Scrubbing her wet cheeks with the sheet, she sniffed inelegantly. She’d never gone so far as to hope he could ever love her; she wasn’t completely crazy. Men like him didn’t fall in love with the likes of her. But she had dreamed of fondness and affection, of a warmth in his memory of her, a tenderness for the gift of her love.
As if!
To him she’d just been a good lay, she decided with rare crudeness. Good sex when he’d wanted it, paid for with a bunch of fancy clothes!
Sliding off the bed, she stalked back to her room. Five minutes to ‘cook something up’! She could give him all the proof he needed in less than five seconds!
Well, he could wait, she decided furiously, swallowing tears and stoking up anger as she scrambled into her jeans and jumper, extracting all the proof she needed from the bottom of her suitcase and stuffing it firmly into a pocket of her anorak and walking out of the door.
Two hours later she walked back in. Cooler now, calmer, that rare flash of blistering temper smoothed over by lots of brisk walking, a cup of strong black coffee and a visit to a chemist.
She’d been severely tempted to stay away longer, to wait until he would have been on his way to the airport. But, besides being cowardly, it wouldn’t have been practical. His apartment would be locked up and she needed to collect the despised and shabby old clothes she’d brought with her. He could do what he liked with the stuff he’d bought; she didn’t want it.
As the lift deposited her into the vestibule Sebastian shot out of the interior door. Her stomach took a nosedive. He looked absolutely furious.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ If his eyes were hard, his mouth was harder. He was probably within an inch of shaking the life out of her, she decided, not caring. He couldn’t scare her. She wouldn’t let him. She wasn’t his prisoner; she could go where she pleased.
Lifting one shoulder, she told him, ‘Out,’ and walked past him, into the huge living area. And he followed her, of course he did, six foot plus of shimmering anger clad in a lightweight business suit. ‘Buying this,’ she explained without inflection, dropping the pregnancy kit on one of the low tables.
Turning, she faced him. Those lean, hard features were carved from stone, but the intense fury in his eyes might have had her running for cover if she really let herself think about it. But throughout their short and strange relationship he had called all the shots. Not any longer. Things were about to change.
‘We need it, remember?’ How cold her voice. She didn’t know how she managed it. Except, of course, something inside her had
died when he’d accused her of being a liar and con artist, out to get her hands on Sir Marcus Troone’s fortune.
‘Depending on the result, you can either breathe a huge sigh of relief or do a runner. As your sainted godfather did, for all I know.’
She only had her mother’s word that Marcus Troone had never known about her existence. Her mother had been a gentle, loving soul who would never do or say a thing to hurt another human being. She could have easily said that to protect the reputation of the man she had loved for all of her adult life and to stop her adored daughter from knowing that her father had turned his back on her and coldly washed his hands of all responsibility.
Now she would never know the truth of it.
‘Is that what you think of me?’ Sebastian demanded harshly, cold eyes raking her pale, set features.
Rosie shrugged. ‘How would I know? I thought I knew what kind of man you are, but I don’t.’
She thought she saw a flicker of something—discomfiture?—pass over his face. Or it might have been pain. She couldn’t be sure and wasn’t interested, in any case. A few hours ago she might have woven a whole load of fantasies about whatever that fleeting look had meant, translated it into regret and contrition. Not any more, though.
She dug into the pocket of her anorak. Best get it over with.
And if he tried to apologise for his rock-bottom opinion of her she wouldn’t listen. He had hurt her too much.
‘You wanted proof.’ She held out the a-bit-battered, a-bit-bulgy brown envelope. It’s right here. Proof of the affair between my mother and Sir Marcus.’ She refused to flinch away from his frowning eyes as his long fingers closed over the offering, adding acidly, ‘Of course, I probably cooked it up. I’m clever like that. Stole one of the items and forged the other. Or it could be genuine. Feel free to choose.’
‘Don’t!’ His silver eyes had somehow darkened to deepest charcoal. ‘I overreacted to what you said, I admit that.’ Santo Dios! He’d been going out of his mind these last couple of hours, starting to believe she’d taken off, that he’d never see her again, have the chance to apologise for his initial reaction.
He had always prided himself on being a good judge of character. When he’d got over the shock of what she’d claimed he’d had to admit that Rosie was no devious, manipulative, greedy bitch. He’d been the target of that particular breed enough times to recognise one when he saw one.
He pulled in a harsh breath and said in a raw undertone, ‘No matter how misguided your belief that Marcus is your father, I’m sure your reasons for it are genuine but mistaken.’ He stiffened his shoulders, his proud head high. ‘But for my part, Rosie, please understand that I have known Marcus all of my life. I know him to be an honourable man who loved his wife. And if—and it’s a big if—if he did play away from home and got some woman pregnant, he wouldn’t have shied away from his responsibilities. I just can’t believe that of him.’
‘Some woman’!
That was her mother he was talking about!
And if that was supposed to be an apology for accusing her of being up to no good, he could forget it! She was trembling with outrage. The emotional anger she thought she’d walked out of her system flooding right back, she watched him open the envelope with a sense of bitter triumph. If he could talk himself out of that little lot then he’d missed his vocation. He should have been a politician!
Shooting her a searching look as his fingers closed around something wrapped in tissue paper, Sebastian sighed. He hadn’t got through to her. She looked as if she hated him. He couldn’t, in all conscience, blame her. He had gone off at half-cock, by virtue of his cynical view of most of womankind, not stopping to think until after the damage had been well and truly done. He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to forgive himself for that.
As he revealed the pendant in all its harsh, glittering beauty, Rosie saw his face whiten. He glanced from it to her, his dark brows lowered. ‘How did you get this?’