A D'Angelo Like No Other. Carole Mortimer

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      He hastily placed the piece of white linen on his shoulder and hefted the baby into one arm before he was able to close the office door behind him on the wide-eyed and slightly worried stares of Marie and Pierre.

      ‘Wow, this is some view...’

      Michael turned to see the violet-eyed woman gazing out of the floor-to-ceiling-windows at the view up the length of the Champs Élysées to the Arc de Triomphe; that view, and the prestigious address, were the main reasons for choosing this stunning location for the Paris gallery. ‘We like it,’ he drawled with hard dismissal. ‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind explaining yourself...?’ he added pointedly. ‘Beginning with who you are?’ Michael had wondered briefly if she wasn’t the persistent Monique from Rafe’s past, but the English accent seemed to say not.

      Eva turned, still holding a now-quiet Sam in her arms. ‘My name is Eva Foster.’

      ‘And?’ D’Angelo prompted when she added nothing else to that statement, those obsidian-black eyes blank of emotion.

      Eva eyed him impatiently. ‘And you obviously have absolutely no idea who I am,’ she realised with horror.

      He arched dark brows. ‘Should I have?’

      Should he have? Of course he should, the arrogant, irresponsible jerk— ‘Perhaps the name Rachel Foster would be more helpful in jogging your memory?’ she prompted sweetly.

      He frowned darkly even as he gave a slow shake of his head. ‘I’m sorry, but I have absolutely no idea what—or who—you’re talking about...’

      A red tide seemed to pass in front of Eva’s eyes. All these months of heartache, chaos, heartache, loss, and, yes, just plain heartache, and this man didn’t even remember Rachel’s name, let alone Rachel herself—!

      ‘What sort of man are you? Don’t bother to answer that,’ Eva added furiously as she began to pace the office. ‘Obviously so many women pass in and out of your privileged life, and your no doubt silk-sheeted bed, that you forget about them as soon as the next one takes up occupancy—’

      ‘Stop right there,’ D’Angelo advised harshly. ‘No, I didn’t mean you, little one,’ he added softly as Sophie gave a protesting whimper at the tone of his voice. His eyes were as black and piercing as jet as he turned back to Eva. ‘Are you implying that you believe I’ve been...involved with this Rachel Foster?’

      Eva’s eyes widened angrily, her cheeks warming with temper. ‘This Rachel Foster happens to be my sister, and, yes, you’ve been “involved” with her. In fact, you’re holding part of the evidence of that involvement in your arms right now!’

      Michael instantly stared down at the baby he held. Not a newborn, certainly, probably a few months old, possibly five or six, and very cute, as babies went, with her mop of black hair, those violet-coloured eyes, and her little face screwed up in concentration as she played with one of the buttons on the jacket of his several-thousand-pound suit.

      If this woman, this Eva Foster, was trying to say that he was somehow responsible?

      Shades of yesterday...

      ‘I’ve never met your sister,’ Michael stated firmly. ‘Let alone—I’ve never met her,’ he repeated coldly. ‘So whatever scam the two of you are trying to pull here I would advise that you forget it—’ He broke off abruptly as one of Eva Foster’s hands made loud and painful contact with one of his cheeks, causing the baby in his arms to let out another deafening wail. ‘That was uncalled for,’ he bit out between gritted teeth, his jaw clenched as he jiggled the baby up and down in his arms in an effort to silence her screams.

      ‘It was very called for,’ Eva Foster insisted heatedly, her face having become even paler as she moved forward to soothingly stroke the back of the baby in Michael’s arms. ‘How dare you stand there and deny even knowing my sister, accuse the two of us of trying to pull a scam on you, at the same time as you’re holding your own daughter in your arms?’ Her eyes flashed deeply violet in contrast to the emotional shaking of her voice.

      ‘I am not—’ Michael broke off to draw in a deep, controlling breath, his cheek still stinging from that slap. ‘Sophie is not my daughter.’

      ‘I assure you she is,’ she snapped.

      ‘Do you think we could both just take a couple of deep breaths, maybe step back a little, and try to calm this situation down? It’s distressing the babies,’ Michael added firmly as Eva Foster opened her mouth with the obvious intention of continuing to argue with him.

      It was unusual for anyone to argue with him, period, Michael being accustomed to issuing orders and having them obeyed rather than have people dispute them. Nor did he appreciate the added complication of this woman—a feisty young woman he acknowledged as being irritatingly beautiful—continuing to accuse him of fathering her sister’s babies.

      It was an accusation Michael didn’t appreciate. He’d learnt his lesson many years ago when it came to the machinations of women. And he had Emma Lowther to thank that, for teaching him to never, ever trust a woman, when it came to contraception or anything else.

      How many years ago was it since Emma had tried to blackmail him into marriage by claiming she was pregnant? Fourteen. And Michael still remembered every moment of it as if it were yesterday.

      Not that he had ever thought of shirking his responsibility. Oh, no, Michael had been stupid enough to think he was actually in love with Emma, had even been pleased about the baby, and the two of them had been making wedding plans for weeks when he introduced Emma to an acquaintance at a party, and she had decided within days of that introduction that Daniel, his family richer even than Michael’s, would be a far better choice as a husband. Which was when she had told Michael there was no baby, that she had been mistaken. Three months later she had tried to use the same trick on Daniel.

      The scene that had followed, once Emma had learnt that Michael had warned Daniel of her machinations, that there was no baby this time either, had not been pleasant!

      Emma’s pregnancy had been a sham, a trick to make Michael marry her, and it had been enough of a warning for him never again to trust any woman to take care of contraception...

      Which was why he could now confidently deny Eva Foster’s claim in regard to her sister’s babies.

      ‘Twins,’ she now corrected softly. ‘The babies are twins.’

      They certainly looked of a similar age and colouring: both had silky heads of ebony dark hair and the same amazing violet-coloured eyes as their aunt. Their features weren’t completely formed as yet, but there were certainly enough similarities for Michael to accept Eva Foster’s claim that they were twins.

      But whether they were twins or otherwise, they were not—most definitely not!—Michael’s children.

      ‘How old are they?’ he bit out tightly.

      ‘Trying to jog your memory?’ she scorned.

      ‘How old?’ Michael repeated through those gritted teeth.

      She shrugged. ‘Six months.’

      And СКАЧАТЬ