‘She must have been glad to see you,’ Marisa said.
‘Not so that you’d notice,’ he admitted, his lips twitching into a wry smile as he recalled her exasperated, ‘I do not need a guard dog, Roman.’
He saw Marisa’s startled expression and tacked on, ‘She is not the world’s best patient, because she isn’t—patient, that is. And you can’t really blame her as this thing has dragged on long enough already. She had the initial surgery in Switzerland after a skiing accident, where she broke her leg.’
Marisa winced at the explanation.
‘It was a bad break. They pinned it, but there was a problem with the pin, so she’s needed further surgery.’
Marisa made a soft sound of sympathy before her features suddenly froze in an expression of dawning surprise. ‘Jamie has a grandmother.’
‘Jamie has a father too,’ he countered grimly.
Marisa sighed. She was getting tired of ducking the guilt and she really hadn’t seen that one coming.
‘I’ll tell her about us when she is discharged.’
Marisa’s chin went up. ‘There is no us,’ she said and immediately wished she hadn’t; it sounded so petty and she knew he hadn’t meant that sort of us.
‘We are connected through Jamie whether you like it or not—and on that subject, I have a proposition.’
Marisa lowered her eyes, hearing the word proposition and remembering his proposal. She took a deep breath and cleared her mind and her expression. ‘Well, let’s hear it, then.’
‘Beyond me being his father, Jamie has a Spanish heritage that he knows nothing about and he should have access to that heritage.’
‘Jamie is British.’
‘He can be both; he can have two parents. He has two parents.’
Marisa sat there tensely waiting, wondering where this was going.
‘I would like him to come to Spain.’ She immediately recoiled and he tacked on sardonically, ‘I am not about to snatch him from you—obviously you will come too.’
‘Obviously,’ she said coolly, not willing to own up to her moment of panic. ‘Look, I can’t just drop everything.’ Her lips tightened at his assumption that she could rearrange her life at a moment’s notice for his convenience. ‘I have a very busy schedule, and I think it would be far better if you visited him here to begin with. I don’t think that’s unreasonable. You could take him out or—’ She was running out of alternative suggestions when he cut across her.
‘You do realise that this situation won’t stay just between us for long?’
She looked at him blankly and shook her head as if she didn’t understand what he meant, but she did—she just didn’t want to think about it.
‘It will not stay a secret, Marisa. My face and name are well known, and if I walk down the street with a child who looks like me—’
She shook her head, holding up her hand to silence him and thought, Too much detail! It was too late, though, her imagination was already conjuring up the tabloid headlines, and the effect of those on her own and, more importantly, Jamie’s life.
‘All right, I get it, but is it actually so inevitable? If we—’
‘It’s inevitable,’ he bit back, scorn edging his softly spoken words. ‘Unless you want me to visit my son under the cover of darkness?’
His sarcasm sailed over her head as dread congealed in an icy cold lump inside her stomach.
‘Of course not!’ she exclaimed.
‘It will be easier if we manage the story ourselves.’
The words brought her eyes back to his face, to see that his eyes were narrowed in concentration. He sounded as if he were discussing a hostile takeover rather than their son... Her eyes widened. Their son, she registered, shaken to her core. It was only one word but it represented a massive mental shift in her way of thinking, a shift that she had not been conscious of.
‘Manage!’ she echoed. ‘How do you manage something like this?’
‘We control the flow of information,’ he explained, sounding a lot more boardroom than bestselling author. It made her wonder if he’d ever go back to work at the family company, and what had happened that had made him change direction so drastically.
‘Which will be difficult if we are outed by some enterprising paparazzo with a long lens or a passer-by with a phone snaps me wheeling a pushchair.’
‘He’s four and a half. His push chair is an absolute last resort. He hates it.’
He arched a brow. ‘I think you know what I’m saying, but it’s true I know zero about children and even less about being a father, so it’s just as well I have you to guide me, isn’t it?’
‘There’s no need to be sarcastic,’ she said, in no mood for some sort of conversational ping-pong match. ‘There is no parenting handbook. It’s more an on-the-job learning experience. I’m still learning too.’ Her eyes brushed the figure of their child engrossed in his game. ‘And making mistakes,’ she finished wearily.
She fought against the sense of helplessness she felt tightening its grip. The picture he painted of their immediate future was not one that gave her a lot to look forward to.
Roman frowned as she lifted a hand to her head, but as if she felt his scrutiny her eyes lifted. As their glances met the pulse of sexual tension that connected them seemed to flare like a streak of flame.
Marisa broke the connection and sat back in her seat, avoiding his eyes as she picked up a china teacup and lifted it to her lips, not seeming to notice it was empty.
‘So this managing of the flow of information,’ she said in a flat little voice. ‘Do you have anything specific in mind or are you still working out the details?’
‘I have something very specific in mind.’
Her enquiring golden gaze
