‘I think you want to make time for me.’ There was nothing covert about the threat in his words. ‘Are you alone?’
She stiffened, sure that guilt was written all over her face as an image of her son’s face covered in chocolate cake flashed into her head.
He couldn’t know about him, but then, if he didn’t, why was he here?
‘My speaking engagement—’
‘Your speaking engagement is tomorrow.’
Her long lashes flickered as she veiled her glance and her chin lifted another few notches in cool defiance, which she clung to with single-minded determination. It was the only thing standing between her and outright gibbering panic.
‘I like to be prepared.’ This was something she couldn’t have prepared for if she’d had a year; it was something that was not meant to happen—ever. How could anyone have prepared her for opening the door and finding six feet four inches of Roman Bardales standing there...in this hotel of all places?
Her thoughts continued to race in panicky ever-decreasing circles.
Could this be a coincidence?
Him—here in this place—now?
Or was it something more...? It was just her guilty conscience talking, suggested the voice in her head. She ignored it. Guilt was something she lived with every day; it was the price she’d paid, and it was something you were meant to feel when you made the conscious decision to conceal your child’s existence from his father, irrespective of the reasoning behind that choice.
Seeing Roman again made her certain that, from a purely selfish point of view, she had made the right decision. Having this man dipping in and out of her and Jamie’s lives would have made it impossible for her to build any sort of existence without him—he was such an incredible force of nature.
It was a decision she had made for her unborn child, yet robbing a child of his father was not something you did lightly, and her eventual decision had come with the knowledge that she would never stop feeling guilty. But better surely to have no father than one who rejected you or, at best, acknowledged you with reluctance.
She wasn’t sure which would be worse, but Marisa knew from personal experience that a child who had been deserted by a parent grew up thinking that it was somehow their fault, even when logic and a loving father in her case had told her otherwise. Not that her dad had ever bad-mouthed her mother; he had just said that motherhood was something she was not equipped to cope with.
She’d had the advantage of knowing that one parent could be enough. Her dad had been enough for her; sure, he wasn’t perfect, but whatever his faults she had always known he loved her and that was what mattered.
Her baby would never doubt her love or be made to feel that he was not good enough so she had never faltered in the belief that, morality aside, she had done the right thing... All right, perhaps she’d faltered a little...more a stumble, really, and that had only been her hormones. After Jamie had been born, in the post-birth euphoria she had nearly changed her mind about telling Roman.
She’d been so blown away by Jamie, she’d thought he was so perfect how could anyone not want to be part of his life? She had wanted so much to share this feeling with Roman, it had seemed selfish not to, and when she’d fallen asleep staring at the life she had brought into the world it had all seemed so simple.
When she’d awoken the memories had resurfaced, bringing with them a deep sense of sadness. Roman was only going to be happy about the news he was a father in her dreams. He would not share her joy. How could he when he had felt strongly enough on the subject to make it a condition of his marriage proposal?
Marriage to him, he had warned her, would not involve children...and this was not something he was ever going to change his mind about. A deal-breaker, he had called it.
So she had made her decision and lived with it.
‘I’m sorry but, no, I’m not going to invite you in. I prefer to leave the past in the past,’ she said quietly, wondering if it would actually stay there.
‘I just bet you do.’
Trying not to look worried, she didn’t ask him what he meant by that because he might just tell her, and though she knew that some fights were inevitable, you could at least choose your own time and place to have them.
Can we have a rain check on this conversation? How does thirty years’ time sound to you?
He arched a sardonic brow. ‘Fine, then we can discuss this out here if you prefer?’
She folded her arms across her chest in an unconsciously protective gesture. ‘I don’t want to talk to you at all.’
‘Oh, by the way, my brother sends his love, or he would have if he’d been in any condition to talk when I last saw him.’
Marisa pressed one hand to her stomach and the other shaking hand went to her mouth. ‘He told you.’
It wasn’t a question but Roman responded anyway.
‘Rio came over with a sudden attack of conscience,’ he remarked dryly, before adding in a voice that was as hard as his eyes were cold, ‘though it was a bit late in the day to matter.’
Without a word she turned around and went back into her suite, expecting him to follow her.
When the door closed behind him, she turned back to face him. She could tell he wasn’t quite sure what to expect as she fixed him with a direct amber stare. ‘Sit down.’ She gestured towards the brocade-covered sofa and heard herself ask with stiff formality, ‘Can I get you anything to drink...tea?’
If there was a single thing she could have said that would have sounded more ludicrous in the circumstances she couldn’t think of it.
His explosive expletive and the glare of incredulity did not come as a massive surprise. She pressed
