Intellectually, he’d understood she believed him to be the father. He’d assumed she must have mixed up dates. Yet as he thought back to what she’d said in his office, he recalled her emphatic insistence that there hadn’t been anyone other than him for months.
She had no reason to lie. Lilah had never been impressed by his money or his pedigree.
Bracing a steadying hand on the mantel, he let the implications line up in his brain. That left him with two possibilities. Either the baby really was his or someone had taken advantage of Lilah without her knowledge, not as far-fetched as it sounded. Some bastard could have slipped any number of date rape drugs into her drink. His hands fisted at even the possibility of her being taken advantage of so callously. So criminally.
A fresh wave of protectiveness—possessiveness—flooded him until he accepted the inevitable. She was his. Which made her baby his regardless.
The reality of that settled inside him. There was no cutting her out of his life. No turning his back. She and her child were his to keep safe. He hadn’t planned on linking his life to anyone else’s. Being a Medina had never brought peace to anyone, most certainly not to his mother.
But walking away from Lilah was no longer an option.
The next morning, Lilah combed her fingers through her damp hair, wide awake thanks to her shower. Sleep had been hard to come by.
Sure, she’d been reckless throwing herself at Carlos last night. Still, his rejection had hurt.
She hadn’t cried again though. She’d refused to waste another tear on him. Instead, she’d stared dry-eyed at the soaring ceiling, warm honey-colored cedar planks overhead bathed in moonlight, then with the first morning rays.
Now the window let blazing sunshine through, but shed little illumination on her confused emotions. Hitching her jeans over her hips, she raised the zipper, then realized she couldn’t button them any longer. Her waist was expanding. Time was ticking away to settle her life.
Could she trust he’d only pulled away out of honor? If so, could there be some hint to an answer about why he’d kept his distance in recent months?
Or was this just more of the same evasiveness from Carlos? There was only one way to find out.
Refusing to hide in her room all day, she yanked a pale pink angora sweater over her head—and down to cover her thickening waist. She would face whatever the day held with her eyes dry and her chin up. For her child. For her own pride. Lilah yanked open her bedroom door and padded down the hall, her socked feet sinking in the handwoven wool rugs. The second her foot hit the top step on the lengthy staircase, she smelled…
Breakfast. Sweet and fruity. Crepes, perhaps?
She’d almost forgotten about that part of their discussion, so focused on how he’d pushed her away. At the base of those stairs, a decision waited. Gripping the banister, she stared down and weighed her options, her heart racing. Her gaze settled on another of those framed oil paintings of the Pyrenees. She gripped the railing tighter, the reminder of Carlos’s tumultuous childhood softening her heart just when she most wanted an excuse to be with him.
The sweet and bready scent of breakfast drifted up the stairs and this time she inhaled deeply, unreservedly soaking in this simple moment of domesticity from her royal lover. Each breath brought a surge of desire and anticipation as she thought of him preparing the meal for her, of him following through on his promise. He was showing her he hadn’t been rejecting her last night—he’d truly been thinking of her.
Right now, she wanted him every bit as much as she had last night when she’d been so overwhelmed with fears about her future. Her hand settled on her stomach. The open button poked against her sweater, reminding her that all too soon she would need to put the concerns of her child first.
This could be her last chance to be with Carlos again.
Committed, she walked down the stairs and to the kitchen, the delicious aroma growing stronger. Her feet carried her closer, closer still, until she stopped in the cedar archway leading into the gourmet kitchen.
Carlos stood with his back to her, shuffling crepes from the stove to a serving platter. Plump raspberries and apricots filled a bowl. Her mouth watered, but more because of the broad shoulders of her personal chef than from the food itself. Her eyes lingered on his hands, as careful with the cuts on the apricots as he would be in the O.R. Strong, capable hands.
A copper tea kettle whistled and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
Pouring the water over a tea leaf infuser, he glanced back at her.
Lilah spread her hands wide. “No tears.”
If he showed the least hesitation, she was out of here. She wanted him, but she’d made as much of a first step as her pride would allow.
He set aside a crystal flagon of syrup on the cutting board. His eyes flared with unmistakable heat. Her breath hitched at the power of his smile. Still, she didn’t move, needing him to come to her.
One step at a time, he advanced, his limp reminding her of all the baggage they both brought to this encounter. Two wary people past the days of first-blush love.
Two people who couldn’t deny the flame between them.
Carlos stopped in front of her in jeans and a plain white T-shirt, his bare feet brushing her toes. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving,” she answered, knowing full well neither of them referred to food. “No more talking.”
No more chances for doubts and reservations to steal this moment.
He nodded. She exhaled a breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding.
His hands slid up to span her waist with a bold large grip. She cupped his shoulder, ready, eager to step into his embrace.
In one smooth move, he lifted her onto the granite counter. She gasped in surprise. The stone chilled through the denim of her jeans. “Wow, somebody’s in a hurry. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to bolt your food?”
“Apparently nobody’s ever had anything as delectable as you on the menu.”
He tore off a corner of the crepe and stirred it through the fruit. He brought the bite to her mouth. She tasted from his fingers. Her eyes slid closed at the burst of sensation on her tongue. The sweet fruit mixed with the lightly salty taste of his skin as he withdrew his fingers slowly. She couldn’t resist sucking gently. His pupils widened in response. A low growl rumbled up his throat.
Pushing away the plate of crepes, she cupped the back of his neck, urging him closer. Closer. Until he stepped between her knees and kissed her. She tasted raspberries and syrup on his tongue. Apparently he’d sampled his own cooking along the way.