Page 72 of Bound Enemies
I’d braced myself as he strode onto the terrace, bringing with him his usual tense, electric energy, and expecting once again his usual fury. Except it wasn’t there. There had been another expression in his dark eyes, and it wasn’t until he’d sat down and offered me his apology that I realised the expression was yet again one of regret.
He didn’t look away as he’d said the words. He held my gaze the whole time, letting me see that yes, hewasserious, and that he meant it.
It was the last thing I expected of him, and I honestly had no idea how to take it, especially considering that it was my stupid tears that had prompted it.
I really don’t like that he saw me being vulnerable. Even if those tears did cause him to have a change of heart, the fact that he saw them still makes me feel weak, and I’m angry at myself for not being strong enough.
Which doesn’t help me now that the truth has been revealed, the truth I already knew, that heisthe father of my child.
My insides knot and twist with anger and fear, and that nagging, unquenchable desire for the man across from me. A hot, toxic mess of emotion.
He has to know, though, that this is nothisdecision. This isourdecision, because I refuse to be cut out of my baby’s life.
His gaze flickers as if I’ve scored a hit, but all he says is, ‘Yes, of course it’s our decision.’
‘I’m not leaving my child,’ I tell him once again, in no uncertain terms. ‘What I would like is to bring them up at the Veracruz estate.’
He stares at me, unblinking for a long moment. Then he sits back in his chair, stretching his long, powerful body out as he folds his arms across his broad chest. ‘No,’ he says succinctly. ‘I live here in Paris and I’m hoping my mother will join me eventually. I would prefer the child to live with me.’
A little shock goes through me. His mother? Antonio never talked about his first wife, not a word. All I knew was that he divorced her years and years before he met me.
‘She’s here?’ I can’t help asking.
Something flickers across his face, gone too quickly for me to read. ‘Not at present.’ His tone darkens, an edge creeping into it. ‘But she’ll be here at some point, and I’m sure she’d very much like to meet her grandchild.’
Her grandchild. By her late husband’s second wife and son.
The situation seems so complex all of a sudden. So convoluted and difficult. I want to be back at the hacienda, where at least there was only myself to manage, and I didn’t have to think about Santiago and all the issues associated with him.
But you’re not. You’re here. He’s the father of your child and you’re going to have to deal with him one way or the other.
I take a sip of tea to moisten my mouth. ‘What exactly is your objection to moving back to Spain?’ I ask, trying not to sound confrontational for a change. ‘Is it just about your mother?’
His brows lower. ‘No. My head office is here and so are my employees.’ There’s no give in his tone, none at all. ‘Also…’ he pauses, his eyes glittering ‘…you made me a promise.’
A flush of heat goes through me. Yes, I did make him a promise. That if he wouldn’t take the child from me, I’d be in his bed. Right now, I’d love to break that promise, argue for staying at the Veracruz estate, since it’s mine now, and the thought of leaving what I thought would be my home fills me with exhaustion. But he’s a man without mercy, and, as he’s already made plain, he wants our child to stay with him.
I could fight him on this. I do have the resources. But they’re not limitless, and I’ll likely run out of money long before he will. It’ll be a protracted legal fight, and I really don’t want to spend my child’s inheritance on fighting with their father. Yet I want a home for them. A place where they feel they belong.
It could be here, in Paris. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, yet the idea feels precarious. This isn’tmyhome. This isn’tmyplace. After so many years to finally have a place of my own, and then to be ripped away from it would be devastating. Staying here will mean I’m the child’s mother and Santiago’s lover, but nothing else. I’ll have no legal right to anything. I’ll be back to having no power and no agency, unless…
I blink as an unexpected idea occurs to me. There’s one way I could have power here, one way I could legally feel as if this wasmyhome, too.
If I was his wife.
Across the table, Santiago’s black eyes narrow. ‘You’ve decided something,’ he says. ‘What is it?’
I meet his gaze, determined to hold it this time. ‘I’ll keep my promise to you, be in your bed the way you want me to be. But I want some protection for myself in return. Legal protection.’
His frown deepens. ‘I can draw up a contract if that’s—’
‘No,’ I interrupt. ‘I’m not talking about a contract.’
‘Then what are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about being your wife.’
The words hang between us, sharp and bright, and a strange, fizzing excitement moves through me, though I can’t think for the life of me why. Like my marriage to his father, it wouldn’t be an emotional marriage. It would be more a legal agreement that would provide me with some surety, stability, and protection.
