The Paternity Claim. Sharon Kendrick
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its unadorned walls and rows of videos where there should have been books. Littered on the thick, cream carpet were empty chocolate wrappers. ‘My, my, my—this is certainly some classy hide-out you’ve chosen, Isabella!’ he drawled sarcastically.
His criticism was valid, but no less infuriating because of that. She struggled to find something positive to say about it. ‘I like the boys,’ she came up with finally. ‘I’ve grown very fond of them.’
‘You mean the two hooligans who nearly rode their skateboards straight into the path of my car?’
Isabella went white. ‘But they aren’t supposed to play with them in the road!’ How was she supposed to watch them twenty-four hours a day? ‘They know that!’
Paulo narrowed his eyes as he took a look at her pale, thin face, which seemed so at odds with her bloated body and felt adrenaline rush to fire his blood. He’d felt a powerful sense of injustice once before in his life, when his wife had died, but the feeling which enveloped him now came a pretty close second.
And this time he was not powerless to act.
‘Answer me one question,’ he commanded.
Isabella shook her head. This one she’d been anticipating. ‘I’m not telling you the name of the baby’s father, if that’s your question.’
‘It’s not.’ He almost smiled. Almost. He had somehow known that she would proudly deny him that. But he was glad. Knowledge could be a dangerous thing—and if he knew, then he might just be tempted to find the bastard responsible, and to…to…‘Is there anything special keeping you in this house, this particular area?’
‘Not really. Just…the twins.’
Which told him more than she probably intended. That the father of her baby did not live locally. Nor live in this house. It wasn’t probable—but it was possible. His mouth tightened. Thank God. ‘Then go upstairs and get your things together,’ he ordered curtly. ‘We’re going.’
It was one more bizarre experience in a long line of bizarre experiences. She stared at him blankly. ‘Going where?’
‘Anywhere,’ he gritted. ‘Just so long as it’s out of here!’
Automatically, Isabella shook her head, as practical difficulties momentarily obscured the fact that he was being so high-handed with her. ‘I can’t leave—’
‘Oh, yes, you can!’
‘But the boys need me!’
‘Maybe they do,’ he agreed. ‘But your baby needs you more. And right at this moment you look as if you could do with a decent meal and a good night’s sleep!’ He steadied his breath with difficulty. ‘So just go and get your things together.’
‘I’m not going anywhere!’ she said, with a stubbornness which smacked of raging hormones.
Paulo gave a faint, regretful smile. He had hoped that it would not come to this, but he could be as ruthless as the next man when he believed in what he was fighting for. ‘I’m afraid that you are,’ he disagreed grimly.
Suddenly she wondered why she was tolerating that clipped, flat command. She lifted her chin in a defiant thrust. ‘You can’t make me, Paulo!’
‘I agree that it might not be wise to be seen carrying a heavily pregnant woman out to my car—though I am quite prepared to, if that’s what it takes,’ he told her, a soft threat underpinning his words. ‘You can fight me every inch of the way if you want, Isabella, but I hope it won’t come to that. Because whatever happens, I will win. I always do.’
‘And if I refuse?’
Her eyes asked him a question, a question he had no desire to answer—but maybe it was the only way to make her see that he was deadly serious.
‘Then I could threaten to tell your father the truth about why you left Brazil. But the truth might set in motion all kinds of repercussions which you may prefer not to have to deal with at the moment. Am I right?’
‘You wouldn’t do that?’ she breathed.
‘Oh, yes. Be assured that I would!’
She stared back at him with helpless rage. ‘Bastard!’ she hissed.
‘Please do not use that particular term as an insult!’ he snapped. ‘It is entirely inappropriate, given your current condition.’ His eyes flickered coldly over her bare fingers. ‘Unless you have an undisclosed wedding to add to your list of secrets?’ He read her answer in the proud tremble of her lips. ‘No? Well, then my dear Isabella—that leaves you little option other than to come away with me, doesn’t it?’
It was far too easy. Far too tempting. But what use would it serve? Could she bear to grow used to that cold judgement which had hardened his face so that he didn’t look like Paulo any more, but some dark and disapproving stranger? ‘I can’t just leave without notice! What will the boys do?’
He refrained from telling her that her priorities were in shockingly bad order. ‘They have their mother, don’t they? And she will just have to look after them for a change. Does she work?’
Isabella shook her head. ‘Not outside the home,’ she answered automatically, as her employer had taught her to. In fact, Mrs Stafford had made leisure into an Olympic sport. She shopped. She had coffee. She lunched. And very occasionally she lay in bed all day, making telephone calls to her friends…
‘Run upstairs—’
She turned on him then, moving her bulky body awkwardly as the emotion of having borne her secret alone for so long finally took its toll. She blinked back the tears which welled up saltily in her eyes. ‘I can’t run anywhere at the moment!’ She swallowed.
He resisted the urge to draw her into his arms and to give her the physical comfort he suspected that she badly needed. It was not his place to give it. Not now and certainly not here. ‘I know you can’t—that’s why I’m offering to help you. If you go and pack, I will deal with your employer for you.’
‘Shouldn’t I tell her myself?’
He thought how naive and innocent she could look and sound—despite the very physical evidence to the contrary. He shook his head impatiently. ‘She’s going to be angry, isn’t she?’
Isabella pushed a dark strand of hair away from her face with the back of her hand. ‘Furious.’
‘Well, then—you can do without her fury. Let her take it out on me instead. Go on, querida. Go now.’
The familiar word made her heart clench and she had to put her hand onto the back of a chair to steady herself. She had not heard her mother-tongue spoken for months, and it penetrated a chink in the protective armour she had attempted to build around herself. She nodded, then did as he asked, lumbering up to her room at the top of the house with as much speed as she could manage.
She did not have many things to pack. She’d brought few clothes with her to England, and what few she had no longer fitted her. Instead, she’d bought garments which were suitable for this cold, new climate and the ungainly new shape of her body.
Big, sloppy jumpers, two dresses and a couple of pairs of trousers with huge, elasticated waists which she was currently stretching to just about as far as they could go.
She had been forced to buy new underwear, too—and had felt like an outcast in the shop. As if everyone knew she was all alone with her pregnancy. And that no man would ever feast his eyes with love and pride on the huge, pendulous breasts which strained against the functional bra she’d been forced to purchase.
She swept the clothes and her few toiletries into the suitcase and located her passport. On the windowsill stood a wedding-day photo of her parents and, with a heavy heart, she added it to the rest of her possessions.
And then, with a final glance round at the box-room which had been her home for the last