Kat And The Dare-Devil Spaniard

‘Yes! Yes!’

He let out a hiss, like the sound of a pressure cooker which has just had its lid removed after many hours of being on the boil. ‘So you did lie,’ he said in a voice which sounded suddenly flat.

Kat shook her head. ‘Not exactly.’

Cold black eyes were turned on her. ‘Not exactly? How many variations of the truth are there? Perhaps you’d care to explain, or did I dream up the fact that you told me you needed to find a chemist because your period had come?’

‘I thought…’ Stupidly, she was blushing now. ‘I got a pain during the night and I started bleeding.’ The night he hadn’t been there—when his absence had seemed to emphasise that there was nothing between them but an enforced captivity while they waited to discover whether or not they were going to be parents. ‘I thought it was my period. It was only when I’d been home for a

couple of days that I realised that it wasn’t.’

‘But you weren’t going to bother to tell me about it?’

‘Of course I was! I just needed it to be confirmed first.’

‘Or was it something more than that?’ he demanded, his heart beating now with a slow and steady kind of dread. ‘Did you go to the doctor for something other than confirmation?’

It took a moment or two for his meaning to register and, when it did, Kat thought she really might be sick. Swallowing down the bile which had risen in her throat, she stared at him. ‘How…how dare you suggest such a disgusting thing?’ she spat out, trying now to rise from her subordinate position on her knees. But her rage was so intense that she half stumbled and Carlos automatically put out his hand to support her. ‘Get away from me!’ she flared.

He took no notice, just made sure that she was steady once more and then strode over to the window, looking out at the manicured beauty which was Kensington Gardens—seeing the glitter of the Round Pool in the distance, trying desperately to assemble his thoughts into some kind of order.

It was several moments before he had composed himself enough to turn round and, when he did, it was to see that Kat was sitting in the centre of a huge, over-stuffed sofa, looking impossibly fragile. And in that moment, he could have kicked himself for the whiplash quality of his words. What kind of a brute was he, he wondered disgustedly, to harangue a woman who was newly pregnant?

‘Can I get you something?’ he questioned in a hollow voice. ‘Something to drink?’

‘I feel sick.’

Quickly, he found a bathroom at the end of one of the long corridors and tipped out a pile of rose petals which had been cluttering up a porcelain bowl and then took it to Kat. On further exploration of the apartment, he discovered a high-tech kitchen, where he made a pot of ginger-and-lemon tea, because he remembered reading somewhere that ginger was good for nausea.

She was still sitting where he’d left her, the towel on her lap, the porcelain bowl empty at her side. And suddenly he looked beyond her painted face and saw the vulnerability in her huge eyes.

‘I’ve made you tea,’ he said quickly, as he put the tray down.

She looked up, telling herself again that she must be strong. Carlos hadn’t broken any promises. He’d never claimed to feel anything for her. She certainly couldn’t demand love from him because she was carrying his baby. And she must close the floodgates on her love for him. He mustn’t know about it. It wouldn’t be fair—because then, wouldn’t she be burdening him with unnecessary guilt as well as a baby he’d never planned?

‘I didn’t run away,’ she told him tiredly. ‘I honestly thought my period had come, so there was no reason to stay. We’d already decided that.’ And he had done nothing to stop her leaving, had he? That had been the bottom line. Even now, he was only here because he had to be—not because he wanted to. ‘But I’d just had some kind of bleeding—apparently, it’s not unusual in the early stages of pregnancy.’

‘But you’re okay?’ he demanded urgently.

‘I’m okay.’

‘And…the baby? The baby is okay?’

‘The doctor tells me that everything’s fine.’

‘Thank God,’ he breathed.

And for the first time, Carlos began to take in the enormity of what she had just told him. A single fact that had the power to change his life for ever. He was going to be a father. Placing a delicate mug of steaming tea into her unprotesting hand, he realised that his baby was growing beneath her heart even now—deep in her belly.

He wanted to reach out and touch her—to place the palm of his hand on her still-flat belly, as if to reassure himself that his child really was in there. But he felt as if he had forfeited the right to do any such thing, his bitter accusations driving a wedge between the two of them. And he wondered now if his father had bequeathed him something of his own cruelty—whether or not he was fit to be a father to her child.

He flinched. ‘You know that there were photographers hanging around outside when I arrived and that it’s only going to get worse?’

‘But why?’ she wailed, letting her hormones get the better of her. ‘Why can’t they just leave me alone?’

His body tensed. ‘It is the joint legacy we share, Princesa. One which is bread and meat to the ever-hungry media,’ he said bitterly. ‘The ex-matador and his scandalous heiress.’

At that moment the telephone began to shrill and, putting her tea down on the table, Kat leaned over and picked it up. It was her father.