Modern Romance February Books 5-8. Jane Porter

he’d wanted the storm to come—and so had Teddie—right up until she’d told him that it was all in his head.

      Not that he’d believed her. It had been just one more lie in a day of lies.

      He breathed out slowly, trying to shift the memory of her final stinging remark to him.

       ‘You and I are impossible. You being George’s father changes nothing between us.’

      Wrong, he thought irritably. It changed everything.

      No matter how much she wanted to deny it, there was a connection between them—and it wasn’t just based on sex, he thought, his heart tightening as he remembered his son bumping fists with him.

      He still couldn’t believe that he was a father. A father!

      The word kept repeating inside his head like a scratched record.

      Suddenly he needed a drink!

      In the cavernous stainless steel and polished concrete kitchen, he poured himself a glass of red wine and made his way to the rooftop terrace that led off the living area.

      Collapsing into a chair, he gazed moodily out at the New York skyline. Even from so high up he could feel the city’s energy rising up like a wave, but for once he didn’t respond to its power. He was too busy trying to piece together the life that Teddie had shattered when she’d walked into his hotel.

      And if that hadn’t been enough of a shock, she’d then lobbed a grenade into his perfectly ordered world in the shape of a three-year-old son.

      Welcome to fatherhood, Teddie-Taylor style.

      Thanks to her, he’d gone from nought to being the father of a miniature version of himself in a matter of seconds, with Teddie presenting George to him like the proverbial rabbit being pulled from a hat.

      He ran his hand slowly over his face, as though it might smooth the disarray of his thoughts. It felt surreal to be contemplating even the concept of being a father, let alone the reality. He’d never really imagined having a child—not out of any deep-rooted opposition to being a father, but because work and the expansion of his business empire required all his energy and focus.

      He frowned. But maybe there were other reasons too? Could his father’s decision to opt out of his responsibilities have made him question his own programming for parenthood? Possibly, he decided after a moment’s thought. Apostolos Leonidas had been an intermittent and largely reluctant presence in his life, and maybe he had just assumed that he’d be the same.

      And up until now he’d more or less given his father a free pass—having been made to look a fool, his father had understandably wanted nothing to do with his adulterous wife, and that had meant having nothing to do with his son either.

      But even when Aristo had been blinded with shock and anger earlier he’d felt no resentment towards George, no sense of panic or dismay. Gazing down into his son’s dark eyes, he had felt his heart tighten in recognition—and love.

      His shoulders stiffened. The same love that Teddie clearly felt for George?

      Resentment still simmered inside him, but he couldn’t stop himself from reluctantly admiring his ex-wife. Whatever else she might be, Teddie was a good mother. George clearly adored her, and she loved their son—not with his own mother’s chilly, grudging variety of love, nor the nod of recognition that had passed for love in his father’s head. Just love—pure, simple and unselfish.

      Imagining how it must feel to be the focus of that kind of affection and tenderness, he felt something tauten inside him—not just a sense of responsibility, but of resolve. He was George’s father, and it was his job to make sure his son had the love and security that he himself had been denied as a child.

      His parents’ divorce and subsequent remarriages had left him rootless and unsure of his place in the world, and he knew instinctively that George needed both his parents. But if that was to happen then this time Teddie wouldn’t be running anywhere—ever. Only, judging by how quickly she had bolted from his life last time, he needed to make that clear sooner rather than later.

      * * *

      ‘Well, if you ask me, it could have been a lot worse.’

      Elliot raised his elbows swiftly off the breakfast bar as Teddie swept past him with a wet cloth, cleaning the evidence of George’s cereal from the surface and wishing she could wipe Aristo from her life just as effortlessly.

      Elliot hadn’t appeared the night before but had arrived at breakfast, bringing doughnuts and his usual reassuring patter, and she’d been both grateful and relieved to see him.

      It wasn’t that he could do anything to change what had happened, but he made her feel calmer, more rational. Less like the woman she’d been last night.

      Her fingers tightened around the cloth and she closed her eyes.

      That, in short, was the problem. Maybe it was because he was so uncompromisingly masculine physically, but Aristo made her feel like a woman—fierce and wild and hungry to touch and be touched. They’d felt so right together; he’d felt so right against her. And, even though she despised herself for being so shallow, she couldn’t pretend that anything had changed. When he was near her she was still so aware of his body, his breathing, the heat of his skin…

      Her insides felt suddenly hot and tight and, breathing out a little, she opened her eyes. She’d done everything she could to excise the memory of what it felt like to be held in Aristo’s arms, only for him to turn up on her doorstep and make a mockery of all her efforts. It wasn’t fair—but that didn’t mean she was going to roll over and let him turn her and George’s lives upside down.

      ‘It could?’ Turning, she stared at Elliot disbelief. ‘How, Elliot? How could it be worse?’

      He shrugged, his expression innocent. ‘He could have kissed you.’

      Remembering how close she’d come to letting that happen, she scowled at him, a blush of colour heating her cheeks. ‘He didn’t.’

      ‘Or you could have kissed him—Hey, it was a joke.’ Grinning, he caught the cloth that Teddie threw at him. ‘Where’s your sense of humour?’

      Collapsing onto the stool beside him, she shook her head. ‘It packed its bags and left shortly after Aristotle Leonidas arrived.’

      She felt a sudden rush of panic, remembering that stand-off between them—the prickling of her skin and the intensity of his gaze, his dark eyes scanning her face, all-seeing, hungry, unwavering… Her stomach tightened, her hands curling into fists. She might not have given in last night, but this thing, this ‘connection’ between them wasn’t going to just disappear.

      But she could.

      The thought popped into her head unbidden, fully formed, because of course that was still her gut instinct. Before Aristo, years of her life had been spent living out of suitcases, staying in hotels and motels, always ready to leave, to flee like a getaway driver after a heist. Running away had been her quick fix, her go-to solution for dealing with any problem in her life, any time things got hard.

      It was a hangover from a childhood spent dodging unpaid bills and bailiffs and a legacy from her father—not that she’d ever thought of him as that. Wyatt Taylor had never stayed around long enough for the name ‘Dad’ to stick. Just long enough to teach her a couple of magic tricks and to make her miss him when he left.

      Her heart began to pound.

      Only, how could she run with a child? George’s life was here, in New York. He went to nursery here, he had friends, a routine. He was the reason she’d stopped running.

      As though sensing her panic, Elliot reached over and pushed a stray strand of hair away from her face.

      ‘Come on, Teddie, I know he was a pig to you, and maybe it wasn’t ideal, him turning up here out of the blue, but…’ He hesitated, his expression becoming uncharacteristically