The Consequence He Must Claim (The Montero Baby Scandals 1)

No. She wasn’t doing this.

Snatching up her flannel pants and shirt, she started for the bathroom.

“Sorcha.” His voice was a whip that made her flinch and flex her back.

She stopped with her hand on the door latch.

“Look at me.”

No. She kept her hand on the latch, her back to him.

He waited.

“What?” she prompted, refusing to turn.

“For what it’s worth, I haven’t slept with Diega.”

Did that mean... She turned and tried to read beyond his begrudging expression.

“Really.” She tucked the folded clothes under her elbow as she crossed her arms again. “You told me that day you wouldn’t cheat on her—”

“I haven’t,” he groaned. “I haven’t been with anyone. That’s what I’m saying.”

“Since me?” That couldn’t be right. She was standing on solid wood flooring, but it felt like a bouncy castle.

“Since you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you being straight with me? She must have thought that was weird.”

“She asked if everything was in working order. It is,” he assured her, tone pithy. “I’ve checked.”

For some reason she wanted to laugh. She ducked her head and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.

He scooped up the peignoir in one motion, the silk so fine his fist easily closed over the bunched fabric. He brought it to her like a handful of Christmas tinsel. “I would prefer you wore this. If I wanted to sleep with a farm boy, I would have married one.”

* * *

Cesar had expected to wake exhausted and stiff on his first morning of marriage, but had imagined it would have been from another cause, not walking a baby half the night.

Sorcha wore a wan expression as she bustled around in her efficient way, moving well enough, but she had to be just as tired.

He gave himself a mental kick, dismayed that he wasn’t giving her more time to recover, but he wanted to get them to Spain. He had planned to be on his honeymoon with Diega right now, so work shouldn’t be an issue, but it was. A lot of wheels had been in motion and now needed braking and reversing.

His father was refusing to step in and help him “incinerate a lifetime of planning out of sentiment” and Cesar didn’t want him to. He was going to dig deep and prove this was merely a detour, not a disaster.

Still, it was his honeymoon and he was so sexually frustrated he could barely speak. For three long years, he’d ignored the pull Sorcha had on him. Waking to her back and butt curled into his chest and lap hadn’t alleviated the ache at all. Her legs had followed the bend of his knees and the bottoms of her feet had rested on his toes, while her hair had tickled under his jaw.

She’d been cold when she’d come back after feeding Enrique so he’d pulled her into his front to warm her. He’d woken hotter than a stuffed pepper, not just from their combined body heat, but from desire.

Need.

What she’d said last night about his leaving after he’d made love to her in his office... He couldn’t believe things between them had been anything less than spectacular. He hated himself for damaging her self-esteem. Men had egos in bed, but women were sensitive and physically vulnerable. As a man who had always been up-front about his inability to commit, he’d nevertheless tried to ensure his lovers felt wanted and appreciated. It didn’t make sense that he would have discarded Sorcha so callously.

This damned broken brain of his.

“I’ll do it,” he muttered, brushing her aside as she closed her suitcase and tried to heft it off the bed.

She flashed him a look and took the baby from him to put him in his carrier.