Compared to his Mustique villa, his New York duplex and his Hamptons beach house, Michael Sarkis’s London base was a smaller, more discreet pied-à-terre tucked away in a quiet pocket of Mayfair. However, it was still a sumptuous place. A white stucco façade, a marble atrium, a sweep of stairs leading to a mezzanine floor.
Serena parked her Aston Martin outside and looked around for paparazzi, knowing full well that they’d love this story. Serena arrives at Sarkis’s hideaway to talk cash! Well, for once they’d be right, she thought. Almost right. She still wasn’t sure what she wanted from Michael, and had spent a sleepless night before today’s meeting thinking about it. She’d asked for the meeting, having avoided his calls since Cannes. While a part of her still didn’t want that bastard’s money, if she was brutally honest, she needed it. The Jolie Cosmetics contract had gone, her agent wasn’t exactly coming up with the goods work-wise (he would definitely have to go), and without Tom or Michael around to pick up the tab for her day-to-day things, she couldn’t quite believe how expensive life was, having to fend for herself. It was outrageous! Well, she wasn’t going to start penny-pinching now. A new house, nanny, Portland hospital bills, couture: it all cost. And she was going to make Michael pay.
‘Serena.’
She walked into the reception room and put her clutch bag on the table.
Michael was sitting on a black leather and chrome sofa in a pair of jeans, Hermès belt and a red shirt open at the neck. Serena looked at him and felt an electric shiver fire up her spine. She’d spent hours going over in her mind what she’d first say to him, but hadn’t factored in the helpless lust she felt as she saw him in his den of luxury. Just by walking into the room, her defences weakened, and she knew she was already on the back foot. She tried to gather her thoughts, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him and an unbidden thought crept into her head, a thought she had been trying to quash the last week. Had she been too hasty in cutting him dead? Maybe she should just let him squirm for a few more days and then take him back. Take all this back, she thought, looking at the expensive furnishings in the apartment.
For two individuals who defined confidence, the tension between them was so strong you could almost see it. Michael’s enormous presence seemed to surround her and she immediately regretted agreeing to meet him on his turf. Thank God she had chosen to wear skintight McQueen.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked, walking over to a small bar in the corner of the room. ‘I’m having a Bloody Mary. Do you want a Virgin?’
She raised an eyebrow then shook her head, watching him pour tomato juice into a glass. He relaxed back into the sofa and fixed her with his gaze.
‘I wish I’d found out from you about the baby rather than the papers,’ he said.
Serena crossed her legs, smoothing her long tanned legs with her fingers. ‘You didn’t give me the chance.’
They stared at each other in silence and Serena felt her nipples swell as his coal-black eyes penetrated hers. She remembered the last time they were in this room. After Mustique. Naked on the thick carpet. Michael sliding on top of her, grabbing her hair and thrusting into her. Exploding passion. Togetherness.
With each passing second, Serena felt her anger ebb away, to be replaced by another potent emotion. Longing. She wondered if he was thinking the same, then fought to stay angry, controlled, in charge of her conflicting emotions as Michael continued to watch her.
‘Michael, I just wanted to say …’
Sarkis lifted one finger. ‘Just a moment. We’re waiting for one more, then we can begin.’
‘Begin what?’ asked Serena, bemused.
A buzzer sounded and Michael pressed the intercom beside him. In walked a short, squat man in a dark suit carrying a leather attaché case.
‘Who’s this?’ asked Serena, suddenly feeling edgy.
‘This is Jim Berger, my attorney, who you’ll be dealing with after today.’
‘What the hell is this?’ spluttered Serena. ‘Michael! Tell me what’s going on?’
‘It’s very simple. I want a paternity test,’ replied Michael flatly.
‘What!’ screamed Serena. ‘You humiliate me with those hookers and now you ask for a paternity test?’
He looked at her coolly, relaxed on his sofa, a smirk on his mouth, every inch the ruthless businessman. ‘If it is my child we can talk an allowance and you can thrash that out through Jim. But if it isn’t? Well, of course, I know why you’re here, Serena, and let me assure you, you won’t be seeing a penny.’