I forced my gaze off Belle, and back to Edie, trying to understand the stab of envy. Dante’s wife looked beautiful in an elegant blue dress, even more beautiful than she had looked the night I had first met her—and wanted her. Today she looked composed, graceful, happy, carrying the baby bump of her second pregnancy—which Dante had announced earlier—with all the poise of a woman who had somehow managed to have it all.
But I didn’t want Edie any more. If I ever really had. She, like so many of the women I had dated, had been nothing more than a passing fancy. Unlike the woman who stood beside her. My gaze returned to Belle, and the heat surged as it always did when I looked at her.
After three weeks of sex whenever
we could fit it in around our commitments as Cai’s parents, why hadn’t the hunger for her dimmed, at all?
I devoured the sight of her slender curves in the fitted designer dress, emblazoned with poppies to match her vibrant hair, the way I had when I had picked Cai and her up for the drive to Monaco an hour ago.
This was our last outing together before Belle started work and I would have to travel to England for the Primo Grande race—and I was already feeling agitated at the thought.
Unlike Edie’s, Belle’s stomach was flat. I remembered kissing it the night before when we had retired to her bedroom after tucking Cai into bed together. Remembered exploring the soft flesh around her belly button with my tongue, then drifting lower to capture the sweet taste of her arousal, which I had become addicted to. The heat rushed through me all over again as I recalled her broken sobs as she’d bucked and cried out against my hold.
I shook my head, trying to dismiss the memory. Dio! What was wrong with me? Why would this need not die? And why did it feel like so much more than just a physical hunger?
‘If the child is your son, why have you not claimed him?’ I registered Dante’s question, tinged with incredulity and no small amount of judgement.
The accusatory look on my friend’s face said it all. I bristled, but couldn’t ignore the tinge of guilt. Dante was right. It had been several months now since I had discovered the boy was mine. And my relationship with Cai was going well.
I enjoyed spending time with him. I had taken him swimming and go-karting and tended to live at their villa when I was not forced to return to mine to catch up on work. The boy never stopped talking but I found his conversation fascinating. He still reminded me a great deal of Remy, but Cai was an individual too, his quirks and passions, his cheeky smile and sweet manner very much his own.
It was way past time I told him who I really was. I knew Belle would not object. In fact, I suspected she was becoming impatient for me to do so.
But, where once I had been keen to claim Cai as my son, now I hesitated. And I knew it had nothing to do with the child and everything to do with his mother.
‘It’s not as simple as that,’ I said in answer to Dante’s question. My friend frowned, not looking convinced. But then Dante had always been far too intuitive—it was one of the qualities that made him impossible to beat at the poker table.
‘When did you discover he was yours?’ he demanded, clearly affronted by my failure to claim my son.
‘How do you know I did not always know and chose to ignore him?’ I asked.
‘Because I know you better than you think, Alexi,’ he said, his eyes narrowing. ‘You pretend to have no morals, but you are not a man to ignore his own flesh and blood.’ He glanced to where Belle and his wife stood together, still deep in conversation. ‘And the way you look at the boy’s mother suggests she is much more to you than one of your casual conquests.’
The statement struck me square in the solar plexus because it was a truth I had been determined not to acknowledge until this moment. And it explained perfectly why I had been reluctant to claim the boy.
Fear.
Fear that claiming my son would only increase my need for his mother.
My hunger for Belle had not dimmed, and the more time we spent together, both as parents and lovers, the more it seemed to strengthen the bond—and only increase the chemistry that made me constantly want her.
And I hated that need.
After my brother’s death—hell, even before it—with every woman but Belle I had been able to shut off my emotions. To keep them under lock and key.
I had no desire to do that with my son. He was a part of me, a part of Remy, and he could be better than both of us, with none of the scars we had borne from our own upbringing, if I made the effort. And with Belle’s help I knew I could be a good father to him.
But with Belle? I didn’t want to need her in any way other than the physical. It made me feel vulnerable and insecure, exposed and weak in a way I hadn’t felt since I’d been a boy...and I had watched my mother climb into her lover’s convertible and disappear into the night without a backward glance.
‘You’re right,’ I murmured.
Why was I giving Belle this kind of power over me? Claiming the boy had no bearing on my relationship with her. We’d already established that before we’d embarked on this affair. I’d made her no promises, nor had she asked me for any.
The strange spurt of envy returned, still making no sense. I didn’t want her to ask me for more than I was willing to give. Why the hell would I?
‘I am?’ Dante said, obviously surprised by my capitulation.
Ignoring him, I strode across the lawn towards Belle and my son. The boy let go of his mother’s hand and ran into my arms. I hoisted him up and his small fingers gripped my neck.