‘Are you…sure?’ she asked, her voice a rusty croak. Yet she knew what an inane question it was—just as she knew he was telling the truth. In some bizarre, inexplicable way, she trusted him. Trusted his word.
‘I don’t forget such things. If there was any possibility of course I would have a paternity test taken. If the child were indeed mine I would care for it. Naturally.’
Rhiannon shook her head. She didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want to consider the utter waste of her travelling to France, spending far more money than she ever should have on a hotel and, worse, losing any hope of a better life for Annabel.
Lukas Petrakides was not Annabel’s father. Rhiannon stared, her mind forming one impossible denial after another. She wanted to cry. To cry for Annabel, for herself.
For lost dreams of the father-daughter reunion she’d been dreaming of for years.
It was never going to happen.
But she wasn’t going to cry.
‘I’m sorry your little charade didn’t pay off,’ Lukas said with a cold smile. ‘But at least you can be thankful that I won’t press charges. You and your…prop will vacate the premises within the next fifteen minutes.’
‘My prop?’ Rhiannon repeated blankly, before she realised he was talking about a person. A child. Annabel. ‘You still think this is a blackmail attempt?’ She shook her head, surprised at the rush of relief that Annabel would not be tied to a man who thought so little of her, of humanity. ‘Why can’t you believe I came here with your interests—Annabel’s interests—at heart? I didn’t come for money, Mr Petrakides. I came to find Annabel a father.’
‘Charming.’ Lukas’s eyes were flat, cold and hard. ‘Since you didn’t, you can leave.’
Rhiannon knew he didn’t believe her, and she forced herself not to care. She didn’t need to impress Lukas Petrakides; she was out of his life, and so was Annabel.
Yet it still hurt.
She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin. ‘Fine. I’m sorry I wasted your time.’
Lukas jerked his head in the semblance of a nod. Rhiannon forced herself to continue, even though she didn’t want to accept anything from this man…to need anything from him.
‘You mentioned another hotel as redress? Could I have the details, please?’ Colour scorched her cheeks. If she’d had any money left she wouldn’t have asked, but she was desperate, and they needed a place to stay until their flight tomorrow.
‘The information will be at the front desk by the time you leave.’
‘Thank you.’ Stiff with dignity, her legs trembling, she walked out of the room. Lukas’s eyes seemed to burn into her back.
She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. She was stronger than that. Tougher. In all the years of loneliness, disappointment, and grief, her eyes had remained dry. They would remain so now.
Lukas watched her go, his lips twisting in a mocking smile. She’d given up quite easily when she realised he wasn’t playing ball. She was obviously an amateur at the blackmail game—as was this mysterious Leanne.
Had they honestly thought they could pin something on him—him, Lukas Petrakides? That he would bow to their outrageous demands?
Something pricked him, pricked his conscience, and he realised with a jolt of uncomfortable surprise what it was. Guilt.
Why should he feel guilty?
Because she so obviously didn’t want your money. She hadn’t actually asked for a single euro.
Had he assumed the worst?
He shook his head. The baby wasn’t his, and the friend Leanne had to have been lying. She’d have to know she hadn’t slept with him!
And yet…what if Rhiannon hadn’t known?
What if she’d been duped?
Lukas hesitated; he didn’t like uncertainty. He didn’t like not knowing.
So, he decided grimly, he would find out.
Rhiannon’s mind was numb as she paid off the babysitter and began packing her paltry possessions. Annabel was asleep in the travel cot, one arm flung above her head, her breath coming in soft little sighs.
Rhiannon gazed down at her sleeping form with a mixture of longing and desperation. What now? What future could they have? What future could she offer this child?
‘I tried,’ she whispered as she gently touched one chubby fist. ‘I really tried.’
‘Whose child is that really, Miss Davies?’
The harsh voice had her whirling around. Lukas stood in the doorway, his face composed, closed. Cold.
‘How did you get in?’ she demanded, and he shrugged.
‘I own the hotel, Miss Davies. I can enter whichever room I please.’
‘It’s a violation of privacy—’
‘If anyone is going to speak of violation, it should be me,’ he replied. ‘Whose child is that?’
‘Not yours, apparently,’ Rhiannon snapped. ‘And you don’t need to know anything else. You’re not involved, Mr. Petrakides, as you were kind enough to remind me.’ She turned away, stuffing her belongings into the cheap suitcase.
He watched, nonplussed. Rhiannon was conscious of the mess of the room: the spill of cosmetics by the bathroom sink, a bra hanging on the back of the chair. She grabbed the garment and stuffed it in the bag, saw how Lukas’s lips quirked in a rueful smile.
She glared at him. ‘Why are you here?’
In response he moved closer to the cot and studied Annabel.
‘This Leanne is the mother?’ he asked after a moment.
‘I told you she was!’ Rhiannon replied in exasperation. What was he playing at? Why did he care now?
‘And you really believed her?’ Lukas continued slowly. ‘That she had an affair…with me?’
Rhiannon paused. He sounded different—as if he might believe she actually wasn’t in on the so-called scam. ‘She had no reason to lie,’ she said after a moment. In her mind she could picture Leanne’s wasted body, hear the cough that had racked her thin frame.
‘Didn’t she?’ There was a cynical edge to his voice that Rhiannon didn’t like. ‘Surely,’ he continued, turning away from Annabel, ‘you must realise that she was hoping for this exact situation? Even if I didn’t acknowledge the child—which she no doubt expects—I might be willing to cut a generous cheque to keep this unfortunate episode from reaching the press. I guard my reputation very closely, Miss Davies, as you undoubtedly know. Where is this Leanne now? Waiting nearby? Or back in Wales?’
Rhiannon could only stare, her mind whirling at the bleak, base picture he’d painted.
‘No, she’s not waiting for anything,’ she said finally, unable to meet his incredulous, derisive look. ‘She’s dead.’
The events of the last two weeks danced crazily before her eyes—Leanne’s arrival on her doorstep, her rapid descent to death, guardianship thrust upon Rhiannon without any warning. How could she explain such a chain of fantastic events to Lukas Petrakides? To anyone? It would sound made up; he wouldn’t believe her. He would think it was just part of some nefarious blackmailing scheme.
She let out a wild hiccup of laughter, her arms wrapping around herself as a matter of self-protection. Self-denial.
Lukas muttered something under his breath, then moved towards her. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Before Rhiannon could protest, he