CHAPTER FOUR
IFASHRAFHADhad any doubts about the child being his, they were banished by Tori’s reaction.
The flush colouring her face disappeared completely, leaving those high-cut cheeks blanched like porcelain. Her gasp filled the silent room.
His investigators had provided a photo—part of a slim dossier on Victoria Miranda Nilsson. A photo of a tiny child with dark hair and what might be dark eyes, though the shot had been taken from too far away to be sure.
Now he was sure. She’d had his baby.
Another surge of adrenaline shot into his blood, catapulting around his body. It took everything he had to sit there, holding her gaze, instead of erupting to his feet and pacing the length of the room.
But Ashraf had learned in childhood to control his impulses, even if later he’d made his name by giving in to them. No, that wasn’t quite right. Even when he’d gone out of his way to provoke with scandal and headlines his actions hadn’t been impulsive, even if they’d seemed so. They’d been carefully considered for maximum impact.
But now wasn’t the time to think of his father and how they’d always been on opposing sides. Nowhewas a father.
Ashraf registered awe as the reality of it sideswiped him. As he thought of this slim, self-possessed woman fruitful with his child. How had she looked, her belly rounded with his baby? Did that explain the urge he now battled to feel her pliant body against his again? Because she’d borne his child? He wished he’d been there, seeing her body change, attending the birth. So much he’d missed out on. So much she’d had to face without him.
‘I was going to tell you, Ash. I was just...’ She waved her hand in a vague gesture at odds with the determined tilt of her chin.
How wrong he’d been—imagining she’d deliberately withheld the news of his son.
Satisfaction eddied in his belly that his first assessment of her appeared right after all. He’d thought her practical, brave and honest. He’d admired her, wanted to believe she’d got away. Yet when finally he’d received proof that she had, doubts had filtered in. Because she hadn’t informed him about the baby.
Now he knew why.
What had she gone through, having his child alone? Without, as far as he could tell, family support? She’d believed him dead. Her shock on seeing him had been no charade. Ashraf tried to imagine how she’d felt, struggling with the effects of trauma alone when she’d most needed assistance.
‘You’re still in shock. You thought me dead.’
‘It’s true! I did.’ She spoke so quickly she must have read something in his expression.
‘I believe you.’
‘But?’
He lifted his shoulders, spreading his hands. ‘In my work I sometimes appear on the television news. It seemed likely you’d see me.’ That had been one of the reasons he’d feared for her—feared that she was dead or unable to contact him.
‘Do you? You must have an important job.’
When he merely shrugged she laughed, the sound short, almost gruff.
‘My father is a politician. Years of being force-fed a diet of politics means I avoid the TV news.’
Cynicism threaded her soft voice. A dislike of politicians or just her father?
‘Especially news from Za’daq.’ Another wide gesture with her hand. ‘After what happened I’ve actively avoided reports from that part of the world.’
Now he saw it in her eyes. Not prevarication but a haunted look that spoke of pain and trauma. Her abduction had left scars.
His hand captured hers, reassuring. He was pleased to feel its warmth. She looked so pale he’d imagined her chilled. Yet when they touched there was a definite spark of fire.
‘Besides,’ she went on, ‘new mothers have priorities other than TV current affairs programmes.’
The baby.Hisbaby. That had been her priority.
Now it was his too.
Ashraf would do everything necessary to ensure his son had the sort of life he deserved.