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Questions pelted her from every direction, as they’d done since she’d arrived at the farmhouse. Sooner or later, she’d have to tell Adriano and demand some kind of settlement.
Life had taught her to be practical if nothing else. He was the father and she wasn’t going to simply fade away from his life because he’d ordered her to.
She just needed to muster the courage to face him and fight him, if need be. See him just one more time, and then, never again.
The sound of a car driving up the winding gravel road toward the farmhouse made her skin prickle with alarm. She stared at the rubbish splashes she’d made on the easel, but for once couldn’t care.
Was it divorce papers? Would he serve them himself?
It was a miracle that Bruno had kept her whereabouts a secret for so long. Her husband was a prestigious banker with an illustrious family history. No doubt Nigella would find him the perfect wife this time.
All she cared about right now was that she got what she needed. Even as an eighteen-year-old alone in the world, she’d never asked for handouts. But now, she would fight and bargain and negotiate tooth and nail.
The summer heat was in full swing. She stood up, took a drink of water and wiped her neck with a dirty rag just as she felt a presence behind her. The small hairs on her neck and arms stood up, and a shiver zinged down her spine.
Her body reacted like that to only one man’s gaze. Had done so from the first moment he had looked at her.
So he had come himself.
It took all the courage she had to stay standing on knees that suddenly felt like they were made of pudding. She gathered her bravado, mostly fake, and her dignity, very real, to herself, before she grabbed the edge of the table littered with paint supplies for support and turned.
Adriano stood inside the curving archway of the open barn, blocking all light. Sucking in all the air, exerting his own gravity on her. Pulling her into his orbit.
She didn’t mean to do it, but her hands automatically drifted to her belly, the small bump visible beneath the smock she had tied over a cotton sundress. A protective gesture, she realized, in front of a man she didn’t trust anymore.
His gray-green gaze followed her hands. Shock made the black swallow the fascinating hues of his eyes. A gaunt bleakness bracketed his mouth.
She braced herself, even as something inside her splintered at his reaction. That he had to find out like this wasn’t on her. She repeated that like a mantra.
“You’re pregnant,” he said, after what felt like an eternity of staring at her. His chest rose and fell, and it was the most agitated Nyra had ever seen this man she thought of as a mountain.
“Glad to see you’re sharp as ever,” she said dryly, pouring oil into her palms. The rubbing action gave her something to focus on, even though she didn’t require the blend she usually used to get rid of the oil paint stains from her fingers.
He pushed off the wall, as if finally, he could trust his legs to hold him up. It was so uncharacteristic of the smoothly confident man she knew that it balanced out her own teetering emotions.
There was nothing he could say that could hurt her anymore. Or touch her in any way.
Bafflement made his mouth slack. He rubbed a finger over his temple and she had the sense of contained but volcanic temper. And a stupid part of her wanted to see the explosion. “You’re already showing. How far along are you?”
“Eight weeks.”
He flinched, as if she’d launched a missile at him. “So you knew that day…”
She nodded.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Turning around, she straightened the supplies she’d spread around the table. “And have you throw another dirty accusation in my face?”
His soft grunt was loud in the silence, and she was glad that she didn’t have to see his face.
“Is it…? Are you…?”
Fresh anger came to her aid, making her whirl around too fast. “Are the babies growing in my belly yours? Yes, Adriano.”
“Babies? As in plural?”
“Twins, yes. And no, I have no proof that they are yours and I honestly don’t care to provide it.”