The Unclaimed Baby (3 page)

‘I thought you would be used to the intrusion of the media by now,' she said into the humming silence.

He turned his head to look at her. ‘Believe me, Bronte, you never get used to it. Do you know what it's like having every moment of your life documented? The lack of privacy is unbelievable. There are times when I cannot even have a cup of coffee without someone wanting to take a picture. It drives me completely crazy.'

‘I guess it's the price of success,' she said. ‘You were
born into an extremely wealthy family. The public are fascinated by how the other half lives.'

He gave her a quirky smile as the lift stopped at his floor. ‘Are
you
fascinated,
cara
?'

She pursed her lips and stepped past him, holding her head at a proud angle. ‘You and your family hold no fascination for me whatsoever. I have too much to do in my own life to be keeping track of someone else's.'

As they came to the correct number he inserted his key card into the penthouse suite door and held it open for her to precede him. ‘So you haven't kept yourself up to date on all my affairs over the last two years?' he asked.

Bronte spoke without thinking. ‘There's been hardly anything about you in the papers and magazines. It always seems to be about your brothers. It's as if you disappeared off the face of the earth the first year after we broke up.'

He gave her a long thoughtful look as he closed the door behind him. ‘For a time that's exactly what I wanted to do,' he said, leading the way through to the large lounge. ‘What would you like to drink?' he asked over his shoulder.

Bronte was still thinking about why he'd wanted to disappear without trace. There had been something in his tone that seemed tinged with regret and a part of her wondered if it had something to do with her.

Of course not!
she chided herself crossly. He was a playboy who had had numerous affairs before she had come along. The only thing that might have set her apart was her innocence and naivety. He had obviously found that a novelty and was hoping for a rerun. She could see it in the dark depths of his eyes every time
they meshed with hers. She felt the rush of her blood too, which reminded her rather timely that she was not quite as immune to him as she would have liked.

‘Bronte?' he prompted, holding up a bottle of champagne.

‘Oh…yes, thanks,' she said, feeling gauche and awkward.

After a moment he handed her a fizzing glass of French champagne, the price of which, Bronte noted, would have paid her last electricity bill, not just for her granny flat but most probably the studio as well.

‘To us,' he said, touching his glass against hers.

Bronte hesitated before she took a sip. Luca watched her quizzically, one brow slightly elevated. ‘Not to your taste, Bronte?' he asked.

‘The champagne, I am sure, is lovely,' she said. ‘It's what we're toasting to that is not palatable.'

He held her flinty look with consummate ease. ‘You choose, then,' he suggested, holding his glass just in reach of hers. ‘What shall we drink to?'

Bronte raised her glass and clinked it against his. ‘To moving on.'

His brow went up a little higher this time. ‘Interesting,' he said musingly. ‘Does this mean the man you are seeing is a permanent fixture in your life?'

Bronte wished she could say yes. And if it was anyone but David Brougham she might well have done so. She felt she needed an excuse, a good excuse, not to see Luca again. It was just too dangerous; not because of Ella, but because of how he made Bronte feel. She could feel emotions bubbling under the surface even now. Dangerous emotions: needs that ached to be fulfilled, longings that wouldn't be suppressed, no matter how hard she tried.

She was supposed to hate him.

She
did
hate him.

He had abandoned her, leaving her when she was so vulnerable and alone. And yet one meeting with him and her mind was filling with images of them together: him kissing her, his lips sealing hers with such passion, his arms around her body, holding her against the surging heat and potency of his. How could she forget how he made her feel? Would there ever be a time when she would not feel her heart twist and ache when she heard his name mentioned or saw it in print? Would she ever be able to forgive him for not loving her, for not even respecting her enough to say goodbye face to face?

‘You seem to be taking rather a long time to answer my question,' Luca observed. ‘Which can only mean one thing: you are not seriously involved with him. If you were madly in love with someone, surely you would have no hesitation in telling me.'

Bronte drank some of her champagne, stalling for time, for courage, for anything. ‘It seems to me it wouldn't matter to you how I answered. You have your own agenda. That's what this little tête à tête is all about, isn't it?'

He wandered over to one of the massive leather sofas and indicated for her to sit down. He waited until she was perched on the edge of one of the cushions before he spoke. ‘I want to see you, Bronte. Not just tonight. Not even just now and again.' He waited a beat, his eyes intense and unwavering on hers. ‘I want to see you as much as possible while I am here. I want you back.'

Bronte's hand trembled as she held the champagne glass. She tried to hold it steady by cradling it with both of her hands, her heart beating like an out of time
pendulum. ‘I…you…I…I'm afraid that's not possible…' she faltered.

He came to sit beside her, his hand removing the glass from her shaking ones. ‘I mean it,
cara
,' he said and took both of her hands in his warm, dry ones. ‘I have never forgotten you.'

Bronte felt anger come to her rescue. She wrenched out of his hold and jumped to her feet. ‘I am not some stupid plaything you can pick up and put down when you feel like it,' she said. ‘You were the one to end things. You wanted a clean break and you got one. Coming back after all this time and telling me you've changed your mind is not just arrogant, it's downright insulting.'

Luca rose to his feet and pushed a hand through his hair. ‘Bronte, I wasn't ready for a relationship two years ago. You came along at the wrong time. God, how I wish I could have met you just a year later. Even six months later. Everything would have been so different then.'

She glowered at him and he felt a spike go through his chest. He had not expected her to hate him quite so much. This was going to be a little harder than he'd expected but he was prepared to work hard for what he wanted. If there were obstacles in the way he would remove them. If there was a way of winning her back to him he would do it, even if he had to resort to ruthless means. He had hoped he would not have to apply any sort of pressure. The rent thing was an insurance scheme on his part to get this far. First base was to see her again in private. He hadn't even thought as far as second and third. He had just so desperately wanted to see her again.

Bronte was still sending him looks with daggers and
spears attached. ‘So what brought about this sudden change, Luca?' she asked.

Should he tell her?
Luca wondered. He had told no one; not even his mother or brothers or elderly grandfather had known the truth about his trip to America until the deed was over and he was safely on the other side. He hadn't wanted his family to go through the agonising heartache of knowing they could lose him or, even worse, have him come back to them damaged beyond recognition. He had seen his father propped up in a semi-conscious state in the last weeks before he'd finally died from the injuries he had sustained in a head-on collision. That had decided it for him. He had wanted to spare his mother and brothers from witnessing anything as gut-wrenching as that.

Luca hated talking about that time, now that it was over. He liked to push it to the back of his mind, inside a locked compartment inside his brain. In the weeks and months afterwards he would creak it open almost daily, marvelling that he was still here, functioning and breathing and talking. Now he just wanted to forget it had ever happened. The shame of his body letting him down so cruelly was something he no longer wanted to mull over. Telling Bronte about it would only make it come back to haunt him. It was too personal and too private and there was no way he could risk anything being leaked to the press if she wanted to try her hand at a payback. It was better she didn't know. He just wanted his life to begin again from now. He was ready to move on and he wanted to do so with a clean slate.

‘I am at a time of life when I am looking for more stability,' he said. ‘What we had was good, Bronte.
Some of the happiest times of my life were those I spent with you.'

Her slate-blue eyes were dark with suspicion. ‘Were those good times just with me, Luca? Or are you getting me mixed up with someone else?'

‘I never betrayed you,
cara
,' he said. ‘There was only you during that time. No one else.'

Her eyes rolled upwards as she swung away from him, her arms doing that barricade thing across her slim body, warning him off, shutting him out. ‘You betrayed me by ending our relationship without a single explanation as to why,' she said in an embittered tone.

Luca took a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before he slowly released it. ‘I never intended to hurt you the way I did, Bronte. I accept full responsibility for it. I know it's hard for you to understand, but I had no choice. It was not the time for us. We met too soon.'

She turned back to look at him, her expression so scathing it actually hurt him to maintain eye contact. ‘So, now you've sown all your wild oats, you want what, exactly?' she asked. ‘You're not proposing marriage, are you?'

Luca was not going to offer something that would be thrown back in his face, or at least not yet. There were other ways to bring about what he wanted. More subtle ways. ‘No,' he said. ‘I am not proposing anything long-term at this stage. I am here in your country and I would like to see if what we had before can be resurrected.'

Her lips pressed so tightly together they went white. After a tense moment she expelled her held breath on a whoosh. ‘You are unbelievable,' she said. ‘You think you can just pick up where you left off, all things forgiven?
What planet did you just drop down from? As if I would agree to being involved with you again.
As if!
'

It was the tone of her ‘As if' that did it. Luca felt his temper snap to attention like an elastic band stretched to the limit. ‘You might not have any choice in the matter,' he said.

Her eyes flared as his words hit home. ‘You wouldn't dare…' She almost breathed rather than said the words.

He pushed his jaw forward, his eyes locked on hers. ‘I want you back in my bed, Bronte. If you don't agree then there is nothing more to be said between us. You will have one week to vacate the premises of your studio. If you don't vacate in one week the rent will increase substantially.'

Her soft mouth fell open, her eyes still as wide as saucers. ‘You can't mean that…' she swallowed and then swallowed again, her voice coming out even scratchier ‘…y…you can't possibly mean that…'

Luca came over to her and stood just within touching distance, his eyes pinning hers. ‘The decision is yours, Bronte,' he said, running a hand down her upper arm from shoulder to elbow, each and every pore of her flesh rising in shivery goosebumps under his touch. ‘Which is it to be?'

B
RONTE
couldn't think. Her mind was whirling like a fairground ride that had been set at too fast a speed. He wanted her to sleep with him. He wanted to resume their affair. He didn't want anything permanent. He was going to use her and discard her like he did before. Round and round the thoughts went until she felt dizzy and sick and heartsore. How could he do this to her? He was the one who had walked away. It wasn't as if she had done anything to hurt him. He had broken her heart, he had all but ruined her life and yet here he was acting as if she owed him!

She stepped back from him, biting the inside of her mouth until she tasted blood. She turned on her heel and began pacing the floor. She had to think of a way out of this.
Was
there a way out of this?

‘Come here.'

Bronte felt his two word command like hammer blows to her heart. How ruthless he sounded! She was nothing but a chattel, a possession he had bartered for. She stopped pacing and stood her ground, her chin high, with her eyes flashing their hatred at him. ‘If you want me then you'll have to drag me kicking and screaming for I will not come willingly.'

His lips slowly curved upwards in a sexy smile. ‘Are you absolutely sure about that,
tesore mio
?' he asked in a low husky drawl.

Now that you mention it,
Bronte thought in panic as she recalled his warm electrifying touch on her arm just moments ago. He had set spot fires all throughout her body with that one stroke of his hand along her upper arm. He had awakened every nerve of her skin, made her heart beat twice its pace and made a hole open up deep inside her, a hollow ache she knew from experience could only be filled by him.

He came back to where she was standing; actually, shaking was probably a more accurate description. He placed a broad fingertip beneath her rigid chin and slowly but surely lifted it until her eyes had nowhere to go but meet his. ‘It's still there, isn't it,
cara
?' he said. ‘The chemistry between us. I felt it the moment I walked into the studio this afternoon. I can feel it now. You can too. I can see it in your eyes. I can feel it when I touch you. You tremble all over.'

Bronte stopped breathing when he brought his mouth to the corner of hers. He brushed his lips against her skin, a feather-light touch that made her quiver in reaction, fulfilling every word he had just spoken about her response to him. Her body was her betrayer; she had no hope of disguising how he affected her. His warm hint-of-mint breath skated over her lips before touching down on the other side of her mouth, the same soft brush of lips on sensitive skin evoking the same heady rush of feeling inside her body. She heard a soft whimper and realised with a little jolt it had come from her mouth. Her lips had softly fallen open, her mouth an open invitation for the plunder of his.

But he didn't do it.

He smiled that lazy smile as he met her bewildered, uncertain gaze and then he slowly pressed a soft barely-there kiss to each of her eyebrows. ‘You have the most amazing blue eyes,' he said, low and deep like a bolt of satin dragged across gravel. ‘Like the heart of a flame, dark and fiery. They burn one minute and the next they shine like the surface of a deep ocean.'

She trembled all over as he ran his hands down both of her arms, his fingers encircling her wrists like handcuffs. She felt the soft tug that brought her flat against his body, her belly coming into contact with his arousal. Heat exploded inside her, pooling between her thighs, hot and fragrant with need. How could she still want him when she hated him so much? It didn't seem fair that her body would betray her so shamelessly. She hated herself for being so weak. She hated him for making her want him. She hated that she wanted to lean into him and offer her mouth and body to his to pleasure. The pressure of want was building deep inside her: an ache, a pulse, a drumbeat that would not be ignored.

‘Beautiful, sweet Bronte,' he said just above her mouth. ‘Do you have any idea how much I still want you?'

Bronte felt the proud probe of his hot hard flesh and felt an answering quake of want in her inner core. It was like a hungry beast growling for satiation inside her. Her body stepped up its demand for assuagement, torturing her with tiny exquisite reminders of the pleasure she had felt with him in the past. Her mind was full of images of them locked in erotic poses: his body pinning her from above, from below, from behind or up against the nearest wall or even on the kitchen counter, his body
pounding into hers, her arms locked around his neck or waist, her body coming apart time and time again.

‘Tell me you feel it too,' he said just above her mouth, his warm breath a caress, a temptation, a torture. ‘Tell me you remember how it was between us.'

Bronte was beyond speech. She just wanted to feel his mouth on hers, even if it was for the last time. Surely it wasn't wrong to want that? Just a taste, a reminder of how it felt to have him kiss her senseless. She pulled her hands out of the loose grasp of his and linked them around his neck. She looked him in the eyes, drowning all over again in their dark brown depths. And then she rose up on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to his, somehow knowing that in doing so she was passing a point of no return.

It was like fire meeting fuel. A burn of longing that flickered and then roared, consuming everything in its path. Her mouth opened at the first searing, searching thrust of his tongue, her tongue dancing with his, darting away shyly at first and then flirting with his outrageously, boldly, wantonly. He groaned deeply as he deepened the kiss, his hands guiding her body as he backed her up against the nearest wall, his mouth increasing its pressure, its heat and its passion until she felt as if she was being sucked into a whirlpool of clawing, desperate need.

With the wall at her back, his body had more leverage against hers. She felt the hard ridge of him against her belly, the pounding heat of his blood surging through his veins in primal response to his need to mate. She felt the urge too. It was beating inside her like a primitive tribal drum, the walls of her feminine core quivering in
anticipation of the delicious friction of his commanding possession.

His mouth was like a naked flame against hers. His kiss was scorching her but she returned it with matching heat, her tongue darting and diving in a cat and mouse game with his. His hands slid up her body and cupped her breasts, gently but possessively, his thumbs claiming her erect nipples as his own to pleasure, to caress and to tease into submission.

Bronte arched up against him shamelessly. She wished she could rip her clothes off in one movement to feel his warm masculine hands on her bare skin. She tugged at his shirt, pulling it free of his trousers, sliding her hands up his chest, her fingers exploring the hard musculature that had delighted her so much in the past. She felt the hard, flat nubs of his nipples and the scratchy dusting of masculine hair over his chest. He was in every way possible a man: strong and capable, lean but hard muscled, fit and virile, potent and irresistibly sexy.

His mouth moved from hers to her breast; the hot moist feel of him caressing her made her spine turn to liquid. She made a soft sound in the back of her throat, something between a whimper and a gasp.

‘I have dreamed of doing this,' Luca said throatily. ‘Touching you, feeling you respond to me. No one else has ever turned me on quite like you do.'

It was just the reminder Bronte needed that she was not the only one he had been with and she was certainly not going to be the last. He had worked his way through a glamorous array of women since he was a teenager. She had known of his playboy reputation when she first met him but somehow hadn't been able to resist his seductive charm. She was older and wiser now. And
she had responsibilities. Ella was her most important one. There was nothing she would not do to protect her baby girl. Denying herself this was a sacrifice she had to make. For now, at least, until she could find a way out of the honey trap Luca had lured her into.

She let her hands drop from around his neck, her eyes meeting his. ‘I can't do this, Luca,' she said. ‘Not here. Not like this. It's…it's too soon.'

His eyes seared hers for an endless moment, a muscle working in his jaw as he fought to control his rampant desire. ‘Remember our deal,' he said.

Bronte slipped out from his arms where they were propped against the wall either side of her head and put a little distance between their bodies. She struggled to get her breathing to steady, difficult when her pulse was fluttering like a hummingbird inside her veins.

‘Deal?' she asked with a scornful look. ‘Don't you mean the bribe you put on the table, Luca? Money for sex.'

‘That is rather a crude way of putting it,' he said.

‘It's the truth, though, isn't it?' she asked. ‘You want to turn me into a whore. You open your wallet; I open my legs. That's the so-called deal, isn't it?'

A nerve ticked like a pulse at the side of his mouth. ‘Don't cheapen yourself like that, Bronte.'

Bronte gave a choked laugh that was just shy of hysteria. ‘You tell me not to cheapen myself when you have insulted me more than any other person I know.'

He drew in a breath and moved across the room, standing at the windows that overlooked the shimmering lights of the city below. Bronte saw the stiff set to his broad shoulders, the straight spine and the long legs standing slightly apart.

She longed to go to him and wrap her arms around him, to take whatever he was offering, but she knew in the end it would only lead to further heartbreak. How could she ever trust he wouldn't walk out on her again? She would not survive it a second time. It had nearly done her in the first time. It had only been the responsibility of Ella that had made her come to her senses and grow up—and grow up fast. But, even so, it was tempting. Oh, dear God, it was tempting. To feel his arms around her one more time, to have him hold her as if she was the most precious thing in the entire world. How she had dreamed and longed for one more time with him over the last two years.

‘Fine,' he said after a long moment, his voice sounding hollow and empty. ‘You are free to go.'

Bronte felt her heart give a little start. ‘But I thought—'

He turned, his dark eyes hitting hers. ‘Go, Bronte. Before I change my mind.'

She swallowed and took a hesitant step towards the door, but then she remembered her clutch purse was sitting on the sofa. She glanced at it but, before she could move, he stepped forward and picked it up.

He came over to where she was standing and handed it to her. ‘This is all wrong, isn't it?' he said.

She rolled her lips against each other, not sure if he wanted an answer or not. Of course it was wrong. It was wrong for her to still want him, no matter what terms he laid down. It was shameless of her, needy and pathetic and desperate, but that was what he reduced her to. No man had ever made her feel so desperately in need. No man had made her heart ache with an indescribable
longing. No man had made her want to throw herself at him in spite of everything.

She had to leave.

She had to leave
now
, before he saw how close she was to offering herself for further hurt. She had to leave before these minutes alone turned into an hour or two of stolen pleasure that, just like in the past, would trick her too-trusting, too-romantic mind into thinking they had any sort of future.

‘I have handled this all wrong,' he said again with a rueful tilt to his mouth. ‘I should have called you first, given you some warning, perhaps. Maybe then you would not be so wary of me. You would have been better prepared,
sì
?'

‘Why didn't you?' she asked in a scratchy voice.

One of his broad shoulders rose and fell. ‘I wanted to see your instinctive response to me, not a rehearsed one.'

Bronte gave him a disdainful look. ‘You make it sound like some sort of social experiment.'

His eyes stayed on hers: dark, tempting, fathomless. ‘I would like to see you again,
cara
,' he said. ‘Tomorrow night. No strings this time. No threats or bribes or blackmail, just two people having dinner together. If you like, we can pretend we have met for the first time.'

Bronte chewed at her lip, torn between temptation and uncertainty. Was this some sort of set-up? What if he still wanted to pull the financial rug from under her feet? ‘The rent thing…' she said. ‘I don't have that sort of money. I think you know that.'

‘Forget about the rent,' he said. ‘I don't want you in my bed because you have no choice in the matter. I know
you will come to me, Bronte. It is inevitable. I knew that as soon as I walked into the studio.'

Had she been that transparent?
Bronte wondered. ‘You are deluding yourself, Luca,' she said with a proud hitch of her chin. ‘You mistook surprise for something else.'

His knowing half-smile travelled all the way to his eyes. ‘So beautiful,' he said, trailing a slow-moving finger down the curve of her cheek. ‘So very beautiful.'

Bronte flinched in case she betrayed herself completely. His touch was like a feather and yet it set every nerve screaming for more. ‘What's going on, Luca?' she asked, rubbing at her cheek as if he had tainted her.

His expression was like a blank stone wall. ‘What do you mean?'

‘This…' She waved her arm to encompass the suite. ‘You. Me. Us. I'm not sure what's really going on. I get the feeling there is far more to this than you're telling me.'

He gave her a small twisted smile. ‘Is it so hard for you to understand I wanted to see you again? Would it not have seemed strange for me to travel all this way, knowing you lived in the same city where I would be based and not at least try and make contact with you?'

Bronte's mouth tightened with cynicism. ‘Do you make contact with
all
your ex-lovers wherever you travel in the world? If so, I am sure by now your little black book would be classified as overweight luggage.'