‘Do you disapprove of something?’ She lifted her hand to indicate their surroundings.
Nic heard the challenge in her voice—a coolness that had never been there with him before.
Into his head came a moment from their very first encounter at the bar in the Falcone Nevada—the way she had challenged him to name three astrophysicists to corroborate his blatant hook-up line that she did not look like the stereotypical image of one.
There had been humour in that challenge. Amusement. Engagement with him.
There was none of that now. Now she was simply Donna Francesca, expressing her displeasure at any criticism of her father the Marchese’s choice of décor.
He shook his head, his expression shuttered. ‘It’s very elegant,’ he said.
‘It’s old-fashioned,’ she admitted, ‘but I like it. It hasn’t changed much since my grandparents’ time. Or even before theirs, I suspect,’ she added, trying to make her voice lighter.
But it was an effort to do so. Yet again into her mind shafted memories of how she had once been able to chat effortlessly with Nic, yet now she was conscious of the awkward restraint between them, making all conversation stilted. Laborious.
She indicated the spread on the table. ‘Help yourself,’ she said.
Memory shafted in her yet again—they’d had picnics en route several times on their road trip, stocking up at small town supermarkets, pulling over at viewpoints, eating out of paper bags...
She crushed the memories back. Those carefree days were gone. Now there were grimmer things to sort out.
‘I think you’re right about the Caribbean,’ she said, watching him help himself to freshly bought rolls and multiple slices of ham and salami, remembering how hearty his appetite had always been, to feed that powerful frame of his.
She dragged her mind away from such memories, away from how his smooth-muscled torso had felt beneath her gliding fingertips.
‘We should marry there, at one of your resorts.’ She paused. ‘But on our own.’ She paused again, made herself look at him. ‘It would be easier for my parents and...’ she swallowed ‘...since you don’t have any family—’
She broke off. That had been tactless. His glance at her was mordant, shuttered.
‘Suits me,’ he said, beginning to eat.
It was a laconic reply, but nothing like the laid-back way he’d spoken to her in America. This registered...indifference. A verbal shrug indicating how unimportant it was to him.
She blenched. Struggled on. Pushed a helping of salad around her plate. She wasn’t hungry in the slightest. Just nauseous.
And not because of her pregnancy.
‘It’s going to be difficult for them, Nic. I can’t help that. A shotgun wedding is ne
ver what parents want for their children.’ She gave a heavy sigh. ‘And an unintentional pregnancy is never ideal in the first place,’ she finished.
Blue eyes lifted, skewered her. Anger was suddenly spearing through him.
‘Did I ask you to come to me that night in London?’
The words stabbed from him and found their target. Fran blenched again as they impacted. He stabbed again.
‘Don’t blame me for your predicament. You’re as responsible for this as I am. I made it clear to you that I did not want to continue our...acquaintance—’ his mouth twisted on the word ‘—yet you persisted.’
His voice was icy—as icy as it had been in that elevator, telling her to make no further contact with him. She gave a cry, dropping her fork. Crested silver, he noticed absently.
‘I’m not trying to blame you. I’m simply saying that no one should have to marry for the sake of a baby that wasn’t planned.’ She shut her eyes. Misery filled her suddenly.
Dear God, however were they to make this marriage he was insisting on work? It was impossible.
‘Nic, it’s you going on about getting married—not me!’ Her eyes flew open again. ‘I told you I was OK with being a single mother—’
‘Well, I am not OK with that.’