CHAPTER SEVEN
PASCALSHOULDPROBABLYnot have taken quite so much satisfaction in seeing her pale.
But then, he had never pretended to be a good man. Save the months he’d spent here, that was, when he hadn’t known if he would live through it—and even then, only until the end of it. When he proved himself as lost to decency as ever.
“That is never going to happen,” Cecilia threw at him through bloodless lips.
Her hands were in fists in her lap, and she was curled toward him as if she imagined she might take a swing at him.
He almost wished she would.
“It will happen if I want it to happen,” he told her, pitiless and very, very certain. “I’m a very wealthy man,cara. And wealth is power whether you like it or not, even up here in this valley time has forgotten. Do you really think you could best me in court if I did not allow it?”
“Now we’re going to court?” Her voice was fainter then, her color even more pale.
And he almost felt sorry for her; he really did. But he had been here too long, with nothing to do but think through all the possibilities—and he’d concluded there was really only one. Only one possible ending to this situation that gave everyone involved what they wanted. Him more than her, perhaps, but then, he hadn’t concealed a child from her.
Cecilia hadn’t reached the same conclusion yet. But Pascal couldn’t say he disliked the opportunity to teach her a lesson as she made her way toward the only possible outcome.
Especially because she still haunted him. Even when he knew what she’d done. Even when she refused to let him meet his own son. None of that seemed to matter when he dreamed of her soft mouth, her honey-colored hair. Those eyes of violet that should not have been possible, and yet were perfectly natural.
She haunted him even now, when she was in the same room, dressed like the date he’d wished he’d had while spending all of that energy looking for an appropriate wife. She didn’t look like a cleaner tonight. She was dressed with a simple elegance that made him want to press his mouth to her collarbone, then bury himself inside her, the only way he could take part in that kind of sophisticated poetry.
It had occurred to him at some point over the past few days that he had been unable to find the perfect wife when he’d looked because he’d already met her. He’d asked her to marry him and she’d refused him, but that was just as well, because it had given him time to understand that his reaction to seeing Dante on that field was just that. A reaction.
He had waited. And he had vowed, with every passing day, that she would marry him as he wished. And she would pay.
Over and over again, until he was satisfied.
And Pascal was rarely satisfied.
“I will do anything and everything I have to do,” he told her now, with a quiet intensity he could see rocked her. “If I feel compassionate, I suppose I might allow you to fly down to Rome and see him one weekend a month. Perhaps two.”
“One weekend a month—”she began, her voice wild.
But she bit off her own words. And swallowed as if her throat hurt, keeping them all inside. Then she blinked rapidly enough that he suspected it was tears of frustration she was trying to keep at bay.
“I asked you to come over here tonight to discuss Dante’s best interests,” she said after a long moment of keeping herself together. She’d even managed to keep her voice even. “Which I’ve come to understand included you taking on the role of his father.”
“I am his father. There is no role to take on. It is a fact.”
“But you don’t seem to have any idea about what might be good for him or you wouldn’t suggest these things.” Another hard, visible swallow. And Pascal found himself fascinated by the telltale pulse in her neck. It told him how agitated she truly was, no matter how calm she might be pretending to be. “Let me remind you that I’m the woman you made all manner of promises to, all of which you broke when you disappeared. I have no reason to assume you won’t do the same thing to my child. And instead of giving me the space to work through this—”
“You had six years, Cecilia.”
“—you decided to throw your weight around instead.”
And by that point, of course, she was no longer quite so calm. He noted that the color had come back to her cheeks, and her eyes were a violet storm. Her hands were still in fists, though she was still holding them in her lap. She looked well and truly agitated.
Good.
“You have two choices,” Pascal told her, his voice implacable. “You can accept the fact that this is out of your hands. You will see the child at my whim, or possibly not at all, as it suits me.”
“That’s obviously not possible.” Her voice shook. “Of coursethat’s not possible. What’s the other choice?”
“I told you,” he said, and he couldn’t keep the satisfaction from his voice. Then again, he didn’t try very hard. “Marry me. Then you can see him all you like.”
She made a soft noise, then shot up from her chair. He had the impression she wanted to launch herself at him, and even braced himself for the impact, but she didn’t. Instead, she moved toward the fire, folding her arms across her chest as if she needed to hold herself intact. Pascal stayed where he was, settling back against the couch, and waited for this endgame of his to play itself out.