The Paternity Claim. Sharon Kendrick
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steering wheel. ‘But you must have some idea, Isabella! Until the baby was…what…how old? Six months? A year? Would you then have returned to Brazil with a grandchild for your father to see? Or were you planning to keep it hidden from him forever?’
‘I told you,’ she answered tiredly, wishing that he wouldn’t keep asking her these questions—though she noted that he’d refrained from asking the most fundamental question of all. ‘I honestly don’t know. And not because I hadn’t thought about it, either. Believe me, I’d thought about it so much that the thoughts seemed to just go round and round inside my head, until sometimes I felt like I would burst—’
Paulo’s mouth hardened. Hadn’t he felt exactly like that after Elizabeth’s death? When the world seemed to make no sense at all? He stole a glance at her strained, white face and felt an unwilling surge of compassion. ‘But the more you thought about it, the more confused you got—so that you were still no closer to deciding what to do? Is that right?’
His perception disarmed her, just as the warmth and comfort of the car soothed her more than she’d expected to be soothed. Isabella felt her mouth begin to tremble, and she turned to look out of the window at the city speeding by, so that he wouldn’t see. ‘Yes. How could I be?’ She kept her voice low. ‘Because whatever decision I reach—is bound to hurt someone, somewhere.’
Her words were so quiet that he could barely hear, but Paulo could sense that she was close to tears. A deep vein of disquiet ran through him. Now was not the time to fire questions at her—not when she looked so little and pale and vulnerable.
He thought how spare the flesh looked on her bones—all her old voluptuousness gone. As if, despite the absurdly swollen bump of her pregnancy, a puff of wind could blow her away.
‘You haven’t been eating properly,’ he accused.
‘There isn’t a lot of room for food these days.’
‘Have you had supper?’
‘Well, no,’ she admitted. She’d been seeking refuge in her room: too tired to bother going downstairs to hunt through the junk food in the Staffords’ fridge for something which looked vaguely nutritional.
‘Your baby needs sustenance,’ he growled. ‘And so, for that matter, do you. I’m taking you for something to eat.’
Nausea welled up in her throat. She shook her head. ‘I can’t face the thought of food at the moment. Too much has happened—surely you can understand that?’
‘You can try.’ His mouth twisted into a mocking smile. ‘For me.’
She knotted her fingers together in her lap. ‘I suppose I’m not going to get any peace unless I agree?’
‘No, you’re not,’ he agreed. ‘Just console yourself with the thought that I’m doing it for your own good.’
‘You’re so kind, Paulo.’
He heard the tentative attempt at sarcasm and oddly enough it made him smile. At least her spirit hadn’t been entirely extinguished. ‘More practical than kind,’ he murmured. ‘We need to talk and you need to decide your future. And we can’t do that in private at my house.’
‘Because of Eduardo?’
‘That’s right.’ He wondered how he could possibly explain away her pregnancy to the son who idolised the ground she walked on. ‘He’ll be curious to know why you’re here—and we can’t give him any answers if we don’t know what they are ourselves. And it might just come as a shock for him to see you so—’ the words tasted bitter on his lips ‘—so heavily pregnant.’
She remembered the cool, blonde beauty who had let herself in and forced herself to ask the question. ‘What about Judy? Won’t she mind me landing myself on you?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
There was an odd kind of pause and she turned her head to stare at the darkened profile.
‘I’m not seeing her any more,’ he said.
‘Oh.’ Isabella was unprepared for the sudden warm rush of relief, but she tried not to let it show in her voice. ‘Oh, dear. What happened?’
Paulo compressed his lips, resisting the urge to tell her that it was none of her business. Because it was. Because somehow—unknowingly and unwittingly—Isabella had exposed him to doubts about his relationship with Judy which had led to its eventual demise.
He’d thought that shared interests and a mutually satisfactory sex-life were all that he needed from a relationship. But Isabella’s visit had made him aware that there was no real spark between him and Judy. And something which he’d thought suited him suddenly seemed like an awful waste of time. ‘We kind of drifted apart,’ he said.
‘But you’re still friends?’
‘I suppose so,’ he answered reluctantly. Because that was what Judy had wanted. She’d settled for ‘friendship’ once she realised he’d meant it when he told her it was over. But he knew deep down that they could never be true friends—she still wanted him too badly for that. ‘We’re not supposed to be discussing my love-life, Isabella.’
‘Well, I don’t want to discuss mine,’ she said quietly.
‘Does that mean you aren’t going to tell who who the father of your baby is?’
Isabella flinched. ‘That’s right.’
‘Do I know him?’
‘What makes you think I would tell you, if even you did?’
He found her misplaced loyalty both exasperating and admirable. ‘And what if I made you tell me?’ he challenged.
The streetlights flickered strange shadows over his face and Isabella felt suddenly uncertain. ‘You couldn’t.’
‘Want to bet?’
‘I n-never bet.’
‘I’m not sure that I believe you,’ he said softly. ‘When you are living, walking proof that you took a huge gamble.’ And lost, he thought—though he didn’t say it. The look on her face told him he didn’t have to. The car came to stop at some traffic lights and he shifted in his seat to get a better look at her.
And Isabella forgot the baby. Forgot everything. Through the dim light, all she could see in that moment were his eyes. Dark, like chocolate, and rich like chocolate, and sexy like chocolate. And chocolate was what Isabella had been craving for the past eight months. ‘Paulo—’
But he’d turned his attention back to the road ahead. ‘We’re here,’ he said grimly.
She heaved a sigh of relief as he pulled up outside an Italian pasta bar. Heaven only knew what she’d been about to blurt out when she had whispered his name like that. At least the activity of eating might distract him from his interrogation—and maybe she was hungrier than she had previously thought. It would certainly make a change to have a meal cooked for her.
The restaurant was small and lit by candles, and almost full—and Isabella was certain that they would be turned away. But no. It seemed that here they knew him well. Paulo asked for, and got, a table in one of the recesses of the room—well away from the other customers.
She glanced down at the menu she’d been given, at the meaningless swirl of words there. And when she looked up again, it was to find him studying her intently.
‘Do you know what you want?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
He jabbed a finger halfway down his menu. ‘Why don’t you try some spinach lasagne?’ he suggested. ‘Lots of nutrients to build you up. And you, querida, could certainly do with some building up.’
She nodded obediently. ‘All right.’
He wasn’t used to such passivity—not