JENNIE LUCAS - One Night - Latin Heat - Uncovering Her Nine Month Secret / One Night With The Enemy / One Night with Morelli

I watched as the brief triumph in his eyes went out. “No.”

My lips parted in a silent gasp. I hadn’t expected that. My heart twisted as I thought how, with just a few hot kisses and the dream of giving Miguel a real home and family, I’d been perilously close to giving up my dreams.

“Well, which is it, Alejandro?” I choked out. “Did you lie to me in the past? Or will you lie to me in the future?”

His jawline tightened. For a moment, his face seemed tortured. Then, as I’d seen happen before, his expression shuttered, becoming expressionless, leaving me to wonder if I’d imagined the whole thing. “Take your pick.”

I stiffened. Hating him—no. Hating myself for letting him kiss me. Letting him? All he’d had to do was touch me and I’d flung myself into his kiss with the hunger of a starving woman at a piece of bread. “What have you lied to me about?”

“You expect me to tell you the truth about that?”

“Other women?”

He glared at me. “I told you. I believe in honor. Fidelity. No. My lie is about—something else.”

“What?”

“Me,” he ground out through gritted teeth. “Only me.”

Which didn’t tell me anything at all! “Fine. Whatever.” I glared at him. “You shouldn’t have kissed me.”

He relaxed imperceptibly now that we were no longer talking about his secrets.

“This isn’t the place,” he agreed.

“I didn’t just mean the cloakroom. I mean anywhere.”

“I can think of many places I’d like to kiss you.”

“Too bad.” My cheeks flamed, but I wouldn’t let him distract me. “Take your kisses, and your lies, somewhere else.”

“A marriage in name only?” He sounded almost amused. “Do you really think that will work?”

“Since I can’t even trust you, let alone love you, there will be no marriage of any kind,” I snapped. “And if you keep asking, even our engagement will be remarkably short.”

“Why are you trying to fight me, when it’s so obvious that you will give in?” he said. “You want to raise Miguel. So do I. What do you expect to do—live next door? In my stable?”

“Better that than your bed.”

His dark eyes glittered. “That wasn’t how you kissed me.”

Heat pulsed through me. I could hardly deny it. I looked away. “Sex is different for women. It involves love!”

He snorted. “Right.”

“Or at least caring and trust!” I cried, stung.

“Who is speaking in generalities now?” he said harshly. A cynical light rose in his eyes. “Many women have sex with strangers. Just—as you said—as many women prefer to drink their coffee black, without the niceties of sugar and cream!”

My cheeks flushed. “Fine for them, but—”

“Lust is just an appetite, a craving, such as one might have for ensaladilla rusa. No one says that you must be deeply committed to the mayonnaise in order to enjoy the taste of the potato salad!”

I lifted my chin. “Go seduce one of those salad women, then! I don’t want you in my bed, I don’t want you as my husband and I just regret I’m stuck with you as Miguel’s father!”

“Enough.” His voice was deadly cold. “You have made enough of a fool of me, making me beg—for the truth about Miguel, for the DNA test, for access to him. I even had to beg you to keep your promise to come to Spain. There will be no more begging, at least—” his eyes glittered “—no more begging from me.”

Alejandro had begged me for stuff? I must have missed that. “I never—”

“You will marry me. Tonight.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Right now. Choose.” His expression had hardened. “A priest. Or a lawyer.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Call it what you want.”

I licked my lips, then tried, “Edward would help me. He has money and power to match even yours....”

“Ah.” Alejandro came closer, softly tucking back a long tendril of hair that had escaped when he’d crushed me a few moments ago in his passionate embrace. “I wondered how long it would be before Mr. St. Cyr’s name made an appearance. That was even quicker than I expected.”

My cheeks went hot, but I lifted my chin. “He would still help me if I asked.”

“Oh, I’m sure he would,” he said softly. “But are you willing to accept the cost of his help?”

I swallowed.

“And the price to Miguel. Think of it.” He tilted his head. “A custody war, when each side has infinite resources to pay lawyers for years, decades, to come.” He gave a brief, humorless smile. “Miguel’s first words after mamá and papá might be restraining order.”

I sucked in my breath.

“And the scandal... The press will have a field day.” Pressing his advantage, he stroked my cheek almost tenderly. “Miguel will grow so accustomed to paparazzi he’ll start to think of them as members of his family. With good reason, for he’ll see them more frequently than he sees either of us.” He dropped his hand. His voice became harsh. “Is that really what you want?”

“Why are you doing this, Alejandro?” I choked out.

“I won’t risk having Edward St. Cyr as my son’s future stepfather.”

I shook my head. “It will never happen!”

“I’m supposed to believe that? A few minutes ago, you promised you’d never see him again. Now you’re threatening to use his wealth and power in a custody battle against me.”

He looked at me with scorn, and I didn’t blame him. I wiped my eyes. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have done that—but you’re forcing my back against the wall! I have no choice!”

“Neither do I.” His sensual lips curved downward. “You think you can control him. You cannot. He’s selfish. Ruthless. Dangerous.”

I flashed him a glare full of hate. “Are you talking about him,” I said bitterly, “or yourself?”

“Yes, I could be dangerous,” he said softly. “If anyone tried to hurt someone I cared about. I would die—or kill—to protect someone I loved.”

“But you don’t love anyone!”

“You’re wrong.” His voice was low. His lips pressed together in a thin line. “So will it be marriage between us—or war?”

“I hate you!”

“Is that your final answer?”

Tears of hopeless rage filled my eyes, but I’d told Edward the truth. Alejandro had owned me from the moment I’d become pregnant with his child. I would give anything, sacrifice any part of myself, for my son. My heart. My dreams. My soul. What were those, compared with Miguel’s heart, his dreams, his soul?

My baby would not spend his childhood in and out of divorce courts, surrounded by pushy paparazzi, bewildered by the internecine battles of his parents. Instead, he would be safe and warm and surrounded by love. He would be happy.

It was all I had to cling to. All I had to live for.

My shoulders fell.

“No,” I whispered. “You win. I will marry you.”

“Now.”

“Fine! I hate you!”

He looked down at me, his expression sardonic. “Hate me, then. At least that I can believe. Far more than your so-called love. But you will be my wife. In every way.”

Yanking me into his arms, he kissed me, hard. But this time, there was nothing of tenderness, or even passion. Just a ruthless act of possession, showing me he owned me, a savage kiss hard enough to bruise.

Pulling me out of the cloakroom and outside into the warm Spanish night, he called for his driver. The paparazzi were long gone, and the street was quiet, even lonely.

Alejandro took me to the house of a local official, where with a quiet word a certificate of permission to marry was produced in record time. Then to a priest, in a large, empty church, so old and full of shadows it seemed half-haunted with the lost dreams of the dead.