A Christmas Marriage Ultimatum. HELEN BIANCHIN
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And Grandmère,’ Samuel added. ‘But the man is scary.’
Scary covered a multitude of meanings to a child whose vocabulary was beginning to broaden. ‘He would never hurt you.’ She could give such reassurance unequivocally.
‘No,’ Samuel dismissed. ‘He had a scary face when he looked at you.’
Out of the mouths of babes. ‘Maybe it was because we had a disagreement.’ A mild description for the blazing row they’d shared.
Her son absorbed the words, then offered with childlike simplicity, ‘Didn’t he say sorry?’
‘No.’ But then, neither had she. ‘Shall we go downstairs to the party? Grandmère will wonder where we are.’
To remain absent for too long would be impolite.
Besides, she adored her mother and refused to allow Dimitri’s presence to mar the evening.
It took considerable effort to act out a part, but act she did…smiling, laughing as she mixed and mingled, conversing with what she hoped was admirable panache.
Exclusive schooling and a year being ‘finished’ paid off in spades, and she defied anyone to criticise her performance.
She was supremely conscious of Dimitri’s presence, and he made no effort to disguise his interest. It was only by adroit manipulation that she managed to avoid him during the ensuing hour.
Samuel held most of her attention, and it was with a sense of suspended apprehension she signalled it time for him to bid the guests ‘good night.’
Preparations for bed and the reading of a story took a while, and she watched as his eyelids began to droop, saw him fight sleep, then succumb to it.
Chantelle switched off the bedlamp, leaving only the glow of a night-light to provide faint illumination. Five minutes, she allowed, enjoying the time to study his face in repose.
He was growing so quickly, developing a sensitive, caring nature she hoped would remain despite the trials life might hold for him.
An errant lock of hair lay against his forehead, and she gently smoothed it back before exiting the room.
As he was a sound sleeper who rarely woke during the night, she was confident he wouldn’t stir. However, she intended to check on him at regular intervals, just in case the excitement of travel, a strange house and a party atmosphere disturbed his usual sleep pattern.
A degree of misgiving caused her stomach to tighten as she re-entered the lounge. Most of the guests had converged on the adjoining terrace, and she caught up a flute of champagne from a proffered tray as she moved outdoors.
The string of electric lanterns provided a colourful glow. The sky had darkened to a deep indigo, and there was a tracery of stars evident, offering the promise of another warm summer’s day.
Anouk and Jean-Paul worked the terrace, ensuring their guests were content, replete with food and wine. It was a practised art, and one they’d long perfected.
Chantelle followed their example, pausing to chat to one couple or another, genuinely interested in their chosen career, the merits of the Gold Coast, relaying details of her plans during the length of her stay.
Invitations were offered, and she graciously deferred accepting any without first conferring with her mother.
Dimitri was there…a dangerous, primitive force. She was supremely conscious of his attention. The waiting, watching quality evident…like a predator stalking for a kill.
If he wanted her on edge, he was succeeding, she perceived, aware of the cracks beginning to appear in her social façade.
‘Chantelle.’
The sound of his deep drawl shredded her nerves. All evening she’d prepared for this moment. Yet still he’d managed to surprise her.
‘Dimitri,’ she acknowledged, forgoing the polite smile.
He wasn’t standing close enough to invade her personal space, yet all it would take was another step forward.
‘We need to talk.’
She arched a deliberate eyebrow. ‘I’m not aware we have anything to discuss.’
‘No? You want I should spell it out?’
It wasn’t easy to maintain a distant, albeit polite façade. ‘Please do.’
Dimitri didn’t move, yet it appeared as if he had, and she forced herself to stand absolutely still.
‘Samuel.’
Chantelle felt fear gnaw at her nerve-ends. ‘What about him?’
A muscle bunched at the edge of his jaw. ‘The Cristopoulis resemblance is uncanny.’
‘Consequently you’ve put two and two together and come to the conclusion he might be yours?’ How could she sound so calm, or inject the slight musing element into her voice, when inside she was shaking?
‘You deny the possibility?’
‘I’m under no obligation to you, or anyone, to reveal his father’s identity.’
‘You want me to go the distance with this?’ Dimitri queried in a voice that was dangerously soft. ‘Seek legal counsel, access his birth certificate, request DNA?’
Ice slithered the length of her spine. ‘Is that a threat?’
‘A statement of intention,’ he corrected.
‘I could deny your request for DNA.’ The need to consult a lawyer seemed imperative.
His mouth formed a cynical smile, although there was no humour apparent in those dark eyes. ‘Try it.’
Her stomach performed a slow, painful somersault. ‘You possess an outsize ego. What makes you think you were my only lover?’
‘I was there,’ Dimitri reminded with deceptive quietness. Leashed savagery lay just beneath the surface of his control, and he gained some satisfaction as soft colour tinged her cheeks.
Was his memory of what they’d shared as startlingly vivid as her own? They’d spent every night together, never seeming to be able to satisfy a mutual hunger for each other.
Possession on every level. An all-consuming passion that had known no bounds.
She had lived for the moment she could be with him, resenting each minute they were apart. The sun had never shone more brightly, nor the senses become so defined. If hearts sang, hers had played a soaring rhapsody in full orchestra.
As for the sex…Intimacy, she corrected, at its most intense…highly sensual, libidinous, magic.
‘There was no one else for either of us,’ Dimitri pursued in a silkily soft voice that speared her heart.
Chantelle drew in a deep breath, then slowly released it. ‘Aren’t you forgetting Daniella?’ Even now, it hurt her to say the actress’s name.
A muscle bunched at the edge of his jaw. ‘We dealt with that four years ago.’
‘No,’ she corrected with incredible politeness. ‘We had a blazing row over the disparity between her account of your relationship, and yours.’
‘At which time you chose to believe her version, rather than mine.’
Even now, the scene rose up to taunt her…the harsh words, the invective. ‘She conveyed telling evidence.’
‘Cleverly relayed to achieve the desired outcome,’ Dimitri attested. ‘Daniella is a scheming manipulator, and an extremely clever actress.’
‘So you said at the time,’ Chantelle declared bitterly.
‘Yet you still walked.’
Her trust in him, what she’d thought they had together, had been destroyed.