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There were some indications of his personal taste. A black and white photograph of the Millau Viaduct, a small pottery toro on his desk, a stunning modern sculpture that was gunmetal grey and silver, and utterly striking.
She ignored these details though, and all the ostentatious signs of wealth, placing her handbag on a chair and turning to face him.
And she felt as if she’d been kicked in the gut.
God, he was handsome.
So handsome, with eyes that were laced with enquiry and hair that she ached to run her fingers through.
Stupid, stupid traitorous body.
Pushing any such thoughts from her mind, she tried to summon the words she’d prepared.
‘Would you like a drink?’
Her stomach heaved at the very suggestion. ‘No.’ The word was abrupt, and she winced. ‘No, thank you,’ she corrected softly.
She paced to the window overlooking Madrid and stared out at the ancient city. In the distance,
she could see a slice of Gaudí poking impishly from behind a far more sensible high rise, and she was reminded of a child hiding around the corner, awaiting a scolding. Gaudí’s irreverence was one of her favourite things about Spain.
‘Well,’ he said quietly, and the word ran down her spine like warm honey. ‘What can I do for you, Amelia?’
Her name on his lips tripped her heart up a thousand gears and she took a steadying breath, reminding herself that she was in control of her body, not the other way around.
When she hadn’t spoken, after a moment, he said, ‘I have an appointment any minute.’
‘No, you don’t.’ She swallowed. ‘I’m your appointment.’
When she turned to face him, she could see he was analysing this, examining her statement for meaning. ‘You pretended to be a journalist, simply to see me again?’
She nodded crisply.
‘Why not just give my assistant your name?’
‘Because I took a perverse pleasure in surprising you,’ she said honestly, and was rewarded with the hint of a smile at the corners of his lips.
It was too familiar—too familiar for what they were to one another, and what they’d shared. Theirs had been no love story; it had been two strangers in a thunderstorm. She’d been caught up in the romance—the storm had raged and he’d arrived, offering refuge from a clawing sense of isolation. She’d been a means to an end for him, her virginity unimportant collateral in his quest to draw her under his spell.
‘You have surprised me,’ he agreed.
You haven’t seen anything yet, she thought to herself with a wry shake of her head.
Was she really going to do this?
Of course! What was the alternative? Have his baby and never tell him? Just like her mother had done to her father?
No way would her baby know the pain of that. Amelia had grown up with no idea who her father was—half the time she wasn’t even sure her mother knew. She’d been a secret baby, a shameful love-child, unwanted, an accident, and there was no way her baby would ever grow up feeling like she had.
And didn’t Antonio deserve to know? Not just for the sake of their baby, but because this was his baby too?
Amelia might not have liked what had happened with her and Antonio; she certainly didn’t like the fact that he’d come to her cottage and seduced her without telling her they were part of an ancient blood feud, then expected her to hand over thirty per cent of a family business to him, but he was still a person. A person with inalienable rights. A man who would soon become a father and of course he deserved to know that.
Heaven help her if he decided he wanted to be a part of the child’s life on a regular basis, because that would mean she would also have to see him too, she supposed.
But Amelia doubted he’d want much to do with their child. It would be, after all, a diSalvo.
The thought had her tilting her chin, her eyes sparking defiantly with his. ‘This won’t take long,’ she assured him, thinking gratefully of the return flight she’d booked for later that same day.
