His Child: The Mistress's Child / Nathan's Child / D'Alessandro's Child. Catherine Spencer
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people’s silence on the subject. She remembered when her mother had died, and people had seemed to cross the road to avoid her. ‘Was it…was it instant?’
‘No.’ The word came out more harshly than he had intended, but he did not want to discuss Carla, not now. God forgive him, but he wanted to lose the pain of death in the sweet, soft folds of living flesh. ‘Can’t we go somewhere warmer, if we’re going to talk?’
She shook her head. Tim would be out of nursery soon enough and she had no desire to take Philip home and have him see her little house with all its childish paraphernalia, which might just alert his suspicions.
And where else to go to talk in Langley on one of the shortest days of the year—the pub would have shut by now. There was always the hotel, of course, she reminded herself, and a shiver of memory ran down her spine.
‘I don’t think there’s any point in talking. What is there left to say?’
He watched the movement of her lips as she spoke, saw the tiny moist tip of her tongue as it briefly eased its way between her perfect white teeth, and a wave of lust turned his mouth to dust. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he agreed softly. ‘How can we possibly talk when this crazy attraction is always going to be between us? You still want me, Lisi—it’s written all over your face,’ and he reached out and pulled her into his arms.
‘D-don’t,’ she protested, but it was a weak and meaningless entreaty and she might as well not have spoken for all the notice he took of it.
He cupped her face in the palm of his hand and turned it up so that she was looking at him, all eyes and lips and pale skin, and his voice grew soft, just as once it had before. ‘Why, you’re cold, Lisi,’ he murmured.
It was the concern which lulled her into staying in his arms—that and the masculine heat and the musky, virile scent of him. Helplessly, she stared up at him, knowing that he was about to kiss her, even before he began to lower his mouth towards hers.
The first warm touch of him was like clicking on a switch marked ‘Responsive’. ‘Philip,’ she moaned softly, without realising that she was doing so, nor that her arms had snaked up around his neck to capture him.
The way she said his name incited him, and he whispered hers back as if it were some kind of incantation. ‘Lisi.’ Her mouth was a honey-trap—warm and soft and immeasurably sweet. He felt the moistness of her tongue and the halting quality of her breath as it mingled with his. Even through the thickness of his greatcoat, he could feel the flowering of her breasts as they jutted against him and he felt consumed with the need to feel them naked once more, next to his body and tickling both hard and soft against his chest. ‘Oh, Lisi,’ he groaned.
All she could think of was that this was not just the man she had found more overwhelmingly attractive than any other man she had ever met—this man was also the biological father of her child, and in a way she was chained to him for ever.
Just for a minute she could pretend that they had been like any other couple who had created a child together. They could kiss in a field and she could lace her fingers luxuriously through the thick abundance of his hair, and feel the quickening of his body against hers and then…and then…
Then what?
The logical conclusion to what they were starting clamoured into her consciousness like a bucket of ice-cold water being torrented over her and Lisi pulled herself out of his arms, her eyes wide and darkened, her breath coming in short, laboured little gasps.
‘You thought it would be that simple, did you, Philip? One kiss and I would capitulate?’
The ache of her absence made his words cruel. He raised his eyebrows in laconic mockery. ‘You weren’t a million miles away from capitulation, were you?’
She drew her coat around her tightly and the reality of the winter afternoon made her aware that she was chilled almost to the bone. ‘I may have had a moment’s weakness,’ she hissed, ‘but I can assure you that I have, or had, absolutely no intention of letting you take me in some damp and desolate field as if I were just some girl you’d picked up at a party and thought you’d try your luck with!’
‘Luck?’ he said bleakly, stung by the irony of the word. Maybe it was time he told her. Maybe he owed her that much. For what kind of bastard could have walked out on a woman like Lisi with only the baldest of explanations—designed not just to hurt her but to expurgate his own guilt? ‘I really do think we need to have that talk, Lisi—but not now, and not here—’
‘I don’t think talking is what you really have in mind, do you?’ she enquired archly. ‘So please don’t dress up something as simple as longing by trying to give it a respectable name!’
‘Something as simple as longing?’ he echoed wryly. ‘You think that longing is ever in any way simple?’
‘It can be for some people!’ she declared hotly. ‘Boy meets girl! Boy falls in love with girl!’
‘Boy and girl live happily ever after?’ he questioned sardonically. ‘I’m a little too old to believe in fairy tales any more, Lisi, aren’t you?’
His scent was still like sweet perfume which clung to her skin, and she drew away from him, frightened by the depth of how much she still wanted him. ‘I’m going home now,’ she said shakily, and fought down the desire to do the impossible. ‘And I’m not taking you with me.’
He nodded, seeing that she was fighting some kind of inner battle, perversely pleased that she was not going to give into what he was certain she wanted. Maybe it had all happened too quickly last time. Maybe this time he should take it real slow. ‘I’ll walk with you.’
Her heart missed a beat. ‘No, you won’t!’ She didn’t want him to see where she lived, or catch a glimpse of her as she left the tiny cottage to go and collect Tim. And then what? For him to observe the angel-child who was her son and to start using that clever mind of his to work out that Tim was his son as well?
It was too enormous a decision to make on too little information, and who knew what Philip Caprice really wanted, and why he was here? She wasn’t going to take the chance. Not yet.
‘I’m not letting you walk home alone,’ he said imperturbably.
Was it her imagination, or had he grown more than a little autocratic in the intervening years? ‘Philip—this is the twenty-first century, for goodness’ sake! How do you think I’ve managed to get by all these years, without you leaping out of the shadows ready and willing to play the Knight in Shining Armour? Langley is safe enough for a woman to walk home alone—why else do you think I’ve stayed here this long?’
He gave her a steady look. ‘I don’t know, Lisi. That’s what makes it so perplexing. It doesn’t add up at all.’
Her breath caught like dust in her throat. ‘Wh-what doesn’t?’
‘You. Sitting like Miss Havisham at the same desk in the same office in the same estate agency. What kind of a life is that? What’s your game plan, Lisi—are you going to stay there until you’re old and grey and let life and men just pass you by?’
She caught a sudden vivid image of herself painted by his wounding words. A little old woman, stooped and bent—her long hair grown grey, her skin mottled and tired from the day-in, day-out struggle of being a single mother, where money was tight. And Tim long gone. She drew in a deep sigh which was much too close to a sob, but she held the sob at bay.
‘I don’t have to stay here and be insulted by you,’ she told him quietly. ‘Why don’t you just go away, Philip? Go back to where you came from and leave me alone!’
He gave a wry smile. If only it were as easy as that. He didn’t try to stop her as she turned away from him and ran back over the field, the heavy mud and the heavy boots making her progress slow and cumbersome.
But she leapt over the stile like a gazelle and he stood watching the last sight of her—her hair almost