Bound by Their Scandalous Baby Page 3

  ‘I assure you it is true. My father got it on good authority from a number of specialists after a bout of mumps caused severe inflammation of Alexei’s testes as a teenager.’ The stormy expression on Lukas’s face lifted the veil of indifference—so he did care, about his brother at least.

  Bronte ignored the biting anger in his tone and struggled to get her head around this revelation. What Lukas was saying simply didn’t stack up.

  Alexei had been Darcy’s first lover—her only lover. Clearly Lukas believed what he was saying about his brother. Which would explain why Lukas had offered Darcy money to get rid of her, and Alexei had refused to answer her calls. Obviously the two of them had both thought Darcy was some kind of conniving gold-digger looking for a pay-off, and they’d wanted to protect Alexei’s pride. The fifty thousand dollars hadn’t been to pay for an abortion, as Darcy in her panic and confusion had obviously assumed; it had simply been to stop her from going public with the news of a pregnancy they both believed Alexei could not have been responsible for.

  But how did any of that explain why Nico looked so much like the Blackstone brothers? And how could Darcy possibly have got pregnant by someone else? If she’d never slept with another man?

  Whatever Lukas Blackstone believed, he had to be wrong. Because Alexei had to be Nico’s father. And that meant Lukas was still Nico’s best chance of a donor.

  ‘I don’t care if the whole world thought your brother was infertile. He wasn’t, because Nico is his son. Darcy said so, and you only have to look at him to know it’s true.’

  Lukas’s face hardened, the tic in his jaw going berserk. The lion was about to pounce, but she didn’t care any more; she would prod and provoke him until he accepted the truth—and gave Nico a chance.

  ‘Clearly you’re as much of a fantasist as your sister.’ He drew a mobile phone out of his pocket and began to key in a number as he spoke. ‘Your time’s up, Miss O’Hara, and this farce is over.’ He lifted the phone to his ear.

  ‘Stop!’ She grabbed his arm, horrified by the spurt of heat that snaked up her torso at the feel of his muscular forearm tensing beneath the sleeve of his tuxedo. ‘Before you have me arrested. Just stop and think for a moment. What if the doctors were wrong? What if, by some miracle, your brother did father a child and Nico is all that’s left of him?’

  ‘I don’t believe in miracles,’ he said flatly, not surprising her in the slightest, but then he lowered the phone.

  ‘Neither did I...’ she said, because she hadn’t until this very second, but she could see the spark of irritation—and she thanked God for it, because it was enough to give him pause. ‘Let me show you a photo of Nico,’ she said, pouring the last of her hope into the plea. ‘I’ve got loads of them on my phone—which is in my bag hidden behind the industrial dishwashers in the kitchens downstairs.’ As well as the waitress uniform she’d used to sneak into the event. ‘If once you see it you’re not convinced to at least investigate the possibility that Nico is related to you and your brother, I’ll never darken your door again. I promise.’

  It wasn’t exactly much of a bargain. After all, he was about to have her escorted off the premises and thrown in jail. The chances of her ever being able to get within fifty feet of him again were unlikely. But it was the only bargaining chip she had.

  She waited for a few pregnant moments. Her heart shrank in her chest when he glanced down at her fingers and she removed her hand from his sleeve. But when he lifted the phone to his ear again her breath clogged her lungs, the desperate bubble of hope expanding in her throat.

  Please, God, let Lukas Blackstone give Nico this one chance. And I’ll never ask for another miracle again. I promise.

  ‘Tanner,’ he said into the phone—his voice seeming to echo from a million miles away as the painful hope began to cut off her air supply. ‘Get one of the team to go to the kitchens. There’s a bag hidden behind one of the dishwashers. Bring it here.’

  The breath that shuddered out made her giddy, the light in the room becoming blinding. ‘Thank you.’

  He tucked his phone into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket.

  ‘I’ll give it to you,’ he said, his scepticism still plain on his face. ‘You’re as good an actress as your sister.’

  She nodded, suddenly feeling the urge to laugh at the odd note of admiration. But as the hollow chuckle worked its way up her chest, his face—dark and forbidding and unconvinced—seemed to float in front of her. Until all she could see was the scar, pulsing and glowing in the light.

  She lifted a finger, which felt like a dead weight attached to the end of her palm—no longer able to control the urge to explore the rough skin.

  Her fingertip touched his cheek. His eyes flared, the dark fire burning her from the inside out. But he didn’t move as she drew her finger along the jagged line, feeling the warmth of his skin, the flex of the muscle in his jaw. And the pain in her stomach clenched and released, his face melding with Nico’s.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, her heart breaking for him as she imagined him as a boy—like Nico—vulnerable and hurting.

  He stiffened and drew away, the flare of irritation turning to something much more dangerous. She dropped her finger, blinking furiously to keep the exhaustion—and that strange foggy feeling of connection—at bay.

  What on earth were you thinking?

  ‘Don’t touch me again, Miss O’Hara,’ he said. ‘I can’t be swayed by a beautiful woman the way my brother was.’

  She collapsed onto the couch as he ordered the two bodyguards who had been outside the door to watch her. But as he left the room one foolish, shameful thought ran through her mind...

  Did he just call me beautiful?

  * * *

  The next twenty minutes seemed to last a millennium or two, as Bronte tried to keep alive the vague hope that everything would work out okay when Lukas saw Nikky’s photo.

  The huge picture window opposite the couch looked out onto the Manhattan night, the room’s muted lighting casting a warm glow over the white stucco walls. The exquisite cream and blue silk furnishings were a keynote of the Blackstone brand, expensive and stylish—and yet more evidence of Blackstone’s wealth and power, as if she needed it.

  Their conversation—and her ignominious exit from the Ball—kept running through her brain, along with the visceral punch of heat. Her head started to ache as a flush of reaction worked its way up to her hairline. The two bodyguards remained by the door, apparently oblivious to her distress. Or maybe they were just being polite.

  ‘Do you think I’ll get arrested?’ she finally managed, hoping to distract herself with conversation.

  ‘That will be up to Mr Blackstone,’ said the older one, not unkindly.

  Just as the guard said the words, the door opened and in marched the man himself, sucking all the oxygen out of the room. Bronte pulled herself upright, feeling desperately exposed in her faded ball gown as his gaze raked over her.

  The two bodyguards straightened, like soldiers snapping to attention.

  ‘Leave us,’ Blackstone said, and they both left with a discreet nod.

  Did Blackstone have that effect on all his employees? she wondered as her own heart galloped into her throat.

  Blackstone had taken off his tuxedo and the black tie. The rolled-up sleeves of his white dress shirt emphasised the muscular power of his forearms—deeply tanned and furred with dark hair. The waves of hair on his head shone black in the room’s lighting and lay in deep grooves as if he’d run his fingers through it, but if he was at all unsettled by their encounter he certainly wasn’t showing it. His expression was as intent and controlled as before.

  Bronte swallowed. She felt shaky but she had the distinct impression that showing any weakness to this man would be a major mistake.

  Her head began to pound, the heat on her cheeks scalding her insides as his gaze trav
elled over the creased satin dress. Somehow her hair had collapsed—she couldn’t even imagine what a wreck she must look like, but she pushed the futile moment of vanity to one side. She didn’t have time to care about her appearance, or what he thought of her.

  ‘Have you seen the pictures of Nico?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘You have?’ The panic became huge. He still looked unmoved and impassive. How could he not have noticed the resemblance? Between himself and Nico? When it was so clear to her? ‘But surely...’

  ‘My medical team have contacted the paediatrician at Westminster Children’s Hospital in your phone’s contacts,’ he cut into her frantic reasoning.

  ‘Then you believe me?’ she said, the hope like a sunburst inside her.

  But, instead of looking moved, he simply frowned. ‘There’s enough of a resemblance to require further investigation. That’s all.’

  It’s not a no.

  She clung to the lifeline, feeling light-headed again. ‘When?’ she asked, knowing that time was of the essence. ‘When are you planning to do this further investigation?’

  Please let it be soon. Surely he could get tested in New York. That would work. They could feed the results back to the team in the UK, then they’d know if Blackstone was a suitable partial match for the new treatment.

  He glanced at his watch. ‘We’re leaving in twenty minutes, once the helicopter is fuelled.’

  ‘We?’ she said, staggered. ‘Where are we going?’ And in a helicopter?

  ‘To JFK,’ he said, as if it were obvious. ‘The company jet is taking us to London. We should arrive by eight a.m. tomorrow. The hospital is expecting us.’

  The leap of joy despite his sharp tone almost choked her. ‘Really? You’ll get tested straight away then?’

  ‘All I’m prepared to do is a DNA test,’ he said flatly. He still didn’t sound that convinced, but she didn’t care. Because she knew once the DNA results came in the truth would be revealed.

  ‘And when Nico turns out to be Alexei’s son?’ she asked, her joy hard to contain. Because she knew he wouldn’t have a choice then. He would have to get tested, once he knew for sure Nico was his nephew.

  She hadn’t messed everything up by punching him. Nico still had a chance.

  But, instead of saying anything about that, he simply said, ‘Then you’re going to have some serious questions to answer.’

  He stalked out of the room and an assistant arrived with a borrowed coat and her bag. And as she got ready to leave it dawned on Bronte that her battle with Lukas Blackstone was far from over. Because he didn’t sound excited or remotely pleased that he might have discovered a long-lost nephew.

  He sounded furious. With her. And the whole situation. And more formidable and unforgiving than ever.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE HELICOPTER CIRCLED the roof of Westminster Children’s Hospital ten hours later. Bronte wrapped her coat around her, still wearing the green satin gown she’d attended the Blackstone Ball in what felt like several lifetimes ago. She had no idea where her tote had ended up and she certainly wasn’t about to ask Lukas about it. .

  She’d barely spoken to him during the journey. The questions whirling around in her head about Nico in between the fitful sleep she’d managed on the luxury jet all ones she was too scared to ask as they were whisked from JFK to Heathrow.

  Not that he’d given her much of an opportunity. He’d ignored her during the journey, working on his laptop and taking a series of calls during the helicopter flight from the hotel in Manhattan and on the flight across the Atlantic.

  Bronte had been overawed enough by the whole experience—she’d never travelled in a helicopter before, let alone a private jet—without borrowing more stress by trying to interrogate the man about his intentions towards his soon-to-be nephew. But that hadn’t stopped the questions flooding her brain as he ignored her.

  She’d stupidly assumed when he told her of the trip that he must be softening. But why should that be the case? Dread edged out the last of the hope in her stomach. What made her think that Lukas would be any better than most men? Her own father had discarded her and her sister when they were almost too young to remember him, walking out one day and simply never coming back.

  Their mother had spent years searching for him, convinced he’d been killed in some freak accident, or lost his memory or some such fanciful nonsense, only to discover ten years after he’d disappeared—from a chance article in a local paper—that he’d been living in a neighbouring borough with his new wife.

  Bronte huddled in her coat as the crisp morning air slid through the helicopter cabin and the vast black machine’s runners touched down on the hospital helipad. The memory of that hideous day still haunted her.

  She could still remember the childish anticipation as her mother had dressed her and her sister in their Sunday best clothes and told them they were going to see their daddy. And the dispassionate look on the strange man’s face when he answered the door and told her mother he’d moved on. He hadn’t even glanced at Bronte and Darcy as they clung to their mother’s side.

  Her mother had sobbed all the way home on the Tube. And the truth was Ellie O’Hara had never really recovered from that final terrible rejection.

  Bronte had made a point of never thinking of her father again. Of trying to erase that day, so she could bury all those gut-wrenching feelings of inadequacy and insecurity that were wrapped up in her only real memory of him. But she couldn’t seem to stop herself from replaying it in minute detail ever since she’d boarded Lukas Blackstone’s private jet.

  Probably because thinking about her father made her think of the only other time in her life when she had been forced to focus all her hopes and dreams on the reaction of a man who had the emotional integrity of a stone.

  The problem was, knowing what a bastard Lukas Blackstone was didn’t help. Because all it did was make her more aware of exactly how powerless she was.

  What would she do if Blackstone refused to help Nico when the blood tie was confirmed? And, really, how good were the chances he would help? She’d had that momentary surge of optimism, but her hope seemed more and more misguided. What evidence did she have that Lukas was even capable of any emotion other than anger and cynicism?

  Lukas left the aircraft with the executive assistant. Bronte scrambled after them.

  Seeing Dr Patel and her wonderful neighbour Maureen Fitzgerald, who had been visiting Nico at the hospital while she was away, standing at the entrance to the heliport gave her some relief.

  She was going to see Nico. After three days away from him in New York, she’d missed him terribly.

  ‘Mr Blackstone, I’m so pleased you have agreed to come,’ Dr Patel greeted Lukas with a smile on her face. ‘As I told your medical team on the phone, Nico is...’

  Lukas held up his hand. ‘There’s no point in talking to me about the boy until we get the results of the DNA test. Then we can proceed. I believe my legal team have also been in touch.’

  Legal team?

  ‘What legal team?’ Bronte asked, unable to keep the high note of panic out of her voice. She was jetlagged and exhausted; she needed to see Nico, but she didn’t like the way Lukas Blackstone seemed to be taking over. He was in the UK now. He couldn’t just order her or the staff around.

  Apparently, though, Lukas hadn’t got the message because he barely spared her a glance before saying, ‘Perhaps you should go and see your nephew. I don’t think we require your presence while I take a blood test.’

  She wanted to argue, to ask again why his legal team were getting involved in any of this, but as Lukas and his entourage were ushered down the hallway by Dr Patel, Maureen stepped forward to give her a motherly hug.

  ‘Bronte, it’s so good to see you. Nico will be overjoyed. He’s been asking after you every day. I brought the clothing you
texted about.’

  ‘Oh thank you... I can’t wait to see him too,’ Bronte said, grateful for Maureen’s steadfast presence and the chance to change out of the gown. But as she craned her neck, trying to see Lukas’s tall frame as he disappeared down the corridor, a terrible feeling of foreboding descended.

  ‘And it’s such spectacular news that Mr Blackstone has come over to help,’ Maureen added, but the enthusiasm in her voice only made the ball of anxiety in Bronte’s stomach knot.

  ‘Is it?’ she said.

  Maureen’s warm smile became quizzical. ‘What’s wrong, dear? You don’t look as ecstatic as I thought you would.’

  Bronte sighed. Maureen had been her rock ever since she’d moved into the flat above Bronte’s a year ago. A retired nurse with no family of her own, she had been only too willing to step in whenever Bronte needed a babysitter. She’d been indispensable since Nico’s illness. And Nico adored her.

  ‘I’m not sure Blackstone has any intention of helping Nico, even if the DNA test comes back positive,’ Bronte said, voicing her fears.

  Maureen glanced over her shoulder, but her smile remained relaxed. ‘Bronte, you’re tired. And stressed. You really mustn’t worry any more than you have to. Dr Patel told me Mr Blackstone made a million-dollar donation to the hospital’s charitable trust last night. And he’s come all this way. Surely he wouldn’t have done all that if he didn’t intend to help Nikky?’

  Blackstone had made a million-dollar donation? The news stunned Bronte, but it did nothing to ease her panic, or her sense of foreboding.

  Maureen squeezed Bronte’s arm. ‘All you really have to worry about now is whether Mr Blackstone is the match we need.’ The older woman’s smile glowed with all the optimism Bronte no longer felt. ‘Given that he’s the spitting image of Nikky, I think we can already hazard a guess what the DNA test will reveal.’

  Bronte nodded, forcing her jetlagged mind not to go to places she couldn’t handle right now. ‘Okay.’