A Material Gift (D'Arth Series Book 2)

by Camille Oster

  His eyes returned to her, then he stepped away from her and Sam watched his back as he walked out on to the patio. He wasn’t going to answer her, the bastard, but then that also meant that he wasn’t ready to commit to kicking her out. Interesting.

  Chapter 18

  The house was quiet when Sebastian arrived home, but the large patio door was fully retracted and he could hear light splashing. It had been a few days since their last discussion and he’d worked late every night since—anger always drove him to work harder, but tonight he’d come home earlier. There was something in the oven smelling delicious, making his mouth water.

  Walking out onto the patio, he saw her head emerge out of the water like a seal, her hair dark with wetness and slicked back. She turned, seeming to sense he was there.

  “Hello,” she said and swam to the edge. “How was work?”

  The question took him a little by surprise and that silly image of the 1950s housewife returned, greeting him at the end of the day. But then she wouldn’t be in the pool, and in a bikini too, he noted as she stepped out of the pool. “Now that is definitely not one of mine,” he said, looking at the bikini which was maybe a tad too small for her amble breasts. He watched as she approached, her body slick with water, the flare of her belly and the turquoise bikini bottoms which sat low on her hips, little strings dangling down of the sides. Everything about her looked so... ample.

  Luckily he was sitting at the far side of the table, because he stiffened at the sight, and he watched as she grabbed a towel and held it to her front. “My solicitor brought a suitcase full of clothes,” she said.

  “Good, so you won’t be raiding my wardrobe again.” Truthfully, he had mixed feelings about it. There was something appealing about her wearing his clothes, and he had to recognise that there was something a bit Neanderthal about him, liking her having to wear what he provided. These strange notions were new and he couldn’t really condone them himself. He looked away from her and tried to establish control of his thoughts—and his body.

  “Are you hungry? I was just about to eat,” she said, pulling the towel away and drying her hair. He really wished she wouldn’t do that, giving him a full view of her distracting body. Again he forced himself to look away. He didn’t actually have any plans for dinner; hadn’t quite expected coming home early, but for some reason, he just couldn’t stay in the office one more night.

  “I can always have something delivered,” he said.

  “There is enough. I’ve roasted a whole chicken; they just don’t roast well in halves.”

  “Alright,” he relented, recognising that he’d held out all of two seconds. He wasn’t going to argue with the smells wafting out of the kitchen. Walking back into the house, she disappeared down the corridor to the bedroom, returning a short while later with a white sundress covering her. She was tanned, he noted. She must be spending a bit of time out here during the day.

  From where he sat, he watched as she pulled the chicken out of the oven, amazed that he actually had all the things required to cook a full meal. Then again, Mrs Muir set it up and the woman never did anything by halves. Sam spent five more minutes preparing the food, draining pots, making gravy—and Sebastian’s mouth was watering by the time she carried two plates out, one in each hand.

  It was a relatively simple meal, compared to the restaurant quality meals he subsisted on, but the first forkful melted in his mouth, salt and fat, and delicious roast chicken with grilled potatoes. “This is delicious.”

  “Thank you. I was feeling a bit homesick,” she said. This is what she grew up eating, he guessed—not something served at his dinner table growing up, where their personal chef prepared their meals.

  “Your mother cooked for you?”

  “Yes,” she said like it was a strange question, something taken for granted.

  They were quiet for a while as they ate and when they were done, she cleared the plates away. “I didn’t make any dessert.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Do you want some wine?”

  “Sure.”

  She returned with a glass of wine for him, then sat down. “It really is beautiful here,” she said, looking out over the city.

  It ought to be, he thought, this was one of the most expensive properties in Monte Carlo, but he didn’t voice it, knowing he would receive her leftie disappointment if he did. He watched her as she took in the view, the breeze playing with her drying hair.

  “We are having out first negotiation meeting tomorrow,” he said, bringing her attention back to him. She looked disappointed, frowning. Now he didn’t quite know what to say. He wanted to ask if she knew what she was doing, but it would sound patronising, which really should be one of his tactics at the moment. Normally, he should be trying to undermine the opponent’s confidence, but it felt brutish to attempt it here. “I hope your solicitor is prepared.” Okay, he couldn’t let it go entirely; he wasn’t a charity case—and particularly as she was trying to steal his child.

  “We’ll find out,” she said and stood up, returning to the house and retreating into her bedroom. He’d chased her away and he felt a bit churlish about it now, particularly after she’d shared her lovely dinner with him. The patio felt empty after she’d gone, but he continued nursing his wine against the background of the sparkling lights of Monte Carlo.

  He wondered if he should go out, seek the excitement and distraction of the party people, maybe even get laid, since it had been a while and he was, as a consequence, having naughty fantasies about his house guest and opponent. But then her entire case rested on the fact that he was unsuitable for being a father, which would only be supported by him going out every night. As much as he hated having his hand forced, he needed to stay in, particularly on the night before negotiation.

  As a consolation prize, he grabbed a beer from the fridge and watched some racing. The house was completely silent, except for the high pitched sounds of racing cars bouncing off the walls.

  *

  Sebastian did have X-rated dreams that night, leaving him tense and frustrated in the morning, which he had to take care of under the warm caress of the shower. There was something in him that felt a bit disappointed when he had to take care of his own needs, but also there were certain images that demanded his attention when he let his mind wander, and he wasn’t proud of it.

  Sam was dressed in a long sundress when he walked into the kitchen in a freshly dry-cleaned suit. “Are you wearing that? You know this is a solicitor’s meeting—in an office.”

  “Well, I have this great protrusion,” she said, pressing the material back over her belly, sending repeat images from before, flashing through his mind. “I just don’t have that many clothes that are suitable for offices, and certainly not any that can accommodate this, unless you want me to wear sweats.”

  He sighed, but guessed it couldn’t be helped. “How are you getting there?”

  Sam looked stumped for a moment. “I just assumed that I would go with you, as we are going to the same place, but I guess I can have my solicitor pick me up.” She picked up her phone.

  “No, it’s fine. I’ll take you. It’s just unusual that the litigating parties arrive together.”

  “Really?” she asked disbelievingly. “Is there anything usual about this? Do you do this on a regular basis?” She was being sarcastic.

  “I go into litigation on a regular basis, and it’s the same whatever the topic.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t try to be so unpopular.”

  He rolled his eyes, feeling highly mature doing it. “Come on, let’s go,” he said, urging her to the door, watching as she pulled on a denim jacket over the sun dress.

  After he unlocked the door of the Maserati, he watched as she awkwardly tried to get her bulk into the low riding car. “What kind of sadist built this thing?” she demanded with clear annoyance.

  “Do you need help?”

  “Getting into a car? I’m not an imbecile. If they’d just design them so
you didn’t have to contort yourself into them, it would be much appreciated.” Finally she made it into the car, a look a sheer annoyance on her face. He had to suppress a smile. No-one had ever complained about his car before, but then the Lamborghini was worse. Perhaps in the future he would call her a taxi, insisting on a nice, sturdy, Japanese-built car with seats high off the ground.

  Sam’s solicitor was waiting outside when they got there looking as ill-equipped for the surroundings as Sam did. Sebastian continued into the building, leaving Sam to confer with her representative. There was something that felt a bit underhanded about this whole thing. He felt like a bully. He even had an urge to give her advice on what she should do, which was ridiculous—giving the enemy advice on how to beat you. Hopefully, her representative wasn’t a complete idiot. Over the years, he’d learned that a smart suit didn’t automatically make an excellent lawyer—sometimes the shabby looking ones knew their trade.

  His team was seated in the conference room when Sam and her matronly looking solicitor arrived, looking completely out of place for the setting. Sam smiled weakly as she sat down. He could tell she was nervous—as she should be.

  As he watched, his legal team started with the accusations. Sam’s woman said nothing as his team went on, accusing and admonishing, going over the clauses of the contracts and explaining the responsibilities entailed within.

  Sam’s face looked drawn and uncomfortable, showing her thoughts and emotions clearly. She certainly wasn’t much of a poker player. Her solicitor was smiling, which either indicated that she was a complete idiot, or she was very savvy, knowing where she’d got them. Finally she spoke when his legal head finished his diatribe. “Well, gentlemen, that is all well and good, but as the underlying fundamentals of this contract are illegal, hence the clauses seem quite moot.”

  “I hope you’re not trying to argue that a contract is illegal,” his primary lawyer stated dismissively.

  “I don’t know about argue, Mr Sinclaire, but the contract is. Fundamentally, my client is a resident of France, where there is no legal recourse for a surrogacy contract.” She smiled again, almost kindly.

  Sam listened for a while as the legal spiel went on, then turned her attention to the view out the window. She’d lost interest and Sebastian didn’t know how he felt about it. Granted, it was clear that her matronly solicitor was holding her own. In fact, the woman stuck to her guns without losing a bit of her serene calm. But there was something confronting about the fact that Sam fundamentally didn’t care enough to pay attention to the proceedings and just let her solicitor take care of it—something a bit brave, too. Thoughtlessly, her hand came up and rubbed her belly, like she was protecting the child. Again, he felt like a brute, dragging her in here for a fight.

  He watched as she excused herself, saying she needed to find a bathroom. She disappeared out of the room and didn’t return for fifteen minutes.

  “Everything okay?” he asked when she returned.

  “These chairs are a bit uncomfortable.”

  “I can have Mrs Muir find another one for you. I’m sure she’s just outside.”

  “She is. I just spoke to her. But it’s fine—hopefully this won’t take much longer.”

  Their interaction had stopped the conversation between the lawyers. “No,” Sandra said. “We’re speaking in circles. It’s time to go.” Sam smile brilliantly with relief. “Perhaps we should go for a coffee, hmm?” Sandra suggested, receiving a filthy look from Sebastian’s legal head. “Unless there is something new you wish to bring up?” Sandra said, turning to Sinclaire.

  “I think we need to talk about the third stipulation.”

  “The answer would be no then,” Sandra said and urged her client out of the room.

  Offense and grandstanding; it was the way of the legal negotiation. It took a certain amount of balls to do what Sandra Sanchez had just done. She wasn’t a lightweight, even if she looked it. Her strategy to insist on bringing in the French law as primary was brilliant, because it truly did tie their hands. It wasn’t completely debilitating, but it meant that the contract was in dispute, making for a much messier fight. This fight was for the long haul, and right now it was more important that the injunction remain. Because there wasn’t much of a fight if the opponent absconded, and it was clear that Sam didn’t really give a damn about this fight. As with others he dealt with—contractors, developers, suppliers—this wasn’t a point of honour for her; it was just stupid from her perspective. She certainly wasn’t going to stick around because he threatened to besmirch her reputation.

  Chapter 19

  Sebastian went away to New York for a few weeks and Sam had the house all to herself, which was wonderful. She danced, swam, cooked, even baked. She couldn’t really go for walks because any way she went, she would end up having to tackle a steep hill and she just wasn’t up to it, she’d found. Instead, she’d decided to track down her scooter, which turned up in the garage of Sebastian’s office.

  Once she had that back, she could ride to the shore edge and go for walks along it, which admittedly didn’t happen all that often. She could also do whatever else she wanted in Monte Carlo, but she found there actually wasn’t much she wanted to do. While staying at Sebastian’s house was absolutely lovely, particularly when he wasn’t there, she wondered if she wasn’t over Monte Carlo. Perhaps it was time to move on. The idea had some uncomfortable aspects, which revolved around Sebastian and the baby, because when she moved on, it would absolutely be without Sebastian and probably without the baby.

  Money still appeared in her bank account every month; her payments hadn’t stopped, so she diligently paid her rent on the apartment she couldn’t live in. Seemingly Sebastian’s lawyers weren’t aware that her apartment kept her a resident in France, underpinning her entire case. If he knew, he definitely would have cut the payments. She suspected Sebastian was ruthless when it came to getting what he wanted, or else maybe they would break their own contract if they stopped. She couldn’t spend her time thinking about it. Sandra had been quite adamant that she could leave all the legal wrangling in her hands and Sam was happy to do so. That was one dark cloud she could choose not to stand under.

  A click was heard behind her as she stood in the kitchen preparing a salad. Looking up, she saw Sebastian standing at the door. “Oh, you’re back.”

  “You could attempt to hide your disappointment.”

  Sam’s cheeks flared red; she had been slightly obvious in her complete lack of enthusiasm.

  “I see your scooter is here,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “And I take it you’ve been driving it around.”

  “Yes,” she added slowly.

  “In your state. What if you have an accident?”

  “I’m very careful.”

  “You can’t control the other drivers. What about if you get hit by a drunk driver?”

  Sam shrugged. “It’s my mode of transport. It always has been and just because I’m pregnant doesn’t mean I can’t operate it.” She didn’t really have a choice; she couldn’t afford a car and she certainly didn’t want to stay completely house-bound. Sometimes a girl just had to go for some chocolate, or ice cream, or even a magazine.

  Sebastian gave her a filthy look as he walked down into the hall towards his bedroom, and Sam pulled a face behind his back. Somehow his presence had taken all the lightness out of the air. It had been a nice reprieve, being away from him and all the crap pertaining to their circumstances.

  He returned showered, wearing a t-shirt and soft lounging pants. She’d never seen him so informal, except that time in his pyjamas, and he’d obviously dragged it on while still wet, because the clothes clung to him, showing off his rather spectacular body.

  Sam flushed again and resumed chopping the carrot for her salad. “I’m making a salad,” she said. “Do you want some?”

  “No thanks. I’m going to crash.”

  “Oh, of course. I will be quiet.” She watched as Sebastian re
ached into the fridge for a bottle of juice and stood with his back to her pouring it into a glass. The damp t-shirt stuck to his broad shoulders and slim waist, then over the tight backside. She didn’t know what he did to maintain a body like that, but it wasn’t sitting on the couch. Sam cleared her throat and returned her attention to what she was doing, so she didn’t have any accidents. She wasn’t sure him standing close to her, inspecting a wound would be a good idea right now. Dealing with an attraction to him was not something she needed right now.

  Turning around, he leaned against the kitchen counter, taking a sip from his glass and Sam firmly kept her eyes on the chopping board and away from the severely flat stomach and the prominent bump a little lower, showed off by the soft material of his pants. Sam was holding her breath, ready to laugh at herself, but held it back.

  “You had an appointment,” he said. “How did it go?”

  “Good. Well, not much to report. Blood pressure’s good. I have to do a blood sugar test later at some point.”

  “Good,” he said and pushed himself off the kitchen counter. Grabbing his juice glass again, he turned back to the bedrooms. “I’m going to turn in.”

  “Sleep tight,” she said, then felt like an idiot, particularly as she got a clear image of him lying down in bed, asleep and vulnerable, to go with it.

  When he was out of sight, she stopped chopping and put her knife down for a moment. She really had to get a grip; she couldn’t go running around lusting over him—that would be disastrous. When he was in his expensive suits, it wasn’t so bad, he appeared distant and remote, but when he was in very casual clothes, like he was right now, he seemed so much more... accessible. Oh, not good.

  Sam tried to think about all the bad things about him. He was fighting her with lawyers, condoning an injunction against her which kept her a prisoner here. He had atrocious taste in women. Well, not atrocious, just shallow. Yes, that was it, he was shallow. Sam resumed chopping.