Page 34 of Hidden Heir With His Housekeeper

But then his surprise turned to irritation.

If she’d needed cash, she’d had another good reason to contact him. And yet she hadn’t.

Her new financial independence wasn’t the only big change, though. She’d held her own when he’d freaked out in the suite. She hadn’t cried or wilted or cowered or sulked, the way he would have expected. She’d stood up for herself. He’d seen glimpses of that woman five months ago, but apparently Beatrice Medford was now a fully-fledged Valkyrie.

A part of him—alargepart of him—didn’t like this new, improved Beatrice—because getting her to do what he wanted was going to be tougher. But another part of him had a grudging respect for what she had achieved.

And seeing her spirited response to him had been a major turn-on too.Go figure.

Of course, it was beyond stupid for her to have holed herself up here, trying to earn a living in a minimum-wage job when he was more than capable of supporting her—and he certainly intended to tell her that. But while he’d already decided she couldn’t work at the Grande any longer, he couldn’t quite bring himself to demand she do as he said.

He’d crushed her spirit once before. And he was beginning to realise he didn’t feel nearly as justified about doing that as he once had.

Of course, changing restaurants was non-negotiable, but perhaps he could figure out a way to get her to agree to eat here without stomping all over her pride.

‘I don’t want to eat somewhere too public, Beatrice,’ he explained. ‘If the press get hold of photos of us together, we’re going to have a problem on our hands...’

On top of the massive one we’ve already got—that you chose to hide out in Portofino instead of letting me know I was your baby daddy.

She blinked as if the thought had never occurred to her, as he tried to cut off his resentment while another thought reverberated in his head.

Did she ever intend to tell me about the pregnancy?

‘Don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid?’ she said, but the stubborn tilt of her chin had softened. ‘I doubt there are any British tabloid journalists hanging out at Pizzeria di Rapallo. And I’m not news any more. The Medford Ice Queen is dead and gone. And good riddance.’

The comeback surprised him, but not as much as the vehemence with which she announced the demise of the woman she had once been. Or, rather, the woman the press and her father had pretended she was. Not for the first time, he wondered how he had never thought to question that image.

‘You’re noticeably pregnant,’ he said, still trying to be persuasive, even though this discussion was getting them nowhere. ‘And if any photos end up on social media of the two of us having a heart-to-heart, precisely five and a half months after the last time we were splashed all over the internet together, it won’t take long for the press to figure out whose baby it is,’ he continued.

The bitterness stuck in his throat again.

Whyhadn’tshe told him? Did she think he wasn’t good enough to be her baby’s father? Was that it?

‘We’ve got this place to ourselves for the rest of the afternoon,’ he added. ‘So we can discuss this without an audience.’

‘How did you manage that?’ she asked, her eyes widening as she set off on another pointless tangent. ‘This restaurant is always booked out months in advance.’

‘I wanted privacy for this conversation,’ he said, his frustration and impatience torpedoing his desire to be reasonable. Time to cut to the chase. ‘And I was prepared to pay for it. If you want to go Dutch on the cost, you can take out a loan another time. But right now we’re wasting time and money. And I’m beginning to think this is just another of your tactics to avoid telling me why you decided scrubbing toilets in Portofino made more sense than letting me know I was going to become a father.’

She stiffened, but he could see the flicker of guilt in her eyes.

Bingo. Maybe she genuinely wanted to pay her way, but she was also not keen on having this conversation.

Well, tough.

‘That’s not true,’ she said at last, but the tremble in her voice told a different story.

‘Then prove it and stop arguing about nothing. I’ve been trying to find you for five months, Beatrice. And I’m entitled to know why you didn’t contact me as soon as you knew about junior,’ he said, forcing himself to look directly at her bump. Which, thankfully, was now only hitting a solid seven on the freak-out scale.

He could see she still wanted to argue, but as she gripped the strap on her purse, her head swinging between him and the maître d’, he could also see her indecision. Because Beatrice was nothing if not completely transparent. Thank God that was one thing about her which hadn’t changed.

Her gaze finally met his, and she sighed. ‘Okay, fine. But if we ever share a meal again, I’m paying.’

‘Agreed,’ he snapped, then cupped her elbow and led her into the restaurant.

As they followed Giovanni to their table he noticed how the pulse on the inside of her arm battered his thumb. And how her vanilla scent added a rich sultry note to the refreshing aroma of summer blooms and sea air.

She swept her hands over her bottom to sit down, and a rush of blood hit his groin.

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