‘How...pregnant are you?’ he questioned, lifting that empty gaze to her face.
He said the word pregnant like someone trying out a new piece of vocabulary, which was rather ironic given that he was such a remarkable linguist. And Tara found herself wanting to tell him that it felt just as strange for her. That she was as mixed up and scared and uncertain about the future as he must be. But she couldn’t admit to that because she needed to be strong. Strong for her baby as well as for herself. She wasn’t going to show weakness because she didn’t want him to think she was throwing herself in front of him and asking for anything he wasn’t prepared to give.
‘It’s still very early. Seven weeks.’
‘And you’re certain?’
‘I did a test.’
‘A reliable test?’
Silently, she counted to ten. ‘I didn’t buy some dodgy kit at the cut-price store, if that’s what you’re hinting at, Lucas. I’m definitely pregnant.’
‘Have you seen a doctor?’
She hesitated. ‘No. Not yet.’ Would it sound ridiculous to tell him that she’d baulked at going to see the friendly family doctor in Dalkey—himself a grandfather—terrified of how she was going to answer when he asked her about the father of her baby? Terrified he would judge her, as people seemed to have been doing all her life.
She watched as Lucas walked over to the cocktail cabinet—a gleaming affair of beaten gold and shiny chrome—but he seemed to think better of it and turned back to face her, that remote expression still making his face look stony and inaccessible.
‘So what do we do next?’ He raised his dark brows. ‘Any ideas? You must have had something in mind when you flew all this way to tell me. You want to have this baby, I take it?’
Tara screwed her face up as a blade of anger spiked into her and for a moment she actually thought she might burst into tears. ‘Of course I want this baby!’ she retaliated. ‘What kind of a woman wouldn’t want her baby?’
She wondered what had caused that look of real pain to cross his face and thought it ironic that if they had some of the closeness of real lovers, she might have asked him. But they weren’t real lovers. They were just two people who had let passion get the better of them and were having to deal with the consequences.
‘So is it a wedding ring you’re after?’ he enquired caustically. ‘Is that it?’
‘I’ve no desire to marry someone who finds it impossible to conceal his disgust at such a prospect!’
‘I can’t help the way I feel, Tara. I’m not going to lie. I told you I never wanted children,’ he gritted out. ‘And the logical follow-on from that is that I never wanted marriage either.’
‘I didn’t come here for either of those things,’ she defended. ‘But at least now I know exactly where I stand.’ Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag, which was still tied diagonally across her chest like a school satchel—in case anyone had tried to mug her. ‘And since I’ve done what I set out to do, I’ll be on my way.’
‘Oh, really?’ Dark eyebrows shot up and were hidden by his tousled dark hair. ‘And where do you think you’re going?’
She drew her shoulders back proudly. ‘Back to Dublin, of course.’
He shook his head. ‘You can’t go back to Dublin.’
‘Oh, I think you’ll find I can do anything I please, Lucas Conway,’ she answered, and for the first time in many hours she actually found comfort in a sense of her own empowerment. ‘And you can’t stop me.’
But it was funny how sometimes your own body could rebel and that you had no idea what was going on inside you. Maybe it was the economy flight which had been extremely cramped, or perhaps it had something to do with the dreadful food she’d been served during that journey, which she personally wouldn’t have given to a dog. Add to that her see-sawing hormones and troubled emotions and no wonder that a sudden powerful wave of nausea washed over her.
Did her face blanch? Was that why Lucas stepped forward, an unfamiliar look of concern creasing his face as he reached out towards her? ‘Tara? Are you okay?’
There was no delicate way to say it, even though it was an intimacy she had no desire to share with a man who’d shown her not one iota of compassion or respect since she’d got here.
She swayed like a blade of grass in the wind. ‘I think I’m going to be sick!’ she gasped.
He muttered something in French—or was it Italian?—and Tara moaned in dismay as he caught hold of her before she fell, lifting her up into his arms. Last time he’d carried her it had been a shortcut to his bed—and hadn’t that been the beginning of all this trouble?—but this time he merely carried her to the nearest bathroom so she could give into the intense nausea which was gripping her. And as she bent over the bowl and started to retch he was still there, brushing away the curls which were dangling around her face, even though she tried to push him away with her elbow.
‘G-go away,’ she gasped, mortified.
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘I don’t want you seeing me like this.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Tara,’ he drawled. ‘I’ve been on enough school football trips to have witnessed plenty of boys being sick.’
‘It’s not the same,’ she moaned.
‘Stop talking.’
She did but it took a while before she felt better-which was presumably why she allowed Lucas to dab at her face with a deliciously cool cloth. Then, after a moment of cold, hard scrutiny, he handed her some paste and a spare toothbrush.
‘Wash up and take as long as you like. Call me if you need me. I’ll be right outside.’
Tara waited until he had closed the bathroom door behind him, and as she staggered to her feet to the mirror she looked in horror at the white-faced reflection staring back at her. Her eyes were huge and haunted and her hair couldn’t have been more of a mess, which was saying something. She tugged at the elastic band so that her curls tumbled free and shook her head impatiently.
What had she done?
Thrown up in front of a man who didn’t want her here. Given him news he didn’t want, a fact which he’d made no attempt to hide. Even worse, she was thousands of miles from home.
Past caring about her old vest top, she peeled off her too-hot sweater, splashed her face with water and then vigorously washed her hands until the suds stopped being grey. Then she brushed her teeth until they were minty-fresh and removed a hotel comb from its little packet of cellophane. It was slightly too small to properly attack her awry curls but she managed to marginally tame them before going over to the door. Whatever happened, she would cope, she thought grimly. Look what her mother and her granny had done during times when having a baby out of wedlock was the worst thing which could happen to a woman. She dug her teeth into her lip. It was true that their lives had been pretty much wrecked by circumstances but they had managed. And she would manage too.
Pushing open the door, she found Lucas waiting outside, his body tense and his features still dark with something which may have been concern but was underpinned with something much darker.
His question was dutiful rather than concerned. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Better now,’ she informed him stiffly.
‘I’ll ring for the doctor.’
‘Please don’t bother. I don’t need a doctor, Lucas. Women often get sick when they’re pregnant. I’d just like you to call me a cab and I’ll stay in the hostel I’ve booked for tonight—and tomorrow I’ll see about getting the first flight back to Ireland.’
He shook his head and now there was a look of grim resolution in his eyes. ‘I’m afraid that’s not going to happen, Tara.’
She tilted her chin in disbelieving challenge. ‘You mean you’re going to physically stop me?’
‘If I need to, I will—because I would be failing in my duty if I allowed you to travel around New York
on your own tonight, especially in your condition,’ he agreed grimly. ‘There’s only one place you’re going right now and that’s to bed.’
‘I’m not—’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, in as firm a voice as she’d ever heard him use. ‘You most certainly are. There’s a guest suite right along the corridor. I’ve put your things in there. And it’s pointless arguing, Tara. We both know that.’
Tara opened her mouth to object but he was right because she recognised that resolute light in Lucas’s eyes of old. She’d seen it time and time again when he’d been in the middle of some big negotiation or trying to pull off a deal which nobody had believed could ever happen. Except that he made things happen. He had the wherewithal and the clout to mould people and events to his wishes. And didn’t part of her want to lie down on a soft bed and close her eyes and shut out reality? To have sleep claim her so that maybe when she opened her eyes again she would feel better.
But how was that going to work and what could possibly make this situation better? She had let history repeat itself and she knew all too well the rocky road which lay ahead. But none of that bitter knowledge was a match against the fatigue which was seeping through her body and so she nodded her head in reluctant agreement. ‘Oh, very well,’ she mumbled ungratefully. ‘You’d better show me the way.’
Lucas nodded, indicating the corridor which led to the guest accommodation, though he noticed she kept as far away from him as possible. Yet somehow her reluctance ignited a flicker of interest he wasn’t prepared for and certainly didn’t want. He frowned. Maybe it was because women didn’t usually protest about staying in his hotel suite or try to keep him at arm’s length like this. He was used to sustained adoration from ex-lovers, even though he was aware he didn’t deserve such adoration. But women would do pretty much anything for a man with a big bank account who gave them plenty of orgasms, he thought cynically.
He’d tried to convince himself during the preceding weeks that the uncharacteristic lust he’d felt for Tara Fitzpatrick had gone. It should have gone by now. But to his surprise he realised it hadn’t and he was discovering there was something about her which was still crying out to some atavistic need, deep inside him. Even when she was in those ill-fitting jeans and a vest top, he couldn’t help thinking about her agile body. The pale breasts and narrow hips. The golden brush of freckles which dusted her skin. He remembered the way he had lowered her down onto his rocky hardness and that split-second when he had met the subtle resistance of her hymen. And yes, he had felt indignation that she hadn’t told him—but hadn’t that been quickly followed by a primitive wash of pleasure at the thought that he was her first and only lover?
His throat grew dry as he continued to watch her. The red curtain of curls was swaying down her back, reminding him of the way he’d run his fingers through their wild abundance, and the hot punch of desire which had hardened his groin now became almost unendurable.
Yet she was pregnant. His skin grew cold with a nameless kind of dread—a different kind of dread from the one he had experienced in the lawyer’s office. She was carrying his child.
And in view of what he had learned today—wouldn’t any child which had sprung from his loins have an unknown legacy?
He opened the bedroom door and saw the unmistakable opening of her lips as her roving gaze drank in the unashamed luxury of her surroundings and it was a timely reminder that, despite her innocence, she was still a woman. And who was to say she wouldn’t be as conniving as all other women, once she got into her stride? ‘I hope it meets with your satisfaction,’ he drawled. ‘I think you’ll find everything in here you need, Tara.’
Did she recognise the cynical note in his voice? Was that why she turned a defiant face up to his?
‘I’m only staying the one night, mind.’
He wanted to tell her that she was mistaken, but for once Lucas kept his counsel. Let her sleep, he thought grimly—and by morning he would have decided what their fate was to be.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TARA OPENED HER eyes and for a moment she thought she’d died and gone to heaven. She was lying in a bed—the most comfortable bed she’d ever slept in—in a room which seemed composed mostly of huge windows. Windows to the front of her and windows to the side, all looking out onto the fairy-tale skyline of New York. She blinked as she levered herself up onto her elbows. Like giant pieces of Lego, the tall buildings soared up into the cloudless October sky and looked almost close enough to touch. Sitting up properly, she leaned back against the feathery bank of pillows and looked around some more—because last night she’d been too dazed and tired to take in anything much.
It was...amazing, she conceded. The ceiling was made of lacquered gold, the floors of polished parquet, so that everything around her seemed to gleam with a soft and precious life. On an exquisite writing desk stood a vase of pure white orchids so perfect that they almost didn’t look real. And there, in one corner of the room, was her battered old suitcase, looking like a scruffy intruder in the midst of all this opulence.
She flinched.
Just like her, really.
Lucas must have put a glass of water on the bedside table and she reached out and gulped most of it down thirstily. On slightly wobbly legs she got out of bed and found the en-suite bathroom—a monument to marble and shiny chrome—and, after freshening up and brushing her hair, thought about going to find Lucas. She needed to talk about returning to Ireland and he needed to realise that she meant it and he couldn’t keep her here by force. But her legs were still wobbly and the bed was just too tempting and so she climbed back in beneath the crisp sheets and before she knew it was dozing off.
She was woken by the sensation of someone else being in the room and her eyelids fluttered open to find Lucas standing beside the bed, staring down at her. His jaw was unshaven and the faint shadows shading the skin beneath his vivid green eyes made it look as if he hadn’t had a lot of sleep. Black jeans hugged his narrow hips and long legs and his soft grey shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, offering a tantalising glimpse of the butterscotch-coloured skin beneath. Tara swallowed. It should have felt weird to have her one-time boss standing beside her bed while she lay beneath the duvet wearing nothing more than a baggy T-shirt, but somehow it didn’t feel weird at all.
This is my new normal, she thought weakly. The same normal which was making her breasts sting with awareness as her gaze roved unwillingly over his powerful body. Because this man has known you intimately, she realised. Known you in a way nobody else has ever done. She felt a clench of exquisitely remembered desire, low in her belly, and before she could stop them vivid images began to flood her mind as she remembered how it felt to encase him—big and hard and erect. Despite everything she’d been brought up to believe, it hadn’t felt shameful at all. It had felt right. As if she hadn’t known what it really meant to be alive and to be a woman—until Lucas Conway had entered her and she’d given that little gasp as brief pain had morphed into earth-shattering pleasure.
Her heart was thumping so hard she was afraid he might notice its fluttering movement beneath her T-shirt and so she sat up, her fingers digging into the duvet, which she dragged up to a deliberately demure level, just below her chin. Only then was she ready to give him a cautious nod. ‘Good morning.’
He returned the nod but didn’t return the sentiment. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘Good.’
They stared at each other cautiously, like two strangers forced into close proximity. Tara cleared her throat, wishing she could get rid of the sense of there being an unexploded time bomb ticking away unseen in one corner of the room. But maybe that was what babies really were. She forced her attention to the pale sunlight which splashed over the wooden floor. ‘Is it late?’
‘Just after eleven.’
‘Right.’ Her fingers didn’t relax their hold on the duvet. ‘I nee
d to start thinking about leaving—and it’s no good shaking your head like that, because I don’t work for you any more, Lucas. You can’t just tell me no and expect me to fall in with your wishes, just because that’s what I’ve always done before.’
His eyes narrowed and she saw the hard light of the practised negotiator enter them, turning them into flinty jade colour. ‘I wouldn’t dream of laying down the law—’
‘You’ve had a sudden personality change, have you?’
He completely ignored her interjection, and didn’t respond to the humour which was intended. ‘We need to talk about where we go from here,’ he continued. ‘Just hear me out, will you, Tara?’
Once again she shifted awkwardly but the movement didn’t manage to shift the syrupy ache between her thighs, which was making her wish that he would tumble down on top of her.
And where did that come from?
Since when had she become so preoccupied with sex?
She swallowed.
Since the night Lucas Conway had introduced her to it.
With an effort she dragged her thoughts back to the present, wondering why he was talking so politely. He must want something very badly, she thought, instantly on her guard. ‘Okay,’ she said.
He traced his thumb over the dark shadow at his jaw, drawing her unwilling attention to its chiselled contours. ‘Would you like coffee first?’
‘I’m not drinking coffee at the moment, thank you. I’ve already had some water and I think you’re playing for time. So why don’t you just cut to the chase and tell me what’s on your mind, Lucas?’
Lucas’s jaw tightened with frustration. It was easy to forget that she’d been working for him and sharing his house for years. Longer than he’d lived with anyone at a single stretch—and that included his parents. But despite the relative longevity of their relationship, Tara didn’t really know him—not deep down. Nobody did. He made sure of that because he’d been unwilling to reveal the dark emptiness inside him, or the lack of human connection which had always made him feel disconnected from the world. Now he understood what had made him the man he was. He’d been given a kind of justification for his coldness and his lack of empathy—but that was irrelevant. He wasn’t here to focus on his perceived failings. He was here to try to find a solution to an unwanted problem.
The Argentinian's Baby Of Scandal Page 8