age but he thought she was under one year old. She was small, like a doll, with dark brown hair and big blue eyes.
His gut seized and his hand shook as he scrolled through a couple more photos. She was a miniature version of Bronte. She was still in nappies; it looked as if she had only just started to walk. Luca felt a pain like a thick metal skewer go through the middle of his heart. He hadn’t been expecting this. He hadn’t seen it coming. He felt a fool for not realising. No wonder she didn’t want anything more to do with him. Bronte had well and truly moved on with her life.
She’d had a baby.
She’d had another man’s child.
The knowledge was too painful. His chest cavity felt too tight, suddenly too small to accommodate his organs. He couldn’t breathe without pain. Each breath was like a knife between his ribs. His lungs felt as if they were going to explode.
He couldn’t bear to look at any more pictures. He couldn’t trust himself not to smash the phone if he came across the child’s father in one of them. He didn’t want to know who it was or what he looked like. No doubt it was some solidly dependable suburban type who had swept Bronte off her feet and offered her the security she longed for. Luca hadn’t noticed a wedding ring on her finger but having a child with someone these days often came first. She had said she lived with her mother but did her lover and the father of her child live there too? No wonder she hadn’t wanted him to pick her up or even know where she lived. Dio, he couldn’t bear the thought of her going home to lie in someone else’s arms. Even now she could be making love with the father of her child, perhaps conceiving another one with him right at this very moment.
His fingers clenched around the phone as he laid his head back against the sofa cushions. He closed his eyes tightly, almost painfully, trying to block out the taunting images his brain concocted, thinking instead of how a few months could have changed everything.
The phone began to vibrate in his hand.
Luca opened his eyes and looked down at the screen. He slid the answer arrow across and held the phone up to his ear. ‘Hello.’
There was a short silence marked by some rapid breathing.
‘Luca?’
‘Bronte,’ Luca drawled, idly crossing one ankle over his thigh. ‘How nice of you to call.’ Another tight silence.
‘You have my phone.’ The words came out like small, hard pellets. ‘It must have slipped out of my purse or something.’
‘Yes, it must have,’ he said. ‘You want to come and get it or shall I bring it to dinner tomorrow night?’
‘I…’
‘Or I could bring it around to your place now,’ he said.
‘No!’
Luca curled his lip, trying to ignore the pain in his gut. ‘It would be no trouble, Bronte. Where do you live?’
‘I don’t want you to come here, Luca,’ she said stiffly.
‘Lover boy wouldn’t like it?’ he asked.
The silence this time crackled with tension.
‘I need my phone,’ she said. ‘I will come and get it now… if that’s all right? I mean if it’s not too late or anything.’
Luca glanced at his watch and smiled. ‘I’ll be waiting for you.’
The call ended and he tapped his fingers against the phone where it rested on his thigh, his smile disappearing as a heavy frown pulled at his forehead.
Bronte pulled into the hotel’s arrival bay and reluctantly left the keys with the valet parking attendant. She had tried to explain she wouldn’t be long but hotel policy forbade parking out the front, even for short intervals. The tense exchange of words with the attendant on duty hadn’t improved her already overstretched nerves. The moment of panic when she’d realised she had left her phone behind had practically sent her heart into a fibrillation. A heart attack at twenty-five was unlikely but Bronte felt as if she was going to go very close.
Had Luca looked at the photos of Ella? There were literally dozens of them. Fortunately there were none of Ella’s firstborn ones or any from the first few months of her life. Bronte had transferred all her photos only a couple of weeks ago so she only had more recent photos on it.
But even so.
Would Luca see the likeness? Her mother had assured her it was unlikely. Ella was small for her age and had the same hair colour as Bronte and the same slate-blue eyes, dainty features and creamy skin.
Bronte wasn’t so sure her mother was right, however. At times she could see a lot of Luca in her daughter. When Ella was concentrating over a puzzle or a toy she couldn’t quite figure out, she frowned just like Luca frowned. And just lately, as Ella grew more and more adventurous now she was finally walking, she often gave Bronte a look of gleaming satisfaction that was Luca through and through.
Ever since she had realised she had left her phone behind Bronte had berated herself. Why hadn’t she noticed the clasp on her purse was faulty? She should never have agreed to see him. What was she thinking? What good could come of it? It was perfectly clear he was after a quick affair. She had seen the intention in his dark, smouldering eyes. He wanted her. And that kiss! What had she been doing, responding to him like that? What madness had overtaken her? He was testing the waters and they were as hot as he had arrogantly expected.
Fool, fool, fool! Why had she fallen for it? She should have been more determined, more strident, more…. more… in control of herself.
She rested her hot forehead on the wall of the lift, trying to get her breathing to calm down. All she had to do was pick up her phone and leave. Simple. Just take it and leave. Don’t talk, don’t linger and for God’s sake don’t look at him too long in case he saw more than she wanted him to see.
The lift seemed to take ages to climb to the penthouse floor, or perhaps that was because Bronte was sweating out each heart-stopping second in a rising state of panic.
Finally the lift arrived and she walked on legs that felt as spindly and unstable as a newborn colt’s. Her brief knock on Luca’s door was answered by him after an annoyingly lengthy interval. She wondered if it had been deliberate.
‘Come in,’ he said, holding the door wide open.
‘No, thank you,’ she said tightly. ‘I’ll just take my phone and leave.’
He folded his arms across his broad chest, rocking back on his heels in an indolent manner. ‘Since you’ve driven all this way back here, why not stay a while and chat?’
Bronte held out her hand. ‘My phone.’
Luca took her hand and tugged her into the suite, closing the door with a sharp click behind her. He smiled mockingly at her shocked and outraged expression. ‘My way, Bronte, or you won’t get your phone back at all.’
She glared at him with eyes as narrow as that of an embroidery needle. ‘That’s theft, you bastard.’
‘You can have your phone after we’ve had a little talk,’ he said, leading her into the suite.
She tugged at his hold to no avail. ‘I don’t want to talk to you, Luca.’
‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked, pointedly ignoring her attempts to pull away. ‘I’m afraid there’s not much champagne left. But I could always open another bottle.’
‘I am not here to socialise,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘I just want to get my phone and go home.’
He held her in front of him, looking down at her flushed features and tightly pursed lips. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about your child?’ he asked. ‘I’m assuming it’s yours? She looks the image of you.’
Her face paled and her eyes looked stricken. ‘You looked at my photos?’ she asked in a hoarse-sounding