Page 102 of The Billionaire's Baby
Arpad makes a snarling sound low in his throat. I touch his arm, "He’s only trying to wind you up."
Arpad turns to me, "You sounded so British when you said that." He smirks.
"Maybe your influence is rubbing off on me."
"Is it?" He holds my gaze and the air between us thickens. My core clenches. I shift about in the seat to make myself more comfortable.
"So, Karina," Grandmama asks, "your name... Is it… Slavic, in origin?"
"Russian." I turn back to my soup. "Both sets of my grandparents immigrated to the US. My parents were born in the US, so I am American." I raise a shoulder.
"But you’re in touch with your roots?"
She raises her soup spoon and drinks from it.
"I guess." I stare down into the depths of the liquid in my bowl. "My father holds onto his culture. He instilled a...respect for his homeland in us."
"Sounds like he was a good father."
"The best." I reach for my wine glass. "He was strict, but a fair parent." I glance sideways in time to see Arpad scowl. What’s his problem? He seems like he wants to say something, then changes his mind and goes back to eating.
I bring the wine glass to my nose and sniff it—I'm still not drinking, but I don't want to turn down the wine and raise his family's suspicions that I may be pregnant or trying to get pregnant. I'd even taken a sip when Grandmama had made the toast. Now I indulge in another cautious sip.
The rich flavor coats my tongue. "This is excellent." I stare at the glass, then at the bottle. "Where is it from?"
"My vineyard," Arpad replies.
"You own a vineyard?" I stare at Arpad.
"A few," his lips kick up, "in Napa, in the UK, in Australia, in Argentina—"
"Stop," I frown down at the wine, "I could have sworn this tasted French."
"It is; it’s from Burgundy."
"Of course, it is." I set down my glass. "So, do you all meet often for a family lunch?"
Philippe and Arpad stiffen. Declan chuckles. Only Grandmama’s features don’t change expression. She rings the bell again, then turns to me. "We don’t get to dine as a family as often as I would like." She glances around the place, "Hopefully, in the time I have left to live, we'll have a few more such occasions."
"Now, Grandmama," Arpad admonishes, "you’re not going anywhere soon."
"You’ll outlive all of us," Philippe declares.
"You’re healthier than most people in their twenties," Declan bumps his fist into his chest, "me included."
She stares around the table. "You know, my doctor doesn’t agree with that prognosis."
There’s silence for a beat, then another.
"Now, come on boys, I am not dying that soon either." She chuckles. "Not before I’ve seen my grandchild." She looks at me.
I swallow. "Right. Of course." I stare down at my plate of food. Is this why he’d agreed to my proposal of his impregnating me so quickly? Had he wanted to use this entire set-up to his own benefit? Of course, he had, and who am I to blame him, when I had done the same? Only, he could have told me up front that there is a bigger reason for his ready acquiescence. After all, if he is doing so because he wants his grandmother to be happy… Well, I could hardly fault him for that, right? But, typical Arpad, he couldn’t come out and tell me his motives clearly. Or he’d simply assumed that it didn’t matter if I knew or not. Likely, that was the reason.
The door to the dining room opens again. The same staff comes in, remove our soup bowls, then bring in plates of food covered with stainless steel domes, the kind I’ve only ever seen in fancy restaurants. Not that this is any less. The food here is better than at many of the Michelin-starred restaurants where I’ve dined.
They remove the covers with a flourish.
"Roasted Cod in a cream sauce with parsnip puree, shrimp, brown butter, and capers," one of the servers declares.
