never believe Matty was rushed into hospital this morning,’ Lauren said for the umpteenth time, as she watched her son crawling energetically around the sitting room. ‘He looks a hundred times better than he did when I saw him on the children’s ward.’
‘He looks a lot better than you,’ her mother commented. ‘You’re still as white as a ghost.’
‘I was worried.’ Lauren grimaced at the understatement, and tears blurred her eyes. Worried came nowhere near the stark fear she had felt as she had raced to the hospital. The possibility that Mateo was seriously ill had filled her with terror, as well as guilt that she had left him with her mother while she had attended the Valentine’s Ball. ‘I shouldn’t have gone to the wretched ball last night,’ she said thickly.
‘The doctor said that febrile convulsions are fairly common in babies when they are running a high temperature,’ Frances reminded her. ‘He confirmed that Matty has a throat infection and that the antibiotics should take effect quickly. He’s going to be fine, Lauren.’
‘I know. I just keep thinking what if it had been worse? What if he’d had something life-threatening? I couldn’t bear to lose him.’ Lauren’s voice wobbled and she lifted Mateo up and hugged him to her. ‘I love him so much.’
Her legs suddenly felt weak, and she collapsed onto the sofa. She had been feeling unwell since they had brought Matty home from the hospital a few hours ago, but had put her pounding headache and aching limbs down to the aftereffects of shock. Now she had developed a sore throat, and felt shivery. It seemed likely she had caught the virulent flu virus that had been going round the PGH offices recently. That was all she needed, she thought wearily.
The doorbell pealed. ‘That’s probably my taxi,’ Frances murmured, getting to her feet. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right if I go to Southampton tonight?’
‘Of course I will,’ Lauren assured her mother. ‘You can’t miss a world cruise—and you must go tonight if you’re to board the ship at eight tomorrow morning.’
She rested her aching head against the back of the sofa, grateful that Matty was playing contentedly with a new toy for a few minutes. She could hear voices in the hall. Maybe her mother’s taxi wasn’t here yet, and a neighbour who had seen the ambulance arrive that morning had called to ask after the baby? Footsteps sounded in the hall. She glanced towards the living room door as it opened. Her mother walked in—and then Lauren gave an audible gasp at the sight of the dark and infinitely dangerous-looking man following closely behind Frances.
Ramon! A grim-faced Ramon, whose eyes were glittering with rage. Lauren instinctively tightened her grip on Mateo and swallowed when Ramon’s gaze swung from her to her baby son.
‘LAUREN—Mr Velaquez has explained that he is one of your clients…’ Frances’s voice tailed to a halt as she glanced from her daughter to the darkly handsome man whom she had invited into the flat, and who was now staring grimly at Lauren and Mateo.
Silence fell in the room. A silence that simmered with an undercurrent of tension that made Lauren’s skin prickle. She was barely aware of her mother. Her eyes were riveted on Ramon’s face. He had paled beneath his tan, his shock palpable. She could not tear her gaze from him, and she watched as his shocked expression changed to one of bitter fury.
‘So it’s true—you have a child.’ His voice was so harsh it was almost unrecognisable, his accent very pronounced. Silence stretched between them once more, shredding Lauren’s nerves, before he spoke again. ‘He is my son.’
It was a statement, not a question. The resemblance between Ramon and Matty was startling. Lauren could not have denied the truth even if she had wanted to, and she gave a tiny nod.
He swore violently, and Lauren flinched. ‘You kept my son a secret from me,’ he said hoarsely, disbelievingly. He stared at the baby and saw his own features in miniature. There was no doubt that Lauren was holding his child in her arms, but his brain was struggling to comprehend what his eyes were telling him.
And not just his eyes, he thought as he walked jerkily across the room, moving without his usual lithe grace. His heart, his soul recognised his own flesh and blood. He did not understand how it had happened, but that was immaterial now. Lauren had given birth to his son—and had never told him.
For the second time in his life Ramon tasted the rancid bile of betrayal in his throat. The only other occasion he had felt like this was when he had been eighteen, standing in the doorway of a hotel bedroom, fixated by the sight of the woman he loved lying naked on the bed with another man.
‘Now do you see why you cannot marry this trollop?’ his father asked from behind him. ‘Catalina Cortez was never in love with you, my son. It was all a trick, devised with her lover, to seduce you into marriage so that she could claim a vast divorce settlement. You have been taken for a fool, Ramon,’ Estevan Velaquez had told him harshly. ‘But fortunately no damage has been done—except to your pride, perhaps,’ the Duque had added perceptively.
The disappointment in his father’s eyes had intensified Ramon’s humiliation, and as he had stared at Catalina he had vowed never to trust another woman again. Over the years that decision had served him well, for he had found most women to be untrustworthy. But Lauren had been different. One of the qualities he had most admired about her had been her honesty. He had spent his life surrounded by people who fawned on him and told him what they thought he wanted to hear, and he had found Lauren’s tendency to speak her mind a refreshing change.
Now he knew that she no more deserved his trust than Catalina had, Ramon thought bitterly. Lauren had not cheated on him with another man, but she had cheated him out of the first months of his son’s life, and he would never forgive her for her duplicity.
‘How old is he?’ he ground out, forcing the words past a peculiar constriction in his throat.
‘Ten months.’
Lauren bit her lip. Ramon looked shell-shocked, almost haggard, and the terrible realisation was dawning inside her that she had been wrong to keep his son a secret from him. He was a playboy Spanish duque, who had freely admitted that he viewed marriage as an unwelcome duty necessary to begat the next Velaquez heir, she tried to reassure herself. But the look of devastation in his eyes tore at her conscience.
‘Ten months?’ he repeated harshly. ‘You have kept my son from me for almost a year.’ He did a quick mental calculation. ‘You knew you were pregnant the night you ended our affair, didn’t you? Dios!’ He closed his eyes briefly, trying to take it in. ‘Why, Lauren?’
‘Lauren—what’s going on?’ Frances interrupted in a shocked voice. ‘Who is this man?’ She stared warily at the formidable stranger dressed in black jeans, sweater and a leather jacket. ‘Shall I call the police?’
‘No. It’s all right, Mum.’ Lauren took a shaky breath. ‘Ramon is Matty’s father. I…I need to talk to him, and you need to go. I think your taxi is here now. Please don’t worry,’ she begged her mother, who looked as though she was going to argue. ‘Everything is going to be fine.’
If only she could believe that, she thought a few minutes later, as she gave Frances a wave and shut the front door. Her headache had developed into an excruciating pain, as if someone was drilling through her skull. She longed to take some painkillers and lie down on her bed for a few minutes, but instead she took a deep breath and walked back into the sitting room.
Ramon was standing by the mantelpiece, studying a photo of Mateo taken when he had been a few days old. He speared her with a savage glare. ‘I don’t even know his name,’ he said, in a low tone that could not disguise his tightly leashed anger.
‘It’s Mateo.’
‘Mateo.’ Ramon spoke his son’s name with a sense of wonder. His son—his son.