She shrugged. ‘You’ve said many times that traditional family life isn’t for you.’
‘It isn’t.’
‘No. I realise that. But maybe there are some who don’t quite believe you. You said yourself that people are guilty of believing what they want to believe. And what better way of discouraging any billionaire-hungry women intent on changing your mind than by parading your pregnant ex-lover and making it clear there is nothing between you? In one fell swoop you can demonstrate that your heir requirements have been satisfied, but your compartmentalised heart remains intact.’
There was silence for a moment before he spoke. ‘Let me get this straight,’ he said slowly, his silky voice edged with a frisson of danger. ‘You’re actually accusing me of using you as some sort ofpropto help facilitate my reputation as a confirmed bachelor?’
Put like that, itdidsound a bit harsh, but Lizzie’s vexation was genuine. ‘I don’t know, do I? I don’t know what you are or aren’t capable of!’ she howled. ‘Because you never really talk to me, do you, Niccolò? Oh, you open your mouth and words come out—but I don’t feel any closer to knowing you than when we spent that night together in the Cotswolds. And that’s freaking me out. I don’t want to give birth to the baby of a stranger. I want to be able to answer questions about you when our child asks. Because, believe me, he—or she—will ask about you one day.’
She paused long enough for him to enquire about the sex of their baby but—predictably—he didn’t. ‘I know that for a fact,’ she added quietly, sucking in an unsteady breath, unable to stem her sudden stream of insecurity. ‘When I was a little girl I was desperate to know more about my dad, but my mother was never able to tell me anything.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because after their one-night stand—yes, isn’t it funny how history repeats itself?—she found out he was married and he said he would never leave his wife. She didn’t even tell him she was having his baby and then, when she thought better of it...’ Her words tailed off. ‘I must have been about two months old at the time and I think she was depressed—she found out he’d been killed in a motorcycle accident. And that was the end of that,’ she concluded bitterly. ‘That’s why I never knew my father and why I didn’t want the same to happen to my own child.’
‘Why didn’t she—?’
‘Why didn’t she what?’ Lizzie interrupted savagely. ‘Go to his grieving young widow and inform her that her husband had been playing away? Lay herself open to rejection and censure—and for what? He was dead and he was never coming back.’
Niccolò nodded as he absorbed her words in silence, suddenly aware of what it must have taken for her to have tried so hard to find him, and now understanding why. He thought how unwittingly cruel he had been to her and wondered why she hadn’t told him all this before.
Because you wouldn’t have wanted her to. You always recoil when women try to tell you their life story, don’t you?
‘I’m sorry,’ he said automatically.
But she shook her head, as if determined to show him that she was not a victim. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s not anybody’s fault. But this...this situation is all wrong and the longer it goes on, the more confusing it will be, for everyone. It’s time I went home.’
Niccolò found himself thinking how brave she’d been but now he saw the disquiet on her face, as if the emotion of it had all become too much. And even though on one level he knew he was bad news for her, he found himself unable to move, lost in a fog of feelings he didn’t understand. It was hard to think straight and even harder to know the right thing to do. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. His head told him exactly what he ought to do, but his body was telling him something entirely different. And Lizzie wasn’t helping matters any. Her green eyes had grown smoky and he’d seen enough women look at him that way to know she wanted him. But she had to be sure. His lips twisted. Even if he wasn’t.
‘If you want to go back to England, I’m not going to stop you.’
‘I wasn’t expecting you to.’
‘But that doesn’t change the way I feel.’
‘Oh?’
He saw the flare of hope in her eyes and forced himself to quash it, because this was nothing to do with romance and everything to do with desire. ‘I want to carry on where we left off last night.’
The silence which followed this admission seemed to stretch like a piece of elastic as the tension between them grew. He watched as her lashes lowered to conceal the flash of disappointment in her eyes, but when they fluttered open her gaze was dark and bold.
‘So what’s stopping you?’ she asked quietly.
‘How long have you got?’ His laugh was short. ‘Sense. Logic. Reason. The fact that nothing has changed. Not inside...’ He slammed the flat of his hand against his chest, where his heart was. ‘Here.’
Her pale green gaze clashed with his.
‘I don’t care,’ Lizzie declared softly, because she didn’t. It might be wrong—it was very definitely stupid—but there was only one thing she cared about right then and that was being in Niccolò’s arms again. Because when he held her, he made her feel...real. And that was a very powerful feeling. She wanted him. She needed him—even if this was only ever going to be a bittersweet memory. Just do it, she thought, her desire spiked with hungry impatience.
But to her surprise he didn’t. There was no demonstration of mind-blowing passion to make her instantly compliant and obliterate the remaining possibility of doubt. Instead his thumb traced a slow line down over her cheek and as he moved it away to examine it, she could see a small daub of silver paint on the whorled skin of his thumb-print.
‘I was painting the little bell on Blanche’s collar,’ she babbled in an explanation he hadn’t asked for and, surprisingly, he smiled.
‘Let’s go to bed,’ he said softly, lacing her fingers in his.
CHAPTER NINE
ITFELTVERYgrown-up and slightly scary to be led by Niccolò Macario through the echoing corridors of the vast suite. Any of the hotel staff could have seen them! But the place was silent and empty as they shut the door of his bedroom—and Lizzie got her first sight of a room which made her own look as if it would be better suited to a doll’s house. Outside the snow was still falling—white and ethereal and swirling—while inside the solid antique furniture emphasised the fundamental masculinity of the room. Just as the man before her did. How supremely powerful he looked, in his custom-made suit, the pale silk of his shirt managing to make his hair appear even blacker than usual. Yet, for once, his hard edge of control seemed absent. She could tell he was trying hard to control his breathing, but the urgent glitter of his eyes was a dead giveaway, even to her.
