She desperately hoped the Russian tycoon would play along. But Sergei just looked bewildered.
Rodrigo swept him with a dismissive glance, then faced Lola. His cold expression turned to fire as his dark eyes glittered in the light of the ballroom.
“Tell me the truth,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. He gripped her shoulder. “I want to hear you say it.”
“Let me go,” she whispered, her throat closing.
All her fears were crashing around her like bricks. Lola tried to lift her chin, to glare at him, to defy him. Most of all, she tried to think of a good lie.
But looking up at Rodrigo’s hard, handsome face, she knew it would be no good. When it came to him, her lies always betrayed her.
“Tell me, Lola,” he demanded mercilessly.
Heart pounding, she whispered, “Yes. You’re the father.”
* * *
A baby.
Rodrigo staggered back.
She’d had his baby.
The shock of that idea swirled in his brain, leaving him staring down at Lola in confusion.
From the moment Rodrigo had arrived tonight at the charity ball, coming alone as he couldn’t be bothered to choose a date, he’d been the center of attention on the red carpet, not just from paparazzi, but from the other guests. As a wealthy, powerful billionaire, he could build anyone’s movie career instantly across his entertainment empire. Rodrigo was eagerly greeted by famous actors and directors and beautiful women who all wanted a piece of him.
He barely paid attention. He was used to it; bored by it. He didn’t fool himself that these women were after anything but his body, his money or his power. They weren’t interested in him personally.
As a younger man, he’d relished the notice he received from beautiful women. But he’d been desperate then to find love, to get married, to have a home. How else to explain why he’d proposed to three different women in his younger years?
Remembering that disgusted him now. Humiliated him.
Love was for the naive. Only fools believed in a communion of souls. Men, as a rule, weren’t supposed to yearn for such things.
But he once had. Stupidly.
Rodrigo was monogamous by nature. That was his darkest secret. He’d been the only child of wealthy, neglectful parents. Growing up, he’d dreamed of having a loving family and home. Even after he’d first taken over his father’s small film studio in Madrid, he’d wanted some version of the fairy tales he manufactured for a living.
Ridiculous to think of it now. Because he’d swiftly learned his lesson. All three fiancées had cheated on him before the wedding date.
He’d never proposed to Lola Price, of course. He’d never even let himself love her during their brief affair. He was no longer that stupid, or that young, to believe in dreams of love and forever.
But he’d known her. Trusted her. She’d been his assistant for years before she’d been his lover. Working together, day in and day out, he’d been impressed by her determination, intelligence and drive. He’d respected her. Admired her.
But he hadn’t touched her, in spite of her incredible beauty. He’d valued her far too much as his assistant to wreck everything for a brief affair, which was all it could surely be.
Until, one night in Mexico City, after they’d closed a deal, they’d celebrated with too much tequila at a famous restaurant. Then Lola had suddenly leaned over the table and kissed him.
It had been a revelation. An explosion.
They’d had a few incredible months, working together by day, making love by night. It had been—perfect.
Then Rodrigo had learned who Lola really was, deep down. What she’d done when she was eighteen. And that she’d been playing him all along. She’d claimed to love him. But all she’d ever wanted was his money.
He’d been stupidly blind. That was what hurt his pride the most. He’d let himself believe she actually cared. He would never forgive her for that. Or himself...
For the last year, he’d avoided thinking about her. He’d tried to forget. He’d told himself that he had.