baby was so new and fragile, his skin so delicate, Cesar thought he’d tear him if he moved wrong.
And talk to him? He carefully eased Enrique into a more secure position in the crook of his arm and looked at the boy’s unguarded expression. He hadn’t needed the DNA report to believe this was his son, but he still didn’t see himself in that soft, round face.
“She’s crazy,” he said under his breath, wanting to ignore Sorcha’s ridiculous suggestion, but what she had said about Enrique finding security in the sound of his voice niggled. It’s not as if he wanted the opposite, for Enrique to fear the sound of his voice, but he hadn’t put together that his son would look to him for reassurance or, well, anything but basic needs and material items when he was old enough to ask for them.
What was he supposed to say? The kid was ten days old, barely able to control the wander of his gaze. He wouldn’t understand a word.
Blue eyes the same shade as Sorcha’s searched the ceiling with surprising alertness. So much like Sorcha’s, Cesar noted with fascination. Clear and such an undeniable blue and— Oh, hello. Direct. Enrique’s eyes found Cesar’s and stuck.
Cesar found himself lifting his brows in a silent “what now?”
Enrique’s tiny forehead furrowed with faint lines. His miniature brows climbed, reflecting the same query.
“Are you mocking me?” Cesar asked, astonished. A grin tugged at his mouth.
Enrique’s little mouth pulled in what looked a lot like a wavering attempt at a smile.
What the hell? Cesar looked up, something rising in him that was not unlike an unexpected discovery in the lab. Sorcha was still in the bedroom. It was just him and...
There was a word...
He searched for it and found it. Anthropomorphic. The attribution of human qualities to an animal or object. But that’s not what this was, he acknowledged as he waited with held breath for Enrique’s gaze to find his again. There was a person in there, he saw, as they looked into each other’s eyes. A brand-new mind trying to make sense of the world. Cesar saw beyond the lack of cognition in Enrique’s gaze to the desire to get there and an unexpected thump of empathy squeezed his heart.
“I know exactly how you feel,” he muttered, recalling his own awakening in the hospital to a world he didn’t recognize.
He found himself touching the boy’s closed fist, amused to see he was already a fighter.
Enrique opened his hand and grasped Cesar’s finger in a firm grip. He might as well have closed his tiny fist around Cesar’s lungs. Something happened in that moment, something uncomfortable. Cesar trusted no one, never left himself open, never gave his loyalty without a thousand tests. Yet this boy waltzed straight inside him and left a vulnerable opening behind.
At the same time, on the flip side of that vulnerability was a powerful, primal surge of protectiveness.
Cesar wasn’t the biologist his sister was, but he understood on an intellectual level that parents were supposed to feel a willingness to fight to the death for their offspring. It was all part of nature’s plan.
He still wasn’t prepared for the rush of protective instinct that came over him, filling him with the power and imperative to ensure this boy’s well-being. In that instant, he knew he could, and would, conquer anything for this boy.
Trying to ignore how shaken he was by the strange crumbling and rebuilding inside him, he lightly stroked the pad of his thumb across minuscule knuckles.
“I have your back,” he promised his son, then took note of the intense stare that failed to understand the depth of what he’d just vowed. “Maybe don’t wear the exact blank stare I give my own parents when I’m pretending to listen, hmm?”
* * *
Enrique was down for the night in the lounge. Cesar was glancing at the sports highlights on mute and Sorcha was staring at the bed they would share.
Actually, she glared at what had been left for her by the modiste. She had come back while they were at dinner to take the wedding gown back to Paris. She would mend any damage before she worked some kind of magic so the dress wouldn’t discolor in storage.
Was this sexy peignoir her idea? Or Cesar’s?
Either way, it was gorgeous, but a complete waste.
Sorcha folded her arms, staring holes into it, trying to justify starting her marriage in flannel pajama bottoms and an oversize T-shirt. But her husband had already reacted with a sideways look at what she’d worn to dinner: perfectly respectable black maternity dress pants and a white knit pullover with a cowl neck.
She heard the rattle of the remote onto a table and tensed as he came into the room. His gaze took in her disgruntled expression, then drifted to the silvery silk with blue lace poured across the fluffy white coverlet.
This was awful. She just blurted it out. “You know I can’t make love, right?”
“I was there when the doctor looked at me and said we should wait six weeks, yes,” he said drily, mostly closing the door so they could hear Enrique, but talk without disturbing him.
“Is this...?” She waved at the sexy lingerie. “Are you expecting me to do something tonight?” She was dying a death by a thousand blushes, voice thinning with how uncomfortable she was. Part of her wanted to touch him, give him pleasure. It was their wedding night, for heaven’s sake, but another part...
She tried to swallow the lump in her throat.
“Do you want to do something?” he asked, arms folded, rocking back on his heels. He sounded convinced that she didn’t.
“I don’t know,” she grumbled, crossing her own arms.
She wasn’t a prude, but she wasn’t terribly experienced. With her mother’s reputation hanging over them, then her sister’s teen pregnancy, the rest of them had tried to keep a low profile. The workplace hadn’t been much better. If Sorcha had wanted to be taken seriously, she had had to avoid flirting or dating coworkers. She’d had a couple of longer relationships, but her focus had always been on developing her career, not her bedroom skills.
She’d been starkly aware of the differences in their confidence levels that day in Valencia, but had thought Cesar had enjoyed himself as much as she had. Then she’d woken alone. Everything that had followed hadn’t exactly reassured her that he’d been fully satisfied by her efforts.
“She asked me if she should include a nightgown. I said yes.” He dismissed the conversation with a hitch of his shoulder. “It wasn’t meant as a demand to be serviced.” Insult underpinned his tone.
She scowled. “Don’t make me feel callow.”
“Callow?” he repeated.
“Green. Inexperienced. Virginal,” she explained.
“Do not tell me you were a virgin that day.” He froze, his gaze piercing hers.
“No. Of course not. I—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” he interrupted with a sweep of his hand.
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t want to hear how many lovers you’ve had. This conversation ends here.”
She blinked at him. “You,” she said, “don’t want to know how many lovers I have had. When you’ve had—”
“Not talking about it,” he said, flat and decisive. “We’re married now and exclusive to each other.”
“Really,” she said, heart fluttering with hope. “Mr. Variety Pack is willing to be abstinent for six weeks then restrict himself to me for the rest of his life.”
He looked about to say something then changed his mind, saying after a pause, “Do you have a problem with that?”
“No,”