CHAPTER EIGHT
PEPE GROWLED AT the screen before him. The words of the contract could be in gobbledegook for all he cared.
There was no point lying to himself. He was angry. Angry at Cara. Angry at the situation they had been forced into. Angry at himself.
But especially angry at her.
He’d never forced himself on a woman in his life. Never. He despised men who did such things, thought castration too mild a punishment for such deeds.
Had he really misread the situation so badly?
No. Absolutely not.
Cara had the most expressive face of any woman he’d ever known. They said that eyes were windows to the soul. With Cara, her eyes were windows to her emotions. If she was angry, happy, tired or ill, her eyes were the signposts for him to follow.
How had he become an expert on her emotions?
He shook his head briskly and rubbed his eyes. He probably wouldn’t feel so crummy if he’d managed to get any sleep. But how was a man supposed to sleep when his body ached with unfulfilled desire?
One thing he was not, though, was hurt. His ego might be a touch bruised but, on a personal level, it made no difference if Cara was willing to share a bed with him or not. There were plenty of women out there who were. And in reality, it was probably better that they didn’t resume a sexual relationship, especially as she was of a completely different mindset from his usual lovers.
He doubted there would ever come a time he would be able to bump into Cara at a party, sidle over to her, maybe give her bottom a cheeky pinch, and then catch up on old times.
The animosity would always be there.
In any case, if her baby did prove to be his, then he had to concede she would be a huge part of his life...well, for the rest of his life. If the baby was his then they would be for ever united, even in the most cerebral fashion.
An image of a tiny baby with a shock of Cara’s flame-red hair came into his head, an image he blinked away along with the nagging voice that kept piping up, asking him if he really wanted nothing more than to be a part-time father.
He clenched his hands into fists.
He didn’t want to think that far ahead.
He didn’t want to imagine how he would feel if Cara really was carrying his child.
Once, a long time ago, he’d been caught up in the magic of pregnancy, the unmitigated joy and wonder of knowing he had shared in the creation of life and that soon he would be a father. The child had been no more than a foetus but already he had loved it, had thought of the future that child would have with him and Luisa, and the family they would create together.
His child would never have felt second best.
His child never got the chance to feel anything, least of all second best.
Luisa had ripped that chance away from him.
Cara was nothing like Luisa.
Cara was like no one he’d ever met.
But what did he know of her really? He’d known Luisa pretty much all of his life but he’d never guessed she was capable of ripping his heart out and stamping on the remnants.
He would never trust another woman. He couldn’t. There was only so much pain one man could take and he’d reached that limit before he’d even finished his teenage years.
Only when Cara’s baby was born and the paternity test established that he truly was the father would he allow himself to think properly of the future.
Only then would he allow himself to think of what it truly meant to have a child.
Until that time came, his life would continue as it was. Except with a houseguest. A fiery, sexy houseguest.
Suppressing a yawn, he checked his watch. It was time to call it a day. There was a party he had to attend, a party he’d been looking forward to until approximately five days ago, being hosted by a good friend who was celebrating his first wedding anniversary. Not feeling in the mood to drive, he got his driver to take him home, all the while trying to shake himself out of the melancholic mood that had crept under his skin.
By the time he arrived back at his home he felt no better, but, with practised ease, slipped his old faithful smile on and strolled into the house.
‘Where is Cara?’ he asked Monique, who had hurried out to greet him.
‘In her room.’
‘Has she left it today?’
‘Only for her lunch and a late afternoon snack.’
‘Did she eat any breakfast?’
‘A croissant and an apple.’
He headed to his room, refusing to reflect on his need to monitor Cara’s eating habits. It was simple concern extended towards a pregnant woman, nothing more.
As he passed, Cara’s bedroom door opened. Her eyes widened to see him and she took a step back, would no doubt have shut the door in his face if he hadn’t stuck a foot in the doorway to prevent her.
‘Good evening, cucciola mia. How has your day been?’
‘Long and boring.’
‘Then it must be a source of comfort to know we are going out tonight.’
She pulled a face but opened the door properly and leaned against the door frame, hugging her arms around her chest. ‘It’s getting late. Do I have to go?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can’t I stay here with Monique?’
‘Monique goes home at weekends—aren’t you lucky? You can have me all to yourself.’
Her cheeks coloured and she scowled. ‘How thrilling. Can’t you get another babysitter for me?’
‘It’s too short notice. Besides, I don’t think I could afford to pay anyone else to put up with you.’
‘I’m no bother. I just stay in my room. It’s like babysitting a five-year-old.’
Anyone listening in on them would be amused at the dryness of their conversation. If they were to scratch a little under the surface it would be a whole different story. The second her door had opened, Pepe’s heart had begun to thunder, the weight in his gut twisting and clenching. The half-smile on his face could have been drawn on.
As for Cara...her beautiful lips were pulled in and tight, while her green eyes spat fire at him.
He wanted to touch her. He wanted to pick her up and carry her across the room, lay her on the bed and make love to every inch of her.
After the way she had reacted in the kitchen in the early hours, it would be a long day in hell before he touched her again. She would have to get down on her knees and beg before he would even consider making love to her.
All the same, he couldn’t resist reaching out a hand and tapping her cute little nose. ‘We leave in an hour, cucciola mia. Cocktail dress. Be ready or I’ll come in your room and help you.’
‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Is that a challenge?’
‘No!’
‘In that case, be ready on time. I need to shower—see you in sixty minutes.’
* * *
Exactly one hour later, Pepe knocked on Cara’s bedroom door. He half hoped she wasn’t ready.
Forget the good talking-to he’d given himself earlier about not resuming their sexual relationship; just three minutes sparring outside her bedroom had laid waste to those good intentions.
There was something so damn sexy about his red-headed geisha.
If only she really were a geisha. Or better still, his own personal concubine. He was pretty sure bitching at her master wasn’t part of either’s job description. Geisha or concubine, all the woman concerned herself with was her master’s pleasure. Seeing as it was pleasure of a sexual nature he wanted from Cara, he would much rather settle with concubine.
He was certain she did it deliberately, but she made him wait a full sixty seconds before opening her door.
The wait was worth it.
The quip he had ready on his lips blew away as his mouth fell open.
Pepe was used to dating beauties. He shamelessly used his wealth, charm and looks to pick the cream of the crop. Yet Cara outshone all of them.
Dressed in a richly red silk floor-length dress that showed off her curves, the sleeves skimming her shoulders to leave her arms bare, her glorious hair piled into a sleek chignon, she looked stunning. In her ears were heart drop crystals that shimmered under the light, and on her feet were shoes that had the same shimmering effect. Her make-up was subtle bar the lipstick, a rich red that perfectly matched her dress and made her kissable lips infinitely more so.
‘Mio Dio,’ he said appreciatively. ‘You are beautiful.’
‘It’s amazing what money can do,’ she said tartly, although her cheeks flamed to match her hair, her dress, her lips...
‘You are Hestia come to life,’ he breathed.
‘That’s appropriate seeing as the Vestal Virgins get their name from her Roman counterpart.’
A smile escaped his lips. ‘She was also the Roman Goddess of the Hearth—of fire.’
‘And I bet you see yourself as Eros—wouldn’t you just love to get your hands on the Vestals?’
His smile tightened. ‘Actually, no. I’ve found virgins too needy for my taste.’
It was a low blow and one he wished he could take back as soon as it escaped his lips. There was something about her spiky tongue that he reacted to. Her barbs penetrated him like no one else’s.
Cara’s eyes narrowed but she raised her chin and pulled the door shut behind her, her movements releasing a cloud of her perfume. ‘Then we are better suited than I believed. I’ve always found lustful men too immature for my tastes.’
* * *
‘How are you going to introduce me to your friends?’ Cara asked as they sat in the back of the blacked-out Mercedes through the dark Parisian evening. The city twinkled with what seemed a million lights, giving it a magical quality that enthralled her.
‘As my companion.’
‘Is that how you introduce all your lovers?’
‘I wasn’t aware that you were my lover,’ he responded easily, the coolness he’d displayed since she’d made the jibe about him being immature having dispersed. She much preferred it when he was cool towards her. It made it much easier to hate him.
‘I suppose you can always introduce me as your pregnant one-night stand who you’re waiting to give birth so you can get a paternity test to prove that you’re the daddy.’
She felt him tense, knew that beneath his tuxedo his frame had tautened.
‘Why are you happy to dress in a suit for business and wear a DJ for a party, but refuse to make an effort for your own niece’s christening?’ she asked, blurting out one of the many questions that played on her mind.
‘I wasn’t aware I hadn’t made an effort for it,’ he answered coolly.
She shrugged. Pepe’s choice of attire was none of her business. ‘So where is this party?’
‘In Montmartre.’
Now he mentioned it, the lights of the sprawling hill that comprised Montmartre gleamed before them, the white Basilica of Sacre-Coeur sitting atop, almost surveying all beneath it. As they drove into the bustling arrondissement, she pressed her face to the window to take in the beautiful architecture, ambling tourists and nonchalant locals.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked. ‘Any nausea?’
‘So far so good,’ she confirmed.
‘That is good.’ Not trusting the casual tone to his voice, she looked at him and found him holding a paper bag aloft. He winked. ‘Just in case.’
Despite herself, she laughed, the action loosening a little of the angst in her chest.
He moved closer to her and pointed out of the window. ‘Through those gardens is the Musée de Montmartre. It is reputed to be the oldest house in Montmartre.’
‘Didn’t Renoir live in it?’ she asked, wholly aware of his thigh now pressed against hers.
‘Not quite—there is a mansion behind it that he lived in for a while. Maurice Utrillo lived there though.’
As they snaked their way through the cobbled streets, he pointed out more features of interest, his words breathing life into the ancient buildings, especially from the Impressionist era. He knew so much about the district, had such lively knowledge, his heavy Sicilian accent so lyrical it was a joy to listen to him.
Cara hid her disappointment when the driver came to a stop in a narrow street lined by a terrace of whitewashed five-storey homes, cafés and shops. She could have happily continued with their tour.
To her surprise, they went into a packed poky café that smelt strongly of coffee, body odour and illicit cigarettes. Pepe greeted the staff personally with his usual enthusiasm, shaking hands and kissing cheeks, before leading her through the back and out into a small courtyard.
‘Ladies first,’ he said, waving his hand at a flimsy-looking iron staircase that led all the way to the top floor. ‘Don’t worry,’ he added, clearly reading her mind. ‘I assure you it is safe.’
‘Aren’t there indoor stairs?’ She was in no way mollified by his assurance.
‘There are, but as you have seen, the café is busy, and if all tonight’s guests were to use them, we would get in the way of the staff.’
‘So why go through the front entrance? Why not get your driver to drop us off at the back?’
‘Because the staff would be most put out if they knew I had been here and hadn’t dropped in to say hello.’
‘You do have a high opinion of yourself,’ she muttered.
His smile dropped a wattage before the teeth flashed. ‘Forgive my modesty but I am a good employer.’
Her brow knotted.
‘I own the building,’ he clarified.
‘I thought you owned vineyards.’
‘I do. Didn’t you know variety is the spice of life?’
She sniffed pointedly, and hugged her wrap closer around her chest, wishing she had worn the thick designer coat Pepe had bought her. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t turned it into a high-tech hotel.’
He pulled a face. ‘And rip it of its charm? This street is old-style Montmartre, unaffected and barely known by the tourists that have infected much of the rest of this glorious place. I intend to keep it that way.’
‘You own the entire street?’
He inclined his head in affirmation then looked back to the iron stairs. ‘Shall we?’
‘I don’t know...’
‘Do you suffer from vertigo?’
‘No.’
‘Then where’s your sense of adventure?’
‘I’ve never had one.’
‘Liar. You spent a year travelling Europe with Grace, so don’t tell me you have no sense of adventure.’
‘I’m pregnant.’
‘Are pregnant women not able to climb stairs?’
‘Don’t be silly.’
His features softened. ‘Cara, I promise I would never allow anything to happen to you or your baby. This staircase is only a couple of years old—I oversaw its construction myself. I’ll be right behind you—I promise you’ll be safe.’
Much as she knew she must be a fool to believe him, she found herself putting a foot onto the bottom step, half expecting the whole thing to come crashing down on them.
It was a lot sturdier than she anticipated. And, she had to admit, knowing he would be there to catch her if she should trip was...comforting. Pepe’s strength and assurance were more than a little comforting.
‘Which floor are we going to?’ she asked, turning her head to look at him.
The grin that spread across his face made her stomach flip over. ‘You and I, cucciola mia, are going all the way.’
Her cheeks burning at the suggestion in his tone, she climbed up, slowly at first until she became aware that Pepe, being a couple of paces behind her, had an excellent view of her derrière. Yep, knowing he had a face full of her backside certainly acted as rocket fuel and she reached the top in no time.
She had no idea what she’d been expecting: from the general dilapidation of the café below, she’d half assumed Pepe had made her dress up as a joke, but she certainly hadn’t been expecting this.
The party was being held in a loft conversion. Except it was nothing like any loft she’d ever been in. Extremely large and airy, simply decorated with what she would refer to as faux shabby chic, it must have covered the length of the entire terrace.
‘So do you own this loft too?’
He raised a brow.
‘I know; a silly question. But this place...’ Her voice trailed off.
‘A little different from the café on the ground floor?’
‘Yes. Exactly.’
‘The café is a fixture in Montmartre. I didn’t want to make any changes other than have it fitted with a kitchen that wasn’t liable to catch fire at any moment. This loft, on the other hand, was begging to be converted into a proper work and living space.’
‘Is it a studio?’ There might be so many people crammed into the space that she couldn’t see any art paraphernalia, but she’d recognise the smell of turps anywhere—with an artist for best friend, that was a given.
‘Sì.’ He nodded at a diminutive man holding court to a large crowd of glamorous people. ‘That is the tenant, Georges Ramirez.’
‘I know him,’ she said, awed. ‘Well, I know of him. We’ve auctioned his work before.’
‘He’s an old friend. The loft was designed with him in mind.’
As he spoke, Georges looked in their direction and spotted Pepe. His little gang looked too and in the click of a finger two dozen pairs of eyes had widened and two dozen sets of lips had curled into smiles. A few people, including Georges and the pretty woman clutching his hand, broke from the crowd and headed towards them.
In a whirl of French and English, and some Italian and Spanish, Pepe presented her to people who were clearly his friends, introducing her simply as Cara with no further explanation. Names were thrown at her, hands shaken and embraces exchanged—well, embraces with Pepe were exchanged. All the while she stood there wishing the floor would open up and swallow her, whisk her away to somewhere familiar and calming.
Her hands had gone clammy, her pulse racing. ‘I need to use the bathroom,’ she whispered for Pepe’s ears only, trying to keep any trace of panic from her voice.
He stared at her with a quizzical expression before inclining his head. ‘The bathroom is through that door on the left of the bar,’ he said, pointing at a long table pushed against a far wall, piled high with all manner of alcohol and soft drinks. ‘Go through it and then it’s the second door on the right.’
The door by the bar led into another enormous, brightly lit space. Canvases and sculptures were crammed inside, protected by a large stand-up sign that read ‘Any Person Found Touching The Work Will Be Chemically Castrated’. An unexpected giggle escaped from her mouth.
Luckily the bathroom was empty and gave her time to collect herself.
She hated crowds. Hated large parties. Especially hated crowds and large parties where she didn’t know anyone. It was that new girl feeling all over again, the knowledge that everyone was already acquainted with their own little friendship bands. Outsiders were most definitely not welcome. Outsiders on the arm of the man who was definitely the alpha male of the pack were as welcome as anthrax.
When she finally left her sanctuary, a tall brunette with the most amazing hazel eyes blocked her way. ‘Ah, so you’re my replacement,’ she said with a dazzling smile.