‘I want—’ He paused and then went on slowly, ‘You have robbed me of nearly five years of his life so I think you owe me this.’
‘And if I say no?’ She already knew the answer to that, and if she hadn’t, the expression in his liquid dark eyes and the ruthless smile on his face would have been confirmation.
‘I will not permit you to say no. You owe me, Marisa.’
She pressed her fingers to her temple where needles of pain were telling her that a migraine was inevitable at this stage.
Another inevitability was that if she refused Roman access to Jamie he would only find another way. At least if she agreed to a meeting, she could control the situation. A quick glance at his profile made her realise that she was being overly optimistic.
‘I owe Jamie, but I can see how you might feel that. So how about Friday?’
The offer made, she held her breath and waited...
‘Tomorrow.’
‘But I—’
‘Your event is in the morning. Sussex is not Outer Mongolia, is it? I’ll be there at two.’
CHAPTER FOUR
RUPERT HAD BOUGHT the Carolean manor and the surrounding acres as an investment. But to Marisa it was her home, maybe her first real one. She had never known where she was going to spend her holidays: a hotel suite in the South of France, a luxury penthouse in London or, when her father was down on his luck, not that she had realised it at the time, as a guest in one of her dad’s friends’ homes. She had slept on a lot of floors in her time.
She’d had some pretty bedrooms too over the years but she had learnt not to get too attached to them. She kept her important possessions, the ones that mattered to her, in an easily transportable tin for convenience, kept under whatever bed she was sleeping in.
She wanted Jamie’s childhood to have the feeling of permanence she had always longed for, have the pets she could never have and the lasting friendships.
She’d moved into Rozens Manor when she was pregnant so this was the longest she had ever lived anywhere. The previous owner had renovated the house and outbuildings and Rupert hadn’t touched them, not interested in putting his stamp on the place into which he had just installed a skeleton staff to maintain it.
After opening it up Marisa had put her own stamp on it instead, enjoying the process of refurbishment, but she had seen no reason to increase the number of staff already employed. The place was, in estate-agent speak, a small manageable estate, in as much as anywhere that had eight bedrooms, a dower house and converted stables could be termed small.
The only new member of staff was the nanny, who even in this enlightened age had raised a few eyebrows, and he was with Jamie in the garden now as she waited for Roman’s arrival with the sort of enthusiasm normally reserved for the flu.
She had given everyone else a day off. The local tongues had wagged enough when she’d employed a male nanny, but while gossip was inevitable, and would probably not be confined to the local community when Roman appeared, there was no point inviting it, especially this early.
Roman was obviously keen to stake his claim but, given that children had never been part of his plan, who knew how he would react when faced with the reality of parenthood, a reality that he had been so deadly determined to avoid? Marisa had no idea what his reasons were for not wanting children, and though she was ready to accept that people could change, this situation wasn’t the same as discovering you liked broccoli after a lifetime of avoidance—this was fundamental.
Roman said he wanted to be part of his son’s life but could she trust this knee-jerk reaction? She could wear contact lenses and have blue eyes, but they wouldn’t really be blue. Roman said he wanted to be a father...hell, he demanded it, and he might even think he meant it, but would he really once reality hit?
There wasn’t a single conclusion to the incessant questions that had kept her up into the small hours and none of the scenarios Marisa had dreamt up were ones that made her happy. She didn’t want Roman in their lives, but for Jamie’s sake she didn’t want him to reject his son either.
One hand pressed to the coat of arms above the fireplace of the long-dead people who had built this place, she was staring deep into the bowl of hydrangeas that filled the carved stone recess when she heard a car door slamming.
Marisa swallowed and tugged nervously at the roll-collar neckline of the fine-sleeved navy cashmere top she had teamed with a pair of pale blue linen cut-off trousers and soft leather ballerina slip-ons, because she hadn’t wanted to give the impression she was trying too hard.
She was going to be cool, casual but in control, and they were going to play by her rules because this was about Jamie.
She closed her eyes for the count of ten before squaring her shoulders at the distinctive sound of gravel crunching under a purposeful rapid stride. The sound spurred her into action because for some reason at that moment it felt important that she open the door, not respond to his knock demanding entry.
The soles of her shoes made no noise on the flagged floor as she made a dash to the door that was flanked by two carved stone lions and, rather more practically, a wellington rack. The massive metal-banded door complete with the original seventeenth-century key was heavy to open so she was glad she’d left it slightly ajar.
A last-minute smoothing down of her hair and a conscious effort to iron out the frown lines of tension on her brow and she pushed the door further open, her smile of welcome fighting with the wariness in
