Visconti's Forgotten Heir(16)

‘Thanks.’

She didn’t meet his eyes as she said it—probably because she’d had to pass so close to him, he decided. Close enough for him to catch the subtle yet sensuous perfume she was wearing.

Not so unflustered, he thought smugly, noticing the quickened rise of her breasts beneath her pale grey camisole, as well as the nervous little movement of her throat. A silver-set ebony pendant lay against its pulsing hollow, attached to the silver torque she wore around her neck today.

He wondered at this fascination she had with scarves and chokers and accessories. She’d always worn things like that with reluctance when she’d been going somewhere special, or her outfit had demanded it, and she’d always ripped them off as soon as he’d taken her home, proclaiming that jewellery of any kind made her feel cluttered. It was with tantalising decorum, he remembered, that whenever they were alone she’d always waited for him to remove her clothes.

‘I thought I would have the chance of meeting your son this morning,’ he expressed after he had put the car in motion. His voice was slightly hoarse from the direction his thoughts had taken. She’d told him only that she had adequate childcare when he had challenged her about it the other day; when he had reminded her that they were only just at the start of the school summer holiday.

She was stealing covert little glances around the interior of his car, as though she couldn’t quite believe how successful he had become.

‘No. He’s away for two weeks.’

‘With your mother?’ He couldn’t think of a less suitable candidate to look after a five-year-old child, and thought it was probably for the best that the boy’s father didn’t know about it. Had he been in the man’s shoes, he couldn’t help thinking grimly, he would have taken immediate steps to do something about it. ‘How is she, by the way?’

She spared him a glance that seemed to challenge why he was asking. There had been no love lost between Jeanette James and his family ever since the day the woman had come into the restaurant, the worse for drink, to accuse his grandmother of spreading gossip about Magenta. She had probably guessed he was only asking because protocol demanded it.

‘She’s fine—and she’s living with her partner in Portugal,’ she told him sketchily, deciding not to enlarge upon how much better her mother seemed since meeting a man who had kept her on the right road after coming round to paint her flat three years ago. ‘Theo’s gone away for a couple of weeks with my great-aunt to her stepdaughter’s in Devon. They’ve got sons a similar age to Theo.’

‘I didn’t know you had a great-aunt.’ He was slowing down to let another car out of a side turning, but he sent a questioning glance at her when he sensed her hesitation in answering.

‘Just because I didn’t mention her, it doesn’t mean she didn’t exist,’ she said as he brought the car back up to speed again.

‘Do I take it she’s your mother’s aunt?’

‘That would be the most natural assumption, since I don’t have the first idea who my father was.’

And that was something that had always chafed, he reflected, picking up on the familiar defensive note in her voice.

‘So she’s more like a grandmother?’

‘Yes.’

‘And naturally she’s getting on in years?’

‘Meaning...?’

Her dark eyes were challenging again, and he wished he had been able to contain his criticism. But it was too late. All he could do was continue along the same track.

‘Meaning is it really fair to expect someone of her age to take on the responsibility for your child? Especially one so young? Has she had children of her own? Any experience in looking after infants?’

‘She should,’ she returned tartly, ‘she brought him up for the first—’ She cut short whatever it was she had been about to say.

‘For the first what, Magenta?’ he asked, slicing a steel-hard glance across the air-conditioned space that separated them. ‘Just how long did you stand by and allow someone else to bring up your child?’

She was sitting staring out of the windscreen, looking tense and rigid, with her pale pink nails almost digging into the soft leather bag she was clutching on her lap.

Had she really put her career before her baby? A muscle twitched in his clenched jaw as he gave his attention to the road again. If so, what was it that had finally made her stop? He wasn’t even sure he wanted to know.

* * *

‘Where are we going?’

For the first time since she had got into his car, bowled over again by how well he had done for himself and by that air of authority he wore as effortlessly as he wore those dark executive clothes, Magenta realised that he wasn’t taking her to his office. Distractedly she’d noticed the sign for the only route they should have taken well over a couple of miles back, and now he’d crossed over into the lane that would take them to the motorway.