Книга - A Christmas Marriage Ultimatum

A Christmas Marriage Ultimatum
HELEN BIANCHIN










A Christmas Marriage Ultimatum Helen Bianchin







It’s Christmas and Chantelle is surprised by her tall, dark Greek ex, who is determined to claim his son! Can the season of love work it’s magic?







Christmas is a time for joy and love. The shops are packed, children are singing carols; we are all busy buying and wrapping presents, and arranging family feasts. In the midst of all this, take a little time for yourself and enjoy one of our short Christmas treats by some of our favourite authors.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE




CHAPTER ONE


CHANTELLE transferred the last bag of groceries into the boot and closed it, then she returned the shopping trolley to a nearby bay. Minutes later she eased her mother’s Lexus out from the car park and joined the flow of traffic heading north.

Handling left-hand drive after a four-year absence didn’t pose any problems at all, and she slid her sunglasses down to shade her eyes from the glare of the midsummer sun as she headed towards Sovereign Islands, a top-end luxury residential estate on Queensland’s Gold Coast, comprising numerous waterways where boats and cruisers lay moored adjacent waterfront homes.

It was an idyllic setting, and she approved of her parents’ move from their frenetic Sydney lifestyle. Mother and stepfather, she mentally corrected, although Jean-Paul had taken on the role of father when she’d been nine years old. Too long ago for her to regard him as anything other than a much-loved parent.

The past few years had wrought several changes, she reflected musingly.

Who would have thought at twenty-four she’d have thrown up a position as pharmacist in an exclusive Sydney pharmacy, a modern apartment, family, friends…for a small villa owned by her parents in northern France?

Yet four years ago it had seemed the perfect place to escape to following an end to a brief, passionate affair.

A month after her arrival, she’d discovered she was pregnant. So she’d stayed, gaining work in the local pharmacie, and had the baby, a beautiful dark-haired, dark-eyed boy she’d named Samuel. It had become a matter of pride to be self-supportive, and her parents visited twice a year.

Now, after a four-year absence, she’d brought Samuel to Australia for him to sample his first southern-hemispheric Christmas.

‘No snow,’ she’d explained when the jet touched down in Brisbane two days ago, and rejoiced in her son’s wonderment at the switch in climates as he embraced his grandparents.

How simplistic life was to a child, Chantelle mused as she traversed the first of three bridges leading to Anouk and Jean-Paul Patric’s home on one of seven islands linked to form the suburban Sovereign Islands estate.

Children responded to love and affection, and her son was no exception. Bilingual, he was equally conversant in French and English. Tall for his tender years, thick dark hair, beautiful dark eyes, with a melting smile, he was his father in miniature.

Chantelle shook off the whisper of ice slithering down her spine at the thought of the man who’d fathered her child.

Dimitri Cristopoulis. Undeniably Greek, American educated, tall, dark and attractive, an entrepreneur in his mid-thirties who dealt in the buying and selling of hotels and apartment buildings in several major cities worldwide.

Even now, his image was as vivid as it had been four years ago. Broad sculpted facial features, olive textured skin, dark gleaming eyes, and a mouth to die for.

Sexy, sensual and incredibly lethal, she’d mentally accorded when she’d first caught his gaze in a Sydney city restaurant.

She hadn’t been wrong. He was all three, and more…much more. She, who was incredibly selective in sharing her body, had gifted hers willingly after one night.

For one month they’d enjoyed life and each other with a passion that captured her heart. Only to have it torn apart with the arrival of an actress claiming to be his fiancée.

Confrontation involved accusations and argument, and Chantelle had walked away…out of his life, her own, invoking her parents’ promise not to divulge information as to her whereabouts. In a bid for a new life, a new identity, she had reverted to her legal birth-name of Chantelle Leone.

Now Chantelle turned into the boulevard housing the elegant home her parents had retired to last year from their mansion in Sydney, used the remote modem to open the gates, and garaged the car.

Jean-Paul appeared as she opened the boot, and together they caught up the grocery bags and took them indoors.

‘Maman, Maman!’

Chantelle deposited the bags on the kitchen table and opened her arms wide to scoop up her son. ‘Hello, mon ange. Have you been good for Grandmère?’

‘Excellent,’ Samuel assured as he wrapped his arms around her neck. ‘Tonight we’re having a party.’ He pressed kisses to her cheek. ‘Grandmère says I am an important guest.’

‘Very important,’ she confirmed, hugging him close. He was the most precious person in her life, and she never failed to ensure he knew just how much he was loved. ‘After lunch you must have a long nap, hmm? So you will be at your best, and everyone will think you totally adorable.’

‘Totally.’

Chantelle chuckled and buried her lips into the curve of his sweet neck. He was developing a delightful sense of humour, and his smile…it bore the promise of having the same devastating effect as the man who’d fathered him.

Which tore at her heartstrings more than she cared to admit. Already, the likeness between child and father was fast becoming apparent. Too apparent, she perceived, making it difficult to dismiss Dimitri Cristopoulis from her mind.

A silent derisive laugh rose and died in her throat. As if that was going to happen any time soon. His image was just as powerful now as it had been four years ago.

Worse, he invaded her dreams…teasing, taunting, enticing in a way that brought her awake heated, restless and wanting.

‘We’ll have an early lunch,’ Anouk relayed as she began unloading the grocery bags. ‘Then we begin preparations, oui?’

It proved to be a busy afternoon, and Chantelle stood with Anouk and Jean-Paul for a final inspection before they retreated upstairs to dress.

The large terrace looked festive with a tracery of coloured lights, lanterns and potted flowers gracing the area. Holly and mistletoe, a tall Christmas tree festooned with decorative ornaments, with wrapped gifts for the guests. Bottles of wine for the men, and handmade chocolates for the women which Anouk and Jean-Paul would hand out at the evening’s close.

A kindly protestation not to go over the top fell on deaf ears, for Anouk had merely smiled, patted her daughter’s hand, bestowed a fleeting kiss to one cheek, and assured it was just an informal gathering of friends.

Given her mother’s penchant for entertaining, and the many formal social events Anouk had hosted in Sydney over the years, Chantelle conceded with musing humour that tonight’s soirée fell into informal by comparison.

Samuel’s delighted enchantment with everything was sufficient reward for the requisite part she was expected to play.

Consequently she selected a stunning black evening trouser suit, draped a long red silk wrap across her shoulders, added minimum jewellery, and went with subtle make-up before leading Samuel downstairs.

Jean-Paul greeted guests in the main foyer, directed them through to the terrace, whereupon Anouk ensured they mixed and mingled seamlessly while hired staff offered liquid refreshment and proffered trays of hors d’oeuvres.

Anouk was a charming hostess, and Chantelle joined her mother as they moved effortlessly from one guest to another, pausing while Anouk exchanged a few words, a smile as she introduced her daughter and grandson.

Everyone seemed pleasant, and Chantelle silently commended her parents’ circle of friends.

Samuel was in his element, and determined to illustrate his good manners as he formally offered his hand at each introduction.

He was a hit, she acknowledged with maternal bemusement, exuding the charm of a child twice his age.

Just like his father.

Where did that come from? A hollow laugh rose and died in her throat.

Not a day went by when she wasn’t reminded of the man who’d fathered him.

Chantelle was aware of her mother’s voice as she effected yet another introduction, and she summoned a smile as she greeted the guest.

‘Andreas recently moved to the Coast,’ Anouk explained. ‘And purchased a mansion in a neighbouring Sovereign Islands boulevard.’

There was something about the man’s stance, the way he held his head that drew her attention.

‘Your parents very kindly included me in this evening’s festivities,’ he informed in a voice that held a faint accent that was difficult to place.

Andreas…The name was of Greek origin.

‘We have something in common,’ he offered. ‘My son is also visiting for Christmas. He’s in the car finishing a call on his cellphone.’

She envisioned with some scepticism a high-powered entrepreneur digitally available twenty-four by seven, negotiating and closing deals worldwide.

‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy his visit,’ Chantelle conceded politely, aware of a momentary intentness evident as the man’s attention focused on her son.

Was it her imagination, or did she glimpse conjecture before it was quickly masked?

Then the moment was gone as Anouk steered her towards a young couple who spent several minutes enthusing about their recent trip to Paris.

Chantelle enjoyed their praise of a city she adored, and they lingered together awhile.

‘If you’ll excuse us?’ Anouk inclined with a warm smile. ‘Another guest has arrived.’

The last, surely? Chantelle mused as she followed her mother’s line of vision to a tall, broad-framed man whose stance portrayed an animalistic sense of power.

Even from a distance he managed to exude a physical magnetism most men would covet.

The set of his shoulders beneath their superb tailoring held a certain familiarity, and she fought against the rising sense of panic, tempering it with rationale.

How many times had she caught sight of a male figure whose stature bore a close resemblance to that of Samuel’s father, only to discover his facial features were those of a stranger?

As it would prove on this occasion, she mentally assured as she saw Andreas move towards him.

Father and son. Had to be, she registered as the two men greeted each other with familial ease.

Seconds later they both turned at Anouk’s approach, and Chantelle froze, locked into speechless immobility in recognition of a man she’d hoped never to see again in this lifetime.

Dimitri Cristopoulis.

What was he doing here? Here, specifically in her parents’ home?

Dimitri’s family resided in New York…didn’t they?

He’d never said, and she hadn’t asked. She choked back a hollow laugh. Had she even given it a thought?

In seeming slow motion Chantelle witnessed the introduction process, aware of Dimitri’s calculating gaze as it encompassed first her, then her son, before settling with ruthless intensity on her own.

‘Chantelle.’

The sound of his voice sent shivers scudding the length of her spine. How could so much be conveyed in a single word?

No. The silent scream rose and died in her throat at what she glimpsed in those dark eyes before it was masked.

With mounting consternation she watched as he sank down onto his haunches and extended his hand to her son.

‘Samuel.’

The similarity between man and child was indisputable. Her son, but undeniably his.

Everything faded to the periphery of her vision, and she was conscious only of Dimitri and Samuel. Her hand closed over her son’s shoulder in a protective, reassuring gesture.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Samuel offered with childlike politeness.

Dear heaven, this was the culmination of her worst nightmare. Instinct screamed for her to scoop Samuel into her arms…and run as fast and as far away as she could.

Except Dimitri would follow. She could sense it, knew it in the depths of her soul. This time there would be no escape…no place she could hide where he wouldn’t find her.

Chantelle was dimly aware of her mother’s voice, although the words failed to register.

Did anyone guess she was a total mess? Every nerve in her body seemed to shred and sever, changing her into a trembling wreck.

Dimitri rose to his full height, and she caught sight of the veiled anger apparent in those dark eyes an instant before he masked it.

There were questions…several, she sensed he would demand answers to. Yet the most telling one was startlingly obvious.

Fear closed like an icy fist around her heart. He couldn’t take Samuel away from her…could he?

Was it her imagination, or did the air fizz with tension? For a wild moment she felt if she so much as moved a muscle, she’d be struck down by its invisible force.

‘Maman, may I be excused?’ A small voice penetrated the immediate silence, and brought Chantelle’s undivided attention.

‘Naturellement, petit.’ She offered a polite smile, then she turned and led Samuel towards the staircase.

A reprieve. One she badly needed. It would allow her time to recoup her severely shaken composure, and prepare for whatever the evening held in store.

For the next hour she could legitimately use Samuel as a shield. But the time would come when she’d have to face Dimitri alone. What then?

She felt the slight tug of Samuel’s hand and realised she retained too tight a hold on it. A self-derisory sound choked in her throat at such carelessness, and she lifted him into her arms, then buried her lips against the sweet curve of his neck.

‘Maman, who is that man?’

Bathroom duty complete, he studiously dried his hands, his dark eyes solemn as he posed the query.

Your father. Two simple words which couldn’t be uttered without an accompanying explanation to his level of understanding.

‘Someone I met a long time ago,’ she said gently.

‘Before I was born?’

Chantelle bent down and brushed her lips to his forehead. ‘Uh-huh.’

‘He’s very big. Bigger than Grandpère.’ Solemn dark eyes locked with hers. ‘Do you like him?’

Oh, my. ‘Grandpère?’ she teased. ‘Of course. Grandpère is the best, non?’

‘Oui. And Grandmère,’ Samuel added. ‘But the man is scary.’

Scary covered a multitude of meanings to a child whose vocabulary was beginning to broaden. ‘He would never hurt you.’ She could give such reassurance unequivocally.

‘No,’ Samuel dismissed. ‘He had a scary face when he looked at you.’

Out of the mouths of babes. ‘Maybe it was because we had a disagreement.’ A mild description for the blazing row they’d shared.

Her son absorbed the words, then offered with childlike simplicity, ‘Didn’t he say sorry?’

‘No.’ But then, neither had she. ‘Shall we go downstairs to the party? Grandmère will wonder where we are.’

To remain absent for too long would be impolite.

Besides, she adored her mother and refused to allow Dimitri’s presence to mar the evening.

It took considerable effort to act out a part, but act she did…smiling, laughing as she mixed and mingled, conversing with what she hoped was admirable panache.

Exclusive schooling and a year being ‘finished’ paid off in spades, and she defied anyone to criticise her performance.

She was supremely conscious of Dimitri’s presence, and he made no effort to disguise his interest. It was only by adroit manipulation that she managed to avoid him during the ensuing hour.

Samuel held most of her attention, and it was with a sense of suspended apprehension she signalled it time for him to bid the guests ‘good night.’

Preparations for bed and the reading of a story took a while, and she watched as his eyelids began to droop, saw him fight sleep, then succumb to it.

Chantelle switched off the bedlamp, leaving only the glow of a night-light to provide faint illumination. Five minutes, she allowed, enjoying the time to study his face in repose.

He was growing so quickly, developing a sensitive, caring nature she hoped would remain despite the trials life might hold for him.

An errant lock of hair lay against his forehead, and she gently smoothed it back before exiting the room.

As he was a sound sleeper who rarely woke during the night, she was confident he wouldn’t stir. However, she intended to check on him at regular intervals, just in case the excitement of travel, a strange house and a party atmosphere disturbed his usual sleep pattern.

A degree of misgiving caused her stomach to tighten as she re-entered the lounge. Most of the guests had converged on the adjoining terrace, and she caught up a flute of champagne from a proffered tray as she moved outdoors.

The string of electric lanterns provided a colourful glow. The sky had darkened to a deep indigo, and there was a tracery of stars evident, offering the promise of another warm summer’s day.

Anouk and Jean-Paul worked the terrace, ensuring their guests were content, replete with food and wine. It was a practised art, and one they’d long perfected.

Chantelle followed their example, pausing to chat to one couple or another, genuinely interested in their chosen career, the merits of the Gold Coast, relaying details of her plans during the length of her stay.

Invitations were offered, and she graciously deferred accepting any without first conferring with her mother.

Dimitri was there…a dangerous, primitive force. She was supremely conscious of his attention. The waiting, watching quality evident…like a predator stalking for a kill.

If he wanted her on edge, he was succeeding, she perceived, aware of the cracks beginning to appear in her social façade.

‘Chantelle.’

The sound of his deep drawl shredded her nerves. All evening she’d prepared for this moment. Yet still he’d managed to surprise her.

‘Dimitri,’ she acknowledged, forgoing the polite smile.

He wasn’t standing close enough to invade her personal space, yet all it would take was another step forward.

‘We need to talk.’

She arched a deliberate eyebrow. ‘I’m not aware we have anything to discuss.’

‘No? You want I should spell it out?’

It wasn’t easy to maintain a distant, albeit polite façade. ‘Please do.’

Dimitri didn’t move, yet it appeared as if he had, and she forced herself to stand absolutely still.

‘Samuel.’

Chantelle felt fear gnaw at her nerve-ends. ‘What about him?’

A muscle bunched at the edge of his jaw. ‘The Cristopoulis resemblance is uncanny.’

‘Consequently you’ve put two and two together and come to the conclusion he might be yours?’ How could she sound so calm, or inject the slight musing element into her voice, when inside she was shaking?

‘You deny the possibility?’

‘I’m under no obligation to you, or anyone, to reveal his father’s identity.’

‘You want me to go the distance with this?’ Dimitri queried in a voice that was dangerously soft. ‘Seek legal counsel, access his birth certificate, request DNA?’

Ice slithered the length of her spine. ‘Is that a threat?’

‘A statement of intention,’ he corrected.

‘I could deny your request for DNA.’ The need to consult a lawyer seemed imperative.

His mouth formed a cynical smile, although there was no humour apparent in those dark eyes. ‘Try it.’

Her stomach performed a slow, painful somersault. ‘You possess an outsize ego. What makes you think you were my only lover?’

‘I was there,’ Dimitri reminded with deceptive quietness. Leashed savagery lay just beneath the surface of his control, and he gained some satisfaction as soft colour tinged her cheeks.

Was his memory of what they’d shared as startlingly vivid as her own? They’d spent every night together, never seeming to be able to satisfy a mutual hunger for each other.

Possession on every level. An all-consuming passion that had known no bounds.

She had lived for the moment she could be with him, resenting each minute they were apart. The sun had never shone more brightly, nor the senses become so defined. If hearts sang, hers had played a soaring rhapsody in full orchestra.

As for the sex…Intimacy, she corrected, at its most intense…highly sensual, libidinous, magic.

‘There was no one else for either of us,’ Dimitri pursued in a silkily soft voice that speared her heart.

Chantelle drew in a deep breath, then slowly released it. ‘Aren’t you forgetting Daniella?’ Even now, it hurt her to say the actress’s name.

A muscle bunched at the edge of his jaw. ‘We dealt with that four years ago.’

‘No,’ she corrected with incredible politeness. ‘We had a blazing row over the disparity between her account of your relationship, and yours.’

‘At which time you chose to believe her version, rather than mine.’

Even now, the scene rose up to taunt her…the harsh words, the invective. ‘She conveyed telling evidence.’

‘Cleverly relayed to achieve the desired outcome,’ Dimitri attested. ‘Daniella is a scheming manipulator, and an extremely clever actress.’

‘So you said at the time,’ Chantelle declared bitterly.

‘Yet you still walked.’

Her trust in him, what she’d thought they had together, had been destroyed. ‘I couldn’t stay.’ He hadn’t tried to stop her. Nor had he called.

To be fair, neither had she.

‘Shall we begin again?’

‘There is nothing to discuss.’

‘We can do it here, now. Or we can share dinner tomorrow night.’ He waited a beat. ‘Your choice.’

‘No.’

One eyebrow slanted. ‘You want to play hardball?’

‘I don’t want to play at all!’

His features assumed a hard mask. ‘I deserve to know if Samuel is my son.’

‘What if I tell you he’s not?’

His gaze pierced hers, indomitable and frighteningly inflexible. ‘I want proof, one way or another.’

Bravado rose to the fore as she held his gaze. ‘You don’t have the right.’

‘Yes, I do. Seven, tomorrow evening. I’ll collect you.’

She didn’t want him here. In fact, she didn’t want to see him anywhere, period!

‘You want to do this with a degree of civility?’ Dimitri queried. ‘Or—?’

‘I’ll meet you.’ She named the first restaurant that came to mind. ‘Seven.’

Without a further word she moved away from him, seeking another guest…anyone with whom she could converse and therefore escape Dimitri Cristopoulis’ damning presence.




CHAPTER TWO


‘YOU look charming, chérie,’ Anouk complimented the following evening as Chantelle collected the keys to her mother’s car.

‘Thank you.’ She’d chosen a slim-fitting dress in black with a black lace overlay, short sleeves and a square neckline. Black stiletto-heeled sandals lent her petite frame added height, and she’d swept hair the colour of sable high into a careless knot.

‘It’s nice of Andreas’ son to invite you to dine with him.’

Nice wasn’t a description she’d accord Dimitri…or his motives behind the invitation. If Anouk knew the real reason there would be concern, not pleasure, evident.

However, not even her mother knew the identity of Samuel’s father. Her parents had been absent from Sydney at the time of Chantelle’s affair with Dimitri, and afterwards, when told of her pregnancy, they’d counselled informing the child’s father…advice she’d chosen to discount.

She crouched down to give Samuel a hug. ‘Be good for Grandmère, hmm?’

‘Oui, Maman.’

Such solemn brown eyes, she mused, kissing each childish cheek in turn.

‘Thanks,’ she said lightly as Anouk gathered Samuel close. ‘I won’t be late.’

For the past eighteen hours she’d derived countless reasons why she should opt out of tonight. Only the knowledge Dimitri was capable of forcing a confrontation in her parents’ home prevented her from employing any one of them.

It took twenty minutes to reach the glamorous hotel situated on the Spit at Main Beach. Chantelle chose valet parking, and stepped into the marble foyer.

Expansive with glorious oriental rugs, comfortable sofas, it stretched out to a double staircase leading to a lower floor, beyond which lay a wide decorative pool, an island bar and, in the distance, the ocean.

It was spectacular, and a waterfall added to the tropical overtone.

Chantelle admired the view for numerous seconds, then she turned towards the restaurant.

‘Punctual, as always.’

The sound of that familiar, faintly accented male voice caused the knot in her stomach to tighten.

Get a grip, she remonstrated silently. She needed to be in control, and nervous tension didn’t form part of the evening’s agenda.

She turned slightly and met Dimitri’s steady gaze.

‘It’s one of my virtues.’

‘Would you prefer a drink in the lounge, or shall we go straight in?’

She even managed a slight smile. Amazing, when the butterflies in her stomach were beating a faint tattoo.

‘Why don’t we cut the social niceties?’ Cool, but neither calm nor collected.

Damn him. He’d always had this effect on her equilibrium. The sight of him sent her pulse racing to a crazy beat. It was the whole male package, his choice of cologne, the freshly laundered clothes…the faint male scent that was uniquely his.

All it took was one look, and her system went out of control. Even now, when she told herself she hated him, heat pooled deep inside, and the pulse at her throat felt as if it jumped beneath her skin.

Could he sense it? See it? Dear heaven, she hoped not.

The maître d’ issued a greeting and led them to their table, where he summoned a drinks waiter, performed an introduction, then graciously retreated.

Dimitri ordered a crisp chardonnay, requested bottled water, and then he settled back comfortably in his chair.

There were a hundred places she’d rather be than here, now. Yet what choice did she have? Her parents could cope with anything life threw at them, but Samuel was too young, too vulnerable, and she’d go to the ends of the earth to protect him from harm…physical, mental, emotional.

Take control, an inner voice urged as she reached for her glass and sipped chilled water.

‘Let’s not pretend this is anything other than what it is,’ Chantelle opined coolly, and saw one eyebrow slant in silent query.

‘Perhaps we should order?’ Dimitri suggested as the waiter presented the menu.

Food? The thought of calmly forking artistically presented morsels in his company killed what little appetite she had.

Nevertheless, it was necessary to order something, and she settled on a starter and skipped the main course.

‘Not hungry?’

‘Is my appetite an issue?’

His gaze remained steady, and had the effect of unnerving her…which was undoubtedly deliberate.

‘Relax.’

Oh, sure, and that was easy, given he inevitably had a bundle of legal tricks up his sleeve ready to heap on her unsuspecting head.

‘I’m here at your insistence,’ Chantelle reminded. ‘Sharing a meal I don’t particularly want in the company of someone I’d prefer never to have to see again in this lifetime.’

‘Pity.’

Her eyes flashed dark fire. ‘What do you mean…pity?’

‘If Samuel is my son,’ Dimitri voiced with dangerous softness, ‘you’ll have to get used to me being part of your life.’

‘The hell I will!’

Something moved in his eyes, and she felt a chill slither down the length of her spine. ‘Take it as a given, Chantelle.’

The words were hard, inflexible, and seared her heart. ‘You don’t have that right.’

The arrival of the waiter brought a welcome break, and she viewed the contents of her plate with misgiving, sure the smallest mouthful would stick in her throat.

‘Eat,’ Dimitri bade, and she did, managing to do justice to the food. He wasn’t to know her taste-buds had gone on strike.

Conversation had never been so difficult to summon, and anything she thought to offer seemed inane.

It irked her unbearably he was able to affect her this way. Act, she chastised silently. Adopt a practised façade, and pretend Dimitri Cristopoulis is just a man like any other male.

Oh, sure…chance would be a fine thing! She had only to look at him and every nerve-end tingled into vibrant life.

Four years hadn’t made the slightest difference. It was as if her soul recognised his on some base level and sought recognition.

Damn him. Damn coincidence for putting them both in this part of the world at the same time! Fate was playing a cruel hand, intent on causing emotional havoc before the game was over.

Who would win? a silent imp taunted.

Dimitri replaced his cutlery, then he picked up his wineglass and leaned back in his chair. ‘Do you want to begin, or shall I?’

Chantelle lifted a hand in a negligent gesture. ‘Oh, please. Be my guest.’

For a few seemingly long seconds he didn’t speak, and she could tell nothing from his expression.

‘Samuel’s birth certificate records June one as the day he was born.’

How could he know that?

Dimitri’s mouth moved to form a wry smile. ‘I called in a favour.’ All he’d had to do was make a few phone calls, and he had the information he needed within hours.

‘Nine and a half months after we began our relationship,’ he pursued, watching her expressive features through a narrowed gaze. Anger had been just one of the emotions he’d experienced at the confirmation. Resentment had followed with the knowledge she’d chosen not to reveal her pregnancy. There was also a mixture of pride and joy at the thought he had a child…a son.

As to the child’s mother…he’d deal with her. But not easily.

‘So,’ he continued silkily. ‘Shall we move on?’

‘Samuel is mine,’ Chantelle reiterated fiercely. ‘I could have had an abortion.’ She’d never considered it as an option. Hadn’t, even from the onset, thought of a child…Dimitri’s child, but indisputably hers…as an encumbrance.

‘Yet you didn’t.’

She remembered the birth, when she’d cursed Dimitri a hundred times…and she thought of the moment the nurse had placed Samuel in her arms. The indescribable joy that transcended all else, and the fierce protectiveness for the tiny life.

‘No.’

He wanted to reach across the table and shake her. For denying him the opportunity to be there, to care for her, and to claim the child as his own.

‘Tell me,’ he pursued silkily. ‘Did you ever intend for me to know I had a child?’

‘Not if I could help it.’

‘Your body, your responsibility?’

‘Yes.’

‘Allowing some other man to take my place? Raise my son as his own? Give him his name?’

Chantelle could sense the anger beneath his control, feel it emanate from his body as a tangible entity.

‘Samuel is registered as Samuel Leone.’

‘Something that can easily be changed.’

‘To what purpose?’ she demanded. Anger rose to the fore, darkening her eyes. ‘I live in France, you reside in New York.’

‘Samuel is a Cristopoulis. He has a heritage,’ Dimitri endorsed with quiet savagery. ‘I intend to ensure he claims it.’

‘With you?’ She was like a runaway train, unable to stop. ‘What are you going to do, Dimitri? Engage a nanny during Samuel’s visits? Maybe look in on him as he sleeps when you leave your apartment in the morning, and again when you return long after his bedtime?’ She picked up her napkin and thrust it on the table. ‘Is that your idea of parental visitation rights?’ She rose to her feet and gathered her purse. ‘Hell will freeze over before I’ll allow it.’

He watched her with interest, admiring the fire, the sheer will beneath her fury. A mother defending and protecting her own, he mused.

The waiter chose that moment to deliver the main course, only to stand poised as he sensed the onset of a scene.

Chantelle turned away from the table, only to have her escape forestalled as Dimitri’s hand closed over her wrist.

She tried to wrench her hand free, and failed miserably. Fury pitched her voice low. ‘Let me go.’





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