Expecting His Love-Child

‘Sorry?’

‘It would appear rude to not turn up—and in my family appearance is everything.’

‘Well, thank you…’ Millie said. ‘You’ve no idea how much it means.’

‘I have a very good idea what it means,’ Levander corrected her. ‘I know how important that first sale is—and, yes, I could have bought your painting—given you the red dot on your work for the world to see—but that would be cheating, yes?’

On so many levels, Millie realised, staring up at him. His skin was white in the street light, contrasting with the hollow shadows of his cheeks, his eyes two dark, unreadable pools.

‘It will sell—some things that are truly beautiful don’t always catch the eye first time around.’ Levander’s voice was a caress. ‘Sometimes you need to actually stop and take another look.’

He was certainly taking a good look now. His gaze was so intense, his face so close she could feel the heat of his breath on her face. She thought for a blissful second that he was going to kiss her, but instead it was his rich deep voice that bathed her senses, his eyes quizzical as they assessed her. ‘So, you leave tomorrow?’

‘In the morning.’

‘And have you enjoyed your time in Melbourne?’

‘I haven’t really seen anything of it.’ She gave a tiny shrug. ‘I’ve been to a few galleries, a couple of shows—but mainly I’ve been working…’ Her voice trailed off, her simple answer somehow giving him an opening she’d never intended. Millie’s breath caught in her throat as Levander took it.

‘Then we’d better get started. Come…’ He pointed to where a pony and trap was pulling in across the deserted street, tourists climbing down, the weary trap rider about to dismantle and head off home. He shook his head when Levander called for him to wait.

‘Sorry, mate. That was the last ride for the night—back again tomorrow.’

‘I will talk with him.’ Levander turned to go, but she shook her head.

‘It doesn’t matter. It’s late…’ Millie attempted, struggling in quicksand as she stared into his eyes. ‘And I’ve got a plane to catch tomorrow…’

‘Plenty of time to sleep on the plane, then.’

But a blip of sensibility was invading now. She was playing with fire here, and her assessment was based on not just what she had read—Anton himself had warned her, and Levander’s own dining companion hadn’t exactly given him a glowing reference.

‘You’re a cold bastard.’

The pain in her voice had been real, the emotion that had choked out those words hadn’t been manufactured—and Levander’s response had done little to dispute the accusation.

What the hell was she doing?

It would be madness to go with this man.

‘Really…’ Millie swallowed hard. ‘It’s probably not such a good idea. I’ve got so much to do, and you—well you…’

‘Don’t worry about me.’

‘You just broke up with your girlfriend, Levander…’ She wasn’t going to play games. ‘You’re probably feeling a bit…’

‘You have no idea how I am feeling…’ Instead of walking away, he stepped closer, took her face in his hands, his warm skin actually cool on her stinging cheeks. ‘And I did not break up with my girlfriend—Annika is my half-sister…’

‘It was your half-sister you were rowing with?’

Levander nodded, his eyes narrowing. ‘What did you hear?’

‘Nothing.’ Millie blushed. The only thing she had heard was that he was a cold bastard, but she could hardly tell him that. ‘I just saw her flounce off.’

‘And that is all?’

After a beat of hesitation she nodded.

‘Siblings fight.’ His breath mingled with hers, and that cynical mouth was so close Millie could almost taste it—like a chocolate cake cooking in the oven, teasing her senses…

‘She’s really your half-sister?’ Millie checked, wanting to believe him but scared to at the same time. Wanting him to kiss her but worried that he would.

‘Who else would I allow to talk to me like that?’ Levander answered. ‘Now, you wait here.’

What had she heard?

Levander’s hackles were raised, his mind, eternally vigilant, racing as he recalled not just his conversation with Annika, but the times Millie had been present.

At first he’d barely noticed her—a waitress not meriting even a glance from him, especially with the tense subject matter that had been forcing his attention—and then she’d moved to clear his plate.

Her heavenly scent had reached him, her tiny embarrassed smile as she’d caught his eyes, and from that second on he’d thanked her for the distraction—thanked this unknown woman who had allowed his mind to detour as Annika delivered the fatal news and shrilled the family’s demands.

So much more pleasant to stare over Annika’s shoulder and watch the woman, the pink flush on her cheeks, her blonde curls tumbling further out of their hair tie with each swoosh through the kitchen door, her slight exasperation as she dealt with a rowdy table. He had felt surprising pleasure as he’d watched that full, pretty mouth nibble on the end of her pen between writing down orders. And later, when still Annika had persisted, when it had all been just too much to deal with—his battle to remain outwardly calm despite the emotions churning within—it had been a welcome relief when she’d returned to his table. Her soft fragrance had been such a contrast to the bitter musk of the Kolovsky perfume Annika had doused herself in—a delicate hint of vanilla and something he couldn’t define, like a breath of fresh air—and as she’d leant forward to clear his table he’d tried and failed not to notice the slight tug of her blouse as it strained over her breasts. He had actually had to look away when she’d stooped to retrieve a dropped napkin and he’d caught a glimpse of the creamy flesh of her cleavage.

He wanted her.

Handing the rider a sizeable wad of notes, he bought them a little more time—but somehow he knew it wasn’t enough. That if he made a move too soon—she’d run like a squirrel up a tree.

And yet if it was sex he wanted there were easier ways. He could head back to the hotel, return any one of the endless messages that would undoubtedly be on his answering machine and lose himself tonight.

How he wanted to lose himself.

Like a judge summing up, he bitterly assessed the conversation that had taken place with Annika—the family demands that had been delivered by the sweetest, the most vulnerable of them all.

His father was dying.

Which, according to the family, meant there was now no question of Levander leaving—no question of him turning his back on the people who had apparently given him everything he possessed.

Five more years of hell was what they were demanding.

Levander had gritted his teeth at the prospect, but the sentencing hadn’t ended there—a wife and child had been added to the non-parole period.

Well, they could all go to hell!

He’d more than served his time—he had saved the House of Kolovsky from financial suicide almost the second he’d joined the firm. That they now had the audacity to think he actually owed them anything made Levander’s stomach churn with loathing.

To think that that bastard, after all he had done—

‘Hey.’ Her sweet voice broke into his black thoughts, her smiling, trusting face such an engaging contrast with the hard-nosed women he was too used to dealing with. ‘Did you manage to persuade him?’