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want my money?’ he said, his tone mocking.

      ‘Of course I do.’ It gave great satisfaction to watch his ebony brows shoot up. ‘You have lots of money. I have nothing. I am broke. Boracic. Poor. Whatever you want to call it, I am skint. I’m also carrying a child whose father can afford to pay for a decent cot and wardrobe and a decent place for him or her to live.’

      He sucked in air through his teeth. ‘So you are trying to extort money from me.’

      ‘No!’ Clamping her lips together, Cara opened her handbag and took out a brown envelope, from which she pulled a square piece of paper. She handed it to him. ‘There,’ she said tightly. ‘There’s your proof. I’m not trying to extort anything from you. I’m sixteen weeks pregnant. You are going to be a father.’

      For a moment Pepe feared he would be sick. His stomach was certainly churning enough for it to happen. And his skin...his skin had gone all cold and clammy; his heart rate tripled.

      And no wonder.

      If this were a forgery, Cara had done an excellent job.

      The square piece of paper clearly showed a kidney bean. Or was it that alien thing he had watched as a child? E.T.? Either way, this was clearly an early-stage foetus. He studied it carefully. There was the name of the Dublin hospital on it, her name, Cara Mary Delaney, her date of birth and the due date of the foetus. He did the maths. Yes. This put her at sixteen weeks pregnant.

      It had been sixteen weeks since he’d been to Dublin...

      ‘You don’t look very pregnant.’ She looked thinner than he had ever seen her. She’d never been fat as such, more cuddly. While she hadn’t transformed into a rake, she’d lost some of her, for want of a better word, squishiness.

      ‘I’ve been under a lot of stress.’ She gave him a tight smile. ‘Unexpected pregnancy can do that to a woman. But the baby’s perfectly healthy and I’m sure I’ll start showing soon.’

      He looked again at the scan picture. Cara was a smart woman but he doubted even she could forge something of this standard. The resolution on this picture was more clearly defined than the one he had held and gazed at for hours on end over a decade ago, but everything else was the same.

      Cara was pregnant.

      He looked back at her, realising for the first time that she was shaking. It took all his control to keep his own body still.

      Dragging air into his lungs, he considered the situation as dispassionately as he could, which was hard. Very hard. His brain felt as if someone had thrown antifreeze into it. ‘Congratulations. You’re going to be a mother. Now tell me, what makes you so certain I’m the father?’

      She opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. ‘What kind of stupid question is that? Of course you’re the father. You’re the only man I’ve been stupid enough to have sex with.’

      ‘And I’m supposed to take your word on that, am I?’

      ‘You know damn well I was a virgin.’

      ‘I am not disputing that you were a virgin. What I am questioning is my paternity. I have no way of knowing what you got up to after I left. How do I know that after discovering all you’d been missing, you didn’t go trawling for sex—?’

      Her hand flew out from nowhere. Crack. Right across his cheek, the force enough to jerk his face to the side.

      ‘Don’t you dare pull me down to your own pathetically low standards,’ she hissed, her face contorted with anger.

      His cheek stung, smarted right where her hand and fingers had made contact. She might be small but she packed a proper punch. He could feel her imprint burrowing under his skin. He raised a hand to it. Her finger marks lay on the long scar that had been inflicted on him when he’d been eighteen. There were still times when he could feel the blade of the knife burn into his skin.

      ‘I will let you do that this one time,’ he said, speaking carefully, controlling his tone. ‘But if you ever raise a hand to me again you will never see me or my money again.’

      Her breaths were shallow. ‘You deserved it.’

      ‘Why? Because I pointed out that you are expecting me to take you at your word? Trust me, I take no one at their word, especially a woman purporting to be carrying my child.’

      ‘I am carrying your child.’

      ‘No—you are carrying a child. Until the child is born and we can get a paternity test done, I do not want to hear any reference to it being mine.’ After what Luisa had done to him, he would never take anything to do with paternity at face value again. Never.

      Only fools rushed in twice.

      * * *

      Cara itched to slap the arrogance off his face again, so much so that she dug her nails into the palms of her hands to find some relief.

      If she could, she would leave. But she couldn’t. She hadn’t been exaggerating about the state of her bank balance. Paying for the return flight to Sicily had left her with the grand total of forty-eight euros to last her until payday, which was still a fortnight away. It was one thing living on baked beans on toast when she had only herself to support, but it was quite another when she would soon have a tiny mouth to feed and clothe. And she needed to find a new home, one that allowed children.

      When she’d first discovered she was pregnant, her fear had been primitive, a cold, terrifying realisation that within her grew a life, a baby.

      Jeez. A baby. She couldn’t remember ever even holding a baby.

      That real terror had morphed when the freeze in her brain had abated and the reality of everything that having a child meant had hit her.

      A child would depend on her for everything. Love. Stability. Nourishment. Of the three, came the sharp knowledge that she would only be able to provide the first.

      At that precise moment, even more so than when she’d taken the pregnancy test, her life had changed irrevocably.

      What stability did she have living in a shared rented home that banned children? What nourishment could she provide when she barely earned enough to feed herself? Nappies alone cost a fortune on her salary. Maybe if this had all happened a few years down the line, when she’d scaled the career ladder a little higher and was earning more, things would have been more manageable. But they weren’t. At that moment she had nothing.

      ‘So that’s it, is it?’ she demanded, fighting with everything she had to keep her tone moderate, to fight the hysteria threatening to take control. ‘What do you want me to do? Give you a ring in five months and tell you if it’s a boy or a girl?’

      He speared her with a look. ‘Not at all, cucciola mia.’

      Cucciola mia: the endearment that had appropriated itself as his pet name for her during their weekend together. Curiosity had driven her to translate it on the same phone he had stolen from her. She had been more than a little chagrined to learn it meant something along the lines of my puppy. The way he said it though...in Pepe’s thick Sicilian tongue it sounded tantalisingly sexy.

      Momentarily distracted at the throwaway endearment, it took a second before she realised he was studying the scan picture.

      ‘I notice this was taken a month ago,’ he said, referring to the date of the scan shown clearly on the corner.

      ‘And?’

      ‘And it’s taken you all this time to tell me. Why is that?’

      How she hated his mocking scepticism, as if he were looking for a conspiracy in every little thing.

      ‘I didn’t tell you any sooner because I don’t trust you an inch—I wanted to be sure I was too far gone for you to force an abortion on me.’

      Pepe’s firm, sensuous lips tightened and his eyes narrowed, lines appearing on his forehead. After too long a pause, he

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