Housekeeper In The Headlines (Mills & Boon Modern)

by Chantelle Shaw

  But Betsy hadn’t told him.

  ‘I am determined to be fully involved in my son’s life,’ he said harshly. ‘I have already spoken to my lawyer who has advised me that when I have proof of paternity I can apply to the court for a Parental Responsibility Order, which will give me the right to be included in decisions made about Sebastian’s upbringing.’

  Betsy’s shocked expression gave Carlos a stab of satisfaction. See how she likes having the ground ripped from beneath her feet, he thought.

  His common sense had urged him to wait for the result of the paternity test. But in his heart he had known that Sebastian was his when he’d held the toddler in his arms at the cottage.

  It wasn’t only their physical similarity, and the fact that Sebastian bore a close resemblance to Carlos’s nephew. The connection he felt with Sebastian was on a fundamental level—as if his soul had recognised the blood bond between them.

  While he had been at the Veloz party in London his conviction that the little boy was his had intensified. Launching his sports management agency in England had been Carlos’s focus for months, but he’d made an excuse to his business partner and left the party early to rush back to Dorset.

  ‘I’m...glad that you believe Sebastian is yours.’

  Betsy did not sound glad—she sounded as if she’d swallowed glass.

  ‘I won’t object if you want to be part of his life, and maybe when he is older he could spend holidays with you in Spain. But his home is in England, with me.’

  ‘Your home will be uninhabitable for many weeks until the flood damage is repaired.’

  Carlos frowned as he pictured the poky cottage where Betsy had been bringing up Sebastian. Had a lack of money driven her to tell the press that she’d had a child by him?

  He had retired from the international tennis circuit two years ago. But he had dominated the game for over a decade and still played exhibition matches around the world. The paparazzi’s fascination with his private life showed no sign of lessening and the tabloids must have paid thousands of pounds for the story.

  ‘No doubt you were paid well by the tabloids for the revelation that I am Sebastian’s father,’ he said grimly. ‘But I guarantee that what you received was a tiny fraction of my personal fortune. Sebastian is entitled to the lifestyle and benefits that my wealth can provide. I own a beautiful house in Toledo, where he will be able to thrive, and I can give him opportunities far beyond anything you can offer him.’

  Betsy stared at him. ‘Sebastian is my world. I can give him everything he needs, and his needs are simple. Love, safety and security—not a big house and a bucketload of cash.’

  The belt of her robe had loosened, causing the front to gape open slightly, giving Carlos a tantalising view of the pale slopes of her breasts. He was infuriated by his body’s instant response as a jolt of electricity arced through him and centred in his groin. He was still at a loss to understand why this woman, pretty but not in the supermodel league, made his skin feel too tight and his pulse quicken.

  He wanted to hate Betsy for what she had done. He told himself that he did. But he could not resist stepping closer to her.

  She smelled divine. Her hair was loose, tumbling in soft waves around her shoulders, a delicious mix of honey and caramel shades. Her brown eyes were wary, and her mouth was set in a sulky line that tempted him to crush her lips beneath his and kiss her until she made those soft moans in her throat that he still remembered.

  Two years ago he had decided that she was too young and unworldly for him—especially while he needed to focus on preparing for the tennis tournament in London. His inconvenient attraction to a star-struck ingénue who seemed refreshingly unaware of her allure had been something Carlos had been determined to ignore. He’d almost succeeded.

  But it had been impossible to ignore Betsy completely when she made his breakfast every morning and prepared dinner for him every evening.

  It was ridiculous for them to eat separately, he’d told her after the first week, and he’d insisted that they dined together. With sex off the table—although he’d had several erotic fantasies in which he made love to her on the polished walnut surface of the dining table—he’d had to fall back on conversation. And not the kind of small talk he usually made with women as a prelude to taking them to bed.

  His discussions with Betsy had covered a wide range of subjects, although he hadn’t talked about his family and nor had she, except to tell him that the house belonged to her aunt and she combined her housekeeping duties with studying for an art degree.

  In the tournament’s final he’d played the best tennis of his life. And when he’d held the trophy aloft it had felt like a dream. But his euphoria had been tinged with guilt, because he had known his ferocious ambition had destroyed his family. His father’s absence from the supporters’ box had hurt.

  Carlos had smiled for the photographers and kissed the trophy, but in his heart he would have gladly exchanged his success for his mother’s life.

  That evening he’d left the competitors’ ball early and had felt dangerously out of control as he’d raced back to Betsy. He’d needed an outlet for the wild emotions that he hadn’t been able to deal with.

  Sexual chemistry had simmered between them for weeks, and when he’d pulled her into his arms that chemistry had ignited as fast as a Bunsen burner.

  Carlos swore beneath his breath as he forced his mind from the past. Jaw tense, he strode across the hotel room to the minibar. The whisky was a blended variety, not his preferred single malt, but it would do.

  He glanced at Betsy. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Why not? I could do with some Dutch courage,’ she said, in a wry voice that tugged on something deep inside Carlos. Despite his fury, he disliked the idea that she might be afraid of him.

  He half-filled two glasses and sensed without turning around that she had walked over to him. Her bare feet made no sound on the plush carpet, but his senses were assailed by her scent: something lightly floral, mixed with the vanilla fragrance of her skin, that made his gut clench.

  He handed her a drink and led the way over to a sofa and chairs which were grouped around a coffee table. Lowering himself onto the sofa, he gave her a sardonic look when she made for the armchair furthest away from him. She took a sip of whisky and spluttered.

  Two years ago Carlos had found her lack of sophistication refreshing, but now he could not decide if her unworldly air was real or if she had ruthlessly manipulated the media.

  As if she had read his thoughts, she said quietly, ‘The journalist who came to the village must have remembered that he had seen me with you at my aunt’s house. It was a long shot that he guessed that Sebastian is your son. He found out that I worked at the pub and told the landlady there that he and I were friends in London and that he knew you are Sebastian’s father. Sarah unthinkingly confirmed it because she was distracted by the threat of the flood.’

  It was possible that Betsy was telling the truth, Carlos conceded. The antipathy between him and Tom Vane after he’d been instrumental in the journalist being sacked from his job had escalated further when Vane had threatened to make public some details he’d discovered about Carlos’s mother’s death. But the blackmail attempt failed when Carlos had informed the police.

  ‘Even if what you say is true, how could the pub landlady have confirmed to Vane that I am Sebastian’s father?’ he asked coldly.

  A scarlet stain spread over Betsy’s face. ‘Sarah is my closest friend...and I confided in her.’

  Carlos swore. ‘When I showed you that tabloid headline you assured me that you hadn’t told anyone. Clearly that was another lie. Did you not think I had the right to be informed that I have a son?’ he gritted. ‘I should have been the first to know, instead of discovering from a goddamned newspaper that I am a father.’

  ‘How could I have told you? Either when I found
out I was pregnant or after Sebastian was born? You went back to Spain the day after we had slept together and I had no way of contacting you.’

  ‘That’s not true. I included my phone number and an invitation to visit me in Spain with the bracelet I sent you.’

  Betsy stared at him. ‘What invitation? What bracelet?’

  He frowned. ‘Are you saying that you did not receive a package? It was addressed to you, and I received notification from the courier that it had been delivered to your aunt’s house.’

  ‘I never heard from you again after you left and, frankly, I don’t believe you sent me anything. You’re making it up so that it doesn’t look like you abandoned me.’

  ‘You are accusing me of lying?’ Carlos couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and his temper simmered.

  ‘It doesn’t feel good, does it?’ Betsy said coolly.

  His jaw clenched at her belligerence, but he felt a reluctant respect for her. Two years ago Betsy had been star-struck and in awe of him, but motherhood had turned her into a lioness determined to protect her cub.

  Was she lying when she insisted that she hadn’t received the bracelet? Carlos raked a hand through his hair, frustrated by this unexpected turn of events. Betsy’s surprise seemed genuine. Her accusation that he had abandoned her would make more sense if she had not received his gift.

  He had been piqued by her lack of response, and hadn’t tried to contact her again. But that did not excuse her failure to tell him he had a child.

  He welcomed the resurgence of his anger. It was safer to feel furious than to admit to himself that he longed to open her robe and trace his hands over her delectable curves. The idea that she was naked beneath the robe was a distraction he was struggling to ignore.

  ‘I am willing to believe that you did not sell out to the tabloids,’ he said curtly. ‘In some ways I suppose I should be grateful that the story has broken. Would you have ever told me about my son?’

  She bit her lip. ‘I don’t know. I wanted to, but I didn’t know how you would feel. When you came to the cottage this morning your reaction was exactly as I feared.’

  It had not been his finest moment, Carlos acknowledged. His shock when he’d seen Sebastian had been mixed with something close to fear. He knew his failings. His first thought had been that he wasn’t up to the task of being a father. More importantly, that he did not deserve to have a child. Panic had gripped him, and he’d rejected the idea of such a huge responsibility.

  But Sebastian was his. And maybe, Carlos brooded, this was his chance to atone for the past and his mother’s untimely death.

  Inside his head, Carlos heard his father’s voice. ‘You killed her. Mi querida Marta.’ Tears had streamed down Roderigo Segarra’s face.

  The horror of that day would never leave Carlos, nor would his father’s condemnation of him. It was the reason he had isolated his emotions from everyone—even his sister, who had been just a child when she had been made motherless. By him.

  Panic seized Carlos once again. He did not deserve to be part of his baby son’s life. What if he destroyed Sebastian like he had destroyed everything else that was good and pure? It would be better—safer—if he bought Betsy a house in England and gave her a generous allowance so that she could be a full-time mother to Sebastian.

  His conscience pricked at the idea that she struggled financially. ‘Who looks after Sebastian while you work at the pub?’

  ‘When he was a small baby I used to leave him asleep in his pram in a room behind the bar. He was perfectly safe,’ Betsy said when Carlos frowned. ‘But he’s too big to do that now. Luckily Sarah’s sister offered to babysit on the evenings I worked. Polly can get on with her homework because Sebastian usually sleeps soundly. Unless he’s teething,’ she added ruefully.

  ‘Homework? How old is this babysitter?’

  ‘She’s fifteen, and very responsible.’ Betsy glared at him. ‘I have always done the best I can to keep a roof over our heads and Sebastian clothed and fed. And working behind the bar in the evenings means that I have a couple of hours during the day when Sebastian has a nap to build up my pet portrait business.’

  ‘Your—what?’

  ‘I paint portraits of people’s pets. Dogs and cats, mainly, but I’ve done a few rabbits—and a bearded dragon. Admittedly, I don’t earn a fortune, but the business is starting to grow.’ She sighed. ‘The flooding means that I won’t be able to accept any new commissions. My studio is in the attic, but I’ll have to move out of the cottage and I don’t know where or when I’ll be able to paint again.’

  Betsy sipped her whisky and wrinkled her nose. She looked very young, wrapped in the too-big towelling robe. But she must be in her mid-twenties, Carlos thought, and she possessed an inherent sensuality that he found irresistible. He could not prevent his gaze from straying to that enticing glimpse of her cleavage and he swore silently as his body tightened and his blood pulsed hot in his veins. Desiring the mother of his child was a complication he did not need when there was something far more important to be resolved.

  Hearing how Betsy had struggled to bring up Sebastian on her own, leaving him in the care of a schoolgirl while she went to work, had filled Carlos with horror. As for painting pets—it might be a nice hobby, but Betsy couldn’t seriously expect to make a living from it.

  ‘I can solve all your problems,’ he said coolly.

  She looked at him warily. ‘How?’

  Carlos was aware of the powerful beat of his heart. Since his mother had died, he’d avoided all responsibility and commitment. He had lived up to his public persona of a playboy because that way no one expected anything of him, and no one got hurt. But this was too big and too important for him to run away from.

  He had a son, and he would not allow Sebastian to grow up feeling rejected by his father the way Carlos had felt rejected by his own father.

  ‘Marry me.’

  He ignored Betsy’s shocked gasp.

  ‘If you agree to be my wife, I will take care of you and our son and your worries will be over.’

  ‘Of...of course I’m not going to marry you,’ Betsy stammered when the shock that had seized her released its stranglehold on her vocal cords.

  Carlos’s proposal had sounded more like an order, and she was in no doubt that he did not want her. Astonishingly, he did want his son.

  ‘In the twenty-first century people don’t get married because they have a baby.’

  ‘I do. I will.’ His voice was hard, implacable, and Betsy’s heart collided with her ribs when she realised that he was only controlling his temper with ferocious will power.

  ‘I won’t allow my son to be illegitimate,’ he told her. ‘And before you say that it doesn’t matter—it does. Sebastian should have my name on his birth certificate, and he should not be denied the name Segarra or his Spanish heritage.’

  ‘You’re crazy.’

  Fear churned in the pit of her stomach. Carlos sounded as if he meant it. As if he actually expected her to marry him.

  ‘I don’t want to get married. I have no objection if you want to have a relationship with Sebastian—’

  Carlos cut her off. ‘How can I trust that you won’t disappear with him? Once we are married and my name is included on Sebastian’s birth certificate we will share equal parental rights.’

  ‘Have I hurt your pride? Is that what this is about? You can’t simply waltz into Sebastian’s life when you feel like it and disappear again when you find that fatherhood doesn’t suit your playboy lifestyle. Details of which are documented in unedifying detail in all the gossip magazines,’ she added caustically.

  ‘I’m flattered that you obviously take a close interest in my personal life.’

  Beneath his mockery, the sting in his voice warned Betsy that he was furious.

  ‘I don’t want access rights to my son, or occasional visits. I wan
t to see him every day and tuck him into bed every night.’ His voice deepened. ‘It is important to me that as Sebastian grows up he knows I’ll always be there for him and will support him whatever happens.’

  Despite herself Betsy felt a tug on her emotions in response to Carlos’s statement, which sounded like a holy vow. She was stunned that he was prepared to go to such extreme lengths—even marry her—to claim Sebastian. But his talk of marriage brought back memories of her parents screaming abuse at each other. She would not risk her little boy having the kind of fractured childhood that she’d had.

  The sound of crying from the bedroom gave her an excuse to drop her gaze from Carlos’s and she put her drink down and sped across the room.

  Sebastian’s flushed cheek was a sure sign that he was cutting another tooth. Betsy picked him up and tried to soothe him.

  ‘There’s some teething gel in his change bag,’ she told Carlos when he followed her into the bedroom.

  He found the gel and she rubbed some onto Sebastian’s gums, but his cries did not abate.

  ‘Let me take him.’ Carlos stretched out his arms and, after a moment’s hesitation, Betsy handed the baby to him. ‘Shh, conejito...’ Carlos murmured, tucking Sebastian against his shoulder.

  A lump formed in Betsy’s throat at the sight of her little boy being comforted by his father. She realised that she could not deny Sebastian his daddy, nor Carlos his son. But she wouldn’t marry him. No way.

  ‘We’ll talk in the morning,’ Carlos told her when Sebastian had eventually fallen asleep and he’d laid him in the cot. ‘You can sleep in the bed and I’ll take the sofa in the sitting room.’

  He left the room without glancing at her again, and Betsy let out a shaky sigh when he closed the door behind him. She felt physically and mentally exhausted and simply slipped off her bathrobe before she climbed into bed and sank into oblivion.

  Sunlight was poking through the gap in the curtains when Betsy opened her eyes. For a few seconds she wondered where she was, but then memories crowded her mind: finding Carlos in the hotel suite, his acceptance that Sebastian was his, and his shocking marriage proposal.