‘I’ve never met your sister,’ Michael stated firmly. ‘So whatever scam the two of you are trying to pull here I would advise that you forget it—’

He broke off abruptly as one of Eva Foster’s hands made loud and painful contact with one of his cheeks, causing the baby in his arms to let out another deafeningly wail.

‘That was uncalled for,’ he bit out between gritted teeth, his jaw clenched as he jiggled the baby up and down in his arms in an effort to silence her screams.

‘It was very called for,’ Eva Foster insisted heatedly, her face having become even paler as she moved forward to stroke the back of the baby in Michael’s arms soothingly. ‘How dare you stand there and deny even knowing my sister, accuse the two of us of trying to pull a scam on you, at the same time as you’re holding your own daughter in your arms?’

Her eyes flashed deeply violet in contrast to the emotional shaking of her voice.

‘I—am—not—’ Michael broke off to draw in a deep, controlling breath, his cheek still stinging from that slap. ‘Sophie is not my daughter.’

‘I assure you she is,’ she snapped.

THE DEVILISH D’ANGELOS

Sinners named for saints …

Known around the world for the prestigious Archangel auction houses and galleries in London, New York and Paris, the D’Angelo brothers are notorious for their prowess in the art world … and even more so for their exploits in their personal lives.

These Italian heartthrobs might have been named for angels, but their ruthless natures and powerful personas make them anything but angelic …

Soar to LONDON for Gabriel D’Angelo’s story in:

A BARGAIN WITH THE ENEMY

February 2014

Sail to NEW YORK for Raphael D’Angelo’s story in:

A PRIZE BEYOND JEWELS

March 2014

Fly to PARIS for Michael D’Angelo’s story in:

A D’ANGELO LIKE NO OTHER

April 2014

Enter the exclusive world of the D’Angelos in this dazzling new trilogy from Carole Mortimer!

A D’Angelo Like No Other

Carole Mortimer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CAROLE MORTIMER was born in England, the youngest of three children. She began writing in 1978, and has now written over one hundred and fifty books for Harlequin Mills & Boon®. Carole has six sons: Matthew, Joshua, Timothy, Michael, David and Peter. She says, ‘I’m happily married to Peter senior; we’re best friends as well as lovers, which is probably the best recipe for a successful relationship. We live in a lovely part of England.’

Carole loves to hear from her readers. She can be reached at contact@carolemortimer.co.uk or her website, www.carolemortimer.co.uk.

Our Son, Matthew, A Man to be Proud of.

Contents

PROLOGUE

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

EXTRACT

PROLOGUE

St Gregory’s Church, New York.

‘WEREN’T THE THREE of us sitting together in a church very like this one just a few weeks ago?’ Michael spoke mockingly to his youngest brother Gabriel as they sat in the front pew of the church crowded with wedding guests, their restless brother Rafe seated on his other side.

‘I believe we were, yes,’ Gabriel confirmed dryly. ‘Except on that occasion you and Rafe were my best men, and now we’re Rafe’s.’

‘How many weeks ago was that, exactly?’ Michael arched derisive brows.

‘Five wonderful, glorious weeks.’ Gabriel smiled at the thought of his own recent marriage to his beloved Bryn.

‘Hmm.’ Michael nodded. ‘Did I ever tell you of the conversation I had with Rafe that day, in which he assured me, most emphatically I believe, that he didn’t believe in this “one love of a lifetime” thing, and certainly had no intention of getting married in the immediate, or even distant, future?’

Gabriel glanced at their brother Rafe, holding back a smile as he saw the tension in Rafe’s white face as he waited for his bride to arrive at the church. ‘No, I don’t believe you did...’

‘Oh, yes.’ Michael settled more comfortably on the pew. ‘It was as we were standing outside the church together, when you and Bryn were posing for photographs. I seem to remember that Rafe had just received a call from one of his women, and—’

‘And this is hardly the time, or the place, for you to so much as mention any of that!’ A tense Rafe turned on them both fiercely, his brief relationship with the Parisian, Monique, having ended several months before he had even met his future bride.

The three D’Angelo brothers owned and ran the three prestigious Archangel galleries and auction houses, in New York, London and Paris. Until recently they had run those galleries on a casual two-to-three-month-rotation basis, depending on what exhibitions or auctions were taking place in each gallery, but Gabriel’s marriage to Bryn now meant that he was based mainly in London, Rafe would be spending most of his time in New York once he and Nina were married, leaving Michael in charge at the Paris gallery.

‘Nina is now five minutes late,’ Rafe muttered after another glance at his wristwatch, the tenth such glance in almost as few seconds.

‘It’s the bride’s prerogative to keep the man waiting,’ Gabriel dismissed unconcernedly. ‘A case of “how the mighty have fallen”, don’t you think?’ he calmly continued his conversation with Michael.

‘Oh, most definitely.’ Michael nodded. ‘From what I’ve observed, he’s been totally off his head since the day he met Nina.’ He grinned unabashedly in the face of Rafe’s scowl.

‘Love does that to you.’ Gabriel nodded wisely. ‘It will be your turn next, Michael.’

His humour instantly faded. ‘I don’t believe so,’ he assured with grim certainty.

‘Famous last words...?’

‘Fact,’ Michael corrected tersely. ‘I can’t imagine ever willingly allowing any woman to get me into that state.’ He gave a pointed glance in Rafe’s visibly agitated direction.

‘When you two have quite finished!’ Rafe’s hands had clenched into fists, his expression one of pained tension as he turned to glare at his two brothers. ‘Nina is late, damn it!’

‘We heard you the first time...’ Michael arched one dark brow. ‘Do you think she might have changed her mind about marrying you?’

Rafe’s already pale face seemed to take on a greyish tinge as he groaned. ‘Oh, God...!’

‘Stop teasing him, Michael,’ Gabriel chided affectionately, his five-week marriage to Bryn having completely mellowed him. ‘Personally, I’m longing to see the beautiful matron of honour!’ He smiled at the thought of his wife.

Michael shrugged broad shoulders. ‘Calm down, Rafe. Nina will be here,’ he assured his brother dryly. ‘For some strange reason the woman is in love with you!’

‘Ha ha, very funny.’ Rafe scowled.

‘The limo is probably having trouble getting through the New York traffic, that’s all.’ Michael grimaced.

‘Lord, I hope so.’ Rafe’s face had taken on a slightly green tinge now. ‘I knew I should have gone ahead with my original plan and just persuaded Nina to elope!’

‘Not if you had wanted to continue living, Raphael Charles D’Angelo!’ his mother warned from the pew directly behind them, the whole of the D’Angelo family having once again gathered together to see another one of the three brothers married.

Which left Michael, the eldest brother at thirty-five, as the only remaining bachelor...

A state he intended to continue!

Oh, Michael was pleased for both of his younger brothers, had absolutely no doubt that Rafe and Gabriel loved the two women they had chosen as their wives, and that those two women loved them in return, that the two couples would have long and happy lives together. It just wasn’t a state, the love or the marriage, that Michael wanted for himself.

Ever.

He had been in love precisely once in his life, fourteen years ago, disastrously as it turned out, and it wasn’t an experience he had ever felt the slightest inclination to repeat. All that angsting and heartache had just made him miserable, the betrayal even more so, and he certainly hadn’t enjoyed the unpleasant feeling of having lost control of his emotions.

A feeling that he would find even more unacceptable after all these years of doing exactly as he pleased, when he pleased, with whomever and whatever woman he pleased.

No, as far as Michael was concerned, Rafe and Gabriel could provide the next generation of D’Angelos, because he had no intention of having his well-ordered life complicated by either a wife or children.

‘Oh, thank God...’ Rafe breathed his relief as the organist began to play the Wedding March announcing Nina’s arrival at the church, the three men standing up to turn and look at the bride as she walked down the aisle at her father’s side. Nina was a vision in white satin and lace, her smile radiantly beautiful, love shining in her eyes as she walked towards her bridegroom.

Michael felt a slight pang in his chest as he realised that his decision not to marry meant that no woman would ever gaze at him with such open adoration.

A pang he quickly quashed and buried, in the knowledge that he had no intention of ever falling victim to loving any woman in the way his brothers now loved their wives...

CHAPTER ONE

Archangel gallery, Paris. Two days later

‘WHAT THE—?’ MICHAEL looked up to scowl his displeasure as he heard what sounded like a baby crying in the office opposite his own. He stood up quickly behind his desk as several voices now clamoured to be heard above the noise.

The sound of raised voices, so close to the inner sanctum of Michael’s private third-floor office, was unusual enough, but a baby crying...? In one of the private areas of the prestigious Paris Archangel gallery and auction house? It was unheard of! And Michael had little patience for it having occurred now.

He continued to scowl as he strode forcefully across his office to wrench open the door into the hallway, only to come to an abrupt halt, his verbal protest dying in his throat at the pandemonium that met his narrowed gaze.

His secretary, Marie, was fiercely gabbling away in French, as was his assistant manager, Pierre Dupont. Both of them, as was usual with the French, communicating as much with their hands as with their mouths.

And standing between them, holding a young baby in her arms, was a young girl—woman?—with ebony shoulder-length hair, dressed in the de rigueur tight denims and fitted T-shirt of her generation. Her top was a bright purple, the expression on her flustered face flushed as she ignored both Marie and Pierre and instead attempted to soothe and cajole the crying baby into silence.

An attempt that failed miserably as the baby’s cries seemed to grow even louder.

‘Will you two please lower your voices?’ The young woman turned impatiently on Marie and Pierre, her voice throatily husky. ‘You’re scaring her. Now look what you’ve done...!’ she fumed as a second baby began to cry.

Michael looked around dazedly for the source of that second cry, his eyes widening as he noticed the pushchair parked just inside Marie’s office. A double pushchair, in which a second baby was now screaming at the top of its considerable lungs.

What the—?

Pandemonium? This situation, whatever that might be, was like some sort of hellish nightmare, the sort every man wished—prayed!—to wake up from. And sooner rather than later!

‘Thank you,’ the disgruntled young woman muttered accusingly as Marie and Pierre both fell silent as she hurried over to the pushchair before going down on her haunches to coo and attempt to gently soothe the second baby.

Michael had seen and heard enough. ‘Will someone, for the love of God, tell me what the hell is going on here?’ His voice cut harshly through the cacophony of noise.

* * *

Silence.

Absolute blissful silence, Eva realised with a sigh of appreciation for her aching head, as not only the two employees of the Paris Archangel remained silent, but even the babies’ cries both quietened down to a soft whimper.

Eva remained down on her haunches as she turned to look through sooty black lashes at the source of that harshly controlling voice, her eyes widening as she took in the appearance of the man standing across the hallway.

He was possibly aged in his mid to late thirties, his short black hair was neatly trimmed about his ears and nape, and framed an olive-skinned and handsomely etched face that any of the male models Eva had photographed at the beginning of her career would surely die for. Dark brows arched above eyes of obsidian black, his nose a long straight slash between high cheekbones, with sculptured, slightly sensual lips above a firm and determined chin.

His wide shoulders, muscled chest, tapered waist, and lean hips above long legs also ensured that he wore the expensively tailored dark suit, white silk shirt and grey tie, rather than the clothes wearing him.

And leaving Eva in no doubt, along with the deference on the faces of the two silent gallery employees, and the fact that he had come from the office across the hallway, that this man had to be D’Angelo. The very man she had come here to see!

It was a realisation that ensured there was absolutely no deference in Eva’s own expression as she straightened before crossing the room to thrust Sophie at him. ‘Take her so I can get Sam,’ she instructed impatiently as he made no effort to lift the baby from her arms but instead looked at her incredulously, down the long length of his aristocratic nose, with those black-on-black eyes.

Michael found himself having to look a long way down. Goodness, this woman was small, only an inch or two over five feet tall compared to his own six feet three inches. She had a coltish slenderness that was saved from appearing boyish by full and thrusting breasts tipped by delicate nipples, breasts that were completely bare beneath the purple T-shirt, if Michael wasn’t mistaken. And he was pretty sure that he wasn’t.

Those full breasts, along with the confident glint in those violet-coloured eyes surrounded by thick sooty lashes, were enough to tell Michael that she was indeed a woman rather than a girl, and possibly aged in her early to mid-twenties.

She was also, he acknowledged grudgingly, extremely beautiful, her face dominated by those incredible violet-coloured eyes, a short pert nose, and full and sensuous lips, while her skin was as pale and delicate as the finest porcelain. Dark shadows beneath the violet eyes gave her an appearance of fragility.

A fragility that was somewhat nullified by the stubborn set of the woman’s full lips above an equally determined and thrusting chin.

Michael dragged his gaze away from that arrestingly beautiful face to instead stare down in horror at the pink-dress-clad baby this young woman held out in front of him; horror, because he had absolutely no experience with holding young babies. How could he have, when he had never been this close to a small baby since being one himself?

He recoiled back from the now-drooling infant. ‘I don’t think—’

‘I’ve found that it’s best not to think too much around Sophie and Sam, especially now they’re teething,’ he was assured dryly. ‘You might want to put this on your shoulder to protect your jacket.’

The woman handed him a square of white linen as she dumped the baby unceremoniously into his arms before turning to stride back across the office, giving Michael a perfect view of her curvaceous denim-covered bottom as she bent down to unclip the strap that secured the second, still-whimpering baby into the pushchair.

Michael held the first baby—Sophie?—at arm’s length, totally at a loss as to what to do with her, and more than a little disconcerted to find himself the focus of eyes the same beautiful deep violet colour as her mother’s. A steady and intense focus that seemed far too knowing, almost mocking it seemed to him, for a baby of surely only a few months old.

Eva lifted Sam up out of the pushchair as she straightened, more than a little annoyed that the two gabbling Archangel employees had woken the babies up at all; it had taken the whole of the walk from the hotel to the gallery to lull them into falling asleep in the first place, after a disjointed night of one or other of the twins—and consequently Eva—being woken up with teething pains.

As a result both Eva and the babies were feeling a little disgruntled this morning. Which didn’t prevent her from almost laughing out loud as she turned to find D’Angelo was still holding Sophie with both arms straight out in front of him, a look of absolute horror on his face, as if the baby were a time bomb about to go off!

But Eva only almost laughed...

Because there had been very little for her to laugh about these past few nightmarish months.

Those memories sobered Eva instantly. ‘Sophie doesn’t bite,’ she snapped impatiently as she cuddled a denim-and-T-shirt-clad Sam in her arms. ‘Well...not much,’ she amended ruefully. ‘Luckily they both only have four teeth at the moment...’

Michael wasn’t known for his patience at the best of times—and right now, in the midst of this chaos, was far from the best of times. ‘I’m more interested in knowing what they, and you, are doing in the private area of Archangel, than in hearing how many teeth your children have!’

The woman’s pointed chin rose as she looked at him with hard and challenging violet eyes. ‘Do you really want me to discuss that in front of your employees, Mr D’Angelo? I take it that you are Mr D’Angelo?’ She quirked a derisive brow.

‘I am, yes.’ Michael scowled darkly. ‘Discuss what in front of my employees?’ he prompted cautiously.

Her mouth thinned. ‘The reason I’m in the private area of Archangel.’

He gave an impatient shake of his head. ‘As I have absolutely no idea what your reasons might be I can’t answer that question.’

‘No?’ she scorned.

‘No,’ Michael bit out harshly. ‘Perhaps you would care to come through to my office...?’

Pierre, a man several years his junior, voiced his concern by launching into all the reasons—in French, of course!—as to why he felt it inadvisable for Michael to be alone with this woman, with several less than polite references made as to whether or not she was quite sane, along with the suggestion that they call security and have her ejected from the building.

‘I understood all that,’ their visitor answered in fluent French as she turned her glittering violet and challenging gaze on the now less than comfortable Pierre. ‘And you can call security if you want, but, I assure you, I’m quite sane,’ she mocked Michael.

‘I never doubted it for a moment!’ Michael drawled, equally mockingly. ‘It’s fine, Pierre,’ he assured in English. ‘If you would care to come through to my office...?’ he prompted the woman again, before stepping out of the doorway to reveal the room behind him, still having no idea what to do with the baby in his arms. Especially as the baby—Sophie—was now smiling up at him beguilingly as she proudly displayed those four tiny white teeth.

‘She likes you,’ the baby’s mother announced disgustedly as she continued to carry Sam at the same time as she manoeuvred the pushchair past Michael and into his office.

He hastily placed the piece of white linen on his shoulder and hefted the baby into one arm before he was able to close the office door behind him on the wide-eyed and slightly worried stares of Marie and Pierre.

‘Wow, this is some view...’

Michael turned to see the violet-eyed woman gazing out of the floor-to-ceiling-windows at the view up the length of the Champs Élysées to the Arc de Triomphe; that view, and the prestigious address, were the main reasons for choosing this stunning location for the Paris gallery. ‘We like it,’ he drawled with hard dismissal. ‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind explaining yourself...?’ he added pointedly. ‘Beginning with who you are?’ Michael had wondered briefly if she wasn’t the persistent Monique from Rafe’s past, but the English accent seemed to say not.

Eva turned, still holding a now-quiet Sam in her arms. ‘My name is Eva Foster.’

‘And?’ D’Angelo prompted when she added nothing else to that statement, those obsidian-black eyes blank of emotion.

Eva eyed him impatiently. ‘And you obviously have absolutely no idea who I am,’ she realised with horror.

He arched dark brows. ‘Should I have?’

Should he have? Of course he should, the arrogant, irresponsible jerk— ‘Perhaps the name Rachel Foster would be more helpful in jogging your memory?’ she prompted sweetly.

He frowned darkly even as he gave a slow shake of his head. ‘I’m sorry, but I have absolutely no idea what—or who—you’re talking about...’

A red tide seemed to pass in front of Eva’s eyes. All these months of heartache, chaos, heartache, loss, and, yes, just plain heartache, and this man didn’t even remember Rachel’s name, let alone Rachel herself—!

‘What sort of man are you? Don’t bother to answer that,’ Eva added furiously as she began to pace the office. ‘Obviously so many women pass in and out of your privileged life, and your no doubt silk-sheeted bed, that you forget about them as soon as the next one takes up occupancy—’

‘Stop right there,’ D’Angelo advised harshly. ‘No, I didn’t mean you, little one,’ he added softly as Sophie gave a protesting whimper at the tone of his voice. His eyes were as black and piercing as jet as he turned back to Eva. ‘Are you implying that you believe I’ve been...involved with this Rachel Foster?’

Eva’s eyes widened angrily, her cheeks warming with temper. ‘This Rachel Foster happens to be my sister, and, yes, you’ve been “involved” with her. In fact, you’re holding part of the evidence of that involvement in your arms right now!’

Michael instantly stared down at the baby he held. Not a newborn, certainly, probably a few months old, possibly five or six, and very cute, as babies went, with her mop of black hair, those violet-coloured eyes, and her little face screwed up in concentration as she played with one of the buttons on the jacket of his several-thousand-pound suit.

If this woman, this Eva Foster, was trying to say that he was somehow responsible?

Shades of yesterday...

‘I’ve never met your sister,’ Michael stated firmly. ‘Let alone—I’ve never met her,’ he repeated coldly. ‘So whatever scam the two of you are trying to pull here I would advise that you forget it—’ He broke off abruptly as one of Eva Foster’s hands made loud and painful contact with one of his cheeks, causing the baby in his arms to let out another deafening wail. ‘That was uncalled for,’ he bit out between gritted teeth, his jaw clenched as he jiggled the baby up and down in his arms in an effort to silence her screams.

‘It was very called for,’ Eva Foster insisted heatedly, her face having become even paler as she moved forward to soothingly stroke the back of the baby in Michael’s arms. ‘How dare you stand there and deny even knowing my sister, accuse the two of us of trying to pull a scam on you, at the same time as you’re holding your own daughter in your arms?’ Her eyes flashed deeply violet in contrast to the emotional shaking of her voice.

‘I am not—’ Michael broke off to draw in a deep, controlling breath, his cheek still stinging from that slap. ‘Sophie is not my daughter.’

‘I assure you she is,’ she snapped.

‘Do you think we could both just take a couple of deep breaths, maybe step back a little, and try to calm this situation down? It’s distressing the babies,’ Michael added firmly as Eva Foster opened her mouth with the obvious intention of continuing to argue with him.

It was unusual for anyone to argue with him, period, Michael being accustomed to issuing orders and having them obeyed rather than have people dispute them. Nor did he appreciate the added complication of this woman—a feisty young woman he acknowledged as being irritatingly beautiful—continuing to accuse him of fathering her sister’s babies.

It was an accusation Michael didn’t appreciate. He’d learnt his lesson many years ago when it came to the machinations of women. And he had Emma Lowther to thank that, for teaching him to never, ever trust a woman, when it came to contraception or anything else.

How many years ago was it since Emma had tried to blackmail him into marriage by claiming she was pregnant? Fourteen. And Michael still remembered every moment of it as if it were yesterday.

Not that he had ever thought of shirking his responsibility. Oh, no, Michael had been stupid enough to think he was actually in love with Emma, had even been pleased about the baby, and the two of them had been making wedding plans for weeks when he introduced Emma to an acquaintance at a party, and she had decided within days of that introduction that Daniel, his family richer even than Michael’s, would be a far better choice as a husband. Which was when she had told Michael there was no baby, that she had been mistaken. Three months later she had tried to use the same trick on Daniel.

The scene that had followed, once Emma had learnt that Michael had warned Daniel of her machinations, that there was no baby this time either, had not been pleasant!

Emma’s pregnancy had been a sham, a trick to make Michael marry her, and it had been enough of a warning for him never again to trust any woman to take care of contraception...

Which was why he could now confidently deny Eva Foster’s claim in regard to her sister’s babies.

‘Twins,’ she now corrected softly. ‘The babies are twins.’

They certainly looked of a similar age and colouring: both had silky heads of ebony dark hair and the same amazing violet-coloured eyes as their aunt. Their features weren’t completely formed as yet, but there were certainly enough similarities for Michael to accept Eva Foster’s claim that they were twins.

But whether they were twins or otherwise, they were not—most definitely not!—Michael’s children.

‘How old are they?’ he bit out tightly.

‘Trying to jog your memory?’ she scorned.

‘How old?’ Michael repeated through those gritted teeth.

She shrugged. ‘Six months.’

And if Rachel Foster had gone full term with her babies that would mean nine months to be added onto the six months, making it fifteen months ago he was supposed to have—

Damn it, why was Michael even bothering to do the maths? No matter what this woman might claim to the contrary, he had not impregnated any woman fifteen months ago or at any other time!

‘And you believe they’re mine because...?’ He kept his voice soft and even as Sophie’s lids began to flicker and her head dropped down sleepily onto his shoulder, the infant obviously tired out by her previous screeching.

That pointed chin rose another challenging notch. ‘Because Rachel told me they were.’

Michael nodded. ‘In that case, would you care to explain why your sister hasn’t come here and confronted me with this information herself?’

‘Because— Careful!’ Eva warned as she realised Sophie had fallen into the completely boneless sleep only babies seemed able to do, and was almost slipping off one of those broad shoulders as a result.

‘How did you do that?’ she breathed ruefully as she looked at the sleeping Sophie.

Usually the twins only fell asleep after she had walked them in their pushchair or bounced them up and down for hours; Eva couldn’t remember the last time she’d had even one uninterrupted night’s sleep. And those lazy Sunday mornings of dozing in bed until lunchtime, which she had once taken so much for granted, now seemed like a self-indulgent dream, a mirage, and one Eva was sure she was destined never to know again.

‘Do what?’ D’Angelo rasped softly.

‘Never mind,’ Eva muttered irritably. ‘Just put Sophie in the left side of the pushchair. She doesn’t like sitting on the right side,’ she supplied wearily as he paused to raise dark, questioning brows.

‘She’s asleep, so what does it matter?’

‘She knows when she wakes up,’ Eva dismissed impatiently.

‘Right,’ Michael drawled dryly, willing to take this woman’s word for it that a six-month-old baby was aware of which side of a pushchair she was sitting in.

He looked down at the baby after he had somehow managed to ease her down into the pushchair without waking her. Sophie was like a dark-haired angel, ebony lashes fanning across her flushed cheeks, her mouth a little pouting rosebud.

He straightened abruptly as he realised what he was doing. ‘What about that one?’ He indicated the baby in Eva Foster’s arms.

‘His name’s Sam,’ she supplied somewhat tartly. ‘And he’s just fine where he is.’ She looked down indulgently at the baby now snuggled into her throat. ‘Sam is more placid than Sophie,’ she explained waspishly as she obviously saw Michael’s mocking expression. ‘What did you say?’ she prompted softly as he muttered under his breath.

‘I said that’s probably because he’s a man,’ Michael repeated unabashedly.

Eva Foster gave a scathing snort. ‘It’s been my experience that men tend to be lazy, not placid!’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Michael’s brow lowered.

‘I’m sure you heard me the first time,’ she came back with feigned sweetness.

He had, and he hadn’t liked it either; he and his two brothers had worked damned hard the past ten years to develop the one gallery they had then owned into three, spread across London, New York and Paris, and to build them up to become some of the most prestigious private galleries and auction houses in the world. And the three brothers were now reaping some of the benefits of that hard work, all of them extremely wealthy and able to live a lifestyle befitting that wealth, then it certainly wasn’t because it had just been handed to them on a silver platter.

The scornful expression on Eva Foster’s delicately lovely face showed she obviously thought otherwise!

As she was also under some strange delusion that Michael was the father of her niece and nephew...

It was time—past time!—that he took control of this situation. ‘In your opinion.’ He nodded tersely as he moved to sit behind his black marble desk. ‘You were about to tell me why you’re here instead of your sister...?’

Eva was well aware of the fact that D’Angelo had deliberately chosen to resume his seat behind his desk, as a way of putting some distance between the two of them at the same time as it put their conversation onto a businesslike footing. Although how anyone could think, or talk, of babies in a ‘businesslike’ way was beyond her!

D’Angelo wasn’t at all what she had been expecting of the man who had first charmed and then impregnated her younger sister. Rachel had been fun-loving, and, yes, slightly irresponsible, having decided to travel around the world for a year once she had finished university, only to come back to London ten months later, alone and pregnant. With this man’s baby—which had turned out to be babies, plural.

The man seated behind the desk wasn’t what Eva had imagined when her sister had talked so enthusiastically of her lover’s charm and good looks, and the fun they’d had together in Paris. Oh, this man was certainly handsome enough, dark and brooding—dangerously so, she would hazard a guess, and causing Eva to give an inner wince as she looked at the mark her hand had left on one of those perfectly chiselled cheeks. No doubt that dangerous aura this man exuded was counteracted by the tight control he also showed, otherwise she might have found herself with a similar imprint on her own cheek!

His was such an austere handsomeness: icy black eyes, harshly etched features, his manner rigidly controlled, and there was a cool aloofness to him that it was difficult for Eva to imagine ever melting, even—especially!—when he made love with a woman.

She certainly couldn’t imagine him and the slightly irresponsible Rachel as ever having gone out together, let alone—

Maybe it would be better, for all concerned, if Eva’s thoughts didn’t dwell on the physical side of Rachel’s relationship with this man. A physical relationship he continued to deny!

Her mouth thinned as she answered him. ‘I’m here instead of Rachel because my sister is dead.’

He gave a visible start. ‘What...?’

If Eva had thought to make him feel guilty, to get some reaction other than shock with the starkness of her statement, then she was disappointed; he looked suitably shocked, but in a distant way, rather than as a man hearing of the death of an ex-lover.

Eva drew in a sharp, shaky breath as she attempted to keep her own emotions under control. It was some weeks since she had needed to explain to anyone that her sister had died, and to do so now, to the man who had once been Rachel’s lover—even if he denied all knowledge of it—was particularly hard.

Just as Eva still found it impossible to believe, to accept, that her sister Rachel, only twenty-two, and supposedly with all of her life still ahead of her, had died, quite peaceably in the end, just three short months ago.

And Eva had been trying to cope ever since with her own grief as well as the care of the twins. It was a battle she had finally had to accept she was losing, physically as well as financially. First Rachel had been so ill, and then she had died, and it had been—and still was—almost impossible for Eva to work when she had cared for Rachel and then had the full-time day-to-day care—and the sleepless nights—of the twins to cope with. Her savings had now dwindled almost to nothing, certainly quicker than she was able to replenish them with the few photographic assignments she had been free to accept these past six months. Assignments when she had been able to take the twins with her, which was becoming increasingly difficult the bigger and more vocal they got.

Which was why Eva had decided, rather than giving D’Angelo the opportunity to fob her off in a telephone call, to instead use the last of her savings to fly herself and the twins over to Paris yesterday, so that she might confront the babies’ father face to face with his responsibilities.

Much as Eva might hate having to do it, after much soul-searching, she knew she no longer had any choice but to try and seek D’Angelo’s help from a financial point of view, at least, for the good of the twins.

Michael stood up abruptly as he saw how pale Eva Foster’s face had become, adding to that air of fragility. Her sister’s death, caring for the twins, went some way to explaining those dark shadows beneath those beautiful violet-coloured eyes.

He crossed economically to the drinks cabinet in the seating area of his office to look at the array of bottles, deciding against offering her alcohol and instead choosing to bring her a bottle of water from the small fridge. He very much doubted Eva Foster would have accepted drinking a more reviving whisky, when she had two young babies in her care.

‘Here, let me take Sam, while you sit down over here,’ he rasped abruptly as he saw Eva Foster was swaying slightly on her canvas-shod feet. Not waiting for her reply, he took the baby from her unresisting arms before placing his free hand lightly beneath her elbow to guide her over to the seating area and eased her down onto the black leather sofa.

‘Sorry about that,’ Eva murmured shakily after taking a much-needed sip of the ice-cold water. It was very warm outside, and it had been a long walk to the Archangel gallery from the cheap hotel she had booked into with the twins yesterday. ‘I think I’m doing okay and then suddenly the grief just hits me again when I’m least expecting it.’

Although she should have realised that this meeting with Rachel’s lover was going to be far from easy. Just as coming to Paris at all, seeking out D’Angelo, hadn’t been an easy decision for her to make in the first place. In Eva’s eyes, it almost smacked of defeat.

But she’d had no other choice, she assured herself determinedly; this was for the twins’ benefit, not hers. As it was, she would far rather spit in this man’s eye than so much as have to speak to him, let alone ask him for help!

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ D’Angelo murmured gruffly.

Was he? Considering he had denied all knowledge of Rachel just minutes ago, Eva found that a little hard to believe!

She still couldn’t quite come to terms with Rachel ever having been involved with this austerely cold man at all; Rachel had been outgoing and warm in nature, and this man was anything but. But maybe it had been a case of opposites attracting? D’Angelo was certainly attractive enough, and he possessed an inborn confidence, an arrogance, that Rachel might have found attractive, even challenging. This man’s controlled aloofness would represent a challenge to any red-blooded female.

Even Eva?

The last thing she wanted was to find the man who had fathered the twins in the least attractive!

Eva sat forward to place the bottle of water on the coffee table in front of her. ‘I think you can put him down too now...’ she drawled ruefully as she realised that Sam—the traitor!—had also fallen asleep on one of D’Angelo’s broad and muscled shoulders. All those hours of pacing and walking, a twin on each of her shoulders, and D’Angelo just had to hold them to have the twins instantly fall asleep!

Because they instinctively recognised who he was? Maybe. As Eva had learnt these past few months, babies were far more intuitive than she had ever realised; the twins had both certainly quickly picked up on Eva’s own nervousness in caring for them twenty-four seven, making a battle of their first few weeks together.

Michael turned to look at Eva Foster after he had secured the sleeping Sam in the pushchair beside his sister, relieved to see that, although the shadows beneath her eyes remained, those porcelain cheeks had at least regained a little of their colour, that pallor having been emphasised by straight and glossy ebony hair to just below her shoulders.

He was more than a little troubled himself to learn of the death of this woman’s sister, the mother of the sleeping babies. ‘How old was she...?’

Eva Foster looked at him blankly. ‘Who?’

‘Your sister Rachel.’

Derisive brows rose over those violet-coloured eyes. ‘The two of you were too busy to discuss ages?’

Michael drew in a sharp breath at the obvious derision in her tone. ‘I repeat that, to my knowledge, I didn’t so much as even meet your sister in order to be able to discuss our respective ages, let alone father her twins!’

‘And I repeat, I don’t believe you,’ Eva Foster stated coldly.

‘I can see that.’ Michael nodded grimly.

She drew in a shaky breath. ‘Rachel was just twenty-two when she died, three years younger than me,’ she stated huskily.

‘In childbirth?’

‘No.’ She grimaced. ‘They discovered, during a routine scan partway through the pregnancy, that Rachel had a tumour.’

‘God!’

Eva Foster nodded abruptly. ‘Rachel refused to have the pregnancy terminated, or to have treatment for the tumour, because of the danger of harming the babies. She...died when they were three months old.’ And the pain of that loss, of the consequences of her sister’s decision, was now etched into that creamy brow and in the lines of strain beside those violet eyes and sensuously sculptured mouth...

‘What about your parents...?’ he prompted huskily.

‘They both died in a car crash eighteen months ago.’

Michael folded his lean length down into the armchair opposite the sofa, uncomfortable towering over Eva Foster in the circumstances, at the same time as he recognised she wouldn’t appreciate him sitting down beside her on the sofa. There was currently a defensive aura about Eva Foster, an invisible barrier that was preventing her from breaking down completely.

Not surprising, when first her parents had died and she had now lost her younger sister so tragically. Michael was the eldest of the three D’Angelo brothers, and he couldn’t imagine—didn’t want to imagine—the devastation he would feel if he should ever lose his parents so suddenly, or Gabriel or Rafe before they had all grown old and grey together.

Which still didn’t change the fact that he had absolutely no knowledge of Rachel Foster, or her babies. ‘Where did Rachel and the babies’ father meet?’ he prompted gruffly.

Eva Foster shot him an impatient glance. ‘Right here in the gallery.’

Michael did some mental arithmetic. ‘I wasn’t in Paris, or the gallery here, fifteen months ago.’

‘What...?’ Eva looked at him blankly.

He grimaced. ‘I wasn’t in Paris fifteen months ago, Eva,’ he repeated gently. ‘Until recently, my brothers and I have moved around the three galleries on a rotation basis,’ he added as she still stared at him dazedly. ‘I was at the New York gallery fifteen months ago, organising a gala exhibition of Mayan art.’

She gave a slow shake of her head. ‘I don’t— My sister said—’

‘Yes?’

Eva could barely breathe, a sinking, nauseous sensation in the pit of her stomach as she prompted warily, ‘Exactly who are you...?’

He gave a tight smile. ‘Isn’t it a little late to be asking me that when you’ve already accused me of having been “involved” with your sister and fathering your niece and nephew?’

Eva’s mouth had gone so dry she didn’t even have enough saliva left to moisten the stiffness of her equally dry lips. ‘I assumed— Who are you?’ she demanded to know shakily, her hands tightly clenched together as they rested on her thighs.

‘Michael D’Angelo.’

Michael D’Angelo? Michael not—

Eva thought she might actually be physically sick at the realisation that all this time she had been accusing the wrong D’Angelo brother of fathering the twins!

CHAPTER TWO

OH, GOOD GRIEF, why hadn’t Eva thought to ask this man for his full name? To find out which of the D’Angelo brothers she was actually talking to before—before—well, at least before she had launched into her accusations?

Unfortunately, Eva knew exactly why she hadn’t done any of those things...

Because this man—Michael D’Angelo—brought out a response in her, a physical awareness, she had considered as being entirely inappropriate in regard to the man she had believed to have been involved with Rachel.

Not that it was any less inappropriate now; he was still the brother of the man who had fathered the twins!

He was just so much larger than life, exuded a confidence, an aura of power, that caused Eva to be aware of everything about him: the way his hair was inclined to curl slightly at his ears and nape, the intensity of those black-on-black eyes, the harsh and yet somehow mesmerising sensual lines of his finely sculptured face, and as for the way his shoulders and chest filled out his perfectly tailored jacket, and the slim cut of his trousers emphasised the lean length of his long legs—

‘Drink some more water.’ Michael was suddenly down on his haunches beside Eva holding out the water bottle towards her.

Eva took the bottle with shaking fingers, drinking thirstily as she realised she was starting to hyperventilate just thinking about the way this man looked. At the same time she inwardly cringed as she recalled all of their conversation, the things she had said, the accusations she had made—and all to the wrong man!

His identity as Michael D’Angelo certainly explained why Eva hadn’t been able to imagine her fun-loving sister Rachel ever being attracted to such a coldly aloof man who was also so much older than her, let alone involved in the passionate affair with him that had resulted in the birth of the twins!

None of which helped the awkwardness of the situation Eva now found herself in. ‘It seems I owe you an apology,’ she murmured stiffly. ‘I— Obviously I made a mistake. I— It— I don’t know what else to say...’ She groaned self-consciously, unable to look Michael D’Angelo in the eye now.

Unable to look into that coolly arrogant face at all. A face, a man, she shouldn’t find in the least attractive.

Except Eva knew that she did...

She couldn’t stop herself from giving him a brief sideways glance, once again struck by the chiselled perfection of Michael D’Angelo’s features: those black obsidian eyes that revealed so little of the man’s thoughts or feelings, those sculptured cheekbones, his mouth—dear Lord, this man’s mouth was pure perfection, the top lip fuller than the bottom.

Possibly as an indication he had a deeply sensual nature?

If it was, then Eva was sure it was a sensuality this coldly aloof man always kept firmly under his own iron control!

This man...

Michael D’Angelo.

A man Eva knew she had to guard herself against being any more attracted to.

He straightened abruptly. ‘As I said earlier, maybe we should both take a few deep breaths, a step back, and calm this situation down?’

Eva still felt as if she was on the edge of hyperventilating again rather than calming down!

Having made the hard decision to come to Paris in the first place, she had planned out in her mind exactly how her meeting with D’Angelo was going to proceed once she arrived here.

She would find a way to confront D’Angelo.

Which she had done.

He would deny any and all involvement with Rachel.

Which he had done.

Eva would then scorn that denial, with the twins as proof of that ‘involvement’.

Which she had done.

D’Angelo’s accusation that she and Rachel were trying to pull some sort of scam on him, by claiming the babies were his, had been unexpected...

As much as Eva’s response, slapping his face, had been; she had never thought of herself as being a person capable of violence until today!

And the conversation had seemed to go downhill from there...

She drew in several deep and steadying breaths before speaking again, determined not to lose complete control of this situation.

‘That’s all well and good, Mr D’Angelo, but I think you’re still missing the point here.’

Michael D’Angelo quirked one dark and arrogant brow. ‘Which is?’

Eva straightened her shoulders determinedly as she met his gaze unblinkingly. ‘That you may be correct in claiming not to be the twins’ father—’

‘I assure you, I am not their father,’ he bit out hardly.

‘—but that doesn’t change the fact that one of your brothers most certainly is,’ Eva continued firmly, her gaze meeting his challengingly now.

At the same time, she inwardly questioned just how Michael D’Angelo could speak so certainly of never having fathered a baby by Rachel. Eva certainly didn’t believe it was from physically abstaining. Beneath this man’s aloofness she sensed that sensuality, deep and dark, an indication that, once aroused, he would be the type of lover who would demand and possess a woman completely.

He was also, Eva acknowledged with a frown, a man who would need to be in control at all times, and as such he would no doubt ensure that he would never forget to take the necessary precautions to ensure that no unwanted pregnancy ensued from any of his relationships with women.

Something Eva should probably have realised before she accused him of being the twins’ father!

Michael’s breath left him in a hiss as he took in the full ramifications of Eva Foster’s revelations. Almost wishing now—almost!—that he had been the one responsible for fathering Rachel Foster’s twin babies. Because for either of his younger brothers to be the father—his now both very much married younger brothers—would be a disaster of unthinkable proportions.

Not that Gabriel or Rafe had been married fifteen months ago, when the twins were conceived, but they were now, Gabriel for just five weeks, Rafe for only a matter of days. And it would surely be asking a lot—too much, perhaps—for either Bryn or Nina to accept that either of their respective husbands had fathered the now six-month-old twins with another woman!

His mouth thinned. ‘I think, having already made one mistake, that you need to be a little more certain of your facts before you go around making any more accusations.’

Colour warmed Eva Foster’s porcelain cheeks. ‘My mistake—for which I’ve apologised—’ she added uncomfortably, ‘doesn’t alter the fact that one of your brothers fathered Sophie and Sam.’

Michael turned away to give himself the privacy for the emotions he was sure must be apparent on his face: dismay, concern, and not a little anger, all of them directed towards whichever of his brothers had caused this current situation.

He thrust his hands in the pockets of his trousers as he walked over to stand in front of the windows, for once totally blind to the magnificent view outside. Because he could never remember feeling quite so helpless, so out of his depth with a situation. Until now.

As the eldest brother, even if only by a year and two years respectively, he had always been protective of Rafe and Gabriel—sometimes too much so for their liking. But in this present situation—surely a disaster just waiting to happen, no matter which of his brothers Eva Foster was accusing?—he couldn’t think of any way in which to avert the coming disaster.

But for which one of his brothers...?

The outwardly light-hearted but inwardly determined and assertive Rafe, who had finally found, fallen in love with and married the beautiful Nina, the perfect woman to counterbalance those apparent contradictions in his mercurial nature?

Or Gabriel, in love with Bryn for the past five years but thinking it an impossible love, a lost love, that he had no right to, only for the two of them to meet again and learn that it wasn’t, now happily married to each other?

Whichever of his brothers was responsible it was sure to cause—

‘Rafe.’

Michael’s eyes were narrowed as he turned sharply back to face Eva Foster. ‘What?’ he rasped harshly, coldly, already knowing what her answer was going to be but wishing—so much wishing—that he didn’t.

‘It was Rafe that Rachel was involved with fifteen months ago,’ Eva Foster supplied abruptly.

Michael had already worked out in his mind which of his two brothers had been in charge of the Paris gallery fifteen months ago, and it now took tremendous effort of will on his part to keep his expression remote and unemotional as Eva Foster confirmed his worst fear.

Oh, Michael had no doubt that Nina loved Rafe unconditionally, and that his brother loved Nina in the same way, and that somehow, between the two of them, they would find a way to deal with this situation, for their marriage to survive the blow.

But Nina’s father, the rich and powerful Dmitri Palitov, was another matter entirely. His protection of his daughter was absolute, and he would not look kindly on anyone who dared to threaten Nina’s happiness.

Michael knew that Rafe was more than capable of taking care of himself; it was Eva Foster for whom he now felt concern...

‘I hope you’ll forgive me if I’m still a little sceptical as to the accuracy of your accusation!’ Michael now rasped scathingly.

While inwardly his heart was beating erratically, and his thoughts racing, as he tried to think of some way to come up with some proof that Eva Foster was wrong for the second time in regard to the identity of the twins’ father.

Except...

Until Rafe met and fell in love with Nina, he had played fast and loose with dozens of beautiful women— something Michael had warned him about on more than one occasion.

And there was no changing the fact that Rafe had been here at the Paris Archangel fifteen months ago.

Most importantly of all—despite her initial mistake in having thought Michael was Rafe—Eva Foster seemed very certain of the name of the man responsible for having fathered her niece and nephew...

‘Be as sceptical as you like,’ she came back evenly. ‘We’ll both know the truth once I’ve had a chance to speak to your brother.’

That was what Michael was afraid of! ‘Obviously he isn’t in Paris at the moment.’

‘I suppose you’re now going to tell me that I need not have put myself through the trauma of flying to Paris with the twins,’ she drawled self-derisively, ‘because Rafe is currently at the London Archangel gallery?’

Michael was having trouble speaking at all, his thoughts were so chaotic. Unusual for him, but then this situation was beyond anything he’d ever had to deal with before.

One thing he was sure of, and that was that he didn’t want Eva Foster roaming about, here or in London, repeating her accusations to anyone else. Not till he’d had the chance to talk to Rafe. Something Michael had no intention of doing for the next two weeks, at least!

‘No.’ He spoke softly. ‘I’m not going to tell you that.’

‘Please don’t tell me he’s at the New York gallery!’ Eva groaned. She couldn’t bear even the thought of flying all the way to New York with six-month-old twins who were cranky most of the time because they were both teething. Although to look at the two of them now, both sleeping like little angels, no one would ever believe it!

‘No, I’m not going to tell you that, either...’ Michael D’Angelo answered slowly.

Eva looked at him between narrowed lids, finding it impossible to read anything from his closed expression; those black-on-black eyes were completely without emotion, the harshness of his features set into hard, uncompromising lines. ‘And we’ve already established he isn’t here, either, so where is he?’ she prompted suspiciously.

‘Unavailable.’

Her brows rose at the terseness of Michael D’Angelo’s answer. ‘That isn’t an acceptable answer, I’m afraid.’

His mouth tightened grimly. ‘It’s the only one you’re going to get for the moment.’

Eva eyed him shrewdly. ‘Why “for the moment”...?’ she finally prompted guardedly.

This woman was too astute for her own good, Michael recognised impatiently. For his good too. And most certainly for Rafe’s!

‘It just isn’t,’ Michael bit out between clenched teeth.

Obviously this woman hadn’t seen the photographs in the Sunday newspapers of Rafe and Nina’s marriage on Saturday, no doubt because caring for six-month-old twins didn’t leave her a lot of time for doing anything else. But Michael knew that he couldn’t keep that truth from her indefinitely.

Eva Foster bristled. ‘I need to speak to him urgently.’

He nodded. ‘Anything you have to say to Rafe you can say to me.’

‘Having already made that mistake once, I don’t think so!’ she bit out.

Michael’s nostrils flared his impatience. ‘I will naturally pass on your...concerns, to my brother, when I next speak to him, but other than that—’

‘No,’ Eva Foster stated firmly as she stood up abruptly. ‘That simply isn’t good enough, Mr D’Angelo,’ she answered his questioningly raised brows. ‘I need to talk to him now,’ she insisted, ‘not after you next happen to speak to him.’

Michael had to give this woman credit for tenacity—all five feet and a dot of her!

That determined glitter in those violet-coloured eyes said she wasn’t about to back down any time soon either, not from him, or her demand that she speak to Rafe. ‘I’ve already said that isn’t possible.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘Then I suggest you make it possible, Mr D’Angelo!’

‘I don’t care for your tone,’ he bit out harshly.

Eva shrugged. ‘Then maybe you should stop trying to prevent me from speaking with your brother.’

Michael bit back his own anger. ‘The twins are now six months old, so why this sudden urgency to speak to the man your sister told you was their father?’

‘He is their father,’ Eva insisted stubbornly.

And why the sudden urgency...? Because Eva, much as she had tried, much as she hated having to admit defeat, knew that she just couldn’t cope any more without help. Financially. Or emotionally.

Although she had no intention of admitting the latter to the aloofly controlled and ultra-self-confident Michael D’Angelo, a man who looked capable of dealing with any situation...

How could a man like him possibly understand the crippling heartache that washed over Eva like a dark and oppressive tide whenever she allowed herself to dwell on the death of her sister Rachel, let alone how inadequate Eva felt, no matter how much she might love the twins, for the task of caring for two rapidly growing babies?

And all of that was apart from the fact that she simply didn’t have enough money coming in to be able to afford the care the twins needed now, or in the future.

There was no way Eva could go away on photographic assignments any more, because she simply couldn’t leave the twins for any length of time. Even taking local assignments, going back to the well-paid but monotonous photography of weddings and christenings was becoming problematic as the twins grew older, making it increasingly difficult for Eva to take them with her; brides tended to frown at having the photographer’s twin babies scream at their wedding!

And even if Eva could manage to find a child-minder that she trusted it was going to cost yet more money, and so eat into any of the fees she might earn from her work.

No, Eva had thought long and hard before seeking out Rafe D’Angelo, considered her options carefully, and, unpalatable as this alternative might be, she couldn’t see any other way out of this problem other than asking the twins’ father for financial help.

It wasn’t as if she wanted anything else from him, just a way of being able to care for the twins without having to worry where the next penny was coming from. But that was all she wanted.

After meeting and speaking with Michael D’Angelo, Eva was convinced the less physical interaction any of the D’Angelo family had with the twins—and her!—the better she would like it!

She gave a shake of her head. ‘It’s your brother Rafe I need to speak to, Mr D’Angelo, not you.’

Michael had no idea as to the thoughts that had been going through Eva Foster’s head these past few moments, but he did know they hadn’t been pleasant ones. Her face was once again as pale as bone china, those deep shadows under her violet-coloured eyes more prominent, and the fullness of her mouth appeared to be trembling slightly, as further evidence of her vulnerability.

An air of vulnerability Michael had a feeling this woman would hate intensely if she was made aware of it!

He narrowed his eyes. ‘Have you eaten anything today?’

She gave him a startled look at this sudden change of subject. ‘Sorry?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s almost lunchtime, and you’re looking a little pale, so I wondered if you had eaten anything today.’

She blinked long sooty lashes. ‘I— Yes, I believe I did manage to grab a piece of toast while I was feeding the twins their breakfast.’

No doubt she only managed to grab something to eat a lot of the time with two small babies to care for! ‘At your hotel?’

She gave a slightly derisive smile. ‘I believe you would call it more of a pension than a hotel. It was the best I could afford, okay?’ she added defensively as Michael’s frown deepened. ‘We can’t all live in penthouse apartments in major cities around the world and fly about in private jets, you know!’

There was no denying that Michael did exactly that, as did his two brothers. Which was no doubt one of the reasons Eva Foster had decided to seek out the twins’ father and ask for his help... ‘And where is this pension?’

‘It’s in a back street just a short walk away from the Gare du Nord,’ she revealed reluctantly. ‘Look, if I could just speak to your brother—’

‘I take it you intend to ask him for financial help when you do speak with him?’

Her cheeks flushed. ‘It’s my intention to remind him of his financial responsibility towards his two children, yes— Don’t look at me like that!’ she snapped sharply, her slender hands clenched so tightly together her knuckles showed white.

‘How am I looking at you?’ Michael prompted evenly.

‘As if you still think I’m some sort of gold-digger out to fleece your brother out of some of his millions!’ She gave a disgusted shake of her head. ‘It wasn’t easy for me to come here, you know.’ She began to pace the office restlessly. ‘The last thing I want is any contact with the twins’ obviously reluctant father—’

‘Are you saying that Rafe knows of the twins’ existence...?’ Michael looked at her through narrowed lids. If his brother had known of Rachel Foster’s pregnancy and not told him, or, more importantly, not told Nina...!

Eva Foster came to an abrupt halt. ‘I— No. I don’t think so.’

‘But you aren’t sure?’

‘Not absolutely, no.’ Eva grimaced. ‘But I’m assuming not. Rachel wasn’t exactly forthcoming on the subject, except to tell me the name of her lover, and that the relationship was over by the time she found out she was pregnant,’ she added heavily. ‘I was out of the country when Rachel first realised she was pregnant, and she never so much as mentioned it during our weekly telephone conversations. By the time I returned to England she was already five months pregnant and had been diagnosed with the cancer.’ She sighed. ‘Pressing Rachel for more details of the babies’ father, other than to tell me his name before she died, didn’t seem very important at the time.’

‘I imagine not.’ Michael nodded. ‘Returned from where?’ For some reason he found himself more than a little interested as to why Eva Foster should have been out of her native England for several months.

She frowned. ‘Does that matter?’

He shrugged. ‘Just filling in the details.’

Eva shot him an irritated glare, sure that this man wasn’t usually a man who cared for ‘details’, that he usually left such trivia for other people to deal with; he commanded, others obeyed! ‘My work often takes me out of England. At least, it did,’ she added with a grimace.

‘Rachel was so ill the last six months of her life, and since then I’ve been caring for the twins on my own.’

‘You haven’t been able to work since your sister died?’

‘Not properly, no.’ It was the truth, so what else could she say?

‘What—?’

‘Look, my career, my life, none of this is up for discussion,’ she snapped irritably.

She loved the twins, adored them actually, not just for themselves, but because they were all she had left of Rachel.

But Eva had trained and worked hard to become successful in a career that was dominated by men, and these past nine months of being unable to do that career had taken their toll, on both Eva personally, and the respect she had worked so hard to achieve for her photography.

‘I disagree,’ Michael D’Angelo bit out coolly. ‘If—and it’s still a big if, as far as I’m concerned—’ he warned hardly, ‘it should transpire that Rafe is the twins’ father, then your career, and your life, would certainly both be very much up for discussion.’

Eva stilled as she looked across at him searchingly, a panicked fluttering beginning in her chest as she saw the hard, uncompromising jet of his eyes and the grim set of those sculptured lips.

She gave a slow, guarded shake of her head. ‘Rachel made me the twins’ legal guardian before she died...’

Dark brows rose. ‘And their biological father would naturally take precedence over their maternal aunt.’

That panicked flutter turned into a full surge as Eva’s heart seemed to be squeezed tightly inside her chest. ‘Are you threatening to take the twins away from me, Mr D’Angelo...?’

Whatever it was Michael was doing, he certainly wasn’t deriving any pleasure out of it. Inwardly he felt as if he were kicking an already starved and abused kitten.

Although this particular starved and abused kitten would probably spit in his eye as soon as look at him...

CHAPTER THREE

MICHAEL KNEW THE reputation he had, that most people believed him to be both cold and ruthless, an automaton without a heart, and in business perhaps that accusation was true. And no doubt many of his past lovers would also agree with that sentiment; several of the women he had been involved with over the years had accused him of lacking that particular organ when he had ended their relationship!

But Michael loved his family dearly—his parents and his two brothers, and now their two wives—and he would do anything he had to do in order to protect each and every one of them.

Even to the extent of browbeating a young, defenceless woman who only wanted to do what she believed was right for the only family she had left, namely her orphaned niece and nephew?

Unfortunately, yes.

But only because Michael didn’t feel he had any choice. Because he dared not allow Eva Foster to repeat this wild accusation to anyone else until he’d had a chance to speak with Rafe, and he wasn’t going to do that until Rafe and Nina returned from their honeymoon. And if the only way to achieve Eva Foster’s silence was to put the fear of God into her, by giving her the impression that Rafe, if he should be the twins’ father, might want custody of them, then that was what he’d do.

His brother was headstrong, yes, had deliberately earned himself the reputation of being something of a playboy these past fifteen years, but falling in love with Nina had changed his need for that armour. They were two very small, adorable babies, Michael acknowledged as he looked down at the angelically sleeping twins. The truth was Michael had absolutely no idea how Rafe would react to knowing, if it were true, that he had fathered twins with a woman other than Nina.

Michael only knew how he would feel in the same situation!

No matter what the cost to himself, to any other relationship he might have in his life at the time, Michael knew he would want his children with him. And Rafe, despite the outward differences in their personalities, was enough like him to feel the same way. Which was the reason Michael, at least, was convinced Rachel Foster hadn’t told Rafe anything about her pregnancy or the twins’ birth.

‘I’m merely stating a fact, Miss Foster,’ Michael answered her abruptly. ‘Not that I’m saying that would definitely be the case, only that you should consider it as a possibility.’

Eva didn’t want to even consider the idea of the twins ever being taken away from her!

Yes, she found it difficult, all-consuming, to care for two small babies night and day, but she would dare any woman in the same situation, even the natural mother, to deny that it was hard work.

And yes, caring for the twins had also put her career on semi-permanent hold.

But that didn’t mean she would ever willingly give them up.

The opposite, in fact; she knew she would fight tooth and nail to prevent that from ever happening.

She strode over to take control of the babies’ pushchair. ‘Perhaps I made a mistake coming here.’

‘I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Eva.’

She stilled, as much at hearing Michael D’Angelo speak her name in that husky, nerve-tingling tone as at the words he had spoken.

And how stupid of her was that?

Michael D’Angelo was too arrogantly handsome for his own good, wealthy beyond belief, extremely powerful—worse, he was using those last two things to threaten her—and her only response was to once again feel that quiver of awareness down the length of her spine, to feel her breasts swelling beneath her T-shirt, and the nipples tightening, engorging, in physical arousal.

More humiliating still, they were no doubt engorged nipples that Michael D’Angelo would be able to see pressing against the tightness of her T-shirt!

Eva couldn’t quite meet the darkness of his gaze as she gave him an over-bright smile at the same time as she turned the pushchair towards the office door. ‘I’m sure I’ve taken up enough of your valuable time for one day, Mr D’Angelo—’

‘You aren’t leaving, Eva.’

She gave him a startled glance as she came to an abrupt halt. ‘What do you mean? Of course I’m leaving.’

‘This office, maybe—’

‘There’s no “maybe” about it—’

‘—but I’m afraid I can’t allow you to leave Paris until I’ve spoken to Rafe,’ Michael D’Angelo continued as if she hadn’t spoken, the authority in his voice unmistakeable, despite the even softness of his tone.

‘You can’t allow me!’ Eva stared at him incredulously. ‘Forgive me, Mr D’Angelo, but at what point in this conversation did you think I gave you the right to tell me what I can or can’t do?’

He gave a tight smile. ‘I believe, Miss Foster, that it was at the point you told me it’s your belief that my brother Rafe is the father of your niece and nephew.’

Eva’s eyes narrowed. ‘I think that’s for Rafe and me to discuss further, don’t you?’

‘And that’s where the problem lies.’

‘I still fail to see why...?’

Michael drew in a deep controlling breath, hating what he was doing, but knowing he had no real choice. The fact that Eva Foster was so far unaware of Rafe’s recent marriage didn’t mean that she would remain so, and for Rafe and Nina’s sake Michael had no choice but to keep an eye—a very close eye—on the young woman who could put a serious strain on his brother’s recent marriage. And for Michael to be able to do that Eva Foster had to remain in Paris...

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