She reread the article, but there was not a lot to be gleaned from it. It was simply speculation, really, to the effect that there could be moves afoot on the Beaumont board, plus some of the company’s impressive mining achievements.
It also detailed some of Adam Beaumont’s achievements outside the field of mining, and in their own way they were impressive. He was obviously a billionaire in his own right.
So what was it really about, this article? she wondered. It did detail that Adam was not a major shareholder in Beaumonts, whereas Henry was. And how did that line up with what she knew? The fact that Adam had sworn revenge against his brother and was looking for a lever to unseat him?
She shook her head, a little mystified. She stared at the photo of Adam Beaumont and suffered an intensely physical moment. It was as if she were right back in his arms, with that chiselled mouth resting on hers, his hands on her body thrilling and delighting her.
What a pity there was never any future for us, she thought, and blinked away a solitary tear. It was no good telling herself again not to be weak and weepy, because the fact remained there seemed to have been awoken within her a chilly, lonely little feeling she couldn’t dispel, and—she stopped and frowned—a strange little echo she couldn’t place.
Of course there was also the fear that she might have fallen pregnant continually at the back of her mind. A state which came under the heading of consequences, no doubt, she thought dryly. Statistically, she had decided—the time of the month, it only happening once—it was unlikely. Although she was realistic enough to know it was a statistic not to be relied upon.
But now there was a new feeling added to all her woes, she realised as she laid her head back and stared unseeingly across the room. And it centred around the fact that he’d allowed her to think he was ordinary when in fact he was a billionaire.
What difference does it make? she wondered.
She sat up suddenly. It makes me feel like a golddigger, or as if that would have been his automatic assumption as soon as I found out! she answered herself.
And that outraged her, she found. Although a little niggling thought came to her—perhaps that was the way a lot of women reacted when they discovered who he was? Perhaps that had added to his cynicism about women?
She heaved a huge sigh and deliberately folded up the paper so his picture was inside, not visible. She forced herself to concentrate on her upcoming weekend. She, several others and a party of disabled children were spending the weekend on a farm. It was going to be arduous, and she would give it her all. She would not allow Adam Beaumont to intrude. And her period would come in the natural course of events when it was due, on Sunday.
But her period didn’t come in the natural course of events, and by the following Sunday it still hadn’t.
It would be fair to say that Bridget had held out until the last moment in her belief that her cycle had gone a bit haywire, but when a home pregnancy test proved positive she had to face the cold, hard truth.
She was pregnant after a one-night stand with a man she barely knew—a man who had told her unequivocally that he wasn’t for her…
It was a shattering thought.
Two days after she had made the discovery there was a crisis in the newsroom.
Megan Winslow, who was doing the news on her own because Peter Haliday, her co-presenter, had the flu, fainted half an hour before air time.
Out of the chaos, Bridget was chosen to replace her. In the normal course of events it would most likely have been Julia chosen to do it, but it was her day off. There were several reasons to choose Bridget. She spoke well, with good modulation—she’d belonged to her university dramatic society—and she was familiar with the autocue as she’d occasionally filled in for the weather presenter.
‘You’ve also proofed a lot of the stuff, so you’re familiar with it. We can find you something more formal to wear,’ Megan’s producer said to her. ‘Make-up!’ he yelled.
It was a miracle Bridget managed to speak at all, considering the emotion-charged atmosphere of the newsroom. Even more than that, her own inner turmoil was mind-boggling. She hadn’t been able to come to grips in any way with the fact that she was carrying Adam Beaumont’s baby. If anyone should be fainting, she should…
But she actually got through reading the news with only a few stumbles. And she had no idea who would be in the unseen audience for that particular broadcast…
Adam Beaumont unlocked the door to his suite in the luxury Gold Coast hotel and threw the keycard onto the hall table. He walked through to the lounge, shrugging off his jacket and tie, and switched on one table lamp.
The view through the filmy curtains was fabulous. The long finger known as Surfers Paradise stretched before and below him like a fairyland of lights, bordered by a faint line of white breakers on the beach and the midnight-blue of the Pacific Ocean, with a silver moon hanging in the sky.
He didn’t give it more than a cursory glance as he got a beer from the bar and poured it into a frosted glass. He’d been overseas, and he was feeling jet-lagged and annoyed. One of his PAs had met him at the airport and given him a run-down of events that had occurred in his absence. One of them was a newspaper article described by his PA as a ‘fishing expedition’, to do with the board of directors at Beaumonts and a carefully worded suggestion that there was some unrest on the board.
Where the hell had that come from? he’d asked, but had not received a satisfactory answer.
The Beaumont board, he thought, standing in the middle of the lounge, staring at nothing in particular. Ever since he could remember the family circumstances that had contributed to his distance from the board had galled him almost unbearably. And that had contributed, along with his faithless sister-in-law, to his determination to unseat his brother, Henry. But it so happened he hadn’t done anything to create the rumours.
He put his beer on a side-table and looked around for the TV remote before he sank down into an armchair.
He was flicking through the channels when his finger was arrested, and he sat up with an unexpectedly indrawn breath as he stared at Bridget, reading the news.
She was wearing an elegant lime-green linen jacket, and her coppery hair was still short but obviously styled. Her eye make-up emphasised her green eyes, and her lips were painted a lustrous pink.
She looked, in two words, extremely attractive, he thought. But what the hell was this?
She paused, then launched into a piece she happened not to have proofed. Of all things, she stumbled on the Beaumont name. But she collected herself and went on to detail the fact that the rumours circulating were suggesting Henry Beaumont was about to be ousted from the Beaumont board by his brother, in a bitter power struggle.
It was the last item before a commercial break, and as had been agreed, to save viewers any confusion, Bridget said, ‘I’m Bridget Tully-Smith, filling in for Megan Winslow tonight. Please stay with us for all the latest sporting news.’
Adam Beaumont stared at the television long after an advertisement had replaced Bridget’s image. Tully-Smith, he thought incredulously. You didn’t tell me that, Mrs Smith. His mind ranged back. Although you did mention your father was a journalist and was killed in an accident. So it’s more than likely that your father was Graham Tully-Smith, famous investigative journalist—or notorious, if you happened to be on the receiving end of it.
And it just so happens, his thoughts ran on, you’re the only person I’ve ever told about finding the right lever to unseat Henry. Is there a connection between these rumours that have sprung up out of nowhere and you, Bridget?
Bridget was exhausted when she got home.
Although she’d been heartily congratulated on how she’d handled things, doing the news had been a huge drain. And on top of that the Beaumont piece had deeply perturbed her.
It had taken her back again to that night, to the events in the shed, back to Adam Beaumont again, and to what he’d revealed to her. But not only that. Adam Beaumont was
where an awful lot of inner turmoil resided for her now…
She had come straight home, only to find she didn’t feel like going to bed.
Then she got a phone call from the TV station, from a receptionist named Sally whom she happened to know, with the news that Adam Beaumont would like to get in touch with her. Could they pass on her number?
She took an incredulous breath. ‘What for?’
Sally replied, ‘I don’t know, Bridge. He didn’t say.
It wasn’t actually him, anyway, it was his PA. Do you know him?’
‘I—I’ve met him.’
‘Well, maybe he wants to congratulate you on the news!’
‘Uh…’ Bridget thought swiftly. ‘I really doubt it. I mean, I’d rather not.’
‘That’s OK. Although personally I would never say no to Adam Beaumont,’ Sally remarked with a chuckle. ‘I’ll just say you’re unavailable for personal calls. I’ve got it down to a fine art. Night, Bridget!’
Bridget put the phone down slowly, her eyes wide and a little stunned.
Why did he want to get in touch now? she wondered.
It must have something to do with the item about the Beaumont board she’d read on the news tonight. It couldn’t be any other reason. But it had nothing to do with her. She hadn’t even proofed the copy, let alone originated the item.
And there were several reasons why she didn’t want to see him. Not yet, at least. Sheer panic was one of them. How was she to tell him she was pregnant? How would he react?
She wasn’t at all sure of her reaction, other than stunned disbelief, so…
She hardly slept at all that night, but it didn’t occur to her that Adam Beaumont wouldn’t take no for an answer.
The next morning was Saturday, so she was off work. It was the day after she’d read the news for Megan Winslow and refused to talk to Adam Beaumont.
So what she was doing was strolling down the beach at Surfers, breathing the fresh salty air, hoping it would help her to clear her mind.
The tide was in, tracing silvery patterns on the sand, and the gulls were in full working mode as they swooped over the shallows, fishing for little bait fish. It was a clear, sunny day. There were swimmers and an army of walkers.
There were also families on the beach, with children of all sizes and ages, and for the first time she stopped and sat on a dune to study them closely. The crawlers, the toddlers, the paddlers, as well as a couple of pregnant mothers nearby. It occurred to her that in the company of her friends’ children she thought loosely about having a family herself, but with one striking ingredient missing—a suitable father—it had never been more than that. She’d never imagined herself pregnant.
She was conscious again of that little echo she’d detected within herself but been unable to explain, and for the first time since disbelief and panic had gripped her it came to her that there was another life in her care and under her guardianship. In the normal course of events she would grow like the two pregnant women on the beach, and then that new life would be born and would carry her imprint.
But what about her life in the meantime? she wondered.
Would a reluctant father, even if he gave her and more particularly the baby material support, be better than no father at all? Or would she chafe at the fact that she’d never been good enough for her baby’s father? If she did, how would a child react to that? Was she better off being a single mother or not, in other words?
How did you bear the burden of single-motherhood amongst your friends and in your workplace, though? It probably wasn’t so unusual, but she couldn’t think of anyone she knew who was pregnant and without a partner.
It was at this point in her musings that someone tapped her on the shoulder.
‘Yes?’ she said, with extreme surprise. She didn’t recognize the man and couldn’t imagine what a formally dressed middle-aged man in a suit and tie was a: doing on the beach, and b: wanting with her.
‘It is Miss Smith, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Miss Bridget Tully-Smith?’
Bridget opened her mouth to say yes, but then said instead, with a faint narrowing of her eyes, ‘Who wants to know?’
‘Mr Beaumont, Mr Adam Beaumont, would like a word with you, Miss Tully-Smith. I’m Peter Clarke. I work for him, and I just missed you coming out of your building a little while ago. I was trying to park. I was forced to follow you on foot, and—’
‘Please tell Mr Beaumont I have nothing to say to him at the moment,’ Bridget interjected. ‘And please tell him I don’t appreciate being followed.’
She turned away and marched off, with her heart beating heavily.
She’d calmed down somewhat by the time she got home, and assured herself that if Adam Beaumont hadn’t taken the hint before he would surely do so now.
Famous last thoughts…
She answered her doorbell late that afternoon to find him in person on her doorstep.
‘You!’ she gasped, and she tried to slam the door.
But he simply put his hands around her waist and picked her up, to deposit her inside the doorway.
‘I’ll scream!’ she threatened, more out of frustration than fear.
‘Scream away,’ he invited. ‘But I don’t intend to close the door. I don’t intend to deprive you of your liberty or harm you in any way, or stop you using your phone. I do intend to tell you this, though. The more you run away from me, Mrs Smith, the guiltier you look.’
This stopped Bridget dead.
She stared at him wide-eyed and with her mouth open. He was wearing the same suit he’d been photographed in, navy blue pinstripe, with a matching waistcoat, but today it was a pale blue shirt he wore, with a burgundy tie.
That dark hair was the same, though. So were the austere lines of his face and mouth. It was the same pair of broad shoulders beneath the faultless tailoring, the same narrow waist and long legs. The same blue eyes—but today they were accusing and insolent…
‘G-guilty?’ she stammered. ‘I haven’t done anything!’
‘How about failing to give me your full name, Bridget?’
‘Th-that wasn’t—I often don’t use my full name,’ she stammered. ‘People always ask me if—if I’m—’ She stopped and pleated her fingers together.
‘If you’re Graham Tully-Smith’s daughter?’ he finished for her. ‘Graham Tully-Smith, investigative journalist extraordinaire. But there’s more, isn’t there? You work in the news department of a television station. You’ve even climbed the ladder a bit to read the news. All of which places you perfectly to pass on a juicy titbit you picked up one wet, stormy night in the Numinbah, doesn’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Bridget,’ he said deliberately, ‘you’re the only person I’ve ever told about my ambition to unseat my brother. Yet now it appears to be common knowledge.’
Bridget breathed confusedly. ‘I didn’t tell a soul,’ she protested. ‘There’s no way I could have used it, anyway. I’m just a very junior gofer. That’s all.’
He raised a cynical eyebrow at her. ‘Is that how you came to be reading the news last night? Look—’ he turned back to the open door ‘—we can continue this in public if you prefer, or…?’
‘Oh. Close it,’ Bridget said, distraught, and when he did, she went on, ‘We had a crisis in the newsroom last night. Megan fainted. That’s how I came to do it. And reading the news doesn’t mean I had anything to do with compiling it!’
‘Is that so?’ He came back to stand in front of her, and she could see the suspicion in his eyes. ‘Are you sure you didn’t mention it, even in passing, to someone who may have been able to use it?’
‘No. I mean, yes, I’m sure!’ she cried, her eyes wide and shocked. ‘Anyway, it was common knowledge before I found out who you were.’ And she told him about Julia’s reaction to the first newspaper article, although she didn’t mention her name. ‘She, my colleague, even used the same word you did—a lever,’ she went on. ‘But up until that moment I had no idea who you
were.’ She closed her eyes and swayed suddenly.
‘Bridget?’ he said, on a different note as he scanned her now ashen face. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I—I’m, yes,’ she murmured, but sank down on the settee. She rubbed her face and commanded herself to think clearly.
He hesitated, then sat down opposite her. ‘Have you any idea how destabilising these kind of rumours can be? How shareholders can be affected—and share prices?’ he added significantly.
‘Of course.’ She gestured. ‘I mean, if I stop to think about it, of course. But I didn’t. I haven’t.’ She grimaced as she thought that she’d had more than enough of an entirely different nature to think about recently. She lifted her lashes. ‘Have you taken shareholders and share prices into consideration? You did tell me it was only a matter of time before you found the right lever to unseat your brother.’
He sat back. ‘So I did. It so happens I haven’t found it. It’s a little complicated. But that’s why I need to know exactly how these rumours started.’
He paused and studied her. She was wearing a white voile blouse and khaki cargo pants. Her feet were bare and her coppery hair was tousled. Her eyes were darker, and there was something about her that was different.
He removed his gaze from her as he pondered this, and looked around. It was pleasant, her flat, but very much exhibiting the simple pleasures of a home decorator. And rather reminiscent, for some curious reason, he thought suddenly, of the simple pleasure of making love to her.
In fact he had to confess that memories of that lovemaking had come back and taken him by surprise at some inappropriate moments…
Such as right now, he thought dryly. He could picture that slim, sleek little body moving in his arms, unfettered by any clothes. He could almost feel the lovely peachy curves of her hips beneath his hands, and he could feel his own body stirring in response. He suddenly realised she was staring at him with widening eyes, almost as if she could read his mind, and there was a tinge of colour mounting in her cheeks.
He looked away abruptly, but it crossed his mind to wonder about the power of the connection they’d made that night over four weeks ago. Of course circumstances had contributed to make it a unique occasion, but…
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