The Ranieri Bride. Michelle Reid

wanted to say as he let the silence grow between them until she shifted restively. You are just one big, in-my-face liar, Freya Jenson.

      ‘You demanded this meeting. So talk,’ he said.

      ‘Call Fredo off guard-watch,’ she responded instantly.

      ‘No.’

      ‘He’s worrying the children—’

      A sleek dark eyebrow arched. ‘My son?’

      Freya stiffened. ‘He is not your son.’

      ‘Luca’s, then?’

      Her chin came up that bit higher, the pink mouth pushing into a stubborn pout, eyes steady when they linked with his, and she said—nothing.

      Freya felt her silence spray like a million pinpricks down her front as she held his cold, narrowed stare. She hated him for asking that, but…

      Dear heaven, he looked good, she found herself thinking helplessly. The silk black hair that didn’t dare to curl like Nicky’s did, unless it was early in the morning and he’d just woken up from a long night of loving and sleep; those dark eyes, half-lost beneath two sets of long eyelashes that gave him such a sexy, slumberous look when really he was as wide awake as a hunting shark. Then there was the mouth, hidden at the moment by the long, tanned finger he had resting along its slender width. That mouth could kill you with pleasure if you let it get close enough. It could make you lose touch with everything, but how it could make you feel!

      And it could slice you into tiny pieces—or the white teeth that hid behind it could—and there was the tongue that could issue insults as effectively as it could devour you in other ways.

      Her nipples pricked and she knew why they did. Just thinking about that mouth—angry or hell-bent on giving you pleasure—was enough to make her breasts respond in a greedy, tight leap of remembered bliss.

      She pulled in some air. ‘I work here,’ she informed him. ‘What happened in the foyer this lunchtime has caused a big enough sensation in this building, without Fredo standing guard at the crèche and making the gossip ten times worse.’

      ‘He is guarding my son.’

      ‘He is not your son.’ She was going to go on repeating that until hell froze over.

      ‘White panties or grey to match the miserable suit?’ he said, making her eyes flicker in confusion. ‘I only ask because you left me with this…image after your very novel telephone call,’ he explained. ‘White or grey used to be the sum total colour in your underwear drawer when I first met you. Plain cotton, very practical things with no hint of silk or lace in sight.’

      ‘What I’m wearing is none of your business!’ Freya responded, but she could suddenly feel the intricate lace pattern of her panties acutely against her skin.

      ‘And tights,’ he continued regardless. ‘You used to be very practical about pantihose until I introduced you to the special pleasures of stockings with very sexy lace tops.’

      Suddenly very aware of the lacy tops on her stay-ups, Freya shifted uncomfortably. ‘I suppose you think you can say anything you like to me because we were once lovers,’ she said stiffly.

      ‘Also those awful cotton bras you wore a full cup size too big—in case your breasts decided to grow into them, I always presumed,’ he persisted. ‘Did they grow when you were carrying my son?’

      ‘He is not your son!’ she sliced hotly at him.

      He uncoiled from the chair like a big black snake rising upwards, then he leant towards her and placed his hands flat on the desk.

      ‘Did they?’ he spat at her through tightly gritted white teeth. ‘Did your breasts grow plump and your body grow round, and did your lousy conscience prick you even once, that you were keeping my son from me?’