More than one female someone, she noticed.
It shouldn’t bother her. Itdidn’tbother her, she sternly told herself. The man had just threatened to take her to court over their child. He was a selfish, spoiled rich boy who, hopefully after she outlined all the responsibilities being a parent entailed, would run as far away from her as he could.
She would remain on guard. Rational. Logical.
Those thoughts did nothing to erase the burning sensation on the back of her hand where his lips had rested.
CHAPTER FIVE
THENEXTMORNING,when Calandra rang the doorbell, a sweet-faced maid answered and ushered her into the grand hall of Adrian’s Paris mansion, presided over by a crystal chandelier that probably cost as much as the mortgage on Aunt Norine’s house. The maid murmured that Monsieur Cabrera would be out in a moment and disappeared. Moments later, the sound of raised male voices cut through the silence from one of the doorways off the hall.
“...don’t know the first thing about being a father!”
Adrian’s voice lashed out. Another voice responded, the faintest murmur, but it still sent a dangerous shiver down her spine.
Alejandro.
“How do you know she’s telling the truth?”
Adrian’s words cut deep. Shame rose in her throat, thick and bitter. The baby deserved so much better than her, a cold woman who’d succumbed to a moment of weakness with the last person she thought she would have slept with, much less taken as her first lover.
I’ll do better, baby. I’ll be better. For you.
Alejandro responded once more, his voice still so low she couldn’t make out his words. Silence ensued for several seconds. Then a door slammed.
“He’s gone now.”
She froze. Was he talking to her?
“I’m not going to bite, Calandra.”
Another memory appeared with no warning, of his lips on her breasts, his teeth nibbling on her flesh as she’d arched up into his embrace.
She gritted her teeth. If she’d known sex would have caused this many moments of vulnerability, she never would have given up her virginity so easily. Or ever.
“Callie?”
“My name,” she snapped as she advanced into the dining room, “is Calandra...”
Her voice trailed off as she stopped in the doorway.
The dining room, like the rest of the home, was elegant in the extreme. Black-and-white photographs of Paris, from the glass pyramid of the Louvre to the sweeping gardens of Versailles, decorated the cream-colored walls. Two-story windows marched along the far wall, sun streaming in to dance over the crystal chandelier that hung over a long, white table trimmed in gold.
On the left sat Alejandro, bare-chested, hair tousled and wearing a smirk that deepened the sexy dimple in his cheek. Clad only in burgundy lounge pants with a newspaper draped across his lap and his feet resting on the table, he raised his coffee mug to her in salute.
She tried to focus on those details, like the steam rising off the cup, and not on his chest.
His naked, tanned, muscular chest.
“Do you ever wear clothes?”
“They get in the way.”
She rolled her eyes. Hopefully her outward irritation masked the unwelcome heat winding its way through her veins, leaving behind the desire to run her fingers over the carved muscles of his biceps.
“Your brother thinks I’m lying.”
His smile grew, but this time his eyes crinkled at the corners. Funny, she’d never noticed that before. Almost like the smile he’d given her before was practiced, false, whereas this one was genuine.