Boy, he’s not kidding. The dining room table fairly groans with pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, blintzes, fresh fruit, toast, croissants.
I look around. No one here but him and me. “Are you expecting someone else?”
“No. Just us.”
“Oh. Yes, I see.” Only two places are set at the far end of the table.
I load up my plate with bacon, eggs, pancakes and spread orange marmalade on a couple of croissants. He pours cups of coffee for him and me. I pass on the orange juice.
While we tuck into the food, the only sound to be heard is the cutlery. How can we be this uncomfortable after everything we’ve done with each other? Stuffed to the gills after twenty minutes, I stop eating, and he encourages me to move to the living room. I carry a cup of coffee just to have something to sip. Somehow, he manages to juggle another plate in one hand while leaning on the cane with the other. When I sit, he slides the croissant plate with a dollop of orange marmalade to me.
We’ve switched places, him and I. The first day we met I waited on him. And now he’s waiting on me. “You really want me to eat more?”
He flashes that devastating smile. “This is my small way of taking care of you.”
My chin hitches up. “I don’t need you to take care of me. I’m doing fine.”
“I can see that. You’re glowing. Pregnancy suits you.”
He’s seeing what I want him to see. He’s missed the early morning sickness, the endless exhaustion, not to mention dealing with a body growing bigger and more cumbersome every day. “So, I’m here. Let’s talk.” My tone is curt, businesslike. The only way I’m getting through this is to handle it like a business discussion and not allow my emotions to break loose. Hard to do when he’s so drop dead gorgeous, so overwhelmingly masculine. And when I want him so damn bad.
He takes a seat on the blue sofa across from me, but doesn’t offer anything for a few seconds. Probably trying to figure out how to broach the subject we are here to discuss. “So the baby might be mine.”
“Might.” I tear off part of a croissant and pop it into my mouth just to give me something to still my nerves. I’ve never been very good at lying.
“I had the night to think about what you said, Ms. Watson, and I’ve come to one indisputable conclusion.” He fixes a rather unnerving stare on me. “You’re not speaking the truth.”
I almost choke on the croissant. “What exactly am I supposed to be lying about?”
“The paternity of the child. When my sister discovered you were pregnant, she asked you if I was the father. You didn’t hesitate. On the contrary, you readily admitted it, while revealing you hadn’t told me yet. So the question becomes why would you lie about something which can be proved so easily? All it takes is one test of my DNA and your blood, and my paternity can be established with a 99% accuracy.”
With my words revealed as the lies they are, I latch on to the one thing I can contest. “What makes you think I would volunteer for a blood test?”
“The court order I will serve upon you if you fail to see reason. But I won’t have to go that far, will I? One phone call to Thomas Carrey should do the trick. I’ll simply intimate I’m the father of your child, but you’re refusing to take a simple blood test.”
“You wouldn’t!” If he tells Carrey, I’ll lose his patronage. And the Smith Cannon attorney is the only partner giving me meaningful assignments. Might as well kiss my career goodbye.
“On the contrary, Ms. Watson. I most certainly would.” He’s damn serious, but then he hasn’t become a billionaire without playing hard ball.