Chapter Three #2
It wasn’t as if they’d ever had a relationship, or been friends. At most, they’d shared a few interesting conversations over the years, but Rosie’s feelings had been completely one-sided. A long-held childish crush that had morphed into meaningless sex. Twice, now.
But how could it be meaningless, when it had also fundamentally changed the course of her life?
He would always be her first lover, and now, the father of her baby.
‘You’re sure?’ the sonographer asked kindly, glancing from Rosie to Aristotle, then back to Rosie.
‘I think I’d rather be surprised.’
‘You haven’t been surprised enough?’ Aristotle drawled, and her heart twisted.
‘Okay,’ the sonographer glossed over the awkwardness. ‘We’re all done. I’ll have a report sent to the obstetrician. Will you be giving birth here?’
She opened her mouth to answer, but Aristotle spoke first. ‘No. We’re leaving for Athens tonight.’
Rosie startled, her gaze jerking swiftly to his. What? The question burst through her, but she managed to contain it—just. While she was all geared up to shout at this arrogant, bossy man, she didn’t fancy doing so with an audience.
So she gritted her teeth and said nothing, waiting until they were out in the daylight before spinning to confront him.
‘What the hell, Aristotle?’
He still looked as though he’d seen a ghost in there, but she refused to feel pity for him. He’d strong-armed his way into this situation; it wasn’t her fault if he was suddenly finding the idea of parenthood unnerving.
‘It’s not too late to back out, you know,’ she muttered when he didn’t respond.
‘Isn’t it?’
She flinched. ‘You really are a callous bastard.’
He closed his eyes then, expelling a sharp breath.
‘I wasn’t prepared for that.’
‘Whereas I was?’
‘No.’ He stared at her, then almost through her, his eyes probing her in a way she found utterly unnerving. It was as though he had the ability to strip her apart, piece by piece, and reveal the fundamental make-up of her body. She shivered involuntarily.
‘When did you find out?’
Summer was almost over and a hint of autumn breeze brushed past them, lifting Rosie’s hair across her face, and Aristotle’s gaze seemed to chase it, almost hungrily—so intensely that she felt as though he was touching her.
She took an involuntary step backwards, warding off that feeling—and the temptation to do something stupid, like lean forward, closing the space between them.
‘About a month ago,’ she murmured. ‘I had to get a blood test, for work. It’s routine. The pregnancy was picked up on the screening.’
‘You had no idea?’
She shook her head.
‘So you didn’t experience any symptoms?’
She shook her head again. ‘I mean, looking back, my cycle had been different, but then, it’s always been erratic, so I didn’t notice much of a change.
I’ve been a little tired, had a few headaches.
I suppose I’ve been off some foods I would usually eat, but nothing that made me stop and go, “Uh-huh, I’m having a baby! ”’
His features showed contemplation. ‘Were you going to tell me?’
She opened her mouth to deny that, then clamped it shut again.
What had seemed like an easy decision in the moment now sat like a bit of uneven ground between them, tricky to navigate.
Given his reaction, and staunch insistence on being a huge part of their baby’s life, her instincts about him had clearly been way off the mark.
‘It’s a yes or no question.’
‘No.’ Why lie? ‘You’d made it clear how you felt.’
‘About a hypothetical baby, but once you were pregnant, didn’t it occur to you that it was different?’
‘Honestly, I thought I was doing you a favour.’
His stubbled jaw shifted as though he was grinding his teeth.
‘Come on, Aristotle. Nothing about you screams “paternal”.’
His brows raised. ‘Should I have a T-shirt made?’
It was the very last thing she’d expected him to say, and it had the strangest effect of lifting one side of her lips in an involuntary smile.
She stifled it quickly, glancing away and lifting her hand to tuck her errant hair behind one ear.
When she looked back at him, his eyes were busy boring into hers again.
‘How do you feel?’
She frowned. ‘In the sense of—’
‘Pregnancy. Tired? Hungry?’
Both, but she wasn’t about to admit either of those things to him. She couldn’t say why, but it felt vital not to show a hint of weakness to this man.
Nor to ever, ever forget what he’d done to her, four years earlier.
She’d lost her virginity to a guy who’d been dared to sleep with her.
Her stomach rolled at the memory of that, at the pain she’d felt.
It had lanced through her. How could she marry him?
How could she raise a child with him, knowing what he was capable of?
‘I’m fine.’ Her voice was clipped.
‘Then we have a few more stops to make.’
He continued to look at her, though, as if expecting her to argue.
She didn’t. Whether pride, dignity or Stockholm syndrome, she fell into step beside him, to walk the short distance to his limousine. The driver was there, waiting, but it was Aristotle who reached for the rear passenger door and held it open for her.
As she stepped into the car she accidentally brushed against his arm, and her whole body exploded with a cacophony of recognition. She groaned inwardly at that physical betrayal. She hated this man—when was her damned libido going to get the message?
After the doctor’s, his car had driven them to an exclusive Chelsea jeweller’s. The store had been closed for Aristotle, so he and Rosie were left alone to browse. She had no interest in an engagement ring—or an engagement, for that matter—so left it to Aristotle to choose something.
Then wished she hadn’t, when he selected a large solitaire diamond in a platinum four-claw setting.
As he swiped a black credit card to pay for the thing, she couldn’t help but smile to imagine herself turning up to an archaeological dig wearing something like this.
Her colleagues would think she’d lost the plot. Or won the lottery.
The latter certainly wasn’t true, but the former?
Was this madness?
Acquiescing to him, taking him at his word that he’d fight her tooth and nail to get full custody of this baby?
She’d been bowled over by his arrival; she hadn’t been given the space to think anything through.
But now she looked at it objectively, it was almost impossible to believe that Aristotle would pick a fight with her, of all people.
While they might not like each other, his mother adored her. Surely Melina would be able to talk her son down, to help him see that this wasn’t the right plan of attack?
But what if she wasn’t?
It was a gamble.
For all that Melina was his mother, they weren’t close—something she’d heard Melina bemoan often enough.
Aristotle respected his mother, and of course he must have loved her, too, but Rosie had no reason to think that Melina would be able to influence his actions. Or that anyone could, for that matter.
He’d always been like this.
She’d watched from afar. Not just in person but online as well, and she’d read enough articles in the papers to know that when Aristotle Machairas set his mind on something, heaven help anyone who tried to stand in his way.
‘Do you need help packing?’
She hadn’t even realised they’d reached her home.
She stared at him, frowning, the finality of this only hitting her then. The reality wrapping around her like a boa constrictor.
‘There has to be another way,’ she said, staring at his face, expression unknowingly haunted. Her hand pressed to her stomach, feeling the gentle roundness—their baby.
‘Such as?’
Hope flared inside of her. ‘Living in the same city. Seeing each other often.’