thought fiercely. Even if he couldn’t remember it.
Hoping that her fitted black dress and fake-pearl earrings fitted the bill, she felt almost dizzy as she approached him and even dizzier when he lifted his head and looked at her. He was wearing some kind of charcoal-grey suit, which fitted his muscular body to perfection, a soft ivory silk shirt and a tie in an understated shade of beaten-gold.
He didn’t get up—just gave a businesslike nod of his dark head in greeting and then a narrow-eyed glance at the maître d’ who instantly slipped away, as if that was what he had been briefed to do. You would never have thought that she and this golden-eyed man had been lovers, thought Melissa, with a sudden terrible wave of sadness.
‘Sit down,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’
Indicating the drinks which were already cluttering up the table, Casimiro raised his dark eyebrows in question. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering the food and wine. We need to talk and I don’t want to be disrupted by an endless series of sommeliers and waiters. I hope you don’t have any objections to that?’
She wondered what he’d do if she said yes. That she wanted nothing more than to hear a five-minute spiel about the ‘dish of the day’ or spend minutes in a glory of indecision while she made the impossible choice of what wonderful food to eat. But you didn’t object when a king chose your meal for you, did you? She doubted whether anyone had objected to anything in his whole privileged life. And her appetite had practically disappeared anyway.
‘That’s fine.’
‘You’d like some wine?’
She thought of the dangers of wine and the way it softened your perception of the world. The slow creep of intoxication and then the even greater danger of staring across the table into the deep golden gleam of his eyes and remembering the way he’d made love to her on the sofa…
She felt her cheeks redden. He didn’t make love to you—he had quick and emotionless sex with you, she reminded herself painfully. He made you feel worthless—and wine is the last thing in the world you need.
‘Just water for me, thanks,’ she said quietly, picking up the already poured glassful and swallowing some quickly—even though it seemed to have little effect on the parchment-like sensation in her throat.
Sipping some Petrus from his own glass, Casimiro studied her across the flickering candlelight. ‘I’ve had the test result,’ he said slowly.
‘And?’ Even as she said it Melissa wondered why she was bothering to ask when she knew exactly what the answer would be. Probably for the same reason that she had let that middle-aged doctor poke around in Ben’s mouth with a swab yesterday morning. Because ever since she had told Casimiro about his son, she seemed to have lost control of her own life. Well, wasn’t it time to start taking some of that control back?
‘It’s positive,’ he said. ‘Ninety-nine point nine per cent positive, in fact.’
‘You should have listened to me and saved yourself the money.’
Casimiro’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that supposed to be a joke?’
‘It’s not really a joking matter, is it?’
His frown deepened. He had expected—what? Some kind of relief that he had acknowledged the paternity claim. Maybe even some gratitude. When instead she was sitting there with what looked suspiciously like defiance flashing from her green eyes.
‘We have to decide now what to do,’ he said heavily.
Melissa opened her mouth to reply but at that moment a plate of grilled fish and salad was placed on the table in front of each of them—and a basket of warm bread offered. She shook her head and waited until the waiter had gone before staring at Casimiro.
‘What do you mean, “do”?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘What did you think would happen next? When it was proved that I was the child’s father?’
‘Ben,’ she said hotly. ‘His name is Ben.’
‘What did you think would happen?’ he repeated.
Melissa stared down at the feathery little bits of dill which were decorating her plate before looking up at him again, steeling herself against the accusation sparking from his golden eyes. ‘I thought you’d want to see him from time to time.’
He gave a short and bitter laugh. ‘What, just slot in and out of his life occasionally? And no doubt write you a big fat cheque so you could up your standard of living.’
‘I told you in the beginning that I wasn’t motivated by money and I meant every word of it. What is more, I don’t have to stay and listen to your insults, Casimiro.’
‘Oh, but I’m afraid that you do,’ he demurred, in a low, silky voice. ‘Try throwing a scene in here and you will regret it. The restaurant is owned by a friend of mine and the car in which you travelled is at my disposal. They won’t take you anywhere without my instructions, and it’s a long way to walk back to that…’ he seemed to struggle with a word to describe it ‘…apartment you live in.’
The subtle dig about her home was the last straw—because didn’t he realise how difficult it had been for her to manage on a salary like hers? No, he probably didn’t realise and even if he did—he probably wouldn’t care.