One Night: Latin Heat: Uncovering Her Nine Month Secret / One Night With The Enemy / One Night with Morelli

I sucked in my breath. I felt myself wavering. Of course I wanted all those things for my son.

“You’ll be a duchess, honored, wealthy beyond imagining.”

“I’d be the poor stupid wife sitting at home in the castle,” I whispered, hardly daring to meet his gaze, “while you were out having a good time with other, more glamorous women....”

His dark eyes narrowed. “I have many faults, but disloyalty is not one of them. Still, I can understand why you’d immediately think of cheating. Tell me—” he moved closer, his sardonic gaze sweeping over me “—did you enjoy having the use of Edward St. Cyr’s house? His jet?”

My eyes went wide. My mouth suddenly went dry.

“How did you find out?” I said weakly.

“Before my jet left Mexico, I told my investigators to dig into the layer of the shell company that owned the house in San Miguel. If it wasn’t Claudie who helped you,” he said grimly, “I intended to find out who it really was.”

Well. That explained why he’d stopped asking. “Why have you pretended all day you didn’t know?”

His handsome face looked chiseled and hard as marble beneath the gray sky. “I wanted to give you the chance to tell me.”

“A test?” I whispered.

“If you like.” His eyes glittered. “Women always find the quality of danger so attractive. Until they find out what danger really means. Tell me. Did you enjoy using St. Cyr’s possessions? His money? His jet? How about his bed? Did you enjoy sharing that?”

“I never shared his bed!” I tried not to remember the husky sound of Edward’s voice. It’s time for you to belong to me. Or the way he’d flinched at my reaction—an incredulous, unwilling laugh. He’d taken a deep breath. You’ll see, he’d whispered, then turned and left. Pushing the memory away, I lifted my chin. “We’ve never even kissed!”

“I see.” Lifting an eyebrow, Alejandro said scornfully, “He helped you out of the goodness of his heart.”

That might be pushing it. I bit my lip. “Um...yes?”

“Is that a statement or a question?”

“He’s a friend to me,” I whispered. “Just a friend.”

Alejandro looked at me more closely. “But he wants more, doesn’t he?” The sweep of his dark lashes left a shadow against his olive skin, his taut cheekbones, as he looked down at our baby in his arms. After all this time, he still carried Miguel as if he were no weight at all. He said in a low voice, “I won’t let my son keep such company. Because I, at least, have clear eyes about what danger means.”

“And I understand at last,” I choked out, “why you suddenly want to marry me.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Lena—”

“You say he is dangerous? Maybe he is. But if it weren’t for Edward St. Cyr, I don’t think I could have survived the darkness and fear of the past year. He was there for me when you deserted me. When you left me pregnant and alone and afraid.”

His face turned white, then red. “If you’d given me the chance—”

“I did give you a chance. You never called me back.” I took a deep breath. “I know now you weren’t the monster I thought you were. But I’ll never be able to trust you like I did. It’s lost. Along with the way I loved you.”

Silence fell, the only sound the children playing on the other side of the trees. I heard their shrieks of joy.

When Alejandro spoke, his voice was low, even grim. “Love me or not, trust me or not, but you will marry me. Miguel will have a stable family. A real home.”

I shook my head. He moved closer.

“You promised to come to Spain, Lena,” he said. “You gave your word.”

I threw him a panicked glance. “That was when—”

“Ah. You hoped you could break your promise, didn’t you? Perhaps with St. Cyr’s help?”

My silence spoke volumes. His dark eyes hardened. “You gave me your word that if I brought you to London, you would come with me to Spain.”

He was right. I had. Now, I felt so alone and forlorn. Alejandro was starting to wear me down. To break my will. To remind me of a promise I’d never wanted to keep.

“It will only lead to misery,” I whispered.

“Wherever it leads,” he said softly, “whatever we’d once planned for our lives...you are part of my family now.”

“Your family. You mean your grandmother?” I shivered, imagining a coldly imperious grande dame in pearls and head-to-toe vintage Chanel. A little like my own grandmother, in fact. “She will hate me. She’ll never think I’m good enough.”

He gave a low laugh. “You think you know what to expect? A cold, proud dowager in a cold, drafty castle?”

“Am I wrong?”

“My grandmother was born in the United States. In Idaho. The daughter of Basque sheep ranchers.”

“Idaho?” My mouth fell open. “How did she...?”

“How did she end up married to my grandfather? It is an interesting story. Perhaps you can ask her when you meet her.” His lips twisted grimly. “Unless you intend to break your promise, and refuse to go to Spain after all.”

I swallowed, afraid of what it would mean to go to his castle. Surrounded by his family and friends. Surrounded by his power. How long could I resist his marriage demand then?

“Enough. You always spend too long in your mind, going back and forth on decisions that have already been made. End it now.” Reaching into his pocket, Alejandro pulled out a phone and dialed a number. He pushed it into my hand. “It’s ringing.”

“What?” I stammered, staring down at the phone. “Whom did you call?”

“My grandmother. If you are breaking your promise to me, if you are truly not willing to bring Miguel to Spain to meet her, tell her now.”

“Me? I can’t talk to your grandmother!”

“No. I can’t,” he said coldly, “because I love her. You have no feelings for her whatsoever, so you should have no trouble being cruel.”

“You think I’m cruel?” I whispered as the phone rang.

His eyes met mine. “Tell her she has a great-grandchild. Introduce yourself. Tell her I’ve asked you to marry me. Go on.”

I stared at him numbly, then heard a tremulous voice at the other end of the line.

“¿Hola? Alejandro?”

It was a warm, sweet, kindly voice, the sort of voice that a grandmother would have in a movie, the grandmother who bakes cookies and is plump and white-haired and gives you hugs and tells you to eat more pie—or in this case, more paella?—because food is love, and she loves you so much that you’re her whole existence, her light, her star. It was the type of voice I had not heard since my parents had died.

“Alejandro?” The woman sounded worried now. “Are you there?”