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The fact that Ramon looked both powerful and sexy in his immaculate three-piece suit made her feel hot and unaccountably irritable at the same time.
She dragged her attention from his body, blotting out images in her head that she’d tried hard for the last six weeks to forget, and focused on his face. A deep frown marred his brow.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘I knocked for ages.’
‘I was asleep.’
His gaze tracked over her grey tee shirt and black yoga pants then returned to her face. Her very pale, make-up-less face. ‘Are you unwell?’
‘Yes—no...’ She shook her head. Tried to bring some semblance of order to her thoughts. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I went to the club,’ he said. ‘Marsha thought you might be sick. You haven’t returned her calls.’
Confusion descended. She glanced at her watch and her heart lurched. It couldn’t be almost three o’clock! It’d been only ten a.m. when she had decided to take some painkillers and lie down for half an hour before heading into work. She’d slept for almost five hours which, now that she thought about it, wasn’t all that surprising given she hadn’t slept a wink during the night.
She put her hand to her forehead, guilt surging. ‘Oh, no. Poor Marsha.’ She turned towards the hall table where she’d left her phone. ‘I need to call her.’
Not waiting for an invitation, Ramon stepped inside and closed the door. ‘That can wait,’ he said, taking hold of her shoulders and turning her to face him.
Emily tensed. His touch had been seared into her memory ever since Paris, but memory was no match for the reality of having his hands on her body, even in a non-sexual way. Her heart raced and she felt warm, a little lightheaded.
His gaze scoured her face. ‘Something’s wrong,’ he stated, his voice firm with certainty. ‘What is it, Emily?’
Fear gripped her throat and for a moment she couldn’t speak. Revealing her condition was something she had planned to do in her own time, when she had managed to come to terms with it herself. She’d wanted to put careful thought into how she would tell him, but now he was here and she no longer had that luxury. She had to tell him now, because the alternative was to lie, and she couldn’t do that. Not about something so important, so potentially life-changing.
She swallowed, her throat painfully dry. ‘I think you’d better come in.’
His hands dropped from her shoulders, and she knew a moment’s regret, because their weight and warmth had felt oddly steadying in the midst of the tumult occurring in her body and mind.
But soon, very soon, he would share the tumult. And then he might not feel so inclined to offer support.
Her stomach churning, she led him through to her lounge. Like the rest of her flat, it was light and spacious, and decorated by her own hand, the palette of soft creams, pale lemons and blues intended to create an elegant, soothing space that invited one to relax. She loved this room, but she was conscious now that in less than nine months’ time the cream carpet and pale colour scheme would be terribly impractical.
She stood by the sofa, thought about offering him tea or coffee—or something stronger—then decided against it. She doubted he would stay for long.
‘I’m pregnant.’ Saying the words out loud made her knees do a little wobble, but she stayed standing, even as a renewed bout of nausea rolled through her.
In the middle of the room, Ramon went as still as a statue, and his face... A small, detached part of her mind was fascinated by the way the colour slid right out from under his skin, leaving a pallor that made it look as if someone had tipped a bucket of whitewash over him.
Emily wrapped her arms around her middle. Waited for him to say the words she imagined most men came out with in this situation.
Is it mine?
The seconds ticked by in heavy silence, and she felt as if she were a character in some tacky scene from an over-dramatic soap opera. The final line of dialogue had been delivered and the actors had paused for dramatic effect before the show cut to a commercial break. The random thought nearly tore a hysterical giggle from her before she caught herself. She closed her eyes. What was wrong with her? Nothing about this was funny.
‘Have you confirmed it with a doctor?’
It took her a moment to realise it wasn’t the question she’d expected. That he wasn’t doubting that he was the father. Wasn’t insulting her by suggesting there were other men to whom she could point the finger. ‘Yesterday,’ she
said, her throat growing thick with something awfully like gratitude.
A glazed look entered his eyes and she knew he was processing. ‘We used protection.’
Emily had said those same words to herself, over and over. It hadn’t changed the outcome. She shrugged. ‘Condoms aren’t foolproof,’ she offered. ‘And maybe...the shower...?’ Their gazes locked, the sudden, scalding intensity of his transmitting loud and clear that he hadn’t forgotten the things they’d done to each other under the steaming water.
