Logic had kept her from something so foolish. Dante didn’t want her; why would he want to know she’d had his child?
But this—this was different.
Fate, circumstance, whatever, had brought him back into her life. He had seen her little boy, asked her a direct question. How could she lie to him?
Now, waiting for him to react, she realized that she should have lied.
He looked as if he’d been struck dumb.
If this were an old movie, if she was Meg Ryan and he was Tom Hanks, he’d have gone from shock to joy in a heartbeat. But this wasn’t a movie. More to the point, this was Dante Orsini, the man who lost interest in a woman after a couple of months. She’d known his reputation—and she’d wanted him anyway. The part of her that yearned to be a sophisticate had said she could handle an affair like that.
Wrong. Agonizingly wrong. She had not been able to handle it, especially when he’d cut her from his life as if she’d never been part of it. How on earth could she have told him she’d had his child after that?
But she had told him now, only after he’d bullied her into submission.
No, she thought, watching him, no, this was not a movie. It was real life. And Dante’s face said it all.
Shock. Disbelief. Horror. His color had drained away until the same pale-blue eyes she saw in her baby’s face glittered like pools of winter ice in his.
She took a steadying breath. She wasn’t feeling very well. The auction. Ferrantes. Dante turning up and now this. Her head ached. The truth was, everything ached. Maybe she was coming down with something or maybe she was simply reacting to the endless, awful day. Whatever the reason, she wanted Dante out of here. She was not up to trying to explain anything to him or to hearing him deny that Daniel was his.
But, strange as it might seem, she could understand it.
She’d been in denial, too. Complete denial. She hadn’t even admitted the possibility she might be pregnant when she had missed her period. Her cycle had never been regular so she hadn’t thought anything about being late. She had no morning queasiness. No tenderness in her breasts. And then one night, alone in her bed because Dante was away on business, it had simply hit her.
Maybe she was pregnant.
She’d thrown on some clothes, rushed to the all-night pharmacy on the next block, bought a home pregnancy test kit, took it home, peed on the little stick…
Two hours and six test kits later, she’d slumped to the cold tile bathroom floor in horror. So, yes, she could see that Dante might react with shock….
“—be mine, Gabriella?”
She blinked, looked at him. His color was back. So was his arrogance. It was in his voice, in the way he was looking at her, even in the way he held himself. Aloof, removed, apart. Once, she’d found that lord-of-the-universe attitude sexy. Not anymore. She was no longer the foolish, impressionable woman who’d fallen for the great Dante Orsini.
“Did you hear me? I said, how could the child be mine?”
She felt the throbbing in her temples increase in tempo. The cold question hurt. She would not let him know that, of course. He had hurt her enough the night he’d handed her those damnable earrings.
“The usual way,” she said with deliberate sarcasm. “Or did you not take Sex Ed 101?”
“This isn’t the least bit amusing,” he said coldly. “I used condoms. Always.”
Yes, he had. Sometimes, she’d done it for him. They’d both liked that. She could remember, with heart-stopping clarity, the silk-over-steel feel of him against her palms. The feel of his hand in her hair, cupping the back of her head as she bent to him.
“Gabriella.” His voice was frigid. “Did you hear what I said? You know damned well that I always used protection.”
This was more than denial. He was accusing her of lying. She wanted to ball up her fist and hit him. What kind of woman did he think she was? Did he think she would make up a story such as this?
“What I know,” she said, “is that I became pregnant despite your ‘protection.’”
His mouth thinned. “If a condom had failed, I’d have known it.”
Oh, how she wanted to slap that superior-to-thou expression off his face!
“Of course,” she said with a bitter smile. “You are, after all, the man who knows everything.”
“I know that it would be difficult for anyone to see how I could have impregnated you.”
He sounded as if he were describing a laboratory experiment instead of the coming together of a man and a woman. Didn’t he remember how sex had been between them? She did. She could remember it all. Dante, between her thighs. His mouth drinking from hers. The feel of him, slowly entering her. The scent of his skin, the essence of their shared passion….
Deus, what was the matter with her? Why had she told him Daniel was his? This discussion was without purpose. The only interest he would possibly have in her baby was in convincing himself the baby was not his.
And that was fine, she thought, and moved briskly to the door, wrapped her hand around the knob and yanked it open.
“We are done here, Dante.”
“Done?” He laughed. “We haven’t even started. I want answers.”
“You have your answer. You asked whose child Daniel was. I told you. You denied it. We have nothing more to say to each other.”
He reached out his hand, slapped the door closed and stepped closer to her. He could feel his adrenaline pumping. Did she really think she could toss him out? Never mind that he owned this house. How about the bombshell she’d just dropped on him? Telling him the kid upstairs was his….
You asked, a sly voice inside him whispered.
Yes. He’d asked. And she’d answered. He had every right to follow up with questions—or did she assume he’d accept her fantastic claim just because she’d made it?
A man only did something that stupid once in a lifetime. He’d done a lot of growing up since the incident with Teresa D’Angelo.
“Let’s assume the kid is mine.”
Bile rose in her throat. “Go away,” she said, her voice shaking. “Forget this conversation ever took place.”
“Which is it? Are you claiming he’s mine or that he isn’t?”
It was too late to lie. “He is yours,” she said wearily, “but only by biological accident.”
“Did you know you were pregnant with the kid the night we broke up?”
“I told you,” she said, her eyes suspiciously bright, “he has a name. Daniel.”
“Fine. Great. Did you know you were carrying Daniel when we broke up?”
“The night you said I’d worn out my welcome, you mean?”
“Dammit, answer the question. Did you know?”
“What if I did?”
“Didn’t it occur to you to tell me?”
Her eyes brightened with anger. “When? Before the earrings or after?”
He felt his face heat. She made it sound as if he’d been trying to buy her off, as if this whole damned thing was his fault.
“I gave you a gift because I…I wanted you to know you’d meant something to me.”
Her hand flew through the air, connected, hard, with his cheek. He caught her wrist,