Bound By Their Scandalous Baby

She felt dazed, giddy with pleasure, as the darkness began to lift. But then he thrust her away from him. The applause had died, to be replaced with hissed whispers, taut silence.

She got her first proper look at the face that had haunted her for over three years. But he looked nothing like the pictures she’d seen of his brother. His identical twin. His dark onyx eyes glittered with heat and contempt. The scar that ran in an arc down the left side of his face mesmerised her for one crucial second—she had read he’d acquired the disfiguring injury in a childhood accident—but the wound which had marred the perfect symmetry of his features had turned what should have been a classically handsome face into something brooding and intense and a million times more compelling.

She pressed her fingers to her lips, which felt tender from the pressure of his kiss, and watched as if in a trance as his sensual lips moved.

‘I see you’re still the same little whore who seduced my brother,’ he said, his voice so low she almost couldn’t hear it above the rumble of speculation from the crowd.

The words exploded in her head, shattering the moment of stunned arousal, as he clicked his fingers above his head, signalling the security guards she’d been dodging all evening.

Fear and anger, and disgust—with herself as much as him—combined in the pit of her stomach and her fist shot out.

The thud of the punch sounded like canon fire. She heard the muscles in his neck pop as his head snapped back—and pain exploded in her knuckles.

‘Your brother was the whore,’ she shouted. ‘Not Darcy.’

Hard hands grabbed her from behind. She struggled against the security guard’s hold.

‘Get her out of here and hand her over to the police,’ Blackstone said as he tested his jaw.

Her hand throbbed but he looked barely fazed by the punch as he flicked a contemptuous glance down her body, then turned and walked away.

‘Wait, wait!’ she shouted as the guard hefted her backwards, the crowd in an uproar. But Blackstone didn’t even glance back.

Nico. What have I done?

Horror at her impulsiveness fired through her.

She’d spent the last of her savings, and precious days, trying to contact this man. Had used every last ounce of the ingenuity and bravery she possessed to set up this one chance to meet him. And now she’d blown it in a matter of minutes because of one insane dance and a mind-blowing kiss.

The despair that had dogged her for weeks—months—ever since her nephew had been diagnosed with a rare form of blood cancer threatened to descend, as the security guard kept a tight arm around her midriff.

She was going to be arrested, kicked out of the US, possibly even remanded in custody. Lukas Blackstone would take out a restraining order against her and Nico would have no one. And no chance.

Mustering the last of her strength, she kicked hard against the security guard’s shin. He dumped her on the ground with a muffled curse. Scrambling up, she raced through the phalanx of photographers after Blackstone, who was heading back towards the stairs he had come down, clearly intending to leave the dance floor as abruptly as he had arrived.

She grabbed his sleeve, tugged as hard as she could, her knuckles still stinging from connecting with a jaw harder than granite. He jerked round, the livid red mark on his chin taunting her.

‘I’m not Darcy. I’m her sister. Darcy’s dead—she died three years ago. But I have to speak to you about her son. Nico is Alexei’s son too. I... Oof.’

The hard arm of the security guard locked round her tummy again, with bruising force this time, but as she was hauled back, Blackstone raised his hand. ‘Put her down.’

She was dropped to her feet. She staggered and would have fallen, but for the iron grip as his hand snagged her upper arm.

‘What did you say?’ Blackstone demanded.

* * *

She’s lying.

Lukas fought to regain his cast-iron control. And locate the cold hard logic he relied on which had deserted him the minute he’d set eyes on the woman. But as he held the girl’s slender arm, watched her pulse batter her collarbone and studied her heart-shaped face, seeing the anguish and defiance in her vivid emerald eyes, the sprinkle of freckles across her nose, the full lips reddened by his angry kiss—one realisation blindsided him.

This girl was not the woman who had disturbed his brother’s mind with her insidious lies four years ago. The shape of her face was different; she was slightly shorter—and she had none of Darcy O’Hara’s guile.

Strangely, the knowledge quelled at least a little of his fury.

He would have hated himself if he had responded to Darcy in that way. If she were really dead, he certainly felt no regret. But then he registered what else the girl had said. She was Darcy’s sister, and still peddling the same damn lie her sister Darcy had used four years ago to extort money from Alexei.

So was his attraction to this girl really any better?

He shouldn’t have touched her, certainly shouldn’t have kissed her. But the compulsion to teach her a lesson had become mixed up in a host of unbidden and unwanted desires as her fresh, subtle scent had engulfed him and her body had surrendered to his during the steps of the dance.

One look at those damn lips as they’d finished dancing, her panting breaths making her full breasts rise and fall against the bodice of her gown—and all he’d wanted to do was feast on her mouth.

He didn’t like it. He mastered his urges. Controlled them. Unlike his brother, he had learned at an early age that impulse and need were a weakness, and dangerous if you indulged either one. But he’d never had that control tested until about five minutes ago, when he’d spied her in the crowd. Instincts beyond his control had taken over at that point. It was something he would have to examine carefully after he was finished with her—because he did not intend to let it happen again.

‘Please, you have to listen to me,’ she begged, even though the flash of defiance in her eyes told a different story.

He felt a certain admiration for her. She might be as much of a gold-digger as her sister, but she had none of Darcy’s acting ability—her enmity towards him was plain on her face.

‘I have to do no such thing,’ he said. But he didn’t let go of her arm. Instead he walked towards the staircase, hauling her with him—the crowd already closing in on him.

‘Mr Blackstone, the police are on their way.’ Jack Tanner, the head of his security team for Blackstone’s Manhattan, fell into step on his other side, looking ill at ease.

And well he should.

‘Find out how she got past security,’ he barked, fuming at that oversight. ‘I want a full report on my desk in an hour.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Tanner replied. ‘Do you want us to take her off your hands?’ he offered, two of his security detail following close behind as they mounted the stairs.

The girl hadn’t objected to being marched out of the ballroom, but he felt her stiffen at the suggestion.

Pausing at the top of the stairs, he could see the paparazzi firing off shots from behind the security cordon and Dex Garvey having a microphone shoved in his face. The eyes of the guests were on them. This little incident was going to be all over the gossip columns in the morning and would already have started hitting the celebrity blogs and websites. He’d helped with that—by not resisting the foolish urge to dance with her, and then kiss her—but the icing on the cake would be the girl’s fatuous claim about Alexei having a child.

The pulse of loss hit him hard. And then fury reverberated through him. He’d make sure she paid for that piece of theatre. He had no doubt at all she’d been waiting for an opportunity to announce the lie at a moment when it would get maximum exposure—to increase the price of her silence and her bargaining position. That he’d gifted her the perfect photo op with that kiss only made him more furious, with himself as much as her.

This girl was about to find out that he could not be as easily manipulated as he had been four years ago, when he’d parted with fifty thousand dollars simply to save Alexei the embarrassment of having to make a public announcement that he was not responsible for Darcy’s so-called condition.

Well, Alexei was gone now—the car crash that had killed him while he was out of his head on cocaine and champagne a direct result of Darcy O’Hara’s lies, to Lukas’s way of thinking. So Lukas had no reason and certainly no incentive to pay another cent. But this girl needed to be taught a lesson. Once and for all.

He wasn’t leaving that task to the police or anyone else. He owed it to Alexei.

‘I wish to talk to her in private,’ he said to Tanner. ‘Keep the police busy until then. And get rid of the press.’ He would speak to Garvey tomorrow about a press release to quell any rumours arising from this evening’s events. Alexei had always wanted to avoid just such a necessity, but Alexei was gone now. And the truth could no longer hurt him. If anything, it ought to stop any more gold-diggers like the O’Hara sisters coming out of the woodwork.

He felt the girl’s body sag, no doubt with relief. As he marched her down the corridor towards his private suite he felt an answering surge of satisfaction. She thought she’d just got what she wanted. He was going to enjoy proving the opposite.

He entered the suite and hauled her in after him, then let her go. As she stumbled to a stop in the centre of the room, he slammed the door and clicked the lock.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, angered anew by the pulse of heat in his crotch which hadn’t subsided since that ill-advised kiss.