The Pregnancy Proposition

by Meredith Webber

  Amelia caught the smile, which softened his deep-set eyes, and felt it twine around her heart, weakening all her resolve and making her tremble with longing for the physical pleasures they’d shared.

  ‘Don’t smile at me, Mac,’ she whispered, then she did start to cry—not wailing, gut-wrenching crying, just tears sliding down her cheeks.

  ‘Oh, heavens, Peterson. Don’t cry!’ Mac said, gathering her up against his chest. ‘Though maybe it’s another symptom of pregnancy, in which case you can’t help it. I know my sister got very weepy when she was first pregnant with Petra.’

  This conversation didn’t make a great deal of sense to Amelia, who was content just to rest her body against Mac’s and revel in the feel of his arms around her. She’d fought the attraction she felt for him for a month, and though she knew this was only a temporary cease-fire, she was war-weary and needed to rest.

  Then, as the close contact suggested Mac was still interested in the regular encounters he’d suggested, she pushed away, thanked him for his concern and walked out the door.

  Mac watched her go and shook his head. He was none the wiser. About how Peterson felt about him—about whether she was pregnant—about anything. How could a conversation he’d planned so carefully have gone so wrong?

  He walked back behind his desk and slumped into his chair.

  Actually, he was wiser about one thing. The attraction he felt towards Peterson was not diminishing with time. If anything, it was growing stronger and stronger, so he had trouble keeping his hands off her—trouble not brushing against her as they worked together or touching her as he passed her in a corridor.

  In fact, the problem was growing so strong he wondered if frustration might lead to serious mental or physical problems. Both seemed on the cards!

  He stretched out, tucked his hands behind his head and gave the matter some serious thought.

  Next morning, unable to face Mac after the weird conversation of the previous evening, and still feeling nauseous and unsettled, Amelia phoned in sick. She spent the day alternately sleeping and worrying. She didn’t for a minute entertain Mac’s ridiculous pregnancy suggestion—sure she’d know if such an unlikely thing had happened—but after being held in his arms, if only for comfort, she had to admit that the attraction she felt for him was increasing rather than fading away.

  By evening, she’d still failed to find an answer to the problem, though taking Mac up on his suggestion of occasional sex didn’t seem as bad an option as it had when he’d suggested it. Bored with her own company, yet not wanting to phone a friend, she was frowning at the lack of interesting viewing on TV and wondering if the local video store delivered when the bell rang, announcing a visitor was standing outside on the ground floor and wanting admission to the building. She crossed to the monitor screen by the front door and saw the back view of a man’s head.

  Alistair, her oldest brother, invariably stood that way, and Amelia knew he was checking out the landscaping at the entrance to the building. In the family construction company, Alistair was the one with the most interest in the aesthetic appeal of any project the company built.

  ‘Door’s open, come on up, Alistair,’ she said, pleased to have company but also relieved she didn’t have to get out of the housecoat she was wearing.

  She opened the front door to her unit so he could come straight in when the lift arrived, then walked through to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

  ‘I’m not Alistair but you’d opened the lobby door before I could tell you and I wanted to get in before it shut.’

  Mac’s voice, unfamiliar in that it sounded vaguely apologetic, stopped her in her tracks.

  Telling herself she could handle it—all she had to do was stay calm—she turned, and saw him standing in the middle of her living room.

  ‘I shut your apartment door. I hope that was right.’

  There must be something wrong with her ears because now he sounded uncertain, and Mac was never uncertain.

  ‘Anyway,’ he continued, perhaps realising she’d been struck dumb as well as turned to stone, ‘I brought a test kit and I’ve got a plan, and I thought we’d find out and if you’re not then that’s OK, but if you are, I could tell you the plan.’

  Dumbfounded didn’t begin to cover it. Amelia stared at the man who stood in her living room, holding a small, paper-bagged item out towards her.

  With a massive effort, she pulled herself together. She looked around at her familiar surroundings, searching for normal in a world gone crazy.

  ‘I was making coffee. Would you like some?’

  Mac nodded, then he frowned.

  ‘If you’re pregnant, you shouldn’t be drinking coffee.’

  The tension inside Amelia snapped, and with it her temper.

  ‘I am not pregnant and even if I was it’s none of your business what I drink,’ she yelled at him. ‘Now, do you want coffee or not?’

  He was still looking unfamiliarly uncomfortable, which made her feel even edgier.

  ‘And sit down,’ she ordered. ‘I can’t deal with you standing there like a lost tree.’

  He sat, but not before he’d put his package on the dining-room table—halfway between where he’d been and where she was.

  Neutral ground?

  Amelia turned away, but by now her nerves were so strung out her fingers shook, and even the simplest task of measuring coffee into the machine proved too much for her.

  ‘Let me do it.’

  Mac’s voice, right behind her, made her jump. Was she in such a state her usually alert senses had failed to register his approach?

  He moved her aside, one hand on her shoulder shifting her firmly out of the way, and took over the coffee-making as if it were his kitchen they were in, not hers.

  Unable to stay close to him, Amelia stepped away, finding herself by the dining-room table, her eyes drawn, like iron filings to magnets, to the packet on the table.

  Of course she couldn’t be pregnant.

  She pressed her hand to her stomach—thinking of the times she’d pressed it there and ached with regret that it would never swell with pregnancy. But Brad now had a child by his second wife, so the failure hadn’t been his.

  She shook her head, refusing to allow hope to enter her heart.

  ‘It wouldn’t hurt to take the test.’

  Mac had started the coffee-machine and was now watching her.

  ‘I’m not pregnant,’ she said stubbornly.

  ‘Then prove it.’

  She glared at him—something she seemed to have been doing even more of late.

  ‘I don’t need to,’ she snapped. ‘I know!’

  But she didn’t really know, a traitorous voice inside her pointed out.

  ‘I do!’ she told it, realising she’d spoken aloud when Mac grinned at her.

  ‘Sounds more like a marriage vow than a denial,’ he teased, and she turned away because a teasing Mac reminded her of what they’re shared that night.

  ‘You’re like water wearing away at stone,’ she said, an hour later, when Mac’s unwavering demands had riled her so much she’d grabbed the package and was heading for the bathroom. ‘I’ll do it, not because I think there’s even the remotest possibility but to shut you up because, knowing you, if I don’t you’ll start asking me at work in front of everyone. Anything to get your own way.’

  She strode away, tearing off the wrappings, reading the instructions, then, in the privacy of the bathroom, pulling out the test stick. It was such a simple thing to do she regretted not doing it earlier. It would have stopped Mac nagging and they might have enjoyed their time together. Now, she guessed, she’d have to show him the stick just to prove him wrong.

  Prove him wrong?

  She looked at it again, blinked, then grabbed the box and reread the instructions.

  Then she sat down on the floor of the bathroom because her legs would no longer hold her up.

  Mac came in some time later. She’d vaguely heard him call her name, heard him k
nock and call out again, but it was all far away—in another world perhaps.

  ‘Come on, let’s get you off the cold floor.’

  Mac was speaking gently, easing his arms around her body, lifting her off the floor as if she were a child.

  And he was smiling. She could hear the smile in his voice, and she guessed it was because he’d seen the stick and knew he’d been proved right.

  He certainly wouldn’t be smiling about her being pregnant, but Mac liked being right.

  He carried her into the bedroom, then muttered something about the bed being a danger zone and backed out, taking her into the living room instead and setting her down on the couch.

  ‘Did you faint?’

  She frowned at him.

  ‘Of course I didn’t faint,’ she told him, speaking crossly though she should have been pleased to discover she could speak.

  He was squatting beside her and now he took hold of her hands.

  ‘I realise this is a shock to you,’ he said, and now the smile was on his face as well as in his voice, ‘but because I suspected it since you’ve been feeling ill, I’ve had a few days to get used to the idea and I’ve got a plan.’

  Amelia stared at him, trying to reconcile this quiet, serious, almost humble Mac with the grouchy, unobliging autocrat she’d known for years at work.

  ‘A plan? Why do you need a plan?’

  He squeezed her hands.

  ‘Not me, us,’ he corrected. ‘And we need it for your pregnancy.’ He paused then frowned, but not angrily, more as if he was having trouble finding the words he needed.

  ‘That’s if you decide to go through with it, which is entirely up to you, of course, because you’re the one who’ll be inconvenienced, but I thought if I put my side of it to you, it might help you come to a decision.’

  He paused, studying her face as if to see if she’d followed him this far.

  She had, and her hand had crept protectively to her stomach when he’d suggested the next decision would be hers.

  ‘The thing is, Peterson…’ he went on—apparently satisfied by what he saw in her face. ‘And if you laugh, or mention this to anyone in the entire world, I’ll kill you, but since my sister had her baby recently I’ve been kind of thinking that I wouldn’t mind having one myself. Of course, that was the last thing on my mind that night we—well, you know what we did, and it certainly wasn’t to get you pregnant, heaven forbid. But since it’s happened, Peterson, and I’d really kind of like to have a child, well, my plan was that I’d keep you through your pregnancy so you don’t have to work if you don’t want to, and I’ll pay all the expenses—doctors, clothing, furniture and the lot—and if you don’t want the child when it arrives, I’ll assume full responsibility. Get a nanny, of course, but still be a good father. I know it’s bad timing for you, with the new work project you’ve got in hand, which is why I want to do whatever I can to help.’

  The flow of words and garbled information finally ceased. Amelia felt as if she’d absorbed maybe an eighth of it, and that eighth didn’t make much sense.

  Although one bit stuck out—holding, as it did, memories of another offer Mac had made.

  ‘You’ll pay me to have this baby? Like some surrogate mother? What do you think I am, Mac? A human test-tube? A convenient womb?’

  ‘No, no—’

  But before he could get into the meat of his protest, Amelia had found more to anger her.

  ‘And just because you’ve gone clucky—which is something men have laughed at women about for years—this is suddenly your baby. What if I don’t want a nanny?’

  Mac rubbed his fingers along her forearm, causing panic in the fine hairs over which they brushed.

  ‘I don’t think we need to decide about a nanny right now,’ he said gently. ‘I know I mightn’t have made much sense, but what I was trying to say is that I wouldn’t mind having this baby—though you’d physically have to have it, of course—but I’ll be there for you, in any way you want me to be.’

  He leant forward, and kissed her very gently on the lips.

  It was more a promise than a real kiss, but it awoke the aching hunger Amelia had felt all month, and it was only with difficulty she restrained her hands from reaching out and pulling him closer—kissing him back with the passion his salute had lacked.

  Mac eased back onto his heels, putting space between them because that kiss, though only the most fleeting of caresses, had reignited the desire he’d felt since entering her apartment. She’d been walking away from him but, seeing her small, slim figure, clad only in a satiny gown, with the dark, lustrous hair she usually confined so ruthlessly flowing down her back, had put his manhood on full alert.

  It was the hair—he was certain of it. The dark shiny brown tresses, shot through with red and gold, tantalised him, urging him to thread his fingers into it and use it to draw her closer to his body, to entangle her so they were intertwined.

  He touched it now, smoothing it back from her face, warning his fingers not to linger, though they took no notice.

  She looked so small—so fragile—curled up, half sitting, half lying on the big leather sofa. And the dazed look in her brown eyes revealed she was still shocked by her discovery—so much so he couldn’t bring himself to leave her.

  But if he stayed…

  ‘We’ll work it out,’ he said gently. ‘When you’ve had time to think things through, we’ll talk it through. There’s no rush to decide anything, Amelia. Right now you have to think of yourself and concentrate on staying well.’

  Mac continued to stroke her hair and saw her eyelids grow heavy, then, within minutes, she was breathing the steady, shallow breath of sleep.

  Mac shifted off his haunches—his thighs and calves had been protesting for ages—and settled into a chair across from her, an unfamiliar protectiveness swamping him.

  He had a number of options, he decided. He could leave Amelia sleeping where she was.

  He could carry her into the bedroom, where he now felt he was sufficiently in control of things to settle her into bed without throwing himself in with her.

  He could go home.

  He studied her for a moment and decided leaving her on her own wasn’t an option.

  In the end, he carried her into her room, enjoying the weight of her in his arms, the feel of her sleep-heavy body snuggled against his chest. Taking care not to wake her, he straightened the gown around the body that had haunted him for a month, then covered her with the sheet and cotton blanket, tucking them in around her so she was held securely in the bed.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this, Peterson,’ he said quietly to the sleeping figure. ‘Not when the one thing on my mind for the past month has been to be tucked in there with you—with my arms, not a damn sheet, holding you securely.’

  He then explored the flat, found the spare bedroom with a queen-sized bed already made up and returned to the living room. At least, after last time he knew where to find a pen and paper. He wrote a note, explaining he was staying in the spare bedroom in case she needed someone, then tiptoed back into her bedroom where, with only a small touch to the shining hair, he left the note where he’d left the last one.

  Not that she appreciated his concern. Oh, no! Not Peterson.

  He’d set his internal alarm to wake at six so he’d have time to get back to his place and have a shower and shave before work, but for some reason it didn’t work and he woke to the sound of a furious banging on the already open bedroom door.

  ‘You didn’t set my alarm clock!’ the noise-maker accused, poking a tousled head around the doorjamb. ‘And unless you came prepared to stay the night, you’re going to be late for work as well.’

  Either sleep or anger had stained her cheeks a rosy pink, and with the tangled mass of dark hair around her flushed face she looked like a flustered angel.

  Mac smiled at her, though a quick glance at his watch had told him she was right and he had no time at all for fanciful metaphors or smiles. He shoved off the
covers and stood up, only realising he was naked when the colour deepened in Peterson’s cheeks and she beat a hasty retreat.

  ‘It’s not as if she’s seeing anything she hadn’t seen before,’ he grumbled to himself as he pulled on his clothes and did a mental calculation of how long it would take him to get home then back to the hospital.

  He would be late for work, no doubt about it. But he kept a change of clothes in his locker and an electric razor in a drawer of his desk. If he went straight to the hospital, he’d be early, not late.

  Perhaps he could buy Peterson breakfast somewhere on the way.

  He studied the bed, not wanting to leave it unmade yet uncertain about stripping it. In the end, he made it—a task made difficult by the slippery bedcover that kept sliding off to one side or the other. Finally satisfied, he left the room to find a very different Peterson emerging from her bedroom.

  The hair was slicked back in its bunched arrangement, her uniform shirt was crisply pressed but hanging out over the skirt she wore so it only hinted at the shapely body beneath it.

  ‘How about I buy us breakfast somewhere on the way to work?’ he suggested, his good mood restored by the fact that his eyes seemed to have retained their X-ray vision where Peterson’s body was concerned.

  ‘Breakfast?’

  She said the word in much the same way someone offered ptomaine poisoning might repeat the suggestion. ‘I’m throwing up every morning and you’re suggesting breakfast.’

  ‘You should eat something—it helps with morning sickness.’

  The brown eyes fired darts of loathing.

  ‘You’d know, of course,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I would!’ Mac stood his ground. ‘Charlotte—that’s my sister—had terrible morning sickness, and I asked every O and G fellow in the hospital for advice and the only thing they all came up with was small meals and often. You should actually have a cup of tea and a dry biscuit before you get out of bed—Charlotte found that helped.’

  ‘And how do I achieve this wonder cure without getting out of bed?’ Scathing didn’t begin to describe the tone. ‘Teleport?’

  ‘I could do it,’ Mac heard himself offer. ‘I mean, if it helped and made you feel better. I meant it when I said I’d do whatever I could, Peterson, if you want to have this baby. That means from right now. I could shift in, sleep in the spare room if that’s what you want—whatever helps, Peterson.’