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‘We’ll leave in an hour. Are you ready?’
He started down the stairs without waiting for her reply. She felt she’d been judged and sentenced and now she was going to be put in detention. Like a silly little girl let loose with a big bag of sweeties, keeping them all for herself and not thinking about the consequences.
‘No, I’m not ready! There are other things I need to sort out first,’ she said, hurrying after him.
‘Such as?’ he said, walking straight past the vases of perfectly poised lilies like a king past his courtiers.
‘Like my work. Am I just supposed to forget about that now? And what about the MacIver job? Is it mine or isn’t it?’
He turned into an office. A polished oak table stretched all the way up the centre of the room, behind which hung four large screens and four clocks, showing the time in New York, Sydney, Paris and Rome. He walked to a desk and lifted a tablet from underneath a folder. She could see a print-out of the baby’s scan photograph through the clear plastic cover.
‘I’m not going to complicate things further by employing you. Here—take this.’
He typed into the tablet and held it out. She could see the home page of one of the most exclusive boutiques in London.
‘We’ve got some time before we fly. Why don’t you choose some proper maternity clothes? They can be delivered to Hydros.’
She snatched the tablet, switched off the screen and shoved it down on the table. It rattled as it landed, but finally he was looking at her.
‘Sorry if I’m not being clear. No, I’m not going to pick out some “proper” clothes. Let me say it again: I’m only here with you because of these tests. As soon as they are confirmed I’m going back to my own life. In my own clothes. And if you’re going to play God by refusing to give me that job at MacIver, then I’ll keep on waitressing. I don’t need your charity.’
That was a lie. She knew it and he knew it. There was no photography work falling into her lap, and she was too pregnant for waitressing. Soon she’d have nowhere left to turn unless it was to state benefits. Or Salvatore—and that was never going to happen.
He closed the space between them, stepping towards her like a challenge. She stood her ground, heart pounding, chest heaving and blood rushing in her ears.
‘You’re not getting my charity. You’re getting my care. Whether you like it or not.’
His lips parted as he slowly stated each word. His eyes flashed all over her face, then landed on her mouth. They stared at one another, for one long moment and then another. Then, with just the slant of an eyebrow, he seemed to slash through the fractious, angry air and it suddenly settled into something much, much heavier.
‘But you do like it, don’t you? As I recall, you like it very much.’
She stared at his broad, muscled chest under the light cashmere sweater, at the perfect dark curve of his beard where it met his neck. She stared at the outline of his biceps and shoulders, his protector’s body. She breathed in his strength and his pure male magnetism.
When she looked up into his face she knew she should hate him. She should despise those brilliant eyes and scorn his perfect lips. She should turn her face away, grab the reins of her life back and gallop for the hills. But she couldn’t. She was rooted to the spot, drinking him in.
‘You’ll need to stop fighting me, cara. Sooner or later.’ His tone softened. He closed the last inches between them. ‘It won’t all be bad. We’ve got something special—you can’t possibly deny that.’
She felt his fingers closing around hers as he tugged her towards him.
‘Remember how good it was when you stopped fighting me before? Remember…?’
His voice was barely a whisper now, his breath close to her ear. Her body erupted with lust as he shifted even closer.
‘Remember how you begged me to take you?’
Yes! screamed her hot, aching body. Yes!
He lifted his fingers to her cheek. He slid his hand to her jaw. He bent forward one tiny fraction, then another, and another. Her eyes darted to his lips. He was going to kiss her.
She hovered for a moment, once more torn between following her head and following her heart, but she could no more stop the wave of longing that washed over her than stop breathing.
She closed her eyes and gave in.
And then he kissed her.
He pressed his lips to hers and she felt the rasp of beard, the firm demand of one kiss, then another. She smelled his cologne and a trace of espresso. She opened her mouth to his tongue’s darting and probing and pushed her own tongue back as they met one another in a hunger she could barely contain.
She grabbed at his sweater and he held her wrists.
