Prince's Son of Scandal

“Why did you speak Spanish and he, French? Was it code?”

“Habit.”

She tried to leave it there, but he lifted a skeptical brow.

“It’s true. Our father was French, Mama is Spanish. We grew up speaking both. I only told one lie.”

“That you were on birth control.”

“That I was Angelique. You asked if I was on the pill or something. I said yes because that was true. At least, I thought it was.” She bit the corner of her lip.

“Your or something failed?”

She flinched, making him realize his voice carried a thickness close to contempt or even hatred.

He grappled to hang onto his temper. “You assured me pregnancy wasn’t possible. How have we arrived at having this conversation?”

Dumb question. They both knew how babies were made. They’d made love. She had come apart in his arms again and again. He’d been greedy as a starved beast certain he would die from the pleasure of being inside her when she shattered around him like that. Then, when he couldn’t hold back any longer, he had joyously thrown himself into the small death of simultaneous orgasm.

In that post-climactic moment, when her breaths had still been jagged and his heart had pounded against her sweating breasts, he had felt...restored. Not just a release of tension but as though deeper needs had been met. Withdrawing had provoked a painful, abandoned sensation he had impatiently tried to forget.

“Is that my child?”

She jolted at the grate in his tone. “You said you wouldn’t believe me no matter what I said.”

“You’ll submit to a blood test, then?”

Her eyes narrowed in mutiny.

“You can submit nicely or I can pin you down while my doctor takes it.” He was clearly a sadist because something in him longed for her to push him into restraining her.

“Touch me and I’ll break your nose.” She started to lift a threatening fist and flinched, quickly cradling her right hand—which is what she’d been doing since her hands had gone into her lap, he realized.

He caught her wrist and held on when she tried to pull away. The backs of her fingers were an angry red, her knuckles puffy.

His heart lurched.

“Did you break any bones? Can you move your fingers? That’s what this is for.” He picked up the ice pack, incensed all over again that she had waded into the fight.

“I know how to throw a punch.” She took the ice and flexed her fingers against it, showing only a wince of discomfort so he presumed she hadn’t fractured anything.

“What were you thinking? It’s a damned good thing his reflexes didn’t take over. You would have been on the ground.”

“My bodyguard was being assaulted.”

“No, my bodyguard was moving into position to cover me. She attacked him. Then you did. Do you understand what bodyguards are paid to do? There is no reason you should have involved yourself.”

Her brows flicked in dismissal of his concern.

Was this really the mother of his heir? If he’d gone to a brothel and bought a man, he couldn’t have picked someone less suitable.

“A simple blood test could prove I’m not the father. We could have it done before we cross the border.” He pointed at the sign they passed that stated they were less than a mile away.

“I’m afraid of needles.”

“Be afraid of me, bella.”

Her flat smile died. Something vulnerable flashed in her expression.

His conscience pinched.

“Is that the problem?” His voice still sounded gruff and aggressive. His animosity hadn’t evaporated just because he was finally getting answers. He didn’t want to soften toward her at all. She was far too dangerous. But fear was an explanation he could understand.

“Have you been afraid of my reaction? I’m not happy.” That was a gross understatement. A well-practiced aloof demeanor had always served him well, but it was impossible to find in the face of this life-altering situation. Still, he tried to reassure her. “Nothing bad will happen if the baby is mine. I’ll recognize him or her as our future monarch. We will marry so it’s legitimate. That’s all. No stake burnings or feeding to dragons. Were you afraid I’d pressure you to terminate? Is that why you’ve kept it from me?”

Silence. She turned her attention out the side window again, so he couldn’t read her expression.

“Do you not know who the father is? How many contenders are there?”

Her glare swung like a blade to slice through him.

“I don’t care how many men you’ve slept with.” Much. He was disturbed to realize he did, actually. It wasn’t because of the paternity question, either. The passion between them had been unprecedented. He didn’t like to think she reacted that way to every man she slept with. It would have made all of this even more intolerable.