The Spaniard's Pleasure: The Spaniard's Pregnancy Proposal / At the Spaniard's Convenience / Taken: the Spaniard's Virgin

‘Well, don’t, because it’s not any of your business,’ she growled.

‘For the record, I have no especially strong feelings about virgins.’

‘How emotionally mature of you.’

‘Would this be the right moment to wish you a happy birthday? I don’t suppose that this was the way you planned to spend it.’

‘Nobody plans a day like today; they just have nightmares about it.’

‘Well, you’ll never forget it, at least.’

Or you. ‘Just like chicken pox.’ She lowered her eyes, which currently had a disturbing tendency to drift towards his profile.

‘Did you have something special arranged?’ Was some man waiting for her with flowers and champagne? ‘Now I understand your crankiness. I suppose I should apologise for spoiling your plans.’

‘I am not cranky! And…I was just having a quiet night in.’

‘Alone…?’

Fleur flushed, aware that she was in danger of appearing like a sad loser if she told him what her plans for her birthday had been. ‘What is this—twenty questions? You’re getting my life history and I don’t know anything about you.’

‘I thought reading those magazines had made you an expert.’

‘I suppose there might have been one or two things they missed out,’ she conceded lightly. ‘Unless you really do spend all your time making indecent amounts of money and attending film premières.’ Not alone, but she felt strangely reluctant to bring his glittering companions into the conversation.

‘I like to think my life is more balanced than that.’ His female family members might have disputed this. Actually, they frequently did. ‘What do you want to know? Ask away.’

It amused him that his passenger didn’t appear to appreciate what an extraordinary invitation this was. He still didn’t know what impulse had made him extend it. Volunteering information was not something he usually did. After a couple of incidents when he had first found himself in the media spotlight Antonio had turned being guarded and discreet into an art form, much to the intense frustration of those who pursued him.

‘Seriously.’

He shrugged and said, ‘Why not?’ His theory was that while he kept her angry or interested she wasn’t stressing about her imminent visit to the hospital.

‘Well, knowing your views on making lifelong commitments when you’re young, as I now do, and thanks for sharing that with me,’ she said with deep sincerity, ‘I was wondering how old you were when Tamara was born.’

His head turned and for a brief moment their eyes met. She saw the acknowledgment of her hit reflected in his face. Fleur settled back in her seat, satisfied she had made her point.

‘I’m not totally sure,’ he said a moment later.

Her eyes widened. ‘Not sure? The birth of their child is not the sort of thing that most people forget.’

Under the flickering street lamps Fleur saw an expression she couldn’t pin down flicker across his lean face. ‘I wasn’t around at the time.’

‘So you weren’t there at the birth.’ Her heart went out to the mother giving birth alone.

‘Tamara’s mother and I were not together when she was born.’

‘But Tamara lives with you now…?’

‘Her mother died a short time ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’ It seemed inadequate, but what else could she say that wasn’t equally trite?

‘Thank you, but Miranda has not been part of my life for many years. But, yes, when she’s not running away, Tamara is now living with me. It is a…new arrangement.’

‘I suppose it can be hard for fathers when their little girls start to grow up,’ she conceded generously.

‘This situation is different.’

Fleur shrugged. ‘I suppose we all think something is different when it happens to us.’

His vocal cords chose that moment to start acting independently of his brain and Antonio heard himself tell a total stranger, ‘I only met my daughter a week ago.’

Fleur’s first thought was that she had misheard him. ‘A week…?’

‘Eight days, to be precise.’ By all means be precise, Antonio, while you strip your soul bare to satisfy her curiosity.

Antonio’s father had been a man who held some pretty inflexible beliefs when it came to manly behaviour. High on the list of things that were signs of weakness and never to be indulged in by real men were crying, whining and talking about your feelings.

If Antonio had displayed any of these undesirable traits as a child his father had been disappointed…he had looked at his son and shaken his head.

For Antonio, who had worshipped his father, a sound beating would have been infinitely preferable to that shake of the head.

Even allowing for the balancing strong female influence in his life, something of his father’s attitude had inevitably coloured his own behaviour. As an adult it never occurred to him to seek out a shoulder, not even a pretty one, to cry on when the going got tough. And he most certainly did not blurt out private and personal details to total strangers.

Until now.

‘You didn’t have any contact with her while she was growing up?’

He could hear the frost in her voice. ‘None at all.’ He’d already told this woman far too much; he wasn’t about to defend himself to her.

Lips compressed, Fleur turned her head and looked out the window. She didn’t know why she felt disappointed. It wasn’t as if the things she had read about him suggested he was big on family values. He was a selfish, hedonistic egotist and they didn’t generally make the best fathers in the world.

‘And you’re surprised she ran away?’ He ignored the child all her life and then on a whim decided he wanted to play at being father. What did he expect? she thought scornfully, turning back to look at him.

‘So you blame me? You think tonight was my fault?’

‘It’s really none of my business.’

‘Well, that hasn’t stopped you from expressing an opinion so far.’

The angry words burst from Fleur. ‘Well, I just think—’ She stopped and bit her lip. ‘Well, there’s more to being a father than DNA. It’s a title you have to earn—’ She stopped again and turned her head to the window. ‘Sorry, it’s not my business…I just think…I’m sure you don’t give a damn what I think…why would you?’

Why do I? He thought about the lies that had been printed about him, and his indifference to them, and asked himself again…why did he care about the opinion of an inquisitive female he had never set eyes an until today?

‘You sit there looking so smug and superior, thinking—’

‘You don’t know what I’m thinking,’ she protested.