Fitzgerald simply stared at her. For a long while, he did not move.
His eyes remained fixed on Catherine as though he were trying to find some sign in her expression that would tell him whether she was serious or whether this was some elaborate joke.
His first thought was that it had to be voodoo. Or some bizarre psychological phenomenon. He had heard of stranger things. Conspiracies. Aliens. Giants. Cults. Mass delusions.
But past lives?
That was something he couldn't wrap his mind around.
And yet, just as on that day in the hospital when Catherine had pointed a gun at him, with that strength in her eyes, he couldn't simply turn around and walk away.
"If you were my mother…" His voice was quieter now. "Was Maximilian Whitmore my father?"
Catherine drew a deep breath. Her hand instinctively settled over the gentle curve of her belly.
"No." The answer came softly. "It was Dorian."
Fitzgerald's brows drew together.
