Lola slept nearby now, and Gypsy could hear her baby breaths, light and even. Usually the sound comforted her, but her stomach hadn’t unclenched all evening—or, in truth, since she’d seen Rico just last night. Just last night. It was hard to believe that within the space of twenty-four hours she was ensconced in his apartment. But then, she surmised grimly, she’d feared exactly this kind of autocratic takeover all along.
And yet her conscience niggled her. While he was being just as controlling as her father had been, she couldn’t deny the fact that, unlike her father, Rico was showing nothing but signs of accepting Lola.
He’d come into the kitchen where she’d been making herself some cocoa after putting Lola down for the night and said coolly, ‘I’ve arranged for my doctor to come in the morning. He’ll take swabs from Lola and I, and we’ll have paternity proved within the week.’
Without giving her a chance to say a thing, he’d continued relentlessly, ‘I don’t see any point in your going anywhere until we have the results of the paternity test, so you will remain here for the week. Once it’s established that I’m Lola’s father, the first thing we will see to is amending the birth certificate so that my name is added.’
Utterly remote and cold, he’d inclined his head then, and said, ‘If you’ll excuse me? I have some work to attend to in my study. I trust you know your way around now?’
Gypsy had nodded, intimidated by this ice-cold man. ‘Mrs Wakefield was more than helpful.’
‘Good.’ And without another word he’d strode out of the kitchen.
Gypsy had heard a sound then, on the baby monitor. Straining her ears, she’d just been able to make out that Rico must have gone in to look down on Lola. Her heart had lurched treacherously at realising that. There was silence for a long moment. She’d heard his breath, and then something indistinct that sounded like Spanish.
With a shiver, Gypsy realised that even if his initial acceptance of his own flesh and blood wasn’t mirroring her father’s cold rejection of her the outcome would be the same. Rico was staking his claim, vowing not to let his daughter be taken away from him. Vowing to make Gypsy pay…just as her father had done to her mother—albeit for different reasons.
In Gypsy’s case, once Social Services had been involved, and her father had had no choice but to acknowledge her, he’d made sure that Gypsy had never seen her mother again. It had only been in later years that she’d discovered that her mother had died alone in a mental hospital just a few years after that awful day.
Gypsy had always suspected that nothing much had been wrong with her mother other than a tendency to depression, which could have been exacerbated by her birth and their tough circumstances. She’d been a mournful woman, prone to pessimism, and not very strong. But nothing that a little support mightn’t have helped.
Her father had cut Mary out of Gypsy’s life ruthlessly, and even though he’d had information as to her whereabouts he’d refused to help her at all. He’d let her be sucked into the labyrinthine mental health-care system, eventually to die. After her father’s death Gypsy had found heartbreaking letters from her mother, begging for his help, begging for a chance to see Gypsy again. It had been almost too much to bear…
Gypsy sighed deeply and tried her best not to think of that now. Tried not to think of how it had killed her inside to realise the night she’d met Rico that she had found it so easy to gravitate towards a man of her father’s ilk. Was there something within her that resonated with powerful and ruthless men, despite what her father had done to her and her mother?
She sighed again, and turned over to face where Lola slept so peacefully. Her father was gone. And, while she might be in this untenable situation with Rico now, she was not like her mother. She would not be so easily separated from her daughter. She was infinitely stronger and more resourceful. They would get through this, and she would not let him consume them utterly just because he craved control.
The following morning, early, Rico sat at the breakfast bar in the state-of-the-art kitchen. The Financial Times couldn’t hold his interest. He looked around and grimaced, seeing for the first time exactly what Gypsy had seen yesterday evening. The place was a potential minefield for an innocent toddler. Watching how Lola had gleefully run around last night, having to be plucked from danger every two seconds, had made him sweat. He’d never had to account for a small child before.
His heart clenched at recalling her vibrant energy, and how right it had felt to have her here—how quickly he’d felt that if anyone so much as looked at her the wrong way he’d want to flatten them.
She was beautiful—more beautiful than anything he could have imagined. She was bright, sharp, inquisitive. And, he had to concede grudgingly, all the evidence pointed to the fact that Gypsy was indeed a good mother.
Finding Gypsy in the kitchen making hot chocolate last night had made him feel unaccountably off-centre. Because she’d looked right in that domestic milieu. It had been almost as if he couldn’t remember a time when this penthouse had just been his London pied-à-terre, a place where he invited his mistresses for transitory pleasures. The sense of triumph had disturbed him, making him sound more caustic than he’d intended when he’d outlined his plans for the week.
When he’d gone to look in on Lola as she’d slept, a wave of emotion he’d never felt before had nearly felled him. His hand had shaken as he’d reached out to stroke soft skin—soft as a rose petal. And he had known in that moment, as he’d looked down at her flushed and downy cheeks, at the riot of golden curls around her head and that tiny, fragile and yet so sturdy body, that he was possibly falling in love for the first time.
As for her mother…Rico welcomed the hardness that settled in his chest at just thinking of her. All he felt for Gypsy was a singular irritating desire, which he hated to acknowledge, and the need to seek vengeance. To make her bend to his will. To punish her for keeping their daughter secret from him.
Just then he heard Lola’s cry come from the baby monitor, which Gypsy had obviously left in the kitchen last night. She cried out again, and the cries became more forceful as she woke up. Rico tensed all over. Silently he cursed Gypsy. Why wasn’t she attending to their daughter? Perhaps something was wrong?
Feeling a very unwelcome sense of panic, Rico was about to stride from the room when he heard Gypsy’s soft, sleep-filled and husky voice. ‘Good morning, sweetheart…’
He heard the rustle of movement but still couldn’t relax; hearing Gypsy’s voice was sending a new kind of tension through his body.
‘Did you sleep well, my love?’
Lola cooed in response, and Rico heard the sound of kisses. Heat flooded his body.
‘I bet you did…you’re my best girl, aren’t you?’
With an abrupt move, Rico shut off the monitor. The problem was she was his girl now too, and the sooner Gypsy came to terms with that the better.
He finished his coffee with one gulp and went to his study to make some calls.
Gypsy was just finishing feeding Lola her breakfast when Rico walked into the kitchen. Immediately her heart thumped hard, and she felt self-conscious in the same baggy jeans and an ancient college T-shirt, with her hair dragged up and held in place with a big clip.
Lola grinned happily at Rico, sending specks of food flying as she waved her spoon around and chattered in baby-speak. Immediately aware of how pristine Rico was in comparison to her, in his dark trousers and white shirt, Gypsy leapt up to get a cloth and wipe the floor.
His voice came curtly. ‘Leave it. Mrs Wakefield will see to it.’
She