‘Oui. And Grandmère,’ Samuel added. ‘But the man is scary.’
Scary covered a multitude of meanings to a child whose vocabulary was beginning to broaden. ‘He would never hurt you.’ She could give such reassurance unequivocally.
‘No,’ Samuel dismissed. ‘He had a scary face when he looked at you.’
Out of the mouths of babes. ‘Maybe it was because we had a disagreement.’ A mild description for the blazing row they’d shared.
Her son absorbed the words, then offered with childlike simplicity, ‘Didn’t he say sorry?’
‘No.’ But then, neither had she. ‘Shall we go downstairs to the party? Grandmère will wonder where we are.’
To remain absent for too long would be impolite.
Besides, she adored her mother and refused to allow Dimitri’s presence to mar the evening.
It took considerable effort to act out a part, but act she did…smiling, laughing as she mixed and mingled, conversing with what she hoped was admirable panache.
Exclusive schooling and a year being ‘finished’ paid off in spades, and she defied anyone to criticise her performance.
She was supremely conscious of Dimitri’s presence, and he made no effort to disguise his interest. It was only by adroit manipulation that she managed to avoid him during the ensuing hour.
Samuel held most of her attention, and it was with a sense of suspended apprehension she signalled it time for him to bid the guests ‘good night.’
Preparations for bed and the reading of a story took a while, and she watched as his eyelids began to droop, saw him fight sleep, then succumb to it.
Chantelle switched off the bedlamp, leaving only the glow of a night-light to provide faint illumination. Five minutes, she allowed, enjoying the time to study his face in repose.
He was growing so quickly, developing a sensitive, caring nature she hoped would remain despite the trials life might hold for him.
An errant lock of hair lay against his forehead, and she gently smoothed it back before exiting the room.
As he was a sound sleeper who rarely woke during the night, she was confident he wouldn’t stir. However, she intended to check on him at regular intervals, just in case the excitement of travel, a strange house and a party atmosphere disturbed his usual sleep pattern.
A degree of misgiving caused her stomach to tighten as she re-entered the lounge. Most of the guests had converged on the adjoining terrace, and she caught up a flute of champagne from a proffered tray as she moved outdoors.
The string of electric lanterns provided a colourful glow. The sky had darkened to a deep indigo, and there was a tracery of stars evident, offering the promise of another warm summer’s day.
Anouk and Jean-Paul worked the terrace, ensuring their guests were content, replete with food and wine. It was a practised art, and one they’d long perfected.
Chantelle followed their example, pausing to chat to one couple or another, genuinely interested in their chosen career, the merits of the Gold Coast, relaying details of her plans during the length of her stay.
Invitations were offered, and she graciously deferred accepting any without first conferring with her mother.
Dimitri was there…a dangerous, primitive force. She was supremely conscious of his attention. The waiting, watching quality evident…like a predator stalking for a kill.
If he wanted her on edge, he was succeeding, she perceived, aware of the cracks beginning to appear in her social façade.
‘Chantelle.’
The sound of his deep drawl shredded her nerves. All evening she’d prepared for this moment. Yet still he’d managed to surprise her.
‘Dimitri,’ she acknowledged, forgoing the polite smile.
He wasn’t standing close enough to invade her personal space, yet all it would take was another step forward.
‘We need to talk.’
She arched a deliberate eyebrow. ‘I’m not aware we have anything to discuss.’
‘No? You want I should spell it out?’
It wasn’t easy to maintain a distant, albeit polite façade. ‘Please do.’
Dimitri didn’t move, yet it appeared as if he had, and she forced herself to stand absolutely still.
‘Samuel.’
Chantelle felt fear gnaw at her nerve-ends. ‘What about him?’
A muscle bunched at the edge of his jaw. ‘The Cristopoulis resemblance is uncanny.’
‘Consequently you’ve put two and two together and come to the conclusion he might be yours?’ How could she sound so calm, or inject the slight musing element into her voice, when inside she was shaking?
‘You deny the possibility?’
‘I’m under no obligation to you, or anyone, to reveal his father’s identity.’
‘You want me to go the distance with this?’ Dimitri queried in a voice that was dangerously soft. ‘Seek legal counsel, access his birth certificate, request DNA?’
Ice slithered the length of her spine. ‘Is that a threat?’
‘A statement of intention,’ he corrected.
‘I could deny your request for DNA.’ The need to consult a lawyer seemed imperative.
His mouth formed a cynical smile, although there was no humour apparent in those dark eyes. ‘Try it.’
Her stomach performed a slow, painful somersault. ‘You possess an outsize ego. What makes you think you were my only lover?’
‘I was there,’ Dimitri reminded with deceptive quietness. Leashed savagery lay just beneath the surface of his control, and he gained some satisfaction as soft colour tinged her cheeks.
Was his memory of what they’d shared as startlingly vivid as her own? They’d spent every night together, never seeming to be able to satisfy a mutual hunger for each other.
Possession on every level. An all-consuming passion that had known no bounds.
She had lived for the moment she could be with him, resenting each minute they were apart. The sun had never shone more brightly, nor the senses become so defined. If hearts sang, hers had played a soaring rhapsody in full orchestra.
As for the sex…Intimacy, she corrected, at its most intense…highly sensual, libidinous, magic.
‘There was no one else for either of us,’ Dimitri pursued in a silkily soft voice that speared her heart.
Chantelle drew in a deep breath, then slowly released it. ‘Aren’t you forgetting Daniella?’ Even now, it hurt her to say the actress’s name.
A muscle bunched at the edge of his jaw. ‘We dealt with that four years ago.’
‘No,’ she corrected with incredible politeness. ‘We had a blazing row over the disparity between her account of your relationship, and yours.’
‘At which time you chose to believe her version, rather than mine.’
Even now, the scene rose up to taunt her…the harsh words, the invective. ‘She conveyed telling evidence.’
‘Cleverly relayed to achieve the desired outcome,’ Dimitri attested. ‘Daniella is a scheming manipulator, and an extremely clever actress.’
‘So you said at the time,’ Chantelle declared bitterly.
‘Yet you still walked.’
Her trust in him, what she’d thought they had together, had been destroyed. ‘I couldn’t stay.’ He hadn’t tried to stop her. Nor had he called.
To be fair, neither had she.
‘Shall we begin again?’
‘There is nothing to discuss.’
‘We can do it here, now. Or we can share dinner tomorrow night.’ He waited a beat. ‘Your choice.’
‘No.’
One eyebrow slanted. ‘You want to play hardball?’
‘I don’t want to play at all!’
His features assumed a hard mask. ‘I deserve to know if Samuel is my son.’
‘What if I tell you he’s not?’
His gaze pierced hers, indomitable and frighteningly inflexible. ‘I want proof, one way or another.’
Bravado rose to the fore as she held his gaze. ‘You don�
�t have the right.’
‘Yes, I do. Seven, tomorrow evening. I’ll collect you.’
She didn’t want him here. In fact, she didn’t want to see him anywhere, period!
‘You want to do this with a degree of civility?’ Dimitri queried. ‘Or—?’
‘I’ll meet you.’ She named the first restaurant that came to mind. ‘Seven.’
Without a further word she moved away from him, seeking another guest…anyone with whom she could converse and therefore escape Dimitri Cristopoulis’ damning presence.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
‘YOU look charming, chérie,’ Anouk complimented the following evening as Chantelle collected the keys to her mother’s car.
‘Thank you.’ She’d chosen a slim-fitting dress in black with a black lace overlay, short sleeves and a square neckline. Black stiletto-heeled sandals lent her petite frame added height, and she’d swept hair the colour of sable high into a careless knot.
‘It’s nice of Andreas’ son to invite you to dine with him.’
Nice wasn’t a description she’d accord Dimitri…or his motives behind the invitation. If Anouk knew the real reason there would be concern, not pleasure, evident.
However, not even her mother knew the identity of Samuel’s father. Her parents had been absent from Sydney at the time of Chantelle’s affair with Dimitri, and afterwards, when told of her pregnancy, they’d counselled informing the child’s father…advice she’d chosen to discount.
She crouched down to give Samuel a hug. ‘Be good for Grandmère, hmm?’
‘Oui, Maman.’
Such solemn brown eyes, she mused, kissing each childish cheek in turn.
‘Thanks,’ she said lightly as Anouk gathered Samuel close. ‘I won’t be late.’
For the past eighteen hours she’d derived countless reasons why she should opt out of tonight. Only the knowledge Dimitri was capable of forcing a confrontation in her parents’ home prevented her from employing any one of them.
It took twenty minutes to reach the glamorous hotel situated on the Spit at Main Beach. Chantelle chose valet parking, and stepped into the marble foyer.
Expansive with glorious oriental rugs, comfortable sofas, it stretched out to a double staircase leading to a lower floor, beyond which lay a wide decorative pool, an island bar and, in the distance, the ocean.
It was spectacular, and a waterfall added to the tropical overtone.
Chantelle admired the view for numerous seconds, then she turned towards the restaurant.
‘Punctual, as always.’
The sound of that familiar, faintly accented male voice caused the knot in her stomach to tighten.
Get a grip, she remonstrated silently. She needed to be in control, and nervous tension didn’t form part of the evening’s agenda.
She turned slightly and met Dimitri’s steady gaze.
‘It’s one of my virtues.’
‘Would you prefer a drink in the lounge, or shall we go straight in?’
She even managed a slight smile. Amazing, when the butterflies in her stomach were beating a faint tattoo.
‘Why don’t we cut the social niceties?’ Cool, but neither calm nor collected.
Damn him. He’d always had this effect on her equilibrium. The sight of him sent her pulse racing to a crazy beat. It was the whole male package, his choice of cologne, the freshly laundered clothes…the faint male scent that was uniquely his.
All it took was one look, and her system went out of control. Even now, when she told herself she hated him, heat pooled deep inside, and the pulse at her throat felt as if it jumped beneath her skin.
Could he sense it? See it? Dear heaven, she hoped not.
The maître d’ issued a greeting and led them to their table, where he summoned a drinks waiter, performed an introduction, then graciously retreated.
Dimitri ordered a crisp chardonnay, requested bottled water, and then he settled back comfortably in his chair.
There were a hundred places she’d rather be than here, now. Yet what choice did she have? Her parents could cope with anything life threw at them, but Samuel was too young, too vulnerable, and she’d go to the ends of the earth to protect him from harm…physical, mental, emotional.
Take control, an inner voice urged as she reached for her glass and sipped chilled water.
‘Let’s not pretend this is anything other than what it is,’ Chantelle opined coolly, and saw one eyebrow slant in silent query.
‘Perhaps we should order?’ Dimitri suggested as the waiter presented the menu.
Food? The thought of calmly forking artistically presented morsels in his company killed what little appetite she had.
Nevertheless, it was necessary to order something, and she settled on a starter and skipped the main course.
‘Not hungry?’
‘Is my appetite an issue?’
His gaze remained steady, and had the effect of unnerving her…which was undoubtedly deliberate.
‘Relax.’
Oh, sure, and that was easy, given he inevitably had a bundle of legal tricks up his sleeve ready to heap on her unsuspecting head.
‘I’m here at your insistence,’ Chantelle reminded. ‘Sharing a meal I don’t particularly want in the company of someone I’d prefer never to have to see again in this lifetime.’
‘Pity.’
Her eyes flashed dark fire. ‘What do you mean…pity?’
‘If Samuel is my son,’ Dimitri voiced with dangerous softness, ‘you’ll have to get used to me being part of your life.’
‘The hell I will!’
Something moved in his eyes, and she felt a chill slither down the length of her spine. ‘Take it as a given, Chantelle.’
The words were hard, inflexible, and seared her heart. ‘You don’t have that right.’
The arrival of the waiter brought a welcome break, and she viewed the contents of her plate with misgiving, sure the smallest mouthful would stick in her throat.
‘Eat,’ Dimitri bade, and she did, managing to do justice to the food. He wasn’t to know her taste-buds had gone on strike.
Conversation had never been so difficult to summon, and anything she thought to offer seemed inane.
It irked her unbearably he was able to affect her this way. Act, she chastised silently. Adopt a practised façade, and pretend Dimitri Cristopoulis is just a man like any other male.
Oh, sure…chance would be a fine thing! She had only to look at him and every nerve-end tingled into vibrant life.
Four years hadn’t made the slightest difference. It was as if her soul recognised his on some base level and sought recognition.
Damn him. Damn coincidence for putting them both in this part of the world at the same time! Fate was playing a cruel hand, intent on causing emotional havoc before the game was over.
Who would win? a silent imp taunted.
Dimitri replaced his cutlery, then he picked up his wineglass and leaned back in his chair. ‘Do you want to begin, or shall I?’
Chantelle lifted a hand in a negligent gesture. ‘Oh, please. Be my guest.’
For a few seemingly long seconds he didn’t speak, and she could tell nothing from his expression.
‘Samuel’s birth certificate records June one as the day he was born.’
How could he know that?
Dimitri’s mouth moved to form a wry smile. ‘I called in a favour.’ All he’d had to do was make a few phone calls, and he had the information he needed within hours.
‘Nine and a half months after we began our relationship,’ he pursued, watching her expressive features through a narrowed gaze. Anger had been just one of the emotions he’d experienced at the confirma
tion. Resentment had followed with the knowledge she’d chosen not to reveal her pregnancy. There was also a mixture of pride and joy at the thought he had a child…a son.
As to the child’s mother…he’d deal with her. But not easily.
‘So,’ he continued silkily. ‘Shall we move on?’
‘Samuel is mine,’ Chantelle reiterated fiercely. ‘I could have had an abortion.’ She’d never considered it as an option. Hadn’t, even from the onset, thought of a child…Dimitri’s child, but indisputably hers…as an encumbrance.
‘Yet you didn’t.’
She remembered the birth, when she’d cursed Dimitri a hundred times…and she thought of the moment the nurse had placed Samuel in her arms. The indescribable joy that transcended all else, and the fierce protectiveness for the tiny life.
‘No.’
He wanted to reach across the table and shake her. For denying him the opportunity to be there, to care for her, and to claim the child as his own.
‘Tell me,’ he pursued silkily. ‘Did you ever intend for me to know I had a child?’
‘Not if I could help it.’
‘Your body, your responsibility?’
‘Yes.’
‘Allowing some other man to take my place? Raise my son as his own? Give him his name?’
Chantelle could sense the anger beneath his control, feel it emanate from his body as a tangible entity.
‘Samuel is registered as Samuel Leone.’
‘Something that can easily be changed.’
‘To what purpose?’ she demanded. Anger rose to the fore, darkening her eyes. ‘I live in France, you reside in New York.’
‘Samuel is a Cristopoulis. He has a heritage,’ Dimitri endorsed with quiet savagery. ‘I intend to ensure he claims it.’
‘With you?’ She was like a runaway train, unable to stop. ‘What are you going to do, Dimitri? Engage a nanny during Samuel’s visits? Maybe look in on him as he sleeps when you leave your apartment in the morning, and again when you return long after his bedtime?’ She picked up her napkin and thrust it on the table. ‘Is that your idea of parental visitation rights?’ She rose to her feet and gathered her purse. ‘Hell will freeze over before I’ll allow it.’
12 Stocking Stuffers Page 87