The Consequence He Must Claim (7 page)

He didn’t flinch, but there was a flash of...she wasn’t sure what.

“The way you talk about your family.” His face smoothed to hide his thoughts, but there was still something watchful beneath his neutral expression. “Our family is a business. I prefer it, but I sometimes wonder what it would be like to be close like that.”

“It’s nice,” she informed him, feeling a sudden, misguided urge to convert him. Occasionally there were birthday wishes that required her to take a moment from her busy schedule. He had walked in on her chatting over her tablet a time or two, when she was supposed to be off the clock but they were both working late. She’d flown her sister to Paris on points, as a graduation gift, when she and Cesar had been there for meetings. He’d personally paid for their dinner, but had gone on his own date without so much as laying eyes on her sister. If anything, she had imagined he found her tight relationship with her mother and sisters an annoying distraction from her work.

“Some of us could probably do with thinking more practically in our choices with mates,” she added, thinking of her mother’s involvement with her father.

“
You
certainly could. How is your artist?” he asked, surprising her.

“Why do you say it like that?
Your artist
. Like it’s a joke. You’ve dated a painter, too,” she reminded him.

“I’ve also dated stockbrokers. You’ve had one serious relationship since I’ve known you and it’s the most impractical man you could find.”

“He’s nice,” she explained on a shrug. If absentminded. She’d only accepted his invitation to cook her dinner because she’d been wallowing in self-pity at being devoid of a social life. Cesar found out when he’d called her in the middle of their date. She’d had to explain why she couldn’t run to her computer to transfer a file.

“You’re already sending money home, Sorcha. Don’t take on another dependent for the sake of feeling ‘loved.’”
The emotion was an unviable fantasy, he seemed to say.

“I wasn’t in love with him. And we’re no longer seeing each other. The demands of my job make dating impossible,” she added pointedly.

“Good. He struck me as too sensitive and probably insecure in bed. You need a man with the confidence to take control so you can finally give it up.”

She blushed. “We
are
getting personal today, aren’t we? Are you drunk?”

“You started it,” he admonished. “And no, I’m not. But I’m in a mood to drink myself blind now. You’ve ruined what started out as a very good day.” He chucked back the contents of his champagne glass and rose to move to the bar, taking out the Irish whiskey she’d turned him onto drinking.

“Do you want the truth, Cesar?” She bent her knees as she twisted on the sofa, bringing her feet off the floor and hooking her elbow over the sofa back to face him.

“Probably not,” he muttered, not looking up from pouring.

“I...care for you.” It was as much of an admission to the depth of her feelings as she was willing to risk. “I don’t want to watch you live with a bad decision.”

His gaze came up. “You said you’d never get jealous.” Rather than annoyed, he sounded smug.

“Hardly. I just don’t want to watch you make a mistake. So I’m leaving.”

“Do
you
want the truth, Sorcha?” He came back with two wide-bottom glasses, both neat, offering one to her as he settled onto the sofa beside her, angled to face her.

“Probably not,” she muttered.

“I always thought that if you left before the five years were up, it would be because we slept together. The fact my mother and Diega have pushed this marriage into our time line annoys me. I was counting on sleeping with you in seven hundred and fifty days or so.”

She almost dropped her glass. “You
are
drunk.”

“I’m not. Just being honest. Now you be as honest as I know you are. Don’t you wonder what we’d be like together?”

She slid him a glance, astonished that she was having this conversation with her boss. Once he’d hired her, they’d had a tacit agreement to never speak of her vow again. The odd time when a rumor floated that she and Cesar were an item, she quashed it with her I-don’t-have-to-use-those-tactics
speech.

They had kept things strictly professional. Occasionally he’d told her she looked nice and once or twice he’d steadied her with a hand under her elbow, when crossing an icy runway or uneven pavement. Even when she’d hugged him after her niece was found, he’d gently but firmly moved her away afterward. Given his seeming indifference to her being female, she had assumed all the sexual awareness was on her side.

“We’re being honest?” she confirmed, wondering if she was tipsy since she was going along with this inappropriate conversation. “Your women always look happy. Of course, I wonder what it’s like to date you,” she said with a blasé tone that was completely manufactured. “But I often wonder what
dating
is like.”

“Keep trying to make me feel guilty,” he said. “I won’t.”

He was so close, smelling deliciously raw and masculine, so comfortable with his arm across the back of the sofa behind her, his knee hitched up near her hip. This was how she’d seen him with countless women: relaxed, confident in his own skin. Attentive. Like she was the only thing he was thinking about in this moment.

Maybe he was thinking about sex.

With her.

A flutter of excitement contracted her belly, making her feel prickly and sensual. She found herself doing the hair-play thing, tucking a strand behind her ear, subtly flirting under his regard.

A faint smile touched his mouth. He knew. He was too experienced not to read how she was reacting.

Then a shutter came down. He straightened, sitting forward, setting his glass on the table, bracing his elbows on his knees as he released a sigh. “I keep telling myself to take Diega to bed, to be sure we’ll work, but...” He shrugged. “It won’t matter. We still have to marry.”

“But you don’t want to?” She sat forward, too, nearly thigh against thigh, her own glass going onto the table next to his. “Cesar, you’re a grown man.”

“With responsibilities, Sorcha.” He turned his head, shoulders heavy and back bowed by the weight of his obligations.

“Is all of this really going to come crashing down if you don’t marry her?” She waved a hand at the office, beautifully decorated on a budget of over six figures, where deals were cut for tens of millions on a weekly basis.

“My family is building an empire, not a rose garden. I have a role. I agreed to all the conditions.”

“Fine. Go against your gut and live with the consequences.” She threw that out with a shrug.

“Where do you find the gall to talk to me like this? I’ve never understood why I put up with it,” he muttered, but he wasn’t angry. Disgusted with himself maybe. “My gut decisions are always supported by reason. Backing out would have to be driven by logic. There are a hundred solid facts that make marrying Diega a smart choice.”

“And your happiness isn’t reason enough to support a different choice? What would happen if you refused to marry her? No one will be burned at the stake. Surely you’re in a position now to make reparation for whatever they gave you? Or to weather your father disinheriting you? What is the worst that will happen, Cesar?”

His mouth stayed tight for a long moment before he snorted and took up his glass for a quick swallow. “Indeed. Will my mother stop loving me? She never started.” He set down the glass again with a hard clip of glass on glass. “But much of what I now control could move into my brother’s hands.”

“Really? After you’ve proven yourself to be so good at it? I don’t believe it.”

“This all must look very simple from the outside.” His gaze came up from her white nail beds where she gripped his arm. His voice lowered a shade into something intimate. “Would you stay in your job if I refused to marry her? Is that why you’re trying to convince me?”

“Would you refuse to marry her if I canceled my notice?” she scoffed, pretty much making it a dare. She didn’t mean that much to him. She knew she didn’t. Given all he stood to gain, he
couldn’t
call off his marriage just to sleep with his secretary.

“If you let me have you, I might. You would be surprised what I would do for that privilege.” He was looking at her mouth.

Her heart began to pound.

“Cesar...”

“I need to know what it’s like to kiss you, Sorcha.” He brought up a hand, one strong finger tracing a line under her jaw to a point under her chin.

Breathe
, she thought, but couldn’t make her lungs work. She was frozen in hot ice, mouth parting as he angled his head and leaned to cover her lips with his.

This was what he meant by her needing a man who could take control. As the oldest of four in a single-parent home, she’d been an adult from an early age, taking care of her siblings, then helping with the breadwinning. She easily shouldered responsibility—even for her own pleasure—but from the first touch, Cesar let her know he was more than willing to give her anything she desired.

There was no hesitation in his kiss, only command. He didn’t overwhelm, wasn’t forceful, but his kiss had the same quality as his voice or his directing hand. We’re going
here
and this is how we’ll get there. Come with me. I’ll show you.

She softened under his thorough kiss, liking the light abrasion of his stubble. Her lips clung to his and her hand climbed his arm and found his shoulder. She tried to maintain her balance as they sat there, side by side, quietly devouring each other.

He shifted, gathered her and drew her into his lap. Just like that. Strong and sure, making his intention clear, right down to the bulge pressed against the cheek of her bottom.

They broke off their kiss, looked into each other’s eyes. This was the point when she was supposed to remind him they had an agreement. He was her boss—if he was serious about refusing to marry Diega.

You would be surprised what I would do for that privilege
.

His neck was hot against her palm and the trace of his fingers against her thigh triggered a rush of tingling need into her loins. She had imagined making love with him so many times, had longed for it in the dead of night, tossing and turning while he made love to other women.

This time he would make love to her. She would know what it felt like to feel his touch, to bask in his attention. Her sex life
was
dismal, she’d reasoned. She hadn’t gone all the way with that dumb artist. Their bit of fooling around had been great for him and left her feeling nothing. She ached for a good experience.

She wanted sex, wanted Cesar, yearned to feel even closer to him than she already did. She wanted to make love with him.

Stay with him.

She moved her hand to the back of his head and lifted her mouth to meet his kiss.

CHAPTER FOUR

C
ESAR
DIDN
’
T
GET
back to the hospital until late the next morning. By then he’d had a number of tablet conversations with his mother and brother—
you know she’ll tell me to marry Diega if you don’t
—and finally, the unsurprising arrival of his father.

The consensus seemed to be that the situation did not warrant calling off a wedding, even if he could be sure the baby was his.

Their attitude was almost as frustrating as Sorcha’s accusation yesterday, when she’d called him out for using her, then asked him to leave. She’d been pale with dark circles under her eyes, the nurse standing by with one of those paper cups full of pain pills. He’d had to give her the opportunity to rest that she needed.

And he hadn’t known how to counter her accusations. He didn’t remember what he’d said to Diega about her, but he’d obviously confessed that they’d slept together.

It was all such a frustrating mess, but the signpost for the way forward hinged on whether Enrique was his.

He returned to the hospital in a driven state of mind, going directly to the nursery for a long, proper look at the boy, determined to find proof.

Sorcha was there, putting the baby down, her expression relaxed and tender until she glanced up and saw him. Her smile fell away. “I assumed you’d jetted back to Spain.”

One sharp look had her sealing her lips, but her chin went up. She wasn’t cowed. He’d always found her inability to be intimidated refreshing—it allowed him to be who he was without signing up for sensitivity training—but engaging in battle with him at this precise moment was not her best move.

He came across and slid his attention to the baby, determined that if there was something of himself in the boy, he’d see it.

Sorcha’s hands curled into loose, pale fists against the glass over the tiny bed as she waited out his study in silence. Were those miniature brows similarly shaped to the rest of the males’ in his family? That button nose and those round cheeks were too soft to bear any resemblance to anyone but another baby. That mouth was Sorcha’s. Hair? Similar in color to his own, he supposed, but inconclusive. Ears?

Finding visible proof of paternity was like trying to locate the memory of having conceived him—it wasn’t there. He’d spent the night trying to recall making love to her, driving himself crazy, coming up empty.

He was a scientific man, never one to accept anything less than factual evidence. He certainly didn’t take anyone at his word. He’d been burned by that when his “friend,” the abrasive specialist, had hacked into his network and stolen a year’s worth of experimental data and testing results.

Since the crash, however, since losing a vital piece of his memory, he
had
to take certain things on faith. He had no choice but to believe what people told him he had said or done during that time. There was nothing to counter it but gut instinct.

His gut was telling him to trust the PA who’d never let him down.

“If you have another story, Sorcha, now is the time to tell it,” he said, lifting his gaze from the baby. He stood at a cliff face, ready to step off of it. On her word.

She stilled, face solemn. For all her natural beauty, her intelligence was really one of her best features. A flicker of despondency moved across her expression. “I imagine I’ll wish I did, but I don’t.” A spasm of hurt tightened her expression. “Why? What are you going to do?”

“Let’s take this to your room, where we’ll have some privacy.”

They were speaking Valencian and there was only the one nurse in here, but Sorcha nodded. He held the door for her and paced slowly alongside her as she leaned on the wall all the way to her room.

Her IV was gone and she was moving better, standing straighter, but was still pale. She sighed with relief as she settled on the bed and he brought the blanket up over her legs. A big arrangement of flowers had arrived to give her windowsill a splash of color.

He frowned, mind jumping to that artist of hers.

“Octavia’s mother sent it to her. She already had one from her husband and knew I told my mother to save her money for baby clothes, so she gave that one to me.”

Right. Some grandparents sent flowers to congratulate a new mother when she delivered an heir into the family.

What did Enrique’s grandfather send? Cesar reached into his shirt pocket.

“From my father,” he said, offering it.

She didn’t take it, only looked at the amount. “My, he does value Señorita Fuentes, doesn’t he?” She turned away to reach for her glass on her side table and sipped from the straw. The color in her high cheekbones was the only indication of her reaction.

He’d always liked that collected demeanor of hers. He’d liked far too many things about her, and even today, mind dull and body aching from not sleeping, when he was trying to recover from having his mind blown apart, there was a piece of him that just wanted to crawl into that bed with her and
have
her.

It struck him that he hadn’t felt a rush of attraction like this since before his crash. Desire for sexual release was always there, like hunger or thirst. But last night, as he’d tried to manifest an image of having Sorcha, he’d mentally ridden her hard. He never had those sorts of fantasies about Diega. In fact, since waking up “engaged,” he’d more or less put his inner sex animal into a kennel and told him to shut up.

The beast was snarling to life now, pouring predatory heat through Cesar’s veins. Desire gathered in painful pools at his groin. He was having enough trouble working through the facts without trying to hide an erection!

He left the certified check on her bed and moved to the window, pushing his fists into his pockets. “The joining of our family with Diega’s is something both sides have wanted for a long time,” he said in explanation. “My father isn’t ready to let it go.”

Despite a lifetime of witnessing his parents’ indifference, he was disturbed by how cold-bloodedly they were behaving. It wasn’t that they didn’t believe Sorcha’s claim. They didn’t
care
. “He wants me to marry Diega regardless of this...” He gestured to the hall.
“Hiccup,”
he said with disgust at their attitude.

“Obviously,” Sorcha said with a nod at the paper he’d left near her knee.

“Are you going to accept it?” It was a test, he had to admit it. He had long-standing trust issues, and mentally willed her to rip it up. If he knew her as well as he believed he did, she would never consider family a commodity from which she should profit.

She glared at the check for a long moment before her shoulders drooped and she released a defeated sigh. “It would be stupid not to tuck that into an account for emergencies,” she said reluctantly. “Or whatever Enrique might need down the road. I would hate him to think his father hadn’t cared enough to provide for his future. That’s a horrible feeling.”

Cesar turned to face her, startled by what he thought she was saying, but finding himself folding his arms, astonished by the more pertinent revelation. “You think I should marry Diega while you raise my son alone?”

“What other option is there?” She held up a quick finger of warning. “If you suggest taking him to live with you and Diega, there will be blood shed, right here, right now.” The tip of her finger went to the open spot on the floor.

A bitter smile pulled at his lips. Did she really see him as the type to take a baby from a mother who knew how to love and give him to a cold fish like his own?

But if not that kind of man, what kind
was
he?

He scowled, unsure of his ability to be anything but a peripheral figure the way his own father had been. He hadn’t expected to be so distant from his offspring that he was out of his son’s life completely, however. He’d spent the night running all the scenarios and while he didn’t care that his parents weren’t the most demonstrative people, there was something very alluring about offering his child a more nurturing upbringing.

Then there was the fringe benefit: Sorcha. He wanted her. If he was going to be supporting her and their child, they might as well go all the way.

He met Sorcha’s belligerent gaze, as she waited for him to enlighten her, but how could this be a mystery to her? She knew how he reacted to someone trying to take what was his.

“His parents could raise him together,” he said.

* * *

Sorcha was glad she was sitting because her heart stopped then kicked with a hard beat of shock, making her woozy.
As husband and wife?

No. She wasn’t so silly as to hear a proposal in that statement. He might have called off his wedding, but that was just a postponement. Wasn’t it?

“You, um, want to move to Ireland with me?” she asked.

“It’s good you’re keeping your sense of humor,” he said with a faint, patronizing smile. “No. We’ll marry and live in Spain.”

Another breathtaking spasm squeezed and released her heart. She tried to swallow and couldn’t.

“You want to marry me,” she managed to say. “What about—” She waved at the check. “I thought this meant you’re marrying Diega after all. Was it this romantic when you proposed to her, by the way? I’m sorry, that’s cruel. You probably don’t remember because you were in a coma. At least I’m awake. Count your blessings, Sorcha!” she babbled, hysterical laughter rising in her throat.

Cesar didn’t move, his face stony. “There are times, Sorcha, when that runaway tongue of yours really ought to be held firmly between those pretty white teeth.”

“What do you want me to say?” she cried. “Thank you? Apparently your brides are interchangeable. I’ve never felt that way when contemplating my eventual husband.”

“My children are not,” he stated, tone as hard as his expression. “Interchangeable. And he had better be my son, Sorcha. If those tests come back telling me I’ve been had, I won’t be happy.”

“As opposed to now, when you’re ecstatic?”

“Less sarcasm once we’re married, hmm? More sweetness.”

She snorted. “We’re not getting married, Cesar.”

“Sorcha,” he said in that terrible voice he used when he was about to annihilate someone. She had always excused herself from the room so the poor sod wouldn’t have a witness to his or her dressing-down.

Her stomach curdled, but she tightened militant fingers into the blanket across her waist and said,
“No.”

He came over to clench his hands around the rail of her bed.

“You know how I feel about thieves,” he said in that deadly tone. “You were going to keep my son from me.
You
were going to do that to
me
. I may never forgive you for that.”

I trusted you
. That’s what he was saying and now that trust had been impacted.

A sob formed in her diaphragm and sat there as an aching lump. She’d been self-protecting.

How could she explain that she’d grown up tarred by what had been seen as her mother’s failed attempt to better herself in the dirtiest, craftiest way? Sorcha could not bear to be viewed in the same light. Her pride had demanded she take all the responsibility for her actions.

“How could I tell you? You were engaged to the woman you had always planned to marry. This is what I expected.” She flicked the check with her finger, sending it helicoptering off the bed onto the floor. “That’s not who I am. I don’t get pregnant to make money. Or to force men to marry me.”

“Nevertheless, we will marry.” He folded his arms.

“You don’t want to marry me! You don’t love me. You don’t even see me as a friend! You didn’t call after I left Spain. You didn’t care that I was out of your life.”

If she had hoped he would protest that she was wrong and he did care, she was sorely disappointed.

“I don’t love Diega, either,” he asserted. “Love isn’t a requirement for my marriage.”

“It is for mine!”

They battled it out with a silent glare for a few seconds before she tore away her gaze, flinching at what he was offering: a knockoff of the designer marriage she had fantasized. Yes, she had imagined marrying him, but in her vision, love was the stitching that held it together.

“You’re telling me you’re not too proud to accept a onetime slice of my fortune, for the sake of our son, but you’re too proud to marry so Enrique can inherit all of it. Do you really want to raise him in Ireland, away from his birthright? To have him one day discover I have children with another woman and those children are living the life he should have had?”

Sorcha sucked in a breath as though he’d stabbed her. “You do remember,” she said through numb lips, swinging her gaze back to him.

“Remember what?” His face blanked.

“What I told you about my father that day. That I have half siblings who inherited his wealth and we were left with nothing.”

He shook his head, irritation flashing as he said through his teeth, “No. I remember nothing of that day. I never will.” His face spasmed into tortured lines before he shrugged off the dark emotion. “But I’m capable of extrapolating the outcome if I marry another woman. She will expect her children to inherit. That’s all you would ever see.” He pointed to the far side of the bed, where the slip of paper had fallen to the floor.

All those ugly zeroes felt like bullet holes through her heart every time she looked at them.

“You just said you don’t want him thinking his father didn’t care enough to provide for him. I care enough to give him everything that should be his! Try telling me that you, a woman who feels as strongly about her family as you do, will do anything less than the same. How could you justify raising him alone, on a shoestring, when he could have two parents with every advantage provided for him? He deserves to inherit his
title
, Sorcha.”

Okay, she hadn’t mentioned that part to him, that her father’s title had gone to his legitimate English son while his illegitimate Irish daughters had been turned out like squatters. It
was
horrible to think of Enrique one day feeling as she had—not only dismissed and overlooked, but also treated like trash consigned to the curb.