Claiming His Unknown Son Read online

  Reunited with the rugged billionaire...

  For their son’s sake!

  Their connection was so unique, their desire unmatched... Marisa was the first and last woman Roman Bardales proposed to, and her stark refusal turned his heart to stone. Now, years later, he’s finally discovered the lasting effects of their encounter: his son!

  Devoted mother Marisa has always craved stability for her and her little boy. But Roman’s reappearance in their lives shakes her very foundations. For he’s not simply staking a claim to his child. He’s reawakening the longing she thought she’d never feel again...

  USA TODAY Bestselling Author

  “I want to see him.”

  “Why?”

  Roman’s brows met in a straight line above his dark eyes and he looked at Marisa as though she had just asked the most ridiculous question on earth. “Isn’t it obvious? He is my son!”

  “Biologically, yes, he is your son,” she agreed. “But you’re not his father. It takes more than DNA to be that. What do you want, Roman? To hear him call you Daddy, or for him to appear in front of you on his best behavior once or twice a year?”

  “I want...” He paused and then went on slowly, “You have robbed me of five years of his life, so I think you owe me this.”

  “And if I say no?” She already knew the answer to that, and if she hadn’t, the expression in his liquid dark eyes and the ruthless smile on his face would have been confirmation.

  Kim Lawrence lives on a farm in Anglesey with her university-lecturer husband, assorted pets who arrived as strays and never left, and sometimes one or both of her boomerang sons. When she’s not writing, she loves to be outdoors gardening or walking on one of the beaches for which the island is famous—along with being the place where Prince William and Catherine made their first home!

  Books by Kim Lawrence

  Harlequin Presents

  Surrendering to the Italian’s Command

  A Ring to Secure His Crown

  The Greek’s Ultimate Conquest

  A Cinderella for the Desert King

  A Wedding at the Italian’s Demand

  A Passionate Night with the Greek

  Spanish Secret Heirs

  The Spaniard’s Surprise Love-Child

  Wedlocked!

  One Night to Wedding Vows

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  Kim Lawrence

  Claiming His Unknown Son

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  EPILOGUE

  EXCERPT FROM A FORBIDDEN NIGHT WITH THE HOUSEKEEPER BY HEIDI RICE

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘NO!’

  The Madrigal Hotel’s assistant manager was a consummate professional accustomed to the idiosyncrasies of the rich and famous so his practised smile stayed painted in place, despite the sudden outburst from the woman in front of him. He was rarely surprised, but at that moment, as he braced himself for a diva meltdown, he was.

  He prided himself on being able to tell at first glance which of their VIP guests were going to be hard work, but he hadn’t had this beautiful guest down as one of the awkward ones.

  First impressions had certainly not given him any clues, as up to this point she had lived up to her public image. Her arrival had been low-key, as befitting the rarity she was said to be, someone not in the business of promoting herself, just good causes. People spoke about how freely she gave of her time and energy and her dedication in continuing to support the charities that she said were her late husband’s legacy.

  The rare unfriendly pieces that appeared in the media he had always attributed to the hack’s frustration in not being able to find a story. You could see it from their point of view—they were used to being invited into the homes of the rich and famous, and Marisa Rayner never even gave them a glimpse behind closed doors.

  There was still no meltdown forthcoming, but what was happening was even more alarming than a hissy fit. She hadn’t moved a muscle; she was just standing there like a pale frozen statue. What if she was ill?

  He experienced a sudden flurry of panic as the question entered his thoughts, realising that would also explain the other-worldly, almost unfocused expression in her wide amber eyes when she’d removed her fashionable shades earlier, as he’d walked beside her through the hotel’s famous art deco doors. At the time he had put her pallor down to the lights from the glittering chandeliers overhead.

  An ill guest was never good, but then he reasoned nobody who felt really ill would make such an effort to smile at all the staff she had encountered. At least, she had up until now.

  The friendly, genuinely warm smile that charmed everyone it was aimed at was now totally absent as she stood on the threshold of one of their premiere suites looking as if she had seen a ghost.

  He gave a philosophical shrug and waited. The Madrigal’s reputation had been built in part on the hotel’s ability to satisfy the most difficult of guests, especially when they had the money to pay the exorbitant prices the Madrigal charged for their premier luxury suites, and the lovely Marisa Rayner was one guest who could certainly afford it.

  The fact she had been the sole beneficiary of her husband’s considerable estate after his death made her a natural target of envy. The story of the rich older man married to a very much younger woman was a magnet for the scandal-loving red tops. She could have gone through her life with a ‘gold-digger’ label attached to her, but the forensic dirt-digging exercises had come up empty-handed and she was considered a scandal-free zone—aside from a little guilt by association. But even her dead father, with his colourful history of affairs and a taste for high-stakes gambling, was nothing in this day and age.

  No young lovers pre-or post-marriage—just a few malicious suggestions, which was par for the course, but they had faded away too after she had not morphed as predicted into a ‘merry widow’, but had remained a dedicated, hard-working one devoted to charitable works.

  The adjective mostly attached to her name was classy and for once, he decided, the press had it right.

  If she had any skeletons in her closet they were deeply hidden.

  ‘Do you have another room?’ Marisa heard the quiver in her voice that stopped just the right side of hysteria, and bit down on her full lower lip while buying time to regain her composure by making a meal of smoothing back non-existent loose strands of shiny silver-blonde hair that was safely secured in a smooth simple knot on the nape of her swanlike neck.

  She knew she had to pull herself together, but unfortunately knowing that was no help right now.

  ‘Another room? This is one of our—’

  ‘Sorry, yes, this is marvellous,’ she gushed. ‘But...something...on a lower floor, perhaps? I... I don’t have a very good head for heights.’

  ‘Of course, if you’ll just bear with me for a moment.’ The man pulled out a slim tablet and began to scroll through it.

  Get a grip, Marisa, she told herself fiercely, if for no other reason than this poor man who was only doing his job looked as if he wanted to run for the hills—and who could blame him? Scared of heights? She was beyond feeling embarrassed, no doubt that would come later when she revisited this moment—in her nightmares!
/>   The gut-freezing panic had hit her the moment the taxi drew up outside the hotel. The signage on the well-known art deco frontage was ultra-discreet—it didn’t need to be flashy; everyone knew the iconic façade of the Madrigal—but to Marisa those letters had seemed to be written in neon and came accompanied by a loud soundtrack of guilt and shame.…She still couldn’t remember how she had got out of the taxi, as the sheer horror of the moment had blanked her brain completely.

  Of course it ought not to have been a shock, wouldn’t have if she’d been paying attention. Her delicate dark blonde brows drew together in a straight line above her heavily lashed amber eyes. Even distracted, she had managed to hide her disappointment when her assistant, Jennie, had triumphantly announced that she’d managed the impossible and secured an alternative last-minute venue after their original booking at a country-house hotel had fallen through.

  She could remember Jennie mentioning the prestige of the alternative venue, she had to have mentioned the name, but Marisa’s mind had been elsewhere and she hadn’t registered it. No, because she’d been too busy torturing herself with every possible, and highly improbable, disaster that could occur in her absence.

  Her glance darted around the room, reached the slightly open bedroom door and retracted hastily, focusing instead on her feet clad in leg-elongating nude court shoes that added four inches to her willowy five feet ten inches.

  She brought her lashes down in a protective sweep over eyes that continued to be drawn to that open door, her mouth twisted in frustration as she acknowledged all the missed opportunities that would have at least given her time, if not to avoid this moment, then to at the very least prepare herself for it.

  Even as late as getting in the taxi would have been something, she thought, considering another missed opportunity. Jennie had waited until she was in the cab before they’d parted company, her PA heading towards the Tube to spend some well-deserved time off with her family. Jennie had to have given the driver the address of the hotel, but again Marisa’s thoughts had been elsewhere.

  Where was a convenient icy shiver of premonition when a girl needed one?

  Up to the point the taxi had pulled in, she hadn’t even glanced out of the window. Instead, she had spent the journey from the station scrolling through some emails and checking in with Jamie’s nanny, Ashley, who had responded to her anxious questions with cheery positivity and a series of soothing photos of Marisa’s four-and-a-half-year-old clearly having the time of his life at junior soccer practice.

  It wasn’t that she doubted Ashley’s competence, but this was the first time she had left Jamie since he’d been given the all-clear by the doctors.

  Up to this point, any trip away from home had deliberately not included an overnight stay, or if it had, she had taken Jamie with her. This was a big step for her, though less so, it seemed, for Jamie, who had been too busy playing with a new computer game to do more than give her a casual wave before he got back to his screen.

  On one level she knew that he was fine, he was safe, and she knew her fear had no basis in logic but, as she had already discovered, it wasn’t always about logic. When you had lived with fear this long it was something that was hard to let go of. For so long she had been afraid of losing her precious son and—She took a deep breath and deliberately dampened the panic she could feel rising. No, she told herself, repeating the phrase like a mantra, she was not going to lose him, because he was healthy now.

  Her son was a survivor, one of the lucky ones, and he had made a complete recovery. Despite the fact he was noticeably smaller and more delicate-looking than his contemporaries, Jamie was, so the medics told her, as fit and robust as any other four-year-old and would soon catch up developmentally.

  The assistant manager cleared his throat and lowered his tablet. ‘We do have an alternative room although it is not as—’

  ‘That’s tremendous, thank you so much. I’ll take it.’

  Reaching for her sunglasses, she slid them on her small straight nose, hiding behind the tinted glass as she dredged deep to produce a faint smile.

  ‘Right then, if you can give me a few moments I will make the necessary arrangements. The room is on the second floor—will that do?’

  ‘That’s fine. It’s just the balcony up here that bothers me.’ She stopped, well aware that the balcony she spoke of was not actually visible from where they stood.

  ‘I understand totally.’

  Luckily for her he didn’t.

  ‘I will be back momentarily.’ He held out a straight-backed chair situated by a small table and after a pause she took it.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  She made an inarticulate sound in her throat and vaguely registered the sound of the door closing, the images floating in her head exerting a tug she couldn’t resist.

  She was standing on the balcony that she knew existed behind the heavy curtains in the bedroom. It was night, as dark outside as a city ever got, and she was staring down at the shining lights, the glistening moisture on the rain-soaked pavements, when she felt the quivering downy hair rise on her skin a second before the back of her neck started to tingle—she was no longer alone.

  Her breath left her lungs as his big strong hands came to rest on her shoulders. As if connected by an invisible thread to his body, she leaned back against his chest, drawn to the hard warmth of his maleness, breathing in the clean unique fragrance of him. For a few moments they stayed that way, her heart beating heavy and slow in anticipation for a long while before he twisted her around to face him, and, like a parched flower turning to the sun, her face had tilted as she had strained upwards to meet his cool, firm lips with her own.

  The languid heat that had spread through her body like a flash fire had made her bones dissolve and she would have slid to the floor had a muscular arm not banded her narrow ribcage before he’d picked her up and...!

  Behind the smoky lenses of her sunglasses her pupils dilated as she swallowed hard, pushing the memory kicking and screaming back into its box. She glanced at the bedroom door again and felt her insides tighten.

  With a cry she shot to her feet, opened the suite door a crack and positioned herself within reaching distance of the door handle for a quick escape should she need it, before pressing her rigid shoulder blades against the wall and closing her eyes...

  What were the odds of finding herself in the exact same suite?

  Fighting to keep her thoughts in the here and now, which, no matter how uncomfortable, was infinitely preferable to obsessing about the past, she took another deep mind-clearing breath.

  She was winning and then she just had to sabotage her own progress and peek through the open bedroom door and see that bed. With no warning the past collided painfully with the present again with a concussive impact.

  ‘No!’ Teeth clenched, she ran across the room and closed the door with a decisive click before leaning her back against it, even though she knew a couple of inches of wood was no defence against the memories that had been playing in a loop ever since she’d got out of the taxi and found herself standing in the exact spot where it had all begun more than five years earlier.

  Suddenly, she was feeling the rain from that day over five years ago beating down from a leaden sky, plastering her water-darkened hair to her head, much longer then than the shoulder-blade length she favoured now.

  The soaked strands kept getting in her eyes, though with her head down against the driving force of the cloudburst all she could see were people’s feet and the standing water on the pavement increasing in depth with each passing moment.

  It had taken seconds for the thin linen jacket she was wearing to become totally saturated, her bare legs below the denim skirt she was wearing were slick with rain and her feet in wedge sandals squelched as she avoided another lethal umbrella that was being wielded like a shield. Any trace of make-up was a mere memory, and she gave up
brushing away the droplets trembling on the ends of her long curling eyelashes before falling into her eyes.

  It had seemed like such a good idea when she’d been sitting waiting for Rupert to come out of his weekly appointment with his oncologist, less so now. But when the page of the glossy magazine she had picked up had opened on an advert for the opening of the new London branch of the famous Parisian chocolatier that Rupert, with his sweet tooth, adored, it had seemed like something nice to do for the man to whom she owed so much.

  Rupert, the man who legally at least she was married to, had called their arrangement symbiotic when he had offered her an escape route from the seemingly endless nightmare she had fallen into after her father’s death, but to her it often seemed more like a one-sided deal.

  She wasn’t even sure that this mysterious debt Rupert had claimed he owed her father existed, though the men’s friendship certainly had. Her father had been a man with a lot of friends; he’d been funny, articulate, generous to a fault and he’d thrown legendary parties—of course he’d had friends. Only for the most part, they’d turned out to be the variety that had disappeared when it had become public knowledge after his death that, despite his lifestyle, there had been no money left, just debts.

  His death was the only thing that had kept the bailiffs temporarily away from the door of the lovely home she was living in that was mortgaged up to the hilt. The staff had not been paid for two months, though selling her jewellery had dealt with that issue, and everything else would have to be sold too: the fleet of cars in the garage; her father’s share in the racehorse that never won anything but cost a bomb in trainers, stables and veterinary bills.

  She’d been poor before, that was not a problem for Marisa, but what had been a nightmare was the money that the lawyers said her father owed, and not all the debts, she’d soon learnt, were owed to legitimate sources. Some, the ones whose sinister representatives Marisa had come home from the funeral to find sitting uninvited in her living room, were not inclined to stand in line to be paid a fraction of what they were owed.