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“A woman in your condition ought to ask for help with heavy tasks like that,” he said with false benevolence. “Good thing I’m here now.”
“Lucky me.” God, she hated him for the effortless way he set the rolling bag into the car. Her bags went in beside it.
She really wanted to tell him to go to hell, but she sank into the passenger seat with a sigh of relief, then slouched low, peering out to see if anyone was pointing a phone their way.
The boot thumped closed, and Saint slid behind the wheel. “Where do you live?”
“Why are you here?” she asked at the same time.
“Why do you think?” he asked.
“You have an unquenchable thirst for sadism? Head north,” she said as he pulled away from the curb.
“I checked the condoms. They all leak.”
“Oh my God.” She sat up, twisting to face him, crying with persecution, “I didnotsabotage your condoms!”
“I know you didn’t.” He was maintaining an annoyingly dispassionate tone. “My life is full of vultures and sharks, Fliss. People want to take advantage of me all the time. Sometimes there’s collateral damage.”
“Who would do something like that?” she asked with astonishment, but she could guess. He seemed to have a talent for alienating the women he’d slept with. “Don’t refer to my pregnancy that way,” she added in a grumble, falling back into her seat. “It’s gross.”
“Collateral damage?” He slowed as traffic became congested and turned his head to give her a penetrating look. The turmoil in the dark depths of his eyes belied the remote tone he was using. “Why would you be offended? Unless you’re admitting the baby is mine?”
She bit her thumbnail and looked out her side window. “You’re going to take the second exit after this one.”
Aside from directions, they didn’t talk again until he pulled into the cul-de-sac below the cozy brick house situated on a terraced lawn above them. It was accessed by a flight of stone steps cut into the retaining wall.
“You were going to carry this bag up these stairs?” Saint asked with disapproval as he took them from the boot and carried them himself.
“Is it too heavy for you? I can take it.” The machine was twelve kilos, and she moved it around all the time, admittedly with an “Oof” of effort every time.
He didn’t set the case on its rollers for the uneven path alongside the house to the back porch. He carried it to the door she unlocked, then brought it inside.
“Leave it down here,” she said as she started up the narrow, creaking stairs. “I was going to take it to Mrs. Bhamra’s on my way home. Now I’ll have to do that tomorrow.”
“Who’s Mrs. Bhamra?” He followed her into the converted attic and looked around.
The single bed was under the lowest side of the slanted ceiling, but Fliss was still able to sit up without smacking her head. There was a bistro table that looked out the dormer window. A four-drawer bureau supported the microwave. There was a mini fridge and two-burner stovetop in the kitchenette, and open shelving displayed her handful of dishes and dry goods.
“Tea?” she offered because she could tell she wouldn’t get away with offering him a tip for his chauffeur duties and holding the door for him to leave.
“Coffee?” he countered. “Something stronger?” He was looking at the sketchbook she’d left on the table where she had scrawled out ideas for adding maternity panels to some of her existing clothes.
“You’ve come to the wrong place for caffeine and alcohol.”
“Right.” He lifted his head. “How is everything? Have you seen a doctor?”
“Yes.” She’d had a scan a week ago, wanting to be sure everything was okay before she’d contacted him. It was.
She filled the kettle and set it to boil.
“I need to hear you say it, Fliss.” He stood with his hands hooked into his pockets, his expression mostly hidden behind his sunglasses.
He’d been right—it was annoying to try to read someone when they were wearing such an impervious shield.
“What?” She played dumb.
“Tell me it’s mine.”
