labour was, whether she had given birth naturally or by Caesarean. He didnât know whether she had fed the child herself or given her a bottle. He knew nothing about his daughter: the sound of her voice, the feel of her baby skin, the softness of her hair or the touch of her little hands. How could he ever get that time back? How could he forgive Bronte for stealing it from him? It had already poisoned what he felt for her. He had come back with such hope at resuming their relationship. But now he felt as if he didnât know Bronte at all. She had changed. She was a scheming little thief, and his loathing of what she had done made him want to cut her from his life all over again. But he couldnât because of his little daughter. His heart tightened again at the thought of that little girl in the photos he had seen.
His daughter.
âI wanted to tell you in person,â Bronte said in a small voice. âBut you didnât return my calls or emails. I went to your villa in Milan but I was turned away at the door. Your housekeeper said you were with your mistress in the US.â
Luca felt an avalanche of guilt come down on him. He had made it impossible for her to contact him. He had covered his tracks so well, not even his family had been aware of where he was and what he had been doing. He had spun them the same tale: a whirlwind affair in theStates. And it had worked, perhaps rather too well. âYou could have sent a letter,â he said, still not quite ready to take the whole blame.
âIs that how you wanted to hear you had fathered a child?â she asked.
âIt would be a damn better way than finding out in a restaurant in front of complete strangers,â he shot back.
She lowered her gaze and did that thing with her bottom lip again. âI told you, I was about to tell you when they arrivedâ¦â
âWhen?â he asked. âBetween the main course and dessert? How were you going to slip it into the conversation? âBy the way, I had your child fourteen months ago; I thought you might like to know now that youâre here in Melbourne.â For Godâs sake, Bronte, what the hell were you thinking?â
She looked at up at him with tears shining in her eyes. âI didnât expect to ever see you again. You made it so clear our relationship was over.â
âSo you punished me by keeping my child a secret,â he said. âIs that it? Is that why you didnât try harder to get the message to me?â
Guilt flooded her cheeks a cherry-red. âI didnât want any of this to happenâ¦â
âMeaning you never intended for me to find out,â he said heavily. âWell, Iâve got news for you, Bronte Bennett. I want my child. You have got one hell of a fight on your hands if you think youâre going to keep me away from her.â
Bronte felt a rod of anger straighten her spine. âYou canât take her from me, Luca. I wonât allow it. Sheâs my child. Iâll fight you until my dying breath.â
âYou and whose legal team?â he asked with a malevolent look. âYou do realise who you are up against here, donât you? You havenât got a hope of winning this, Bronte. Not a hope.â
Bronte hated herself for doing it but right at that moment her temper got the better of her. âFirst you have to prove she is yours,â she said with a jut of her chin. âHave you thought about that, Luca? How do you know she isnât another manâs child? You only saw me two or three times a week when we were together, sometimes even less. I had plenty of time to play around behind your back.â
His expression went as dark as the thunderous sky outside. His hands went to tight fists, his breath hissing out from between clenched teeth. âA paternity test will soon sort out that. I will apply for one in the morning. If you donât agree, expect to hear from my
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