But Stephen didn’t need telling.
‘It has to be bloody Duncan!’ he said in a savage undertone. ‘I’m not having you wearing anything that bastard bought for you! You’ll have to go back up and change!’
‘I can’t; I haven’t got another dress here.’ She nudged him into remembering his restive guests. ‘Besides, your friends have already seen me in this one. What does it matter, anyhow? No one is going to know—’
‘I’ll know,’ Stephen ground out.
Kalera couldn’t blame him for being resentful when he had his nose rubbed in his unwelcome knowledge many times during the early course of the evening as she was inundated with compliments about her stunning gown and womanly curiosity about where she had bought it.
Her fingers stilled now on the fading champagne splashes as her ring caught the light of the overhead chandeliers and flashed like an icy beacon against the fiery silk. Fire and ice, she thought. Two radically different elements which could cancel each other out. Fire could melt ice and ice could smother fire…
She shivered.
‘Stephen, are you sure we’re doing the right thing?’ The soft sigh slipped involuntarily out of her mouth and she hastily checked to make sure the betraying words hadn’t been overheard.
She saw a fleeting panic blur his brown eyes. ‘For God’s sake, Kalera—is this just because of that damned dress?’ he said roughly. ‘I can buy you a hundred other designer dresses to replace it!’ He looked at his watch as the orchestra struck up another tune. ‘We’ll make the formal announcement after this next set,’ he said, shifting a small, flat case from
his breast to his hip pocket. Her gift, she guessed, and unmistakably jewellery—the same as hers to him. Could neither of them think of anything more interesting?
The conversation around them abruptly dropped, wallowing in a peculiar flat patch that made Kalera look curiously around.
Duncan Royal stood on the threshold of the ballroom, resplendent in black dress trousers and a white dress shirt with concealed buttons—no jacket, and his gold tapestry waistcoat flared open to reveal a red and gold cummerbund…
But it wasn’t Duncan who had caused the dramatic hush, it was the woman at his side—even more resplendent in a gold lamé gown which clung to every hint and nuance of her statuesque body.
Terri.
Kalera felt a surge of fury, followed by a terrible desire to laugh.
Stephen was poleaxed, but for only a brief instant. Then his hand clipped around Kalera’s free wrist and he dragged her across the room, her glass spilling champagne at every stumbling step, oblivious to a ripple of nervous titters.
‘How the hell did you get in?’ he snarled, as soon as he got within striking distance of the couple in the doorway.
Duncan hadn’t taken his all-encompassing gaze off Kalera as they approached. His eyes were hot with triumph, smouldering with approval as they flirted with the sweetheart neckline and caressed her round breasts and narrow waist, the silken flare of her hips and the peep of her knees beneath the red hem. It was the kind of greedy, needy look that struck delicious terror into her heart.
He took his time in completing his slow appraisal before turning his head to answer Stephen.
‘With this.’ He produced a gilt invitation seemingly from nowhere with the flick of his wrist, like a magician doing a card trick, and Stephen let go of Kalera to snatch it out of his hand, condemning it with a frown.
‘Clever, but still a forgery!’ He tore it across and contemptuously tossed the pieces aside.
Duncan shrugged. ‘Prove it.’ His smile became a taunt. ‘Come on, Stephen. As the saying goes, we have the technology. We can prove just about anything in a laboratory these days…providing, of course, that we want to prove something that might explode our own speculative theories.’
Only the four of them recognised the challenge for what it was: a veiled reference to the question of Michael’s paternity. Kalera clutched her champagne to her chest. Duncan had told her that out of angry pride Terri had refused to agree to a DNA test. Had she now given up hope that Stephen would ever accept his son—or her word—on trust?
Stephen ignored him, turning on his ex-wife, reminding Kalera of their confrontation on the front steps. ‘How dare you think you can come and go here as you please?’ He vibrated with anger. ‘You no longer live here, remember? And how dare you bring him here and subject us to a scene?’
‘You’re the one making a scene out of it, honey,’ Terri interrupted in a smoky voice. ‘Hi,’ she greeted Kalera pleasantly. ‘I’m Terri, as you might have gathered, and you’re Kalera.’ She held out a beautifully kept hand and Kalera dumbly shook it. ‘Have we missed Stephen’s big speech? Do I offer my congratulations yet?’
‘We’re about to make the announcement shortly,’ Stephen said tightly. ‘But you’re certainly not going to stay for it. This is utterly and completely tasteless behaviour, even for you.’
Terri shrugged, her lamé gown rippling like a waterfall. ‘What do I have to lose?’ She ran her fingers through her bobbed hair and began a sinuous sway to the music. ‘Are you going to offer me a dance?’
Kalera was horribly fascinated by the unfolding scene. Never in a million years would she have expected Stephen to react so intemperately in public.
‘No, I am not!’ he bit out.
‘Not even for old times’ sake?’