Modern Romance April 2019 Books 5-8. Chantelle ShawЧитать онлайн книгу.
cursed down the phone line. ‘You actually think you’ll be able to succeed in that?’
‘It is already done,’ Antonio said, a wolfish smile spreading across his features. He disconnected the call and pushed all thoughts of Amelia from his mind. Sleeping with her hadn’t been part of the plan, but that didn’t matter. It was beside the point, just like he’d said to her. Sex had nothing to do with business, and this business was something he’d spent long years planning for.
He scrolled to his personal lawyer’s number and held the phone to his ear.
‘Herrera,’ he spoke without preamble when the call connected. ‘I need to see you. It’s about the diSalvo situation.’ He reclined in his chair, staring straight ahead and seeing only the gleam of success. The satisfaction of long-awaited revenge.
And the pair of big blue eyes that haunted him as he told his lawyer to begin tanking diSalvo interests?
They were just eyes—he would forget them soon enough. He would forget her too. Because nothing mattered more than righting the wrongs of the past. Nothing, and no one. For his father, he would succeed.
AMELIA STARED AT the name across the foyer, emblazoned in solid gold letters: Herrera Inc. Her tummy was in knots as she waited in the echoing silence.
Not knots of anxiety, she hastened to remind herself. Knots of anger. Fury. Panic. Disbelief that six weeks after spending the night with a wolf in sheep’s clothing—or no clothing, as the case had been—it had been necessary to fly to Spain and wait in his office on a day that was hot and sticky, when she would have far preferred to be home in her lovely little cottage with only her books and an enormous pot of tea for company.
She’d thought about calling him and breaking the news to him over the phone. It would have been satisfying to have the power to deliver the life-changing words and then disconnect the call, letting him stew on the discovery as she had been for almost a week. But this wasn’t news one delivered over the phone, and she’d accepted that, even when it meant she would need to see Antonio once more.
Her face was pale and, though she didn’t realise it, the immaculate secretary of Antonio Herrera was watching her from beneath hooded eyes.
‘He won’t be much longer, madam,’ the woman assured her.
Did she really look that bad?
She’d mostly escaped the dreaded morning sickness, but of course it had reared its head that morning and she’d been feeling queasy all day.
She’d be better once this part was over. She had a plan, and it was simple.
Antonio, I’m pregnant, but I’m sure you won’t want any part of the pregnancy or the baby’s life, given that it’s the devil’s spawn.
Or, Antonio, I’m pregnant, and you can’t offer any amount of money that will induce me to sell this baby to you. Not everything is for sale.
Then there was the option where she just blurted names at him, every single one she could think of, obscenities and curses, in all the languages she knew.
She ground her teeth together, her hand curled around the strap of her bag, her mouth dry. She thought about getting another cup of water from the dispenser, but she must have already drunk a litre since arriving in his office almost an hour earlier.
If he’d known she was coming, she would have blamed him for keeping her waiting. But she’d intentionally used a fake name to see him, pretending to be a journalist writing an opinion piece for a broadsheet newspaper. Eventually the assistant had cracked, offering a fifteen-minute slot. But apparently Antonio viewed journalists with disdain, if his inability to stick to the schedule was anything to go by.
Another fifteen minutes later and the door cracked open. A man emerged first—not Antonio. Blond, with green eyes and tanned skin, wearing a suit but looking like he’d much prefer to be in board shorts and riding a wave. When he spoke, it was with an American accent. ‘Great to see you again, brother.’ He grinned, and he was film-star-handsome. Sigh...
Damned hormones. She stood up, knowing Antonio’s appearance was imminent and that the last thing she wanted was to be at a height disadvantage from the outset. Strength was imperative, even when it was simply a fraud.
Sure enough, a moment later he was in the doorway, only he wasn’t alone. A young boy was in his arms—only four or five, she guessed, but with the unmistakable facial features of a child born with Down’s Syndrome. And the young boy was smiling at Antonio as though he were the second coming.
‘You give your mother a high five from me, okay?’
And the little boy, on cue, lifted his hand and whacked it against Antonio’s. ‘Again!’
Antonio laughed, his eyes crinkling in the corners, and obliged, and Amelia had to dig her fingernails into her palms to stop from reacting.
Hormones! Tears were stinging her eyes suddenly at the sight of this man she hated, who happened to be the father of her baby, looking so perfectly at home with children. She blinked the tears away, assuming a look of passive impatience that was at odds with the lurching in her gut. And she felt it, the moment his eyes began to move to hers.
She glared at him, her expression icy.
‘Amelia?’ He looked genuinely surprised, and she was glad.
His friend followed Antonio’s gaze and then reached for the little boy.
‘We’ll get out of your hair, man. Just don’t leave it long before you get out to Venice Beach, yeah?’
Antonio didn’t respond. He was staring at Amelia, not speaking, simply looking. Did he think he could intimidate her? That he could make her feel anything at all any more?
She squared her shoulders and straightened her spine, staring at him with all the disdain she felt.
He’d used her.
He’d come to her house and charmed her into bed and she’d fallen in with his plans like the naïve, innocent fool she was, and hadn’t she learned her lesson? The reason she’d kept men like this at bay her whole life had unravelled before her.
The blond man and child left, the latter waving enthusiastically at Antonio as he went. But Antonio didn’t notice. His gaze was fixed squarely on Amelia.
After several moments, he crossed the foyer, his stride long, and in that time he pulled himself together.
‘I didn’t realise you were in Madrid,’ he said conversationally, as though they communicated regularly and she had simply omitted to mention the detail.
‘I came to see you,’ she said, glad when he didn’t hold a hand out to shake hers, nor attempt to kiss her cheek. There was ice between them now.
‘Really?’ He arched a brow and she wanted to slap him then, and his smug assumption that she’d come for personal reasons. For sexual reasons.
Her glare, she hoped, would put paid to any such ideas.
‘I presume you have an office in which we might speak privately?’
‘Of course,’ he murmured throatily, putting a hand in the small of her back.
And trumpets flared in her mind, bleating ‘hallelujah’ at the simple touch and she ground her teeth together in utter rejection of that. ‘I’m quite capable of walking, thank you very much,’ she said flatly and stepped to the side, away from him.
She only just caught the look of bemusement on his secretary’s face before she spun on her heel and stalked towards his office.
* * *
So she was still furious with him, obviously. But she was here,