Bound By Their Christmas Baby. Clare Connelly

all done for the day, Mr Arantini. Unless there’s anything else you need?’

      ‘No, Benita.’

      ‘Also, sir, Miss Howard is still here.’

      His lips flattened into a grim line. Of course she was.

      ‘Tell her I’m aware she’s waiting.’

      He disconnected the call and picked up the latest report on Calypso’s production, but struggled to focus. Five hours after she’d arrived, the suspense was getting under his skin.

      With a heavy sigh, he stood, lifted his jacket from the back of a conference chair and pushed his arms into it, before pulling the door between his office and the reception area open.

      It was still well-lit, but the windows behind Abigail were pitch-black. The night sky was heavy and ominous. Despite the fact Christmas was a month away, an enormous tree stood in one corner, and it shone now with the little lights that had been strung through its branches. They cast an almost angelic glow on Abigail. An optical illusion, obviously. There was nothing angelic about this woman.

      Her eyes lifted to him at the sound of his entrance, and he ignored the instant spark of attraction that fired in his gut. He was attracted to character traits—intelligence, loyalty, strength of character, integrity. She had none of those things. Well, intelligence, he conceded, but in a way she used for pure evil.

      ‘What do you want?’ he asked, deliberately gruff.

      She seemed surprised—by his tone? Or the fact he’d actually appeared?

      ‘I didn’t think you were going to see me,’ she said, confirming that it was the latter. ‘I thought you must have already left.’

      ‘My first instinct was to have you removed,’ he said. ‘You know I’m capable of it.’ Now heat stained her cheeks, and her chin tilted defiantly towards him. ‘But then it occurred to me that I should find out what you’re planning.’

      ‘Planning?’

      ‘Mmm. You must have some reason for working in my friend’s kitchen. So? What is it?’

      She shook her head. ‘Gabe...’

      ‘I prefer you to call me Mr Arantini,’ he said darkly. ‘It better suits what I think of you and how little I wish to know you.’

      She swallowed, and the action drew his attention to the way she’d dressed for this meeting. That was to say, with no particular attempt to impress. Jeans again, though she did wear them well, and a black sweater with a bit of beading around the neckline. She wore ballet slippers on her feet, black as well, but scuffed at the toes.

      Her eyes sparked with his, emotions swirling in them. ‘Gabe,’ she repeated, with a strength he found it difficult not to admire. Not many people could be on the receiving end of Gabe’s displeasure and come out fighting. ‘The night we met, I was...’

      ‘Stop.’ He lifted a hand into the air, his manner imperious. ‘I do not want to rehash the past. I don’t care about you. I don’t care about your father. I don’t care about that night except for one reason. You taught me a lesson I’ll never forget. I let my guard down with you in a way I hadn’t done in years. And you reminded me why I don’t make a habit of that.’ He said with a shrug that was an emulation of nonchalance, ‘Now I want you to get out of my life, for the last time.’

      ‘Listen to me,’ she said.

      ‘No!’ It was a harsh denial in a silent room. ‘Not when every word that comes from your mouth is a self-serving lie.’

      She clamped her lips together and his eyes chased the gesture, remembering how her pillowy lower lip had felt between his teeth. A kick of desire flared inside him. Desire? For this woman?

      What was wrong with him?

      Celibacy, that was what. He should have found someone else for his bed before this—why had he let the ghost of Abby fill his soul for so long?

      ‘You traded your body, your looks, hell, your virginity, because of what it could get you. That makes you no better than...’

      He didn’t finish the sentence but his implication hung between them, angry and accusing.

      ‘I wanted you, Gabe, just like you wanted me. Calypso wasn’t a part of that.’ She blinked up at him, and he felt it. The same charge of electricity shot from her to him that had characterised that first night, their first meeting. It was a bolt of lightning; he was rattled by heavy, drugging need. God, would he forgive himself for acting on it? For leaning down and kissing her, for pushing her to the floor and making her his one last time before kicking her out of his life for good?

      No.

      She had used him; he wouldn’t use her.

      That wasn’t his style. And, no matter how great the sex had been, he sure as hell wasn’t going to compromise his own morals just because he happened to find her desirable.

      He jerked his gaze away and thrust his hands onto his hips with all the appearance of disregard. ‘I don’t want you now,’ he lied.

      ‘I know that,’ she said, a hint of strength in the short words.

      ‘So? What’s your plan, Abigail? Why work for Rémy?’

      ‘I need the job—I told you.’

      ‘Yes, yes.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘You think I’m stupid enough to buy into your lies for a second time?’

      She looked startled. ‘It’s not...it’s complicated. And I can’t tell you what I came here to say with you glaring at me like you want to strangle me.’

      He almost laughed—it was such an insane accusation. ‘I don’t want to strangle you,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to touch you. I don’t want to see you. I’d prefer to think you don’t exist.’

      She let out a slow, shuddering breath. ‘You actually hate me.’

      ‘Sì.’

      ‘Okay.’ She licked her lower lip. ‘I get it. That’s...actually strangely good to know.’

      ‘You didn’t know this already?’

      She shook her head and then changed it to a nod, before pacing slowly across the room. She jammed her hands into her pockets, staring at the shining doors of the lift.

      Gabe’s impatience grew. He couldn’t have said if it was an impatience to be rid of her or a need to know what the hell she’d come to him to say. Why had he been able to ignore her for a year and now suddenly he was burning up with a desperate need to hear whatever the hell she’d come to him for?

      Because he’d seen her again. And he’d felt that same tug of powerful attraction, that was why. He needed to exercise caution—it was a slippery slope with Abigail, almost as though she were a witch, imbued with magical powers to control and contort him. There was danger in her proximity. The sooner he could be free of her, the better.

      ‘So?’ he demanded when she didn’t speak. ‘What’s going on? Why are you here? What do you want this time?’

      She was wary. ‘Well, I’d like my job back,’ she said, somewhat sarcastically.

      ‘Pigs might fly,’ he said. ‘You’re just lucky I didn’t tell Rémy the full sordid story of how we met.’

      ‘Would it have mattered? He fired me anyway.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Did that give you satisfaction? To see me embarrassed like that? To see me thrown out?’

      He considered it for a moment, his expression hard. ‘Yes.’

      She squeezed her eyes shut and tilted her head towards the ceiling, breathing in, steadying herself. ‘You’re a bastard.’

      ‘So I’ve been told.’

      He looked down at her again. She was slim.