This baby was hers. It didn’t matter what anyone thought of her or the father—

She caught her breath, blinking to clear the blur from her vision.

That was it! The paparazzi had interviewed some of her old schoolmates who had revived that awful reputation that she was loose. For once, those rumors might actually serve her. She could claim paternity was a gray area.

Could she? White lies had gotten her into this mess, but at least she had a fresh approach to consider as she carefully put the test back into its packaging and crumpled it inside the bag, checking first that there was no receipt with her name on it. She would toss it into a public dumpster at some point, but for the moment her heart was lighter as she looked forward to her new life, one that included the baby she was going to have.

CHAPTER FIVE

SAINT HAD BEEN in London three times since the gala more than three months ago. Each time, he had thought about reaching out to Fliss.

He’d fought the compulsion with difficulty, especially once paparazzi had located her living in Nottingham. She was working in an assisted living facility and picked up casual shifts at a local pub.

Interest in her was finally dying down, though, largely due to the fact that she only ever said “No comment” and shoved her way past anyone trying to pry more out of her.

Saint was grateful for her silence. A strongly worded letter had quieted Julie, and Saint was doing his best to live up to his name for the sake of his project. He arrived early for meetings, bought his mother a filly she wanted and was enjoying celibacy. Not.

The fact was going without sex wasn’t that difficult. He’d gone long stretches in his life without anyone warming his sheets. When he was focused on work, as he’d been through much of last year, he became as single-minded and neglectful of others as his father had always been. It was another reason he’d never pursued relationships that lasted longer than a few weeks. He wasn’t built for them.

What did make it hard, pun intended, was his memories of Fliss. He regularly woke in the middle of the night, aching and covered in the sweat of arousal, traces of her touch evaporating from his skin.

He’d made great strides in rehabilitating his reputation, though. Xanthe’s constructed gossip about his “eye on the future” and readiness “to find his life partner” had gone a long way with the board. He’d been fielding requests for more information from them for weeks. A few had even confided that his success with this project would give them a reason to pressure his father into retirement.

Yesterday, Saint had been invited to attend their regular quarterly meeting in two days. He was certain that meant they were pivoting toward approval.

His father was still holding his cards close to his chest, and Saint had an idea why. This “life partner” narrative had opened a new field of war between his parents. They had begun advancing their preferred candidates for daughter-in-law.

Saint had played this game before. He knew that siding with one would make his life a living hell with the other. It was freaking exhausting.

From the outside, most would assume that aligning with his father was the strategic move. Not only did they share the common interest of the business, but Saint should know which side his bread was buttered on.

Saint refused to be a hostage to his legacy, though. Many, many times he’d stood on the precipice of walking away from his father’s dictates and heavy-handed attempts to control him, aware that he would be walking away from his inheritance.

That didn’t bother him. He knew his own worth. Yes, his father had paid for his education, but Saint had done the work to achieve top grades and the two degrees he held. He had put in the hours at the office, too, learning the ins and outs of every department and contributing to the company’s success from the time he’d begun sweeping floors at eleven.

No matter where he landed, he would never have to start from the bottom.

He hated to draw his mother into his power struggle with his father, though. Unlike Ted, Norma Montgomery had once possessed a heart. It had since been shattered so often by Saint’s father that it was a distorted reflection of the woman Saint remembered from childhood, but he felt obliged to protect her from further damage.

Leaving Grayscale would force her to decide whether she wanted to divorce her husband in what would be a very public, destructive battle or lose her son. Ted would have no compunction about demanding she cut ties with Saint if she wanted to maintain the life to which she had grown accustomed—and the horses she loved as much as, probably more than, her son.

Any decision Saint made around walking away from Grayscale would affect Grayscale, too. He didn’t want to destroy something that he’d had a hand in building. He didn’t want to take his work to a competitor that would attempt to eat what should have been his. He didn’t want to see someone else take over his legacy when his father was finally gone, not when it could be his.

No, the most sensible plan was to continue his restraint, earn the trust of his father and the board, and focus on the product he believed in. With recent scrutiny by the government around privacy, his father couldn’t deny the value in his new approach. If his father wanted to tie his agreement to an arranged marriage, they would work that out away from the office.

All of which caused the text Saint received to fill him with conflict.

I have to be in London tomorrow. Is there any chance you’re here? I need to speak to you, but I don’t want anyone to see us together.

She didn’t identify herself, but he gave very few people this number.

Seeing Fliss could reignite the publicity and wouldn’t be fair to her if she was looking for something longer term. It could undo the progress he’d made where the board was concerned. The smart thing to do was to leave the text on Read. Or simply say no.

But the temptation to see her was mouth-wateringly strong. All he could think about was the feel of her hand tucked into his arm as they had walked into the hotel. Of her secretive smile, as though she knew things he didn’t. Of the way she felt when she shuddered with orgasm, triggering his own.

He deserved answers around why she’d misrepresented herself, didn’t he?

That was a rationalization. We all trick ourselves, she’d said, and he’d come to realize how very insightful she was.

He looked to the calendar. He was due down the hall here at the New York office less than forty-eight hours from now, but he had turned around a flight to London in less before.

He had Willow rearrange his lesser appointments and file a flight plan, then texted her.

A card will be waiting under the name Norma at the concierge. Come to my hotel room at four p.m.

Time crawled, but after a heavy morning of dull meetings, he was in his hotel room, nursing a scotch while he waited. He was half expecting some enterprising reporter would turn up, but when the knock sounded and the mechanism released, Fliss entered.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it wasn’t her in a pink plaid skirt suit, black knee-high boots and a beret. It was cute as hell and had his gaze dragging itself from the glimpse of her thighs below the fall of pleats to the way her short jacket emphasized the nip of her waist and the generous swells of her breasts.

His inner Neanderthal instantly awoke. Mine.

Her features were mostly hidden by oversize sunglasses and a lipstick that had been applied to change the shape of her mouth. She pressed the door firmly closed behind her and stayed against it, hand on the latch.

“Hello.” She leaned to set his room card on the nearby table. “Thank you for seeing me. I won’t stay long.”

She looked and sounded nervous, but he would swear her gaze was traveling all over him. He felt it as viscerally as the way her hands had skimmed across his skin when they’d last been in this room together.

Don’t.

“Are you into role-play?” he drawled. “Is that why you’re dressed like a hired assassin from a time-travel movie?”

“That’s exactly what I am,” she said without missing a beat. “I thought it would take more to convince you.”

Damn. He didn’t want to find her amusing. There was too much at stake.

“Take off your sunglasses. I want to see your face.”

She complied, fumbling them slightly as she slipped them into a pocketbook hanging from a long strap over her shoulder. She lifted a frown of consternation to him.

“I actually made this for my interviews at—” She brushed the side of her skirt, making the pleats flutter. “Doesn’t matter. I came to London to sell all the clothes I made, but I needed something to wear into this hotel that would blend in. I am a designer. I’m just not paid professionally for it.”

“You’re also a maid. Or you were, until they realized you have sticky fingers.”

“It was in the bin,” she said as though she was tired of repeating that. “Delia Chevron threw twenty-five thousand pounds into the bin. I thought it was a ticket for dinner and hoped to network or get some publicity for my work. Do you think at any point through all of this nightmare that one single pap has asked me who made my gown? Believe me, I’ve come to regret the whole escapade.” She waved an arm in a wide circle.

“Me, too,” he said, stung more deeply than he’d expected by that word regret.

She dropped her arm and her mouth pouted with injury, as though that particular word had landed just as hard for her.