By Request Collection April-June 2016. Оливия Гейтс

      ‘And is that what you told him when he asked you where you were all night?’

      She shook her head, her eyes tinged with sadness. ‘Sam’s father doesn’t figure in this.’

      His eyes darted between mother and child, noticing for the first time the child’s dark hair and eyes, the olive tinge to the skin, and he half wondered if she was bluffing and had borrowed someone else’s baby as some kind of human shield. He would have called her on it but for noticing the angle of the child’s wide mouth and the dark eyes stamped with one hundred per cent Evelyn, and that made him no happier.

       Because someone else had slept with her.

      He thought of her in his arms, her long-limbed body interwoven with his, he thought of her eyes when she came apart with him inside her, damn near shorting his brain. And now he thought of her coming apart in someone else’s arms…

      ‘You should have told me.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Damn it, Evelyn! You know why!’

      ‘Because we spent the night together?’ she hissed. Sam yowled, as if he’d been on the receiving end of that, and she leaned over, surprising Leo when she didn’t smack him, as he’d half expected, but instead delicately stroked the child’s cheek and calmed him with whispered words. Something twisted inside him, something shapeless and long buried, and he had to look away lest the shape take form and he worked out what it was. His gut roiled. What was happening to him? Why did she have this effect on him? She made him feel too much. She made him see too much.

      She made him remember things he didn’t want to remember.

      And none of it made sense. None of it he could understand.

      ‘I’m sorry you feel aggrieved,’ she said, and reluctantly he turned back to see her unclipping the child’s harness and lifting the child into her arms, where he snuggled close, sniffling against her shoulder as she rubbed his back. ‘But what part of our contract did I miss that said I should stipulate whether I should have children or what number of them I should have?’

      ‘Children? You mean there’s more?’

      She huffed and turned away, rubbing the boy’s back, whispering sweet words, stroking away his hiccups, and the gentle sway of her hips setting her skirt to a gently seductive hula.

      ‘Ironic isn’t it?’ she threw at him over her shoulder. ‘Here you are, so desperate to prove to Eric Culshaw that you’re some kind of rock-solid family man, and you’re scared stiff of a tiny child.’

      ‘I’m not—’

      She spun around. ‘You’re terrified! And you’re taking it like some kind of personal affront. But I wouldn’t worry. Sam’s a bit old for anyone to believe he was conceived last night, so there’s no reason to fear any kind of paternity claim.’

      ‘You wouldn’t dare!’

      ‘Oh, you do flatter yourself. A woman would have to be certifiably insane to want to shackle themselves to you!’

      ‘Clearly Sam’s father was of the same mind about you.’

      He knew he’d hurt her. He recognised the precise moment when his words pierced the fighting sheen over her eyes and left them bewildered and wounded. He almost felt regret. Almost wanted to reach out and touch her cheek like she’d touched her child’s, and soothe away her pain.

       Almost.

      But that would mean he cared. And he couldn’t care about anyone. Not that way.

      And just as quickly as it had gone down, the armour was resurrected and her eyes blazed fire at him. ‘I have a child, Mr Zamos. It’s never affected the quality of my work to date and it’s my intention that it never will, but if you can’t live with that then fine, maybe it’s time we terminated our agreement now and you found someone else to look after your needs.’

      Bile, bitter and portentous, rose in the back of his throat. She was right. There was no point noticing her eyes or the sensual sway of her hips. There was no point reliving the evening they’d had last night. She couldn’t help him now and it was the now he had to be concerned with. As to the future, maybe it was better he found someone else. Maybe someone older this time. It wasn’t politically correct to ask for a date of birth, but he’d never been any kind of fan of political correctness. Especially not when it messed with his plans. He huffed an agreement. ‘If that’s what you want.’

      She stood there, the child plastered against her from shoulder to hip, his arms wound tightly around his mother’s neck, the mother so fierce he was reminded of an animal fighting to protect its litter that he’d seen on one of those television documentaries that appeared when you were flicking through the channels on long-haul flights. The comparison surprised him. Was that how all mothers were supposed to be?

      ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘I’ll burn everything of yours onto disk and delete it from my computer. I’ll send it to you care of the hotel. You can let them know your forwarding address.’

      His hands clenched at his sides, his nails biting into his palms. ‘Fine.’

      ‘Goodbye, Mr Zamos.’ She held out her hand. ‘I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.’ Her words washed over him, making no sense as he looked down at her hand. The last time he would touch her. The last time they would meet skin to skin.

       How had things gone so wrong?

      He wrapped his hand around hers, her hand cool against his heated flesh, and he felt the tremor move through her, saw her eyelids flutter closed, and despite the fact she represented everything he didn’t want in this world, everything he hated and despised and had promised himself he would never have, still some strange untapped part of him mourned her loss.

      Maybe that was how it started, though, with this strange want, this strange need to possess.

      Maybe it was better to let her go now, he thought, while he still could. While she was still beautiful.

      But still it hurt like hell.

      Unable to stop himself, unable to let her go just yet, his other hand joined the first, capturing her hand, raising it to his mouth for one final kiss.

      ‘Goodbye Evelyn,’ he said, his voice gravel rich, tasting her on his lips, knowing he would never forget the taste of her or the one night of passion they’d shared in Melbourne.

      ‘Leo! Evelyn!’ came a voice from over near the bar. ‘There you are!’

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      EVE gasped, tugging to free her hand, the fight-or-flight instinct telling her to get out while she still could, but Leo wasn’t about to let her go, his grip tightening until she felt her hand was encased in steel. ‘This is your fault.’ He leaned over and whispered in her ear as Eric Culshaw bounded towards them, beaming from ear to ear. ‘Remember that.’ And then he straightened and even managed to turn on a smile, although his eyes were anything but relaxed. She could almost hear the brain spinning behind them.

      ‘Eric,’ Leo said, his velvet voice all charm on the surface, springloaded with tension beneath. ‘What a surprise. I thought you were taking Maureen out.’

      He grunted. ‘She spotted some article in a woman’s magazine—you know the sort of thing—and grew herself a headache.’ He shook his head. ‘Sordid bloody affair. You’d think the reporters could find something else to amuse themselves with by now.’ And then he huffed and smiled. ‘Which makes you two a sight for sore eyes.’ His eyes fell on the dozing child in her arms. ‘Although maybe I should make that three. Who’s this little tacker, then?’

      Almost as if aware he was being discussed,