Shock flashed through Matilda St George’s lovely gray eyes, along with a certain amount of fear, and there was an instant where a deep part of Enzo regretted that fear, remembering how it had felt when she’d looked at him with nothing but desire.

But then that instant was gone.

Good. She should be afraid. She should be very afraid.

Because he’d never been so furious.

Not that he would ever hurt her—he’d never hurt a woman in all his life and he wasn’t about to start now. Still, he certainly wasn’t about to make things easier for her.

He could forgive her for walking out on him that morning after their weekend together, even though the way she’d left, without even having the decency to say goodbye to his face, had been cowardly in the extreme.

He could even forgive her for the desire he still felt running through him, thick and hot as lava, despite the four years that had passed.

But what he couldn’t forgive was that she hadn’t told him about his son.

Because that boy was his son. Of that he had no doubt at all.