A D'Angelo Like No Other. Carole Mortimer

with this Rachel Foster?’

      Eva’s eyes widened angrily, her cheeks warming with temper. ‘This Rachel Foster happens to be my sister, and, yes, you’ve been “involved” with her. In fact, you’re holding part of the evidence of that involvement in your arms right now!’

      Michael instantly stared down at the baby he held. Not a newborn, certainly, probably a few months old, possibly five or six, and very cute, as babies went, with her mop of black hair, those violet-coloured eyes, and her little face screwed up in concentration as she played with one of the buttons on the jacket of his several-thousand-pound suit.

      If this woman, this Eva Foster, was trying to say that he was somehow responsible?

      Shades of yesterday...

      ‘I’ve never met your sister,’ Michael stated firmly. ‘Let alone—I’ve never met her,’ he repeated coldly. ‘So whatever scam the two of you are trying to pull here I would advise that you forget it—’ He broke off abruptly as one of Eva Foster’s hands made loud and painful contact with one of his cheeks, causing the baby in his arms to let out another deafening wail. ‘That was uncalled for,’ he bit out between gritted teeth, his jaw clenched as he jiggled the baby up and down in his arms in an effort to silence her screams.

      ‘It was very called for,’ Eva Foster insisted heatedly, her face having become even paler as she moved forward to soothingly stroke the back of the baby in Michael’s arms. ‘How dare you stand there and deny even knowing my sister, accuse the two of us of trying to pull a scam on you, at the same time as you’re holding your own daughter in your arms?’ Her eyes flashed deeply violet in contrast to the emotional shaking of her voice.

      ‘I am not—’ Michael broke off to draw in a deep, controlling breath, his cheek still stinging from that slap. ‘Sophie is not my daughter.’

      ‘I assure you she is,’ she snapped.

      ‘Do you think we could both just take a couple of deep breaths, maybe step back a little, and try to calm this situation down? It’s distressing the babies,’ Michael added firmly as Eva Foster opened her mouth with the obvious intention of continuing to argue with him.

      It was unusual for anyone to argue with him, period, Michael being accustomed to issuing orders and having them obeyed rather than have people dispute them. Nor did he appreciate the added complication of this woman—a feisty young woman he acknowledged as being irritatingly beautiful—continuing to accuse him of fathering her sister’s babies.

      It was an accusation Michael didn’t appreciate. He’d learnt his lesson many years ago when it came to the machinations of women. And he had Emma Lowther to thank that, for teaching him to never, ever trust a woman, when it came to contraception or anything else.

      How many years ago was it since Emma had tried to blackmail him into marriage by claiming she was pregnant? Fourteen. And Michael still remembered every moment of it as if it were yesterday.

      Not that he had ever thought of shirking his responsibility. Oh, no, Michael had been stupid enough to think he was actually in love with Emma, had even been pleased about the baby, and the two of them had been making wedding plans for weeks when he introduced Emma to an acquaintance at a party, and she had decided within days of that introduction that Daniel, his family richer even than Michael’s, would be a far better choice as a husband. Which was when she had told Michael there was no baby, that she had been mistaken. Three months later she had tried to use the same trick on Daniel.

      The scene that had followed, once Emma had learnt that Michael had warned Daniel of her machinations, that there was no baby this time either, had not been pleasant!

      Emma’s pregnancy had been a sham, a trick to make Michael marry her, and it had been enough of a warning for him never again to trust any woman to take care of contraception...

      Which was why he could now confidently deny Eva Foster’s claim in regard to her sister’s babies.

      ‘Twins,’ she now corrected softly. ‘The babies are twins.’

      They certainly looked of a similar age and colouring: both had silky heads of ebony dark hair and the same amazing violet-coloured eyes as their aunt. Their features weren’t completely formed as yet, but there were certainly enough similarities for Michael to accept Eva Foster’s claim that they were twins.

      But whether they were twins or otherwise, they were not—most definitely not!—Michael’s children.

      ‘How old are they?’ he bit out tightly.

      ‘Trying to jog your memory?’ she scorned.

      ‘How old?’ Michael repeated through those gritted teeth.

      She shrugged. ‘Six months.’

      And if Rachel Foster had gone full term with her babies that would mean nine months to be added onto the six months, making it fifteen months ago he was supposed to have—

      Damn it, why was Michael even bothering to do the maths? No matter what this woman might claim to the contrary, he had not impregnated any woman fifteen months ago or at any other time!

      ‘And you believe they’re mine because...?’ He kept his voice soft and even as Sophie’s lids began to flicker and her head dropped down sleepily onto his shoulder, the infant obviously tired out by her previous screeching.

      That pointed chin rose another challenging notch. ‘Because Rachel told me they were.’

      Michael nodded. ‘In that case, would you care to explain why your sister hasn’t come here and confronted me with this information herself?’

      ‘Because— Careful!’ Eva warned as she realised Sophie had fallen into the completely boneless sleep only babies seemed able to do, and was almost slipping off one of those broad shoulders as a result.

      ‘How did you do that?’ she breathed ruefully as she looked at the sleeping Sophie.

      Usually the twins only fell asleep after she had walked them in their pushchair or bounced them up and down for hours; Eva couldn’t remember the last time she’d had even one uninterrupted night’s sleep. And those lazy Sunday mornings of dozing in bed until lunchtime, which she had once taken so much for granted, now seemed like a self-indulgent dream, a mirage, and one Eva was sure she was destined never to know again.

      ‘Do what?’ D’Angelo rasped softly.

      ‘Never mind,’ Eva muttered irritably. ‘Just put Sophie in the left side of the pushchair. She doesn’t like sitting on the right side,’ she supplied wearily as he paused to raise dark, questioning brows.

      ‘She’s asleep, so what does it matter?’

      ‘She knows when she wakes up,’ Eva dismissed impatiently.

      ‘Right,’ Michael drawled dryly, willing to take this woman’s word for it that a six-month-old baby was aware of which side of a pushchair she was sitting in.

      He looked down at the baby after he had somehow managed to ease her down into the pushchair without waking her. Sophie was like a dark-haired angel, ebony lashes fanning across her flushed cheeks, her mouth a little pouting rosebud.

      He straightened abruptly as he realised what he was doing. ‘What about that one?’ He indicated the baby in Eva Foster’s arms.

      ‘His name’s Sam,’ she supplied somewhat tartly. ‘And he’s just fine where he is.’ She looked down indulgently at the baby now snuggled into her throat. ‘Sam is more placid than Sophie,’ she explained waspishly as she obviously saw Michael’s mocking expression. ‘What did you say?’ she prompted softly as he muttered under his breath.

      ‘I said that’s probably because he’s a man,’ Michael repeated unabashedly.

      Eva Foster gave a scathing snort. ‘It’s been my experience that men tend to be lazy, not placid!’

      ‘I beg your pardon?’ Michael’s brow lowered.

      ‘I’m