Bound By Their Scandalous Baby. Heidi Rice

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      He ruthlessly quelled the prickle of sympathy.

      Maybe she was an even better actress than her sister, after all. From the look of her, anyone would think she was an avenging angel on the verge of collapse, not an accomplished little blackmailer.

      His gaze roamed over her, and he let every ounce of his contempt show. In the brighter light, the dress looked considerably less impressive. It didn’t even fit her properly, the soft mounds of her breasts pressed indecently against the satin. His gaze snagged on the outline of her nipples. He jerked it away again, before the heat in his crotch swelled.

      She’d lost her shoes in the struggle with the security guard, her bare unpainted toes peeping out from underneath the gown’s frayed hem.

      His gaze rose to examine her face. She wore no jewellery and minimal make-up. Her dewy skin was as soft and clear as a child’s. He flinched inwardly—exactly how old was she? She looked like a teenager, eighteen or nineteen at the most, playing dress-up.

      The Little Orphan Annie look wasn’t one he’d been susceptible to before now—which only made the incendiary effect of having her in his arms, her mouth at his mercy, all the more galling and inexplicable.

      ‘Talk,’ he said. The curt demand made her flinch. ‘You’ve got five minutes to explain exactly how much you think your little revelation about Alexei fathering a son is worth before I hand you over to the cops.’

      At which point he would take great pleasure in adding a charge of extortion to the ones of trespass and assault.

      * * *

      ‘What?’ Bronte’s voice broke on the word, her shock almost as huge as her exhaustion. And her confusion.

      ‘You heard me. How. Much.’ The jagged scar on his cheek pulsed, emphasising his hatred.

      And, as much as she hated him in return, she didn’t understand it.

      Exactly how cruel and arrogant was this man? She’d just told him his dead twin had a child. And all he seemed concerned about was money—and humiliating her.

      He’d treated her with complete contempt, from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. He’d as good as ravaged her in front of hundreds of people—and said the most vile things imaginable about a woman who couldn’t defend herself—and now he was accusing her of being some kind of blackmailer.

      She bit into her lip, hard enough to taste blood. And held on to the diatribe she wanted to scream at him.

       Don’t punch him again, Bronte. You need his co-operation. Nico needs his cooperation.

      She flexed her fingers, pressing the bruised knuckles under her arm, and tried to channel Mahatma Gandhi. Not easy when she was feeling more like Genghis Khan.

      Unfortunately, Lukas Blackstone was the one with all the power here. Not just in terms of his money and influence, but even within the confines of this room. He towered over her. In her bare feet she was barely five foot three; she suspected he was at least a foot taller, with an impressively fit build for a man who had probably spent every moment of his existence being pampered to within an inch of his life. There wasn’t an ounce of softness or give about him. He looked completely indomitable—and completely furious. Like a lion in his prime—who could devour her and all her hopes with one vicious swipe of his paw, and then forget about her.

      ‘I don’t want your money,’ she said, as clearly as she could while her knees were shaking.

      She wasn’t scared of him, she told herself staunchly. This was just a reaction to everything that had happened in the last few minutes, and hours, and days and weeks. It felt as if all her hopes and fears, all her dreams and all her nightmares, were centred in this one room, concentrated on this one man—and, for better or worse, she had to come out on top in this battle of wills or she would lose everything that mattered to her.

      Unfortunately, she had never been the sunny, flirtatious, irresistible sister. That had always been Darcy. Darcy with her sweet smile and her effervescent laugh and her determination to always see the best in people, even the father who had discarded them both to start another family. And Alexei Blackstone, who Darcy had been convinced had fallen madly in love with her, even if all the evidence from their one-night stand and its aftermath had suggested the opposite.

      Alexei Blackstone had used Darcy. He’d been nothing more than a billionaire playboy who had hooked up with her sister for a night in Monaco, while her sister had been working at the casino bar and he’d been touring the tables. After a moonlit drive in his new sports car, he’d seduced her hopelessly romantic sister over champagne and canapés in the Blackstone Villa on the Côte D’Azur. He’d taken her virginity and then discarded her the next day. Darcy had lost her job and returned to London, confused and heartbroken, but when she’d found out she was pregnant, contacting Alexei had been impossible. He’d never responded to any of the frantic messages Darcy had left him. And then Lukas had appeared in London a few days later, his limousine taking Darcy to a private meeting at the Blackstone Park Lane. There he’d tried to bully and blackmail Darcy into having an abortion, which Darcy had been convinced had all been Lukas’s idea.

      Bronte wasn’t convinced that Alexei wasn’t the one who had set his big brother on Darcy and told him to bribe her into silence, but Darcy wouldn’t hear of it.

      Alexei Blackstone was as much of a creep as his brother to Bronte’s way of thinking—just a more charming one. But when Darcy had spoken of him that last time, months after his death, her eyes glazed with fever and love, an hour after Nico’s birth, Bronte had simply nodded, having lost the desire to destroy her sister’s comforting delusions.

      ‘Promise me you won’t tell Alexei’s brother I didn’t have the abortion. Lukas must never know about Nico.’

      Bronte’s mind stalled, the fog of exhaustion burned away by the flash fire of memory. She flexed her fingers, feeling Darcy’s weak grip tightening on her hand as the sharp sickly smell of morphine and disinfectant clogged Bronte’s lungs. And the words that had haunted her and driven her for three years whispered across her consciousness.

      ‘I promise, Darcy. I’ll look after Nico. And Lukas Blackstone will never know he exists.’

      She’d only been eighteen when Nico had come into her life and the double whammy of responsibility and Darcy’s death had cut her carefree existence off at the knees. The newborn baby had been nothing but a burden at first, especially in the depths of her grief, when just getting out of bed each morning had felt like an endeavour on a par with building the Taj Mahal singlehanded.

      But eventually Nico, such a sweet, smiley baby boy, had become Bronte’s salvation, yanking her out of her grief and back into the world. She’d found a secure job as a nightclub cleaner and worked her backside off to raise Nico alone. And eventually she and Nico had found a rhythm. A rhythm which suited them. They’d weathered the highs and the many lows together. They were a team. And she’d kept her promise to Darcy. Until Nico’s paediatrician Dr Patel had told her two days ago—in her bright airy office at Westminster Children’s Hospital—that Bronte wasn’t the donor they needed for Nico’s treatment. And maybe they should look for a donor in his father’s family.

      Unlike Darcy, Bronte had always been a realist, a pragmatist, the one who knew people rarely, if ever, were as good as they appeared to be on the surface. And if she’d ever been an optimist she wasn’t one any more. But if the paediatrician had believed the devil himself was Nico’s СКАЧАТЬ