Lukas flicked her with a cool, impassive gaze even as he addressed the guards.
‘I’ll deal with this.’
The two men filed out of the room without a word.
Rhiannon watched, sickened by the blatant display of power. Abuse of power. Lukas was a man who expected obedience—total, absolute, unquestioning.
She was so out of her depth, over her head, and it scared her.
Yet this was Annabel’s father.
They were alone in the small room, and she was conscious of her own ragged breathing, her pounding heart. His eyes flicked over her in cool and clearly unimpressed assessment.
‘You have a child in your hotel room?’ he asked in a detached voice, as if it were of little interest.
‘Yes…yours.’
‘I see.’ His smile was cold, mocking, a parody. ‘When did we conceive this child, I wonder?’
Shock drenched her in icy, humiliating waves as she realised the assumption he’d so easily—and obviously—made. He really did think she was a liar. ‘Annabel’s not mine!’
‘Annabel. A girl?’
‘Yes.’
‘Whose child is she, then? Besides mine, of course.’
‘Leanne Weston. You…you met her at a club in London, took her to Naxos.’ She felt silly repeating information he must already know—but perhaps he needed clarification? Perhaps, despite his reputation, there had been women? Many women.
The thought made her stomach roil unpleasantly.
He raised his eyebrows in surprised interest. ‘I did? Ah, yes. Naxos. Beautiful place. Did we have fun?’
Rhiannon gritted her teeth. ‘I couldn’t say, but from Leanne’s description you were certainly busy!’
‘And why is she not here herself?’ Lukas questioned silkily. ‘I’d recognise her, of course. Perhaps I’d even recall our dirty little weekend. Or would you prefer that I do not see the woman who supposedly bore my child? Maybe I wouldn’t recognise her after all?’ The derisive lilt to his voice made Rhiannon grit her teeth.
‘If Leanne were able to be here, I hope she would be,’ she said, her nerves taut, fraying, ready to split apart. ‘Although after your weekend affair she was pragmatic enough to realise it was over. You never gave her your phone number, or attempted to contact her.’ Frustration rose within her, clamoured into a silent howl in her throat. ‘But this is nonsense to talk like this. I don’t care about what you did with Leanne in Naxos. What I care about is your daughter, and I should think that’s what you would care about too.’
‘Ah, yes, my daughter. This Annabel.’ He folded his arms, smiled with the stealthy confidence of a predator. And Rhiannon was the prey. ‘You brought her here? To the hotel?’
‘Yes…’
‘I suppose you thought the added embarrassment of an actual child on the premises would increase your pay-off?’
‘My what?’ Rhiannon shook her head. Did he still think she wanted to blackmail him? Was that what this horrible little interrogation was about? ‘I don’t want your money,’ she said tightly. ‘As I’ve said before. I just wanted you to know.’
‘How kind of you. So now that I know, we can say goodbye. Correct?’ His cool eyes suddenly blazed silver with challenge; Rhiannon felt a hollow pit open inside her—a pit to drown in.
She’d come to France to find not just Lukas Petrakides, but a man who would love Annabel openly, wholly, unconditionally.
The way fathers did.
The way they were supposed to.
She should have realised what a fantasy that was.
‘I thought you were a man of responsibility,’ she said in a choked whisper. ‘A man of honour.’
Lukas stilled, his eyes darkening dangerously. ‘I am. That is precisely why I’m not going to pay you to keep silent about your little brat!’
‘Your brat, if you choose to use such terms,’ Rhiannon flashed, wounded to her core by his nasty words, his brutal assessment. He was talking about his own child. She shook her head. ‘I don’t understand how a man like you—a man like the papers claim you are—cannot care one iota for your own flesh and blood. I thought…’ She shook her head slowly, realisation dawning with painful intensity and awareness.
‘You thought what?’ he demanded flatly, and she looked up at him with wide, guileless eyes.
‘I thought it would be different because she was yours.’ It came out as a wretched whisper, a confession. An aching realisation that a dream she’d cherished and clung to for so long was in fact false. Rhiannon didn’t know what hurt more—the current reality or the faded memory. Annabel’s past or her own. ‘I thought you would care.’
He stared at her for a moment, his mouth tightening in impatience. ‘But you know, Miss Davies, that this is a fabrication. I don’t know who dreamed up your sordid little scheme—whether it was you or your suspiciously absent friend Leanne—but we both know I did not father the child that is in your hotel room.’
Rhiannon stared at him in disbelief. ‘But you…you said you were in Naxos!’
‘I may have visited my family’s resort in Naxos,’ he agreed with stinging clarity. ‘But I did not take your friend—or any other woman there—and I certainly did not father a child.’
‘But Leanne said—’
‘She lied. As you are lying.’
‘No.’ Rhiannon shook her head. ‘No. She didn’t lie. And neither did I. She was so certain…she spoke of you so warmly…’
He made a sound of impatient disgust. ‘I’m flattered.’
‘But how do you know? How can you be sure?’ She gulped down her own uncertainties, the fears clamouring within her, threatening to spill over in a scream of denial, of desperation. Everything had been turned upside down by this revelation.
Rhiannon had never doubted Leanne’s word. Never. There had been no reason to—no reason for her friend to lie. Now she wondered if she should have questioned. Doubted. If Leanne, for some inexplicable reason, had lied. It would be a terrible deception. And for what purpose?
But, no…When Leanne had named Lukas Petrakides as the father of her child she’d been so certain, so…appreciative. Wistful. The memory, for Leanne, had been sweet. There had been nothing calculating or deceptive about her explanation—and why should there have been?
She’d been dying.
‘How do I know?’ Lukas raised one eyebrow, as if daring her to make him answer such a question.
‘I mean…’ Rhiannon felt humiliating colour flood her face. ‘There must have been women…’ She assumed, despite his unsullied reputation, that there still were women. There were always women. Attractive, wealthy, discreet, willing to give and receive pleasure—satisfy a need.
‘Ah.’ His smile was mocking, bittersweet. ‘But there you’re wrong, Miss Davies. There have been no women. Not for two years.’
His face remained impassive even as Rhiannon gaped in shock. She wasn’t sure why she should find this so surprising; she hadn’t slept with anyone in the last two years. Or, for that matter, ever.
Lukas Petrakides, however, exuded raw strength, powerful virility. The idea that he’d gone without women—without sex—for such a length of time seemed ludicrous. Impossible.