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‘Have you seen the pictures of Nico?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘You have?’ The panic became huge. He still looked unmoved and impassive. How could he not have noticed the resemblance? Between himself and Nico? When it was so clear to her? ‘But surely...’
‘My medical team have contacted the paediatrician at Westminster Children’s Hospital in your phone’s contacts,’ he cut into her frantic reasoning.
‘Then you believe me?’ she said, the hope like a sunburst inside her.
But, instead of looking moved, he simply frowned. ‘There’s enough of a resemblance to require further investigation. That’s all.’
It’s not a no.
She clung to the lifeline, feeling light-headed again. ‘When?’ she asked, knowing that time was of the essence. ‘When are you planning to do this further investigation?’
Please let it be soon. Surely he could get tested in New York. That would work. They could feed the results back to the team in the UK, then they’d know if Blackstone was a suitable partial match for the new treatment.
He glanced at his watch. ‘We’re leaving in twenty minutes, once the helicopter is fuelled.’
‘We?’ she said, staggered. ‘Where are we going?’ And in a helicopter?
‘To JFK,’ he said, as if it were obvious. ‘The company jet is taking us to London. We should arrive by eight a.m. tomorrow. The hospital is expecting us.’
The leap of joy despite his sharp tone almost choked her. ‘Really? You’ll get tested straight away then?’
‘All I’m prepared to do is a DNA test,’ he said flatly. He still didn’t sound that convinced, but she didn’t care. Because she knew once the DNA results came in the truth would be revealed.
‘And when Nico turns out to be Alexei’s son?’ she asked, her joy hard to contain. Because she knew he wouldn’t have a choice then. He would have to get tested, once he knew for sure Nico was his nephew.
She hadn’t messed everything up by punching him. Nico still had a chance.
But, instead of saying anything about that, he simply said, ‘Then you’re going to have some serious questions to answer.’
He stalked out of the room and an assistant arrived with a borrowed coat and her bag. And as she got ready to leave it dawned on Bronte that her battle with Lukas Blackstone was far from over. Because he didn’t sound excited or remotely pleased that he might have discovered a long-lost nephew.
He sounded furious. With her. And the whole situation. And more formidable and unforgiving than ever.
CHAPTER TWO
THE HELICOPTER CIRCLED the roof of Westminster Children’s Hospital ten hours later. Bronte wrapped her coat around her, still wearing the green satin gown she’d attended the Blackstone Ball in what felt like several lifetimes ago. She had no idea where her tote had ended up and she certainly wasn’t about to ask Lukas about it. .
She’d barely spoken to him during the journey. The questions whirling around in her head about Nico in between the fitful sleep she’d managed on the luxury jet all ones she was too scared to ask as they were whisked from JFK to Heathrow.
Not that he’d given her much of an opportunity. He’d ignored her during the journey, working on his laptop and taking a series of calls during the helicopter flight from the hotel in Manhattan and on the flight across the Atlantic.
Bronte had been overawed enough by the whole experience—she’d never travelled in a helicopter before, let alone a private jet—without borrowing more stress by trying to interrogate the man about his intentions towards his soon-to-be nephew. But that hadn’t stopped the questions flooding her brain as he ignored her.
She’d stupidly assumed when he told her of the trip that he must be softening. But why should that be the case? Dread edged out the last of the hope in her stomach. What made her think that Lukas would be any better than most men? Her own father had discarded her and her sister when they were almost too young to remember him, walking out one day and simply never coming back.
Their mother had spent years searching for him, convinced he’d been killed in some freak accident, or lost his memory or some such fanciful nonsense, only to discover ten years after he’d disappeared—from a chance article in a local paper—that he’d been living in a neighbouring borough with his new wife.
Bronte huddled in her coat as the crisp morning air slid through the helicopter cabin and the vast black machine’s runners touched down on the hospital helipad. The memory of that hideous day still haunted her.
She could still remember the childish anticipation as her mother had dressed her and her sister in their Sunday best clothes and told them they were going to see their daddy. And the dispassionate look on the strange man’s face when he answered the door and told her mother he’d moved on. He hadn’t even glanced at Bronte and Darcy as they clung to their mother’s side.
Her mother had sobbed all the way home on the Tube. And the truth was Ellie O’Hara had never really recovered from that final terrible rejection.
Bronte had made a point of never thinking of her father again. Of trying to erase that day, so she could bury all those gut-wrenching feelings of inadequacy and insecurity that were wrapped up in her only real memory of him. But she couldn’t seem to stop herself from replaying it in minute detail ever since she’d boarded Lukas Blackstone’s private jet.
