The Secret Baby Revenge

Zoe must have told him when he gave her the Ulysses butterfly. He was glossing over the terrible worry of that time to soothe his mother’s concerns, but Nicole was deeply disturbed by the reaction he was now covering up. Did he really care so much? Had she been selfishly unfair in depriving him of his child?

As she proceeded to leaf through the fourth and last album where the photographs demonstrated beyond doubt that their daughter was, indeed, a normal healthy little girl, her mind kept zipping to the fact that Quin would have been free of the long hangover from his father’s crimes when Zoe contracted meningitis. But even after he’d returned from Argentina, he had obviously continued to pursue the accumulation of wealth, so he wouldn’t have had much time to give to a sick child, anyway.

It was all very well for him to think he might have acted differently. Nicole told herself he had a lot to prove before she’d be convinced his priorities had been reshuffled. Though he had walked away from a business client so as not to lose his time with her. Then visiting Zoe on Tuesday morning…

“Oh! She’s learning ballet!” Evita exclaimed in delight.

It was the last photograph in the album—Zoe in her pink dancing costume with a many layered tulle tutu, striking a typical pose with arms arched above her head, one foot planted firmly on the floor and the other pointed.

“She’s into all forms of dance,” Nicole answered. “My mother has a dance school and I teach there. Zoe has been attending children’s classes most of her life. Not because I put her into them. She just loves dancing.”

“Do you think she would dance for me while I’m here?” Evita asked hopefully.

“Let’s not leap too far ahead, Madre,” Quin swiftly interposed as Nicole closed the album, her mind whirling around his mother’s request and not finding a ready reply.

It seemed stupid to feel fearful, yet she had only met Evita Gallardo tonight and she’d had no time to think about introducing another grandmother to Zoe. The sense of being trapped into acknowledging a relationship instead of having a choice about it raised a wave of panic. First, Quin. Now his mother in quick succession. It seemed as though the special bond she had with her daughter was being threatened.

“I did not mean to presume,” Evita said, anxiety in her voice and in the hand that reached out and pressed Nicole’s. “I am very tired, and seeing the photographs…” She sighed, patting Nicole’s hand reassuringly. “I will retire to my room now and leave you with Joaquin to decide on what is appropriate.”

Quin stood as his mother rose from the sofa and quickly moved to take her arm. “Is there anything you need, Madre?” he asked caringly.

“No.” She leaned against him for a moment, then squared her shoulders and nodded to Nicole. “Good night, my dear. I am sorry our meeting was so long delayed.”

Nicole returned the nod, unable to bring herself to say anything beyond a courteous, “Good night.”

“Stay, Joaquin,” his mother commanded. “I can make my own way to my room.”

“If you’re sure…”

“Yes.” She kissed his cheek and walked off alone.

“I’m going to drive Nicole home now. I won’t be gone long. An hour at most,” he assured her.

Was that it for tonight?

Nicole sat in stunned disbelief, watching Quin watch his mother move to the hall leading to the bedrooms.

Then it hit her.

No sex on Monday night.

No sex tonight.

The deal had become irrelevant.

Everything now centred on Zoe.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

NICOLE didn’t notice the class or the comfort of Quin’s Audi as he drove it through the city to link up with Parramatta Road which would take them directly to Burwood. She was far too acutely aware of the man sitting beside her and the burning issues that lay between them. They hadn’t spoken since leaving his apartment and the silence tore at her nerves.

Having worked some moisture into her dry mouth she asked, “How long will your mother be staying?”

“Until the wedding,” came the matter-of-fact reply.

She looked sharply at him. “What wedding?”

Quin flicked her a glittering glance that mocked the question. “The wedding that should have taken place five years ago,” he drawled, returning his attention to the road ahead.