twenty-eight-point-five-million-pound house in Regent’s Park.’
His brows flattened, the dark eyes becoming stormy as the scar on his cheek twitched in warning.
‘I appreciate your generosity, but it’s not necessary,’ she continued, feeling as if she were trying to placate a rampaging lion with a feather duster. ‘Nico’s treatment team is here. His home is our flat. And Nico’s my responsibility. I’m his guardian and I decide what’s best for him. Not you.’
* * *
The surge of adrenaline hit Lukas unawares, and shot straight into his crotch. He braced himself against the spike of temper that swiftly followed.
So his perverse reaction to this woman hadn’t been an aberration. Something about her had the power to turn him on, even when she was daring to defy him. Especially when she was daring to defy him, he realised, taking in the sheen of enraged moisture turning her eyes into deep emerald pools.
The rise and fall of her breathing made her full breasts press against the simple tank top she’d donned after their flight over the Atlantic. The flight when he’d buried himself in work and details to ignore her dozing in the bed at the back of the cabin.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t worked.
His unprecedented reaction to the boy a few minutes ago had only confused things further. Seeing the child in the flesh for the first time had been a shock. A shock he’d thought he’d been prepared for but hadn’t. The hazy childhood memories had slammed into him before he’d had a chance to completely mask his reaction. Having the child’s arms cling to him, seeing the curls of dark hair, so like his brother’s at that age, feeling sobs racking the child’s small frame had been a torture he had not been prepared for—leaving him feeling raw and exposed.
And now this ludicrous sexual reaction to Bronte O’Hara’s childish show of defiance, which he also seemed powerless to control, was the last straw.
‘Nico is a Blackstone,’ he said tightly, keeping
a rein on his temper and the desire to yank her into his arms and feast on that mouth until neither of them could think straight.
‘I know he is. I came all the way to Manhattan to tell you that, remember. But I don’t see what that has to...’
‘You announced it in public at the Full Moon Ball in front of about a hundred journalists and social media bloggers,’ he continued, clinging on to his patience with an effort when she still looked clueless. ‘Those same journalists and bloggers will be well aware that my jet left JFK with you and me on board less than an hour later.’
‘I still don’t see how...’
‘Speculation is already rife on the Internet. By tomorrow morning, Nico’s illness, his whereabouts, your whereabouts, the location of your apartment and every other minute detail of your life, your sister’s life and death, and her one-night stand with Alexei will be all over the gossip columns and the Internet. Blackstone’s main offices here and in Manhattan have already been besieged with requests for a comment. The Blackstone fortune is worth upwards of thirty billion dollars at a conservative estimate.’
Her deep green eyes popped wide. ‘You’re joking!’
The sprinkle of freckles across her nose brightened as her skin flushed a vibrant shade of red to match her hair. Apropos of exactly nothing, it occurred to him that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a grown woman blush—and certainly not with the spontaneity and regularity of Bronte O’Hara. Why he should find it captivating he had no idea. Maybe it was simply because it made her so easy to read.
‘I’m not joking,’ he said, but strangely he felt like smiling. She didn’t look defiant any more or argumentative—she looked horrified. ‘And the moment Dr Patel told me the results of the DNA test, Nico became my heir—which means he’s now worth upwards of thirty billion dollars too.’
‘But we don’t need your money. We just need your stem cells and your bone marrow.’ The blush intensified as he watched her realise what she’d just said. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound so mercenary.’
If she didn’t know it sounded exactly the opposite of mercenary, who was he to enlighten her?
‘But seriously, a twenty-eight-and-a-half-million-pound house?’ she continued. ‘I can’t accept it. It’s too much.’
‘It’s not for you. It’s for Nico,’ he said, even though he realised that for the boy’s sake she would need to live there just as much, which would allow him to keep a close eye on her.
The blood pounded back into his groin at the proprietorial thought and he had to steel himself against the urge to drag her back into his arms and kiss her senseless again.
He was not making any moves on this woman.
‘And it’s really not your place to deny him his birthright,’ he finished. ‘As Alexei’s son, he deserves Alexei’s share of the fortune.’
Lukas could only hope that Nico didn’t inherit any more of the Blackstone curse. But that seemed unlikely. From the brief interaction he’d witnessed between Bronte and the child, she was a devoted mother to the boy in everything but name.
