Mistress: Taming the Playboy. Sharon Kendrick

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      There was a pause while Laura thought about how best to put it, strangely reluctant to repeat Constantine’s wounding words. Was it her own hurt pride which stopped her from telling her sister how much he clearly despised her and all she stood for? ‘He said that although Alex looked Greek he couldn’t possibly risk acknowledging an heir to such a vast fortune as his without proof.’

      ‘The bastard!’

      And even though she’d hurled exactly the same word at him last night, Laura now found herself in the bizarre position of putting forward a contrary point of view. One that she had been thinking about during her early morning train journey. ‘I can see his point,’ she said carefully. ‘I mean, he doesn’t know that he’s the only possible contender who could be Alex’s father, does he?’

      ‘Didn’t you tell him?’

      ‘No.’ His anger had been too palpable; the mood between them too volatile. Why, he’d even accused her of using her virginity as a bargaining tool. ‘And even if I had he might not have believed me. Why should he?’

      Sarah frowned. ‘Laura—I don’t believe this! You’re not defending him, are you?’

      ‘Of course I’m not,’ replied Laura stiffly.

      But the truth was far more complex. She could see Constantine’s point—even though it hurt her to the core that he should think her capable of having lots of partners and just wanting to foist paternity on the richest candidate. The way she had acted the day she’d met him had been uncharacteristic behaviour she’d never repeated—but Constantine wasn’t to know that, was he?

      ‘For all he knows, there might have been a long line of Greek lovers in my life,’ she told her sister fiercely, blinking furiously to stop the rogue tears from pricking at her eyes.

      ‘What? All of them sailing their yachts into Milmouth?’ questioned Sarah sarcastically. ‘I didn’t realise our town was twinned with Athens!’

      ‘Very funny,’ said Laura as she pulled on her apron.

      But at least Sarah’s acerbic comments had helped focus her mind, and she went on the internet at lunchtime—cursing the dyslexia which made her progress slow as she laboriously pored over websites which offered information about DNA-testing. Sitting in the cramped little corner of the sitting room where they kept the computer, she studied it until she was certain she knew all the facts—and she was startled by the sudden sound of her cellphone ringing. She used it mainly for emergencies—only a few people had the number—and this was one she didn’t recognise.

      But the voice she did. Instantly.

      ‘Laura?’

      Briefly, she closed her eyes. Away from the cruel spotlight of his eyes, it was all too easy to let the honeyed gravel of Constantine’s faintly accented voice wash over her. It tugged at her senses, whispering over her suddenly goose-bumpy skin, reminding her of just how good a man’s kiss could make a woman’s starved senses feel.

      Appalled at the inappropriate path of her thoughts—especially when he was forcing Alex to go through the indignity of a DNA test—Laura sat up straight and glared at the computer screen. Get real, she told herself furiously.

      ‘Hello, Constantine.’

      ‘Ah, you recognised my voice,’ he observed softly.

      ‘Funny that, isn’t it? Yet, strange as it may seem, there aren’t scores of Greek men growling down the telephone at me.’

      Detecting a distinctively spiky note in her voice, Constantine frowned. Was she daring to be sarcastic—to him? And under such circumstances, too? ‘You know why I’m calling?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You will agree to the DNA test?’

      Laura gripped the phone tightly. What choice did she have? ‘I suppose so.’

      ‘Good.’ Leaning back in the sumptuous leather of his chair, Constantine surveyed the broad spectrum of the glittering London skyline. ‘I’ve been making some enquiries and I can either arrange for you to have it done at my lawyer’s office here in London—or he tells me that he can arrange for you to use somewhere closer to you, if that’s more convenient.’

      She heard an unexpected note of silky persuasion in his voice, and suddenly Laura was glad that she had done her research, glad that she wasn’t just going to accept what the powerful and autocratic Greek was telling her. What it was in his best interests to tell her.

      ‘I’m not using a lawyer’s office,’ she said quietly.

      There was a disbelieving pause. ‘Why not?’

      ‘Because I believe that doing so carries all kinds of legal implications,’ she said. ‘This test is being done to establish paternity to your satisfaction; it is not a custody claim. So I’m doing the test at home on a purely need-to-know basis.’

      Another pause, longer this time. Constantine had not been expecting her to query his wishes—to be honest, he had expected her simply to accept his agenda. Because people always did; they bowed to the dominance of his will. So just who did this mousy little waitress think she was to dare to oppose his wishes? He lowered his voice. ‘And if I object?’

      ‘You aren’t in any position to object!’ she declared, refusing to let that silky tone intimidate her. ‘You’re the one who wants this damned test—who is going to force me to take a swab from my seven-year-old son’s mouth. Have you thought what I’m going to tell him? How I’m going to explain that to a seven-year-old boy?’

      ‘And didn’t you think through any of this before you came to me?’ he flared back.

      The terrible truth was that she hadn’t thought through all the repercussions—instead she had been swept along by feelings which had been too primitive to allow any room for reason. She had felt an overpowering sense of injustice—because Constantine might be about to marry another woman and have a family with her without realising that he had another son who might know nothing but penury and spend his life living in the shadows. And she had thought he would recognise her—remember the night they had spent together with surely a bit of fondness. And then, in true fairy-tale fashion, she had imagined him acknowledging his son with a certain amount of Greek pride.

      And it was about you, too, wasn’t it? prompted the uncomfortable voice of her conscience. Aren’t you forgetting to put that into the equation? You were unreasonably jealous of the woman you thought was going to share his life—even though you had no right to be. And your actions

       helped contribute to the fact that the supermodel stormed out of the hotel suite, didn’t they?

      ‘Or did you think I was just going to roll over like a pussycat and sign you a big, fat cheque?’ he persisted.

      She had been about to admit her hastiness and lack of forethought, but his hateful remark made her bite it back. What an unremittingly cruel man he could be. Perhaps she had opened a whole can of worms, and Alex might be about to discover what kind of man his father really was. ‘I—I’ll organise the test,’ she said shakily.

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