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A muscle in Enrique’s jaw jerked angrily. ‘Do not bait me, Cassandra. What is it they say about glass houses? It is not wise to throw stones, no?’
Cassandra rested her elbows on the table, hunching her shoulders and curling her fingers behind her ears. It would be so easy to burst his bubble, she mused, so easy to explode the myth that David was Antonio’s son, but it was seldom wise to give in to temptation, as she knew only too well. Much better to wait to allow the situation to develop, to keep that particular revelation up her sleeve. She had reason to believe that she might need it.
‘All right,’ she said, allowing him to make what he liked of that, ‘perhaps I should have informed your father when David was born. But I had every reason to believe that he—that all of you—wanted nothing more to do with me.’
Enrique’s nostrils flared. ‘So you decided to take your revenge by keeping the boy’s existence a secret from us?’
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