The Balfour Legacy. Кэрол Мортимер
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broad shoulders. ‘Oh, oh, oh!’
Inhaling the distinctive scent of her arousal, Carlos sucked deeply on her throbbing flesh while she orgasmed against his mouth, her sighs of satisfaction sounding like tiny gasps of disbelief.
He moved back up to lie over her, brushing her tousled black hair away from her flushed face. ‘You liked that?’ he asked eventually, a finger moving to trace the trembling outline of her lips.
Liked it? Kat was so overawed by what had just happened to her—so seduced by the subsequent gentling of his tone—that she couldn’t hold back on the way she was feeling. Lifting her hand to one olive cheek, she let it trail deliciously over the dark rasp of his jaw. ‘It was…it was wonderful.’
‘Then let’s make it even more wonderful, shall we?’ But this time he reached for the condom he’d laid in readiness by the bedside and he saw her watching him from between slitted blue eyes as he carefully ripped open the wrapping. ‘Better not make the same mistake again,’ he declared, as he took her into his arms once more, softening her with kiss after kiss until she was ready for that first sweet thrust.
And afterwards, Kat lay there, curled against his hard body, watching the sunlight which was shafting in from the portholes while one word danced around in her mind. Mistake, he had said, as he had slid on the protection and moved over her with dark intent in his eyes.
Carefully, she turned her head to look at him, but his eyes were closed—the harsh lines of strain on his face now dissolved by the recuperative power of sleep. In repose, his face seemed softer, but no less formidable for that. The strong line of his jaw and the proud slash of his cheekbones still spoke of a certain arrogance, and strength.
His was the face and the body of the hunter—strong and powerful—with the finest genes and an unmistakable air of dominance. The kind of man that nature had conditioned women to desire. Instinctively, Kat let her hand flutter down to lie on her belly. How flat it felt—and yet, even now, his child might be growing there. Layer upon layer of tiny cells building by the minute, the hour. How big would it be by the end of the week? By the end of two?
Her heart gave a leap of something which felt uncomfortably close to excitement and, with an effort, she forced the thought away. But then, she’d had a lot of practice at pushing away disturbing memories. And it was pointless getting worked up by a pregnancy which probably didn’t exist outside her imagination.
What if it did? What if she was carrying the Spaniard’s child?
How had Carlos described it? Kat bit her lip, remembering the sudden tightening of his hard features and the words he had used.
Carlos had not viewed the prospect with anything other than a dark foreboding—hadn’t he made that clear with the very word he’d used?
A mistake, he had said.
Chapter Ten
‘SO HOW exactly did you get into bullfighting?’
Carlos slid the cork from the bottle of wine and slanted her a look of irritation as he poured some into her glass. ‘Infierno, Kat—why won’t you give up on that?’
‘Because I’m curious, that’s all. You know pretty much everything there is to know about me, Carlos, but you always get so tight-lipped about your own past.’
Staring at him across the table, which tonight—like most nights—she’d laid on deck beneath the stars, Kat didn’t bother pointing out that they had to talk about something. They couldn’t spend every spare minute having glorious sex and revelling in its lazy aftermath, as the luxury yacht skimmed the sapphire waters of the Mediterranean and they waited to find out if she was having his baby. It was the elephant in the room. The subject they never touched on.
Yet it was funny how life sometimes adapted to the strangest situations. Or maybe that was the enduring wonder of the human spirit—that you always got on and made the best of things. And with Carlos conducting business deals and Kat cooking up increasingly ambitious meals, sometimes it felt like playing house. Even if deep down she knew that all they were doing was a form of displacement therapy, while they tried to ignore the great question mark which hovered over them.
Sometimes it frightened her—the ease with which she had been able to push the burning issue far from her mind and to concentrate instead on the proud, dark allure of her Spanish lover. Even if she knew that she was storing up danger for the future—because she had started to care for him in a way which would never be reciprocated.
She had become his eager and responsive lover—though time after time she had told herself it was crazy to become emotionally involved with a man whose heart was famously as cold as ice. Why, hadn’t he warned her of that himself when he’d recounted with amusement just why his yacht had been given its unusual name of Corazón Frío? A Spanish newspaper had nicknamed him ‘Cold Heart’ because of a particularly ruthless takeover bid he had executed—which had coincided with a starlet selling her story of their doomed relationship. And Carlos had shown complete contempt for the article by adopting the name for his superyacht.
As the days ticked by, Kat found herself in a terrible dilemma—knowing that she should be praying that there was no baby. Because Carlos didn’t want a baby—he had made that quite clear.
‘If you are pregnant, then we will cope,’ he had stated in a flat voice which she had found especially chilling. ‘And our child will never want for anything.’
Except two parents who loved each other, Kat realised miserably.
Her troubled thoughts cleared and Kat found Carlos staring at her across the table, his expression curious as he pushed away his plate.
‘You were miles away, Princesa,’ he observed softly.
Grateful for the candle-light which disguised a multitude of emotions, Kat shrugged. ‘Well, there’s a lot to think about.’
‘And it makes you frown?’ he prompted.
‘Sometimes.’ She met the question in his eyes. ‘Well, it’s not exactly…ideal—this situation we find ourselves in,’ she said carefully. ‘Is it?’
There was a pause and Carlos gave a ragged sigh, knowing that evasion would be kinder. But ultimately, what could he say—other than the truth? ‘No, of course it isn’t. But there’s no point in discussing it until we know one way or the other, is there? I thought we’d already decided that.’
‘Which is why I was asking you about bullfighting.’ Kat’s voice lowered defensively. ‘I’m certainly not trying to invade your precious privacy, Carlos—just trying to make conversation.’
His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. Was he really the tyrant she sometimes hinted at? And if she was expecting his child, then did she not have the right to know something of his past?
But where to begin? He stared at her across the flickering candle-light. ‘We were poor,’ he said simply. ‘And I mean dirt poor. My mother used to work around the clock to provide for us—in fact, I hardly saw her when I was growing up.’
Kat remembered some of the remarks he’d made about spoilt, wealthy women. Was that why he had sounded so caustic—because his own mother had had nothing? ‘And…your father? What about him?’
‘My father?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Oh, my father was too busy chasing his dreams of being Spain’s best matador to care about anything or anyone.’
‘So he was a bullfighter too?’
He drank a little more wine. ‘He was, until a horrific accident in the ring led to the loss of his arm—and the even greater loss of his dreams. For a while he was a broken man, until he realised that he might be able to live out those ambitions through his son. And that is what he set about doing.’
There was an odd, brooding kind of silence. ‘So?’ she prompted softly.
His