A Christmas Marriage Ultimatum

She crouched down to give Samuel a hug. ‘Be good for Grandmère, hmm?’

‘Oui, Maman.’

Such solemn brown eyes, she mused, kissing each childish cheek in turn.

‘Thanks,’ she said lightly as Anouk gathered Samuel close. ‘I won’t be late.’

For the past eighteen hours she’d derived countless reasons why she should opt out of tonight. Only the knowledge Dimitri was capable of forcing a confrontation in her parents’ home prevented her from employing any one of them.

It took twenty minutes to reach the glamorous hotel situated on the Spit at Main Beach. Chantelle chose valet parking, and stepped into the marble foyer.

Expansive with glorious oriental rugs, comfortable sofas, it stretched out to a double staircase leading to a lower floor, beyond which lay a wide decorative pool, an island bar and, in the distance, the ocean.

It was spectacular, and a waterfall added to the tropical overtone.

Chantelle admired the view for numerous seconds, then she turned towards the restaurant.

‘Punctual, as always.’

The sound of that familiar, faintly accented male voice caused the knot in her stomach to tighten.

Get a grip, she remonstrated silently. She needed to be in control, and nervous tension didn’t form part of the evening’s agenda.

She turned slightly and met Dimitri’s steady gaze.

‘It’s one of my virtues.’

‘Would you prefer a drink in the lounge, or shall we go straight in?’

She even managed a slight smile. Amazing, when the butterflies in her stomach were beating a faint tattoo.

‘Why don’t we cut the social niceties?’ Cool, but neither calm nor collected.

Damn him. He’d always had this effect on her equilibrium. The sight of him sent her pulse racing to a crazy beat. It was the whole male package, his choice of cologne, the freshly laundered clothes…the faint male scent that was uniquely his.

All it took was one look, and her system went out of control. Even now, when she told herself she hated him, heat pooled deep inside, and the pulse at her throat felt as if it jumped beneath her skin.

Could he sense it? See it? Dear heaven, she hoped not.

The maître d’ issued a greeting and led them to their table, where he summoned a drinks waiter, performed an introduction, then graciously retreated.

Dimitri ordered a crisp chardonnay, requested bottled water, and then he settled back comfortably in his chair.

There were a hundred places she’d rather be than here, now. Yet what choice did she have? Her parents could cope with anything life threw at them, but Samuel was too young, too vulnerable, and she’d go to the ends of the earth to protect him from harm…physical, mental, emotional.

Take control, an inner voice urged as she reached for her glass and sipped chilled water.

‘Let’s not pretend this is anything other than what it is,’ Chantelle opined coolly, and saw one eyebrow slant in silent query.

‘Perhaps we should order?’ Dimitri suggested as the waiter presented the menu.

Food? The thought of calmly forking artistically presented morsels in his company killed what little appetite she had.

Nevertheless, it was necessary to order something, and she settled on a starter and skipped the main course.

‘Not hungry?’

‘Is my appetite an issue?’

His gaze remained steady, and had the effect of unnerving her…which was undoubtedly deliberate.

‘Relax.’

Oh, sure, and that was easy, given he inevitably had a bundle of legal tricks up his sleeve ready to heap on her unsuspecting head.

‘I’m here at your insistence,’ Chantelle reminded. ‘Sharing a meal I don’t particularly want in the company of someone I’d prefer never to have to see again in this lifetime.’

‘Pity.’

Her eyes flashed dark fire. ‘What do you mean…pity?’

‘If Samuel is my son,’ Dimitri voiced with dangerous softness, ‘you’ll have to get used to me being part of your life.’

‘The hell I will!’

Something moved in his eyes, and she felt a chill slither down the length of her spine. ‘Take it as a given, Chantelle.’

The words were hard, inflexible, and seared her heart. ‘You don’t have that right.’

The arrival of the waiter brought a welcome break, and she viewed the contents of her plate with misgiving, sure the smallest mouthful would stick in her throat.

‘Eat,’ Dimitri bade, and she did, managing to do justice to the food. He wasn’t to know her taste-buds had gone on strike.

Conversation had never been so difficult to summon, and anything she thought to offer seemed inane.

It irked her unbearably he was able to affect her this way. Act, she chastised silently. Adopt a practised façade, and pretend Dimitri Cristopoulis is just a man like any other male.

Oh, sure…chance would be a fine thing! She had only to look at him and every nerve-end tingled into vibrant life.

Four years hadn’t made the slightest difference. It was as if her soul recognised his on some base level and sought recognition.

Damn him. Damn coincidence for putting them both in this part of the world at the same time! Fate was playing a cruel hand, intent on causing emotional havoc before the game was over.

Who would win? a silent imp taunted.

Dimitri replaced his cutlery, then he picked up his wineglass and leaned back in his chair. ‘Do you want to begin, or shall I?’

Chantelle lifted a hand in a negligent gesture. ‘Oh, please. Be my guest.’

For a few seemingly long seconds he didn’t speak, and she could tell nothing from his expression.

‘Samuel’s birth certificate records June one as the day he was born.’

How could he know that?

Dimitri’s mouth moved to form a wry smile. ‘I called in a favour.’ All he’d had to do was make a few phone calls, and he had the information he needed within hours.

‘Nine and a half months after we began our relationship,’ he pursued, watching her expressive features through a narrowed gaze. Anger had been just one of the emotions he’d experienced at the confirmation. Resentment had followed with the knowledge she’d chosen not to reveal her pregnancy. There was also a mixture of pride and joy at the thought he had a child…a son.

As to the child’s mother…he’d deal with her. But not easily.

‘So,’ he continued silkily. ‘Shall we move on?’

‘Samuel is mine,’ Chantelle reiterated fiercely. ‘I could have had an abortion.’ She’d never considered it as an option. Hadn’t, even from the onset, thought of a child…Dimitri’s child, but indisputably hers…as an encumbrance.

‘Yet you didn’t.’

She remembered the birth, when she’d cursed Dimitri a hundred times…and she thought of the moment the nurse had placed Samuel in her arms. The indescribable joy that transcended all else, and the fierce protectiveness for the tiny life.

‘No.’

He wanted to reach across the table and shake her. For denying him the opportunity to be there, to care for her, and to claim the child as his own.

‘Tell me,’ he pursued silkily. ‘Did you ever intend for me to know I had a child?’

‘Not if I could help it.’

‘Your body, your responsibility?’

‘Yes.’

‘Allowing some other man to take my place? Raise my son as his own? Give him his name?’

Chantelle could sense the anger beneath his control, feel it emanate from his body as a tangible entity.

‘Samuel is registered as Samuel Leone.’

‘Something that can easily be changed.’

‘To what purpose?’ she demanded. Anger rose to the fore, darkening her eyes. ‘I live in France, you reside in New York.’

‘Samuel is a Cristopoulis. He has a heritage,’ Dimitri endorsed with quiet savagery. ‘I intend to ensure he claims it.’

‘With you?’ She was like a runaway train, unable to stop. ‘What are you going to do, Dimitri? Engage a nanny during Samuel’s visits? Maybe look in on him as he sleeps when you leave your apartment in the morning, and again when you return long after his bedtime?’ She picked up her napkin and thrust it on the table. ‘Is that your idea of parental visitation rights?’ She rose to her feet and gathered her purse. ‘Hell will freeze over before I’ll allow it.’

He watched her with interest, admiring the fire, the sheer will beneath her fury. A mother defending and protecting her own, he mused.

The waiter chose that moment to deliver the main course, only to stand poised as he sensed the onset of a scene.

Chantelle turned away from the table, only to have her escape forestalled as Dimitri’s hand closed over her wrist.

She tried to wrench her hand free, and failed miserably. Fury pitched her voice low. ‘Let me go.’

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