The Brabanti Baby

She drew in a frustrated breath. “I’m well aware of that. But I’m not dressed—”

He dismissed her objection with a careless flick of his hand. “What you’re wearing is of no consequence.”

Not to him, perhaps, but the knowledge that the thin cotton fabric of her robe and nightgown were more revealing than she cared for, left her feeling at a decided disadvantage. “Then what is? I presume you’re here for more than the pleasure of my company?”

“We must talk.”

“Now?” She glanced pointedly at the carriage clock on the desk. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow? I really am very tired.”

“But you did ask to be served a snack, did you not?”

“You know very well that I did.” She indicated the lavish spread. “Although I wouldn’t rate this a ‘snack’ exactly.”

“Nevertheless, now that it’s here, you do plan to eat it?”

“Of course! I’d hardly have put your kitchen staff to the trouble of preparing it, otherwise.”

“Then since I also have yet to eat, doesn’t it make good sense that we do so together, and learn a little more about one another at the same time?”

He wasn’t going to back down. That wasn’t his style. Rather, he dealt in silent intimidation cloaked in verbal reason, somehow moving in on a person so thoroughly that he stole the air she breathed. Overwhelming her with his size—a big, strong man, both physically and mentally, and well aware that, on his turf, his was the last word.

Eve was a guest in his house by default, an understudy for his daughter’s mother. As such, she had few rights. And even if that weren’t the case, just then she was too worn down to fight him. “Whatever!” she muttered, parking herself in a corner of the sofa, and attempting to tug her robe down far enough to cover her knees.

But he didn’t care that she was behaving less than graciously; he only cared about winning. “That’s better,” he said, taking a seat next to her, and touched the rim of his glass lightly against hers, causing the crystal to chime like tiny bells. “Welcome to Malta, Signorina Caldwell. May your visit prove pleasant for everyone involved.”

“If bulldozing your way into your guests’ private quarters against their wishes is your idea of being a good host, I can’t imagine either of us finding it pleasant.”

He shrugged his massive shoulders and plunged a serving spoon into the crayfish salad. “Time will tell. May I help you to some of this?”

“No, thank you. I can take care of myself.”

“As you wish, signorina.”

“There’s one other thing I wish,” she said irritably. “I wish you’d stop with these annoying ‘signorinas’ every other breath. Since I have no intention of spending the next several weeks standing on ceremony, and plan to call you Gabriel, you might as well get used to calling me Eve.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ll call you Gabriel regardless—to your face, at least. What I call you behind your back rather depends on how well we do, or don’t, get along.”

Surprisingly he laughed at that, and the change it brought to his face was quite startling. Warmth invaded his cool blue eyes and left flames of amusement dancing there. His mouth softened in a beguiling curve to reveal his white, perfect teeth. She wouldn’t have thought it possible for him to become more beautiful, but he put paid to that supposition in devastating fashion. If his scowl put thunder heads to shame, his laughter outdazzled the sun.

No wonder Marcia had been smitten enough to marry him, even if the magic had been short-lived. Looks aside, he possessed a subtle, seductive charm which, should he choose to exercise it, could wreak irreparable damage on a woman’s heart.

Shaken by the realization, and disturbingly aware of how close to her he sat, Eve concentrated on the food, helping herself to a small serving of the crayfish salad and a sliver of cheese.

Eyeing the size of the portions on her plate, he said, “There’s not enough there to keep a sparrow alive. Don’t tell me you’re one of those women so obsessed with her weight that she counts every calorie she puts in her mouth.”

“I won’t, if you’ll tell me you’re not one of those men who thinks it’s his God-given right to dish out unsolicited advice every time he opens his mouth!”

Smothering another burst of laughter, he allowed his gaze to tour her face with the refined appreciation of a connoisseur. “No. But I am a man who admires a woman with spirit,” he purred, the words caressing her as intimately as a kiss.

If he’d leaned over and touched his mouth to hers, she couldn’t have responded more shockingly. Her pulse leaped, her throat constricted until she could barely swallow, and her mouth ran dry. More dismaying still, a piercing quiver of sensation shot from her heart to the pit of her stomach.

To pretend such a response was anything other than purely sexual made no more sense than pretending the sun didn’t rise every morning. Furious by her body’s betrayal, she said, “Then why didn’t you stay married to my cousin? She’s got more spirit than any other ten women combined.”

“I beg to differ. Beneath that very shallow air of mature sophistication she projects so well when it suits her to do so, Marcia is little more than a charming but spoiled, and very manipulative child. Sadly, the spoiled too soon overcomes the charming, and one is left to deal with the child and her machinations.”

That he was as astute as he was handsome didn’t come as any great surprise. But it did serve to remind Eve that she’d be a fool to underestimate him. “It takes two to make or break a marriage, surely?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “I certainly don’t pretend to be blameless in the failure of mine. I freely admit I grew tired of being cast in the role of guardian to a supposedly grown woman, and utterly bored by her attempts to bamboozle me with her little schemes. I never should have married her in the first place.”

“Why did you?”

“Because even I sometimes give in to moments of madness. Marcia arrived on Valletta’s social scene and took it by storm. For a while, I was as captivated as everyone else by her foreign ways. I should have known they’d eventually become obstacles neither of us was able to overcome. How is your salad?”

“Excellent, thank you. What do you mean by her foreign ways?”

“Our different tastes made it impossible to find a common ground.”

“Which is your polite way of saying she wasn’t refined enough for you.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, signorina. I meant nothing of the kind, merely that she could not, or would not, recognize that things are done differently here. Malta is a culturally mixed bag, regarded by many as the place where east meets west. Initially Marcia claimed to be fascinated by this aspect of our society, but she soon tired of it and complained we weren’t Americanized enough.”

“Perhaps because she was homesick.”

“Quite possibly. And if so, it was undoubtedly made worse by the fact that her infatuation for me died as quickly as her infatuation with everything else Maltese.” He topped up their wineglasses. “You look somewhat dismayed. Have I offended you?”

“No,” Eve had to admit. “That’s the trouble. Everything you’ve said so much fits the Marcia I know that I can’t begin to defend her.”

“Then since we’re of the same mind, tell me something.” He inched closer. Close enough that his body heat reached out to embrace her. He’d used a faintly spicy soap or shampoo that made her senses swim. Made her want to reach out her hand and touch his skin, his hair.

“Yes?” To her ears at least, her voice emerged in an embarrassing near-whisper thick with expectation.

“Why are you here, instead of her?”

Reality smashed aside her brief fantasy with such a vengeance that the succulent morsel of crayfish Eve had popped into her mouth came dangerously close to popping out again. “I already told you,” she said, swallowing hastily. “We’re cousins.”

“I know what you told me, Eve,” he replied levelly. “Now I want to know the true reason. What’s Marcia really up to?”

“Nothing.” She dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “She just doesn’t want to see you again, that’s all.”

“Is it?” he said, the inflection in his tone clearly voicing his disbelief. “I very much doubt that.”

“I don’t know why! You’ve as good as admitted you can’t stand to be around her for more than five minutes at a stretch, so why wouldn’t the reverse be true? It’s a perfectly normal response. Divorced people aren’t usually the best of friends.”

“Yet if they happen also to be parents, they frequently set aside their differences and put the interests of their children ahead of their own.”

“Which is what Marcia was doing when she agreed to have Nicola spend the summer with you.” Stifling a yawn, she set aside her unfinished meal and made a move to get up from the couch. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really am exhausted, so—”