“It’s been in my wife’s family for generations,” the doctor said proudly.

And yet it was in his office—greedy fuck. Although that might make things easier. Dominic took his phone from his suit coat pocket, quickly brought up a few screens, and leaning forward turned the phone to the doctor. “Have you seen this Canaletto? The Doge’s Palace. It’s equally good.”

“I have.” The avaricious light in the doctor’s eyes was bright as a beacon. “The Hamilton Gallery has had it for sale since March.”

“Why don’t I buy it?” Dominic said smoothly. “What’s your address here?” He knew the address. He just wanted a commitment from the doctor.

Ten seconds.

Fifteen.

Dominic leaned back, tapped the screen a few times. “There. I can always use another Canaletto if you don’t want it.” He looked up and smiled at the doctor. Then he stared at the screen for a second more before he chuckled. “Douglas said he’d open his reserve whiskey for me. I’ve bought a few things from him over the years. Where should I tell him to send it?”

Dr. Clifton struggled with his conscience for only a few seconds more. Then he gave Dominic his address.

Dominic keyed in the doctor’s address, turned off his phone, and slipped it back in his pocket. “They’ll deliver it tomorrow at two. I hope you enjoy it. Now then.” He needed confirmation, not secondhand information.

“You understand my responsibility to my patients,” Dr. Clifton said, looking Dominic in the eye like any good horse trader who never gives anything away.

Dominic smiled. “Of course.”

“So I can neither confirm nor deny that Miss Hart is twelve weeks’ pregnant. Nor can I confirm or deny that she is in excellent health.”

Dominic sat quietly for a moment, absorbing the quick shot of happiness. Then he came to his feet. “Thank you, Dr. Clifton.” He dipped his head. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

Dominic left the office, a million thoughts tumbling through his brain, a continuous flicker of a smile twisting his mouth as he got in his car and was driven to Eaton Place. According to the doctor, Katherine was three months’ pregnant. Which meant he should have used a condom the night she’d had the shot. He smiled faintly. As if any man alive could have refused her huge, pleading eyes when she’d said softly, “Just don’t. Please?”

But fond memories aside, he had a problem on his hands.

Because he was still in hock to Gora for two more weeks or slightly more, depending on the birth of Gora’s son.

An inflexible interval. On the other hand, he expected it would take at least that much time for any woman to plan her wedding. So he had only to say, Let’s get married in three weeks and no further explanation was required. Although the timing was the least of his problems. Getting Katherine to talk to him was the dilemma. He hadn’t had much luck in the last ten weeks.

Hours later, when Max called to tell him that Katherine was home, Dominic was still unsure about how to approach her.

With no real plan yet, his emotions all over the map, and his entire world in flux, Dominic found himself standing on Katherine’s doorstep, the sun a faint golden glow behind him, the horizon streaked with the brilliant magenta of sunset.

He knocked on the door and saw a curtain twitch on one of the street windows.

He knocked again, louder this time, using the brass knocker.

“Go away!”

Katherine’s voice was sharp, clear, hostile. And on the other side of the door now, not near the window. “I’m not going away,” he said, raising his voice just enough to make his point, but not enough to draw attention. “Open the door.”

“No!”

She heard a key turn in the lock, wondered if she could hold the door shut, but even before the thought was fully formed, Dominic had shoved the door open and was standing on her threshold. Looking breathtakingly handsome, casually dressed in a blue blazer and jeans, every hair neatly in place, tall and dark and treacherously beautiful. Oh God… do not respond to all that irresistible maleness. “Where did you get that key?” she snapped instead.

He ignored her question and gave her an almost invisible raking glance, taking in her loose-fitting T-shirt and sweats. “How have you been?”

“Fine. Perfectly fine. You?” She held out her hand for the key.

“Shitty. Really shitty.” He put the key in her hand because he could have more made. “May I come in?”

“No.”

“We should talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

He glanced up and down the street, still lively with people out enjoying the May evening. “We can talk about your having my child out here on the steps or we can talk about it where the tabloids won’t be taking pictures.”

“How do you know about that?”

He ignored her glare. “Contacts.”

“Meaning?” she said, her voice even more pissy.

“Max told me.”

“How did he know?”

“You’d have to ask him.”

“Are you still stalking me?” she hissed, the term spitting bullets appropriate to the occasion.

“Not personally, no,” he said, immune to imaginary bullets and glares and hisses and anything else that stood in the way of his mission. “Now, may I come in?”

She didn’t move.

“Did Nana tell you I visited her a few weeks ago? She might enjoy the tabloid pictures. Or CX Capital. The gossip rags always have the smuttiest headlines.”