The Ranieri Bride. Michelle Reid

me, telling me that you’d handed me over to him because—’

      ‘You know I don’t want to hear this, so why are you saying it?’ Enrico cut in coldly.

      ‘One reason,’ she said, cramming the rest of that ugly scene back down inside her. ‘I have as much right as the next person to defend myself against the slur you Ranieris placed on my character.’

      ‘But I did not listen to you then, so why do you think I will listen now?’

      ‘Because you want something from me that you are not going to get without giving me a fair hearing and then reparation for what you and your rotten cousin did to me.’

      ‘Are we talking about my son?’

      ‘He isn’t your son.’

      The tension was heating up again. Enrico stiffened infinitesimally. ‘He is my son,’ he insisted.

      ‘I want proof of that.’

      ‘Perdono?’ He stared at her. ‘Isn’t that my line?’

      Freya crossed her arms more tightly and refused to rise to his sarcasm. ‘I don’t need to prove anything,’ she bluffed. ‘And since I don’t want you to be Nicky’s father I am contesting your claim. If you’re that sure of yourself then prove it,’ she challenged. ‘I want DNA proof.’

      ‘Is this your idea of a joke?’ he demanded.

      Not so she’d noticed. Freya gave a small shrug. ‘I’m the woman you believe tripped like a butterfly from Ranieri to Ranieri—’

      ‘Will you stop saying my name as if it is an insult?’ he ground out.

      But the name was an insult to her. ‘If what you believe about me is true, then even this man-tripping butterfly would not know if you are my son’s father. So I demand proof before I let you near Nicky,’ she repeated.

      ‘But anyone with eyes can tell that he belongs to me!’ Enrico bit out.

      ‘Or Luca,’ she said, and watched with grim satisfaction as his handsome face locked up. ‘Unless, of course, what you believe about me is just a pack of wicked lies you enjoyed swallowing…’

      ‘I did not enjoy it,’ he answered stiffly.

      ‘Then in my place,’ she continued, undeterred by the interruption, ‘no caring mother would want a man who can believe such bad things about her to have anything to do with her child. Your cynical view of me would inevitably rub off on him and poison his mind about the mother he loves.’

      ‘I would not do that.’

      ‘I don’t believe you. So I repeat, you prove Nicky is your son because I am not going to help you.’

      He turned on her then, slamming the glass down. ‘But you know he’s my son!’

      ‘Do I?’

      ‘Stop playing this game, Freya.’ He frowned impatiently. ‘This is stupid. I know he is mine, even if you cannot be sure.’

      ‘Oh, that was good, Enrico.’ She smiled. ‘I turn the tables on you and you’re turning them back again—but that was a mistake,’ she declared. ‘Because all you’ve just managed to do is to confirm what a truly uncaring and cynical bastard you are. So let me put it bluntly…’ Freya straightened from the desk. ‘I don’t want you having any influence in my son’s life, therefore I will do whatever it takes to keep you out of it. I’ll fight you with medical science if you make me, then I’ll fight you in court.’

      ‘You have the cash handy to back that up?’

      ‘There is such a thing as legal aid in this country,’ she pointed out. And on that she turned for the door. ‘Call Fredo off,’ she added as she started walking. ‘Or I will inform the authorities that we have a child-stalker in the building.’

      ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’

      Freya’s head went back. ‘I’m walking out of here—’

      ‘Out of your job—?’

      The challenge landed like a barb to hit dead centre of its target, acting like a lead weight that dropped at her feet and pulled her to a stop.

      ‘No,’ she whispered.

      ‘Need it, do you, Miss Jenson?’ he drawled. ‘Need the meagre wages it pays into your bank?’

      ‘Yes,’ she breathed.

      ‘Need the day care it gives to your son, also? Now, just how would you manage if it wasn’t there…?’

      Freya’s insides began trembling, the meaning behind each single taunt making her feel suddenly very sick. Cold defiance was only effective as a weapon when you had the resources to back it up.

      Enrico had just shown her that she had none.

      She turned slowly. It was the only way to do it if she didn’t want to collapse in a heap on the floor. He was still standing by the drinks cabinet, lounging there now like some super-arrogant modern sculptured Italian god, with his long legs crossed at the ankles and his casual air of sartorial elegance, his power and confidence knocking the spots off her attempt to gain the upper hand. The afternoon sun was pouring in through the windows, catching hold of his lean, golden features and glinting, hard eyes, and his even harder-looking mouth clipped by a tight, taunting smile.

      She’d gone quite nicely pale, Enrico noted with grim satisfaction. Toss your head at me now if you dare.

      ‘You wouldn’t,’ she husked out.

      ‘Why not?’ he countered. ‘I am the crass bastard who hands you over to his cousin for a bit of good sex, remember? I am capable of doing anything.’

      He didn’t mean it, Freya told herself anxiously. He was just getting his own back on her for calling him crass. ‘But it would hurt so many other mothers with—’

      ‘Oh, come on, Freya,’ he cut in, ‘you worked with me for a year so you know the score. If you wanted to cut costs at Hannard’s, where would you begin—?’

      ‘Not with the crèche!’ she cried out.

      ‘Because you have a vested interest there?’ Her eyes were flashing with fear, not defiance now, Enrico noted. ‘Whereas I do not.’

      ‘You—you…’ The words trailed off, bitten back before she could say them.

      Enrico leant forward slightly. ‘Yes?’ he prompted. ‘Were you about to say something important then, cara? Were you about to tell me that I do have a vested interest there?’

      ‘No,’ she choked out.

      He relaxed back again. ‘Your own job, then,’ he moved on with a zealous, razor-like slice. ‘If you had to sit on my side of the desk, what other cost-cutting exercise would you be looking at? The filing department, perhaps?’ he suggested. ‘That vast paper storeroom in the basement of this building that uses up expensive workspace that could be leased out to some other business for a damn good return?’

      ‘Every business has files to store.’ Her arms were back round her body again, trying to defend the panic erupting beneath their tight clasp.

      ‘All the efficiently run businesses I know do not employ a clutch of mindless people for the exclusive task of feeding paper into a couple of ancient scanning machines,’ he responded with contempt. ‘I could contract out—bring in fifty people with fifty state-of-the-art machines and clear that whole basement of paper in a week. It would cost me maximum—’ He named a figure that made Freya blench. ‘That makes your job and the jobs of your fellow paper-scanners redundant. Now, where do I turn next to cut costs?’

      Freya was really trembling now—no, shivering, her skin as cold as ice. In one easy shift of his brain he’d threatened to relieve her of her job, plus those of the dozen others who worked in the basement with her. And if that