The Italian's Baby of Passion: The Italian's Secret Baby / One-Night Baby / The Italian's Secret Child. Catherine Spencer

to my bedroom is on an invitation-only basis.’ She tossed her head and centred her scornful gaze on his devastatingly handsome dark face. ‘And you’re not invited.’

      ‘I’m devastated.’ The derisive look he gave her brought an angry glitter to Scarlet’s eyes.

      ‘You would be if you knew what you were missing!’ she heard herself jeer.

      ‘If that was an invitation, I’ll pass,’ he replied, continuing his suspicious visual examination of the room.

      ‘It wasn’t.’ If he was going to insult her, the least he could do was look at her while he did it.

      ‘You’re alone?’

      ‘And this would be your business because?’

      He drew an exasperated breath. ‘Are you totally incapable of answering a simple question?’

      Scarlet shook her head in disbelief. ‘I’m not answering any of your questions. Why on earth should I?’

      He contemplated her belligerent face for a moment before saying in a placatory manner, ‘We can take this into the other room if you prefer.’

      Scarlet vented a brittle laugh as she followed him into the living room. ‘Wow, you’re all consideration,’ she drawled with mock admiration. ‘You really have got the most incredible cheek. You barge in here uninvited. You let me think something has happened to Sam and then turn it around and interrogate me!’ She gave a weary sigh. ‘Will you just go?’

      ‘It’s seven-thirty.’ His glance rested pointedly on her pyjamas. ‘Why are you dressed for bed?’

      ‘Oh, I always wear these when I plan an evening of seduction.’

      Her sarcasm brought a dark line of colour to the slashing angle of his incredible cheekbones.

      ‘Then you’re alone?’

      ‘I was,’ she retorted drily.

      He looked around the room, registering the blurred frozen image on the TV screen, the box of chocolates and the untouched glass of wine. His glance reached the box of toys tucked into a corner and he frowned.

      ‘Is…?’ He swallowed. ‘Where is Sam?’

      ‘Sam is sleeping over at a friend’s, the Bradleys, which is probably just as well in the circumstances.’

      ‘The circumstances being?’

      ‘Three-year-olds don’t react well to being woken up.’

      ‘Ah.’ His facial muscles clenched, exaggerating the sharp contours and angles of his face. He really did have bone structure to die for, she thought, despising the weakness that made her incapable of not staring. ‘I didn’t think.’

      ‘About anything other than what you want? I’d already worked that one out. No doubt it’s acting on impulse that makes you such a financial success?’

      ‘I know you’re not Sam’s mother.’

      She waited, her expression attentive but confused, until it occurred to her he was expecting some sort of response. ‘Not his birth mother, no,’ she agreed. The adoption had made her his legal guardian.

      She was cool, he had to give her that. ‘You didn’t ask me how I knew you weren’t his mother?’

      She shrugged her shoulders and still betrayed none of the guilt he had expected her to when confronted. ‘I suppose I assumed someone mentioned it in passing. David, maybe?’

      ‘David?’

      ‘The vice-chancellor.’

      ‘You call the vice-chancellor David?’ His voice was heavy with suspicion.

      ‘He went to school with my uncle, I’ve known him since I was a little girl so, yes, I do call him David.’

      ‘And he knows Sam isn’t your son?’

      Scarlet shook her head in total bewilderment. ‘It’s not like it’s a secret. Everyone knows, I suppose.’

      He looked at her, his dark brows drawn into a straight line.

      ‘Why? What did you think?’

      His eyes were hidden beneath the lustrous sweep of his lashes as he looked across at her, but his attitude suggested he was wary. ‘Then who is Sam’s birth mother?’

      ‘My sister Abby was Sam’s mother.’

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      COMPREHENSION struck Roman with the force of a tidal wave. Of the scenarios he had imagined—and he had imagined plenty—this one had never occurred to him.

      The people he employed on those occasions when he required a background check were both efficient and discreet. He could have had the information she had just provided in literally a matter of hours, maybe less. Instead he had taken a far more tortuous route, and had his DNA compared with the hair sample he had taken from the child.

      At the time he had told himself that the fewer people who knew what he was doing, the less chance there was of the story leaking out. He’d wanted to know for certain he didn’t have a son without having to involve a whole string of people. Now he was forced to consider the possibility that the truth had only been part of what he had wanted—he had wanted someone to blame.

      Not just someone.

      The stranger who was bringing up his child without his knowledge had to be guilty of something—! He had wanted to confront Scarlet, to make this personal—it was personal!

      His stillness was scary, she thought. It was actually a relief when his shoulders lifted and a soundless sigh shuddered through his powerful frame.

       ‘Was…?’

      Scarlet looked away and with a gesture that was intensely weary rubbed the bridge of her nose; the glasses were gone but the habit remained. She blinked hard to clear her blurry vision as tears filled her eyes.

       Damn—! She really didn’t want to cry in front of him.

      It wasn’t as if she couldn’t talk about Abby without getting upset; she made a point of talking about her with Sam, who had a photo of his mother in his room.

      ‘Here, have this,’ he said brusquely.

      She released a wry laugh as she automatically took the glass he handed her. ‘I was wondering if you ever say please?’ she explained in reply to his questioning look.

      A puzzled frown developed on her smooth brow as their glances meshed. ‘Why are you here, Roman?’

      ‘Your sister is dead?’

      Scarlet nodded, and took a swallow of the wine.

      ‘I’m sorry.’

      ‘There’s no need to be; you didn’t know her.’

      She caught a flicker of something in his expression that she couldn’t put a name to, but it wasn’t there when he walked back from the Welsh dresser with a clean mug in his hand. He proceeded to slosh some wine into it.

      ‘It’s cheap supermarket plonk.’

      He looked at her, his piercing regard intense. He drew a deep breath and his hands coiled at his sides. ‘You’d better sit down,’ he said abruptly.

      ‘People say that when they’re about to tell you something you won’t like hearing.’

      He didn’t deny it.

      Scarlet moved a cushion and sat down on the sofa. Her stomach was churning with apprehension.

      ‘You’d better sit down yourself,’ she said with an irritable frown. ‘You look terrible,’ she added, observing the grey tinge to his olive-toned skin and the definite tautness in the lines around