Xanthos’s eyes narrowed as her words took him to a future he had never intended. He pictured a scenario maybe eighteen years hence, when some unfamiliar and possibly resentful teenager might show up on his doorstep. Where would he be living then, in his chosen unmarried and childless state? Would he be an aging billionaire, still in his luxury penthouse in New York with a series of younger and younger girlfriends—a pattern he’d observed many times in his social circles? He felt a pulse flicker at his temple, for the image held no allure.
But neither did dealing with a newborn—taking an unknown leap into fatherhood and failing his child.
And he didn’t do failure.
And what of his child’s mother? Was he planning on failing her, as well? With Bianca it had always gone deeper than with anyone else. Somehow she had the ability to tap into a part of him which he’d always kept hidden from other women. But fundamentally, he remained the same damaged man he’d always been—and who would want someone like that in their life? Better she found happiness with thenice, safe manshe’d told him she envisaged spending her life with, who could give her the deep and inclusive relationship she craved. Wouldn’t the best thing he could do for Bianca Forrester be to walk away from herandtheir baby?
‘Then I shall have to deal with whatever comes my way,’ he said, feeling the vibration of his phone in the inside pocket of his jacket but for once choosing to ignore it. But his heart was pounding and his throat felt as dry as if he’d been running in a marathon, his unperturbed exterior belying the sudden unfamiliar emotions he could feel surging within him. He felt pain. Regret. And something else...something which remained indefinable.
Walking over to a side console, he poured himself a glass of water, raising his eyebrows at her in query, but she shook her head. He drank thirstily before putting his glass down, staring into a pair of wide green eyes which were filled with wariness.
From the moment he’d walked in here today, he had known there was something different about her. Something which hadn’t been there before, which transcended the physical. A mixture of fragility and strength. Something soft and nurturing which lay beneath her cool and professional exterior. Xanthos had thought he’d known exactly what lay behind her unexpected request that he visit her office. He’d imagined that now she’d had time to reconsider her decision to end their affair, she would be regretting it—for whenever had a woman been willing to let him go? He had thought she might lock the door and seduce him. Her lying on the desk, perhaps—her crumpled panties on the floor—with him kissing quiet her shuddered little gasps. And yes, he couldn’t deny that he would have been up for some of that because she had proved infuriatingly difficult to shift from his thoughts.
Yet the reality could not be more different, and neither could she. She wasn’t dressed for seduction, in her crisp pink shirt and plain skirt, with her black hair piled on top of her head. It was difficult to believe she was carrying his child. He felt a twist of something unknown and intensely uncomfortable. Because children were the glue which bound families together and as far as he was concerned, families were toxic. His father’s resentment had threatened to whittle away his self-worth, and his mother had chosen financial security over her only child.
Xanthos had buried the rejection as deeply as he could but now he started remembering how it had felt when his mother had cast him out. That out-of-body sensation of feeling completely alone in the world. Of realising he didn’t have anyone to rely on. It had taken him quite a while to realise he could manage on his own—that he didn’t actuallyneedanyone else. And now, for the first time, he wondered how it had been for his mother. He had been so quick to condemn her. He’d never stopped to think that maybe she’d been hurting, too. And when Corso had burst into his life so suddenly, telling him about his real father—that had brought no relief either. How could it? His real father hadn’t wanted him either, had he?
He forced his mind back to the present, seeing the way she was biting her lip. ‘So what happens next?’ he questioned slowly. ‘Are you planning to tell Corso and your sister that I am the father of your child?’
‘Why?’ She jerked her head back, her brief show of anger unwittingly reminding him of her passion. ‘Are you worried Corso’s going to come after you with a shotgun, demanding you marry me?’
And despite the undoubted gravity of the situation, Xanthos felt the ghost of a smile haunting the edges of his lips. ‘I don’t think it works like that any more, Bianca,’ he said gravely. ‘And if it does, you can tell him quite honestly that an offer of marriage was made, and refused.’
‘I would hardly call your disparaging question an “offer of marriage”,’ she snapped. ‘You sounded like a condemned man being asked what he wanted for his last meal. And only someone who’d undergone a total brain bypass would elect to marry a man as cold-hearted as you, Xanthos Antoniou!’
She made him want to laugh. She made him want to kiss her. To unclip her glossy hair and feel those ebony waves trickle through his fingers. Even now he wanted her more than he had ever wanted any woman. But he mustn’t allow himself to be distracted by the significance of her pregnancy. Nor her wit, or her beauty, or the pressing need of his own desire. And so he shrugged, as if her words had simply bounced off him like drops of rain, for many such accusations had been made against him in the past. Even if, for once, he suspected they had left their mark.
‘Now we deal with practicalities,’ he stated flatly. ‘I suggest you send me your bank details so we can get those payments progressing.’
‘And that’sit?’ she questioned, her voice shaking with disbelief as he headed for the door. ‘I send you my bank details?’
He reminded himself that he was doing this for her sake and their child’s sake and that one day she would be grateful to him. But even so, it hurt to see the pain and reproach which were written in her eyes. ‘What else is there to say? I am all the things you accuse me of and more. So go and find yourself a good man to marry to spend the rest of your life with, Bianca.’ He gave a bitter smile. ‘Because it will be a better life without me in it.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ITHADBEENtrying to snow. The heavy clouds had been getting greyer and thicker all morning. Bianca stared out of the window to the street below as the first few flakes began to flutter down—fat and white and feathery. But the impending snow brought her no joy, no matter how perfectly timed it was to coincide with the festive period. In her current state, it represented nothing more than a health hazard.
Down there the world was super-charged with the anticipation of Christmas Eve, but up here it was strangely silent. She could see people scurrying towards their homes, laden with bags of gifts and shopping as they walked past shops which glittered with sparkly trees and bright lights. The air was buzzing with annual holiday cheer, but she wasn’t really feeling it. How could she, when she was so heavy with child that she could barely waddle from room to room, let alone contemplate dragging decorations up the stairs to decorate her second-floor apartment? It had taken her the best part of ten minutes to put on a pair of boots, prior to braving the wintry elements to buy fresh fruit before everything shut down for the holiday.
She stared down at a woman pushing a buggy and found herself thinking,In two weeks’ time, that will be me.It was hard to imagine herself with a baby. Hard to think that the precious life she had been nurturing would soon burst into the world. But she was trying to be positive and to count her blessings. She had done all the things pregnant women were supposed to do, while winding her caseload down as she prepared to take maternity leave. She had attended antenatal classes and taken gentle exercise. She had eaten all the best food, read all the recommended books, and her doctor had pronounced himself pleased with her progress.
Her mother and sister she had seen on only a handful of occasions and that had been deliberate. At least being thirty-eight weeks pregnant meant she’d had the perfect excuse to refuse an invitation to spend the holidays at the palace, accepting instead an invite to Christmas lunch tomorrow at the home of a very sweet couple she’d met at her antenatal class. She had wanted to distance herself from any well-meant family interference, determined to forge her own path going forward—as a single mother. It wasn’t the life she had imagined, but who could honestly put their hands on their hearts and say that things had turned out exactly as they’d thought they would?
Despite the tentative queries which had come floating her way from Rosie and her mother, she hadn’t revealed the identity of her baby’s father. Not to anyone. And despite the obvious frustration of her family, that situation wasn’t about to change—at least, not any time soon. Being pregnant had extracted a large enough toll on her already volatile emotions, without throwing the weight of other people’s opinions into the mix. For yearsshehad been the sensible one everyone had relied on and this was the first time she had ever stepped out of line. If people had chosen to benefit from her independent attitude in the past, surely she couldn’t be criticised for it now.
She just couldn’t face the fallout which would inevitably follow any disclosure about her baby’s paternity, or get into some kind of blame game. Xanthos hadn’t done something so very dreadful, had he? He had unintentionally made her pregnant—the type of ‘accident’ which had been happening to men and women since the beginning of time. He had grudgingly offered to marry her and, when she had turned him down, had set up a standing order, so that a generous wodge of money now came flooding into her bank account every month. At first Bianca had considered refusing it—sending it back maybe, or donating the money to charity. But second thoughts had made her decide against such a prideful action because what if she couldn’t carry on working, for whatever reason? What if—and this was the most worrying question of all—what if she didn’t actuallywantto go back to work after her maternity leave?
She heard the sound of the doorbell and inwardly cursed, because she wasn’t expecting anyone. Living over a shop in the middle of Wimbledon village meant it was unlikely to be carol singers and her busy working life meant she’d never befriended enough people locally who might just ‘call in’—especially on the busiest day of the year. Perhaps if she ignored the summons, they would go away. But then the doorbell rang again—more authoritatively this time, as if someone had just jammed their thumb on the buzzer and left it there.
A click of annoyance left her lips as she peered into the door camera, her knees sagging with shock when she saw who was ringing the bell. A man. A very tall and very recognisable man with the broadest shoulders she’d ever seen.
Xanthos.
Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt. She didn’t have to let him in. She could pretend to be out. She didn’t trust herself around him, not when she was feeling so strange and disorientated this close to the birth. But something told her he wouldn’t give up that easily—and surely she wasn’t nervous about seeing him, just because she looked the size of a small whale? She would hear what he had to say then send him on his way, wishing him a happy Christmas, even if the greeting got stuck in her throat along the way.
Laboriously, she made her way down two flights of stairs, leaning heavily on the rail, and was a little out of breath when she reached the ground floor and opened the door. But it wasn’t the icy temperature which made her breath freeze and her skin start to prickle with goosebumps, because even though she had known it was him—nothing could have prepared her for the impact of seeing him again in the flesh, standing on her doorstep and looking as if he owned it. She saw a couple of female shoppers turn to look at him, their eyes widening with automatic pleasure, and for some reason this riled her.
Grateful for the support of the doorjamb, she stared into his face, but his carved features were stern and set—as if anticipating the flurry of objections she might be about to fling at him. But her throat was still dry and suddenly she was finding it very difficult to speak.