Chapter 35
The Shelbourne doesn’t have a patch on any of the Hartmann Hotels, but it has a certain appeal—old-world elegance wrapped in Irish charm. And it’s neutral territory for both of us. While I’m determined to finish what I started in the limo, I’m equally determined to convince my baby mommy to date me properly, to give us a real go, and I’m under no illusion—it will probably mean she has to choose between me and her family.
Holmes, Sanson, Tate and Felstead follow us through the revolving doors, where a pianist plays something soft and poignant in the lobby. Zara’s heels click on the gleaming marble floor as she glides in beside me like she owns the place.
And fuck—so she should. She steals the air from every room she walks into. Every other woman pales in comparison to her. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on before, but now that she’s pregnant? She’s like a fucking goddess.
Her hand brushes her bump as we cross the marble floor, and a strange, primal surge of pride tightens my chest.
A hostess in a tailored black suit spots us instantly. ‘Mr Hartmann,’ she says with a professional bow. ‘Your private suite is ready p>
I booked it the second Zara agreed to dinner. As we follow her through the Horseshoe Bar, her eyes burn into the side of me.
‘You booked a private room?’ she murmurs, arching a brow.
‘Yes,’ I say simply.
‘Why p>
‘Several reasons.’ I slide her a look. ‘I didn’t want prying eyes,’ I admit quietly. ‘Or interruptions p>
She glances at me over her shoulder, lips curving. ‘Or witnesses p>
‘Definitely not witnesses,’ I murmur.
She rewards me with that infectious laugh of hers and the sound punches straight into my ribcage.
God help me.
I’m fucked.
I’m utterly obsessed with her, and I can’t even deny it.
‘Plus, the second an Irish paparazzo gets a photo of us together, your brothers will storm this place like a SWAT team p>
Her lips twitch. ‘They’re not that bad p>
‘Zara, did you happen to notice how anyone who ever crossed your family miraculously went missing?’ I cock my head. ‘I refuse to be next on that list. Especially now that I’m about to become a father p>
She can’t argue. She knows I’m right. ‘Doesn’t that intimidate you?’ She exhales, heavily.
‘No. I have my own list of enemies who have conveniently disappeared.’ I’m not even joking. ‘All is fair in love and war, right p>
Her eyes widen, but she stays silent as we ascend a short flight of stairs to an ornate corridor lined with oil paintings and gold-framed mirrors. The hostess opens a walnut door. ‘Here we are—the Fitzgerald Suite. The champagne is chilling. There’s water. Menus. Someone will be up shortly to take your order. In the meantime, anything you need, just ring p>
A round table dressed in white linen punctuates the centre of the candlelit room. As I requested, Zara’s favourite champagne sits chilling in a chrome cooler in the centre of the table. I know she’s not supposed to drink alcohol, but I thought she might like a tiny mouthful for a toast.
Our security team lines the corridor as Zara steps inside and heads straight for the French doors. They open onto a balcony overlooking St Stephen’s Green. The city glows beneath us.
I watch her drink it all in. ‘Was the view another reason for booking a private suite p>
‘No.’ I prowl closer, wrapping my arms around her waist from behind. I smooth my palm over her stomach, over our baby growing inside her. My baby. It feels more intimate than having my fingers inside her in the limo. She leans back against me, melting into me. Her hand slides over the top of mine, our fingers entwining. ‘The other reason I booked this private room was so I could sit you up on the table and eat your pretty pussy for dessert p>
She hisses and spins to face me. ‘Will you let me come this time p>
‘That depends on how our discussion goes.’ I murmur into her ear, deliberately dragging my mouth over her sensitive lobe.
‘Let’s begin, then.’ She strides over to the table, hips sashaying, practically inviting me to grab them, lift her onto the table and fuck her into next year.
She takes a seat, back ramrod straight in the chair, hands clasped together on the table in front of her. She’s all business. For a second, I get a flash of the woman who has carved out one of the most sought-after design companies in Europe. The woman who has clawed her way to the top with a vision that, according to my sources, her family didn’t initially think would come to fruition.
‘What is it that you want to discuss exactly, Mr Hartmann?’ She inclines her head to the side, and her glossy, bouncing curls swing, revealing her long, slender neck. The urge to sink my mouth onto her skin is overwhelming. I’ve been hard from the moment I saw her. The need to claim her with my hands, my mouth and my cock is overwhelming, but I refuse to be her fuck toy. There’s no way she’s using me for sex, then running out on me the way she did in the Dominican.
I want her.
All of her.
Forever.
I drop into the seat opposite her. ‘I want to discuss how we’re going to raise our baby. I want you to agree to be mine in every sense of the word. And I want you to agree to choose our family over your family. We both know when your brothers find out we’re together—because we are together—there will be murders.’ She flinches as my words sink in.
‘You said we don’t know each other. I disagree.’ I reach for the bottle of champagne slowly. She inhales as she registers I remembered her favourite.
‘You know what I like to drink. That doesn’t qualify as knowing me.’ Her voice wavers slightly.
‘I know how you sleep with one leg out of the bed and one leg under the covers.’ I pour an inch into the champagne flute on the table in front of her. ‘I know how your breathing pattern changes when you finally fall asleep. I know you’re as driven and ambitious as I am. I spent last night googling the ever-living shit out of you. I probably know more about you than you do.’ I fill my own glass. ‘And I know you have a big, beautiful heart from the way you consoled me on my mother’s wedding morning p>
Sympathy flashes through her deep chocolate eyes.
I don’t want her sympathy.
I want her affection.
I take a sip of champagne. ‘Most importantly, I know how to make you come every which fucking way, and if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the future doing exactly that and raising our child to be a man we can both be proud of p>
She sucks in a breath.
‘I’m not asking you to marry me.’ Not yet, anyway. ‘I’m asking you to date me. Because even before I knew you were carrying my child, I felt compelled to find you, to track you down. I had this gut instinct screaming at me that we were far from finished. Admittedly, I didn’t know quite how far.’ My eyes drop to her stomach.
Silence stretches between us. She rolls her lips together. ‘Okay p>
‘Okay?’ That was too easy. ‘What’s the catch p>
‘No catch,’ she says simply. Her fingers trail along the stem of her champagne flute, but she doesn’t lift it to her lips. She eyes me levelly over the table. ‘I thought about you a million times in the months we were apart,’ she finally admits, her voice cracks—and my chest splits right open for her. ‘Despite my smothering family, when I found out I was pregnant, I’d never felt so lonely in my life p>
‘Sweetheart.’ I reach across the table and take her hand. ‘I’m so fucking sorry p>
‘I made my peace with it. Put on a good front. But inside, I felt so… alone p>
‘You’re not alone. Not anymore. I’m with you every step of the way p>
She breaks eye contact for the first time. Her thick black lashes shimmer.
‘What if things don’t work out between us?’ It’s barely more than a whisper.
‘They will. There’s a reason we booked the same resort. A reason your contraceptive failed. A reason you strolled into my office yesterday. I don’t give up, Zara. Not in business. Not in life. And certainly not on the mother of my child. I’m all in.’ I raise my glass and watch her intently over the rim. ‘The question is, are you p>
Her breath stutters—just a fraction.
But I see it.
And something shifts between us.
She hasn’t spoken the words, yet I already know her answer. Further proof that we do know each other.
‘I’m not moving in with you.’ Her chin tips up. ‘And I won’t have you smothering me like my family do. Or bossing me around—unless it’s in the bedroom.’ Her full lips slant into a slow, sexy smile. ‘And when it comes to my family, you let me tell them in my own time. For all I know, this thing between us could crash and burn in a couple of weeks, and I won’t risk burning my bridges p>
I blow out a breath. ‘We’re not going to crash and burn.’ I know it better than I know my own name. ‘Trust me, please p>
‘Trust is earned, not given.’ And that’s exactly why she’s done so well for herself.
‘Agreed. Look, let’s just concentrate on getting reacquainted for now p>
‘One more thing,’ she adds, reaching for her glass. ‘It’s non-negotiable p>
‘What p>
‘This baby is a Beckett p>
‘No way.’ My fingers tighten around my glass. ‘And you’re right, it’s non-negotiable p>
‘It seems we’ve reached an impasse.’ She leans forward, resting an elbow on the table, pushing her cleavage up in the process. My focus falls to her breasts, just as she intended. Damn, she’s good. Her tongue dips out to wet her lips. ‘Shame, because I was so looking forward to getting reacquainted with that beautiful big dick of yours again p>
I swallow hard.
Dinner hasn’t even begun, and I’m already in deeper than I planned.
‘Baby Hartmann–Beckett,’ I offer, disgusted at myself.
Her teeth dig into her lower lip as she pushes her perfect tits up higher. ‘Baby Beckett-Hartmann p>
‘Let’s leave the finer details until closer to the time.’ Rome wasn’t built in a day.
‘Don’t think you can win me over with dinners and flowers and chocolates.’ She rests an elbow on the table and cradles her chin in her palm.
‘What about with orgasms p>
Heat flashes in her irises. ‘Now we’re talking p>