“What are you trying to do?” he asked. And what are you trying to do to me? he added silently.
“I’m trying to have a baby,” she said.
“Try artificial insemination.”
She shook her head. “It won’t do for my purposes.”
"This is pointless and you know it.”
“No, I don’t know it. All I’m asking is a small investment of your time over a two-week period. ”
He rubbed his forehead. He had had many propositions from women in his life, but hers was not only unexpected, it didn’t make sense. And her answers to his questions were giving him no explanation, no hint as to what lay beneath this outrageous request of hers.
“Two weeks,” he murmured thoughtfully, deciding to play along with her, at least for a few minutes. “As I understand conception, it would also require quite another sort of investment on my part.”
She felt heat wash up her neck and saw his eyes follow the color.
“What is it you really want?”
“I’ve told you,” she began, then stopped and drew a measured breath. “Perhaps if we look again at the legal agreement, you’ll be able to understand that all I want from you is to make me pregnant. If you will refer to page two, paragraph four of the agreement, you will see that I will not now, or ever, request any money from you.” She brought out more papers from the briefcase and held them up to him. “And these are my tax statements for the last five years that will verify to you that I am capable of supporting myself and my child without help from you.”
She laid the tax statements on top of the still-unread chart and legal agreement. “I want you to be assured that the child will be well taken care of.”
He got up, circled the desk, and perched on its comer.
She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but his nearness had caused a pressure in the air that seemed to touch her skin in an almost hurtful way. Thankful that she would soon be through, she continued on. “To further assure you that the baby’s well-being is and will continue to be my top priority, I will tell you that in preparing for this baby, I have had no alcohol or any type of drug in the last ten months.”
“Ten months. Since you’ve had the note a year, that means It took you two months to decide to ask me for this favor.”
"That’s right, and I assure you I didn’t make the decision lightly.” She reached for the final set of papers she intended to show him. “This is the result of my latest physical with attached blood tests that proclaim me free of all disease, communicable or otherwise. It also states, by the way, that I am not already pregnant.” She paused while she added the tests to his growing stack of documents. “Of course, I will expect you to have the same tests done. Since you don’t seem to engage in random sexual liaisons—”
“Don’t seem to?” he asked, cutting in sharply.
She met his gaze coolly. “Don’t worry. I haven’t had you investigated. It wasn’t necessary. All I had to do was keep up with the society columns. Those same columns also informed me that you are not currently involved with anyone. It makes it convenient all the way around.”
His teeth came together with a snap. “I think it’s time this interview ended. ”
“Perhaps you’re right. I’ve covered everything I need to for the time being.” She carefully folded her glasses away in the recesses of the briefcase and stood. "I’ll leave these papers with you. Shall we say forty-eight hours for you to consider?” Turning for the door, she added, “My phone number is on my card.”
He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, the control he used completely unnecessary to the act. When she had almost reached the door, he said, “Actually, there is one more thing I would like to ask.”
She turned and looked at him. “Yes?”
“Why me, Sharon? Why do you want me to try and make you pregnant?”
“Because, Conall, this time you’ll know without a doubt that the baby is yours.”
Sharon closed the door of her apartment behind her and eyed the distance between her and the couch that sat against one wall of her small living room. It appeared an incredibly long way for her to walk. Her steps were leaden, her legs weak. It seemed to take her an eternity to cross the room, and when at last she collapsed onto the couch, she let out an exclamation of relief.
She felt icy from head to toe and was shaking uncontrollably. The trembling had started as she left the Deverell Building and had grown progressively worse on the drive home.
Ten months had given her plenty of time to plan what would happen when she came face-to-face with Conall Deverell, but truthfully, ten years of careful preparation wouldn’t have made today any easier. Walking into his imposing wood-paneled office—the seat of the Deverell power and the throne room of their crown prince—had taken every ounce of courage she possessed. And that had been only the beginning of the ordeal.
Conall had recognized her immediately; she hadn’t been sure he would. It seemed to her she had grown and changed to the point that she might not even recognize the eighteen-year-old she had been when they had known each other. All she remembered of herself at that age was how tender her heart had been, how full of hope. And how he had broken it.
She tugged a crocheted afghan off the back of the couch and wrapped it tightly around her. She had to get warm; she had to stop shaking.
She was doing the right thing, she assured herself as she had many times before. The first part, possibly the worst part, was over, and she had done well.
She had remained self-possessed and dispassionate and had presented the matter to him in a businesslike manner. In the process, she had managed to surprise, shock, and stun him, just as she had hoped. Catching him off guard had been the only way she could think of to guarantee he would listen to her. She had even managed to get in the last word.
She pulled the afghan more closely around her. Of course, everything she had put herself through would be for nothing if he didn’t agree to honor the promise. But she was counting on his pride and his ego, and she didn’t think she would be disappointed.
The phone began to ring, then her answering machine switched on, and she heard his voice.
He gave the name and address of a restaurant, then said, “Meet me there tonight at seven-thirty for dinner. If the place isn’t to your liking, call me back and tell me where you would rather meet. But I think I deserve an explanation, don’t you?”
The line went dead. Her machine turned off. A faint smile touched her lips.
She was over one more hurdle.
A vein pounded in Conall’s temple as he stared at the phone he had just hung up. He had chosen a restaurant for their meeting in the hope that it would provide neutral surroundings for a calm, objective discussion.
Except he didn’t feel the least bit calm and objective. Nor did he want to wait until this evening to see her again. He wanted her here now! He wanted to grab her and yell What in the hell do you mean, this time I’ll know for sure the baby is mine?
He pressed a finger against the pounding vein. How dare she waltz into his office after ten years with that damned note of Jake’s and demand anything of him, much less that he make her pregnant.
She knew better. She knew he couldn’t make her or anyone pregnant. She knew he was sterile.
Conall watched the way the full skirt of Sharon’s azure blue dress gently swayed back and forth with the movement of her hips as she walked ahead of him, following the waiter through the restaurant. The dress was as demure as the suit she had worn to his office, but less severe, softer, more interesting, relying as it did on a simple cut for its style and the wide shawl collar to offer a becoming frame for her face.
His anger had died down. He felt keyed up and tense, the same way he felt just before a good corporate fight. Battling any kind of adversary always made him feel a special kind of aliveness, and in this instance the fact that his adversary was Sharon made the upcoming fight all the more interesting.
Their table sat next to a wall of
windows that overlooked the Charles River. Conall waved the waiter away and pulled out a chair for her. “Is this table all right?” he asked casually.
“It’s fine,” she murmured.
A cynical smile shaped his mouth. Although this was one of the best restaurants in the city, he was sure she would have met him anywhere. The damned promise aside, she wanted something from him, something other than what she had already indicated, and that made him the one in control.
As she took her seat, the scent of her unexpectedly rose through the air and circled him. It was a feminine, innocently seductive smell that rippled through his memory, teasing long-forgotten responses.
“Did you have any trouble finding this place?” he asked, deliberately moving away from her, rounding the table to his own chair, breaking the enticing chains of the fragrant, surprisingly threatening memories.
“I didn’t drive. I took a cab, and the cab driver knew where it was.”
"That was smart. Are you hungry? Would you care to order now or would you like to wait?"
She wasn’t fooled by this polite, courteous act of his. The shock she had given him had obviously worn off, and she was in for a grueling evening. She just hoped she would be equal to it. "Later would be fine. For now I’d like a club soda.”
“A club soda and a Scotch,” he said to the waiter, then sat silently until the young man had left. “All right, Sharon, tell me truthfully what this is all about.”
Her gaze was direct and unwavering. “I’ve already given you all pertinent information, and I made the situation as plain as I could this afternoon. As far as I'm concerned, all that’s left is for you to give me your answer.”
“Not quite all.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was in a position to overhear them, then settled back in his chair. “Suppose we start with what this is really all about. You know that I’m sterile, so what is it you want?”
“I don’t know you’re sterile,” she said solemnly. “I never did.”
His long fingers curled into his palm until his hand had formed a fist; it was the only outward sign that his calm had altered. “What kind of game do you think you’re playing, Sharon? A lot of years have passed since we’ve seen each other, but I don’t believe for a minute that you’ve forgotten about the severe case of mumps I had when I was twelve that left me sterile.”
“How could I forget—” The waiter’s appearance cut off Sharon’s retort, and she was forced to bide her time while he served them their drinks. Surreptitiously she studied Conall. In his dark blue suit, with ebony cuff links gleaming elegantly in the French cuffs of his white linen shirt, he looked formidable and powerfully masculine, completely sure of himself and his position in the world. There were times when she thought she must be out of her mind to go up against him, and this was one of those times. But the throbbingly empty feeling deep within her pushed her on.
When the waiter had once more departed, she spoke again. “How could I forget something that had such a great impact on my life? It was because of that case of mumps that you and your parents felt you should be tested to find out whether or not I was telling the truth. Do you know what your doubts did to me?”
“I know what they did to me.”
“You. That was all that mattered, wasn’t it? No one gave a thought to the young girl who had no social standing or money and who foolishly was claiming she was pregnant with your baby. Never mind that you’d been having sex with her for four months. With a great fortune and family tradition at stake, I’m sure your parents were extremely eager that the test results be the correct results.”
“Are you suggesting my parents bribed someone to alter the results?” he asked, his voice suddenly ominous and quiet.
“I’m suggesting they might have felt they had a reason to lie. Or, for that matter, you might have.”
“You’re wrong, Sharon.”
She sighed. There was no point in arguing with him, at least on this particular point, at least not now. “Okay, I’ll rephrase what I was about to say. The doctor told you it was highly improbable that you could father a child because of an extremely low sperm count. But I am in a unique position to know better—because, Conall, ten years ago I became pregnant with your child. Your child, Conall, not Mark Bretton’s, as he claimed. Yours.’’
He opened his mouth, but something in the center of his gut was hurting, preventing him from speaking. Lord help him. It had taken such a long time to get over her and what she had done to him. Now, after all these years, she had appeared, dredging up something he had worked hard to make peace with. And apparently he hadn’t done as good a job as he had thought. Just saying the word sterile had left a bitter taste in his mouth. He took a deep drink of Scotch and waited a moment until his emotions were once more controlled.
“As I see it, I have two options,” he said slowly. “The first is to consider that you are lying to me for some reason I have yet to discover. If this is the case, I need to find out what your reasons are and put a halt to anything that might hurt me or my family.”
“Hurt the mighty Deverells? Who would dare to try?”
“You threatened.”
“Did I?”
He exhaled heavily. “My second option is to consider that you are telling the truth. Now, if you are, which, by the way, is currently beyond my mental grasp, then I again have to consider the reasons why. Ten years have passed. You lost your baby. What is the point in rehashing it?”
“How very businesslike, Conall, outlining your options like that. It makes everything so plain, and it’s such a chief-executive-officer thing to do. I’m truly impressed.” She suddenly leaned forward, and her eyes sparked with anger. "I’m not, however, impressed with the fact that you haven’t changed in all this time. You still refuse to see what is most obvious, most simple.”
One black brow rose. “You’re right. I left out a third option, the one that says you’re crazy.”
“I’m not crazy, Conall. All I want Is a baby. It's a perfectly normal need for a woman.”
“But you don’t want just any baby. You want my baby.”
She held up her hands and mimed applause. “That’s exactly right. Congratulations. I think you’ve finally got it.”
“What is this, Sharon? Revenge?”
“Revenge? Don’t flatter yourself. I haven’t been pining for you all these years. No, this whole idea came to me after I inherited Jake’s note.”
“Then if it’s not revenge ...”
“Vindication.” She punched the tabletop with a finger for emphasis. "I want to prove to you that you were wrong to insist that the baby I was carrying, then lost, wasn’t yours. Once that happens, I’ll get out of your life again, this time of my own free will, this time forever.”
He stared at her, trying to analyze, comprehend, understand. Tonight her hair fell straight around her face and onto her shoulders. In the subdued light of the restaurant, a faint hint of gold seemed to gleam beneath the Ivory hue of her skin. The natural loveliness she had possessed as a young girl was still there, but it had matured, become more striking, more seductive. One thing hadn’t changed, though. She had lied to him as a young girl, and she was lying to him now. She had to want money; it was the only thing that came close to making sense to him.
With a curse he pushed back from the table and stood. “Let’s get out of here.” After throwing several bills beside his barely touched Scotch, he reached for her arm and pulled her from the chair. “We’ve changed our mind,” he told the startled waiter as they walked quickly past him. “We won’t be having dinner after all.”
Two
“This is not what I expected,” Conall said, glancing around Sharon’s apartment that was located on the top floor of an old brownstone.
Sharon followed his gaze, trying to see what it was that he found so unusual, but everything seemed ordinary to her. Though inexpensive, her furniture was comfortable and well maintained. She had invested in a good stereo system and a color television
set. On one wall she had hung a blue and mauve quilt her grandmother had worked and given to her when she had been a young girl. Good prints, along with an occasional oil she had picked up from a sidewalk artist, covered the other walls. A basket she kept beside the sofa held her needlework. Mauve yam spilled over its rim and down its sides, giving an untidy appearance. She should have put the basket away, she thought, but she hadn’t known he would insist on coming back to the apartment with her.
Her first instinct had been to keep where she lived a secret from him. This apartment was the one place in the universe where she could come to be soothed when she was tense, comforted when she hurt, rest when she was tired. It was her retreat. In the end, though, since he still hadn’t agreed to what she wanted, she had given in and let him know where she lived.
But it was just as she had feared. Standing in the middle of her small living room, he exuded waves of power that seemed as if they could threaten everything breakable in her home. Luckily her heart was now inviolate to him. She reached for the afghan she had crocheted one winter, the same afghan that had warmed her earlier that day, and hugged it to her.
He watched her, disturbed, feeling an absurd urge to try to pierce through to her center to see if she matched inside as well as out. “Frankly I expected your apartment to have a great deal less charm and personality."
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “I think there’s a compliment in there somewhere, but it would take a great deal of ingenuity, not to mention energy to search for it.”
Her smile drew his gaze. He supposed he had been too stunned to see her earlier at his office to notice the full, generous shape of her mouth before now. Then he remembered. He had once kissed that mouth until her lips were swollen. “I wouldn’t have been surprised to find banks of calculators and computers,” he said, “maybe even profit and loss charts on the walls and the television tuned to the Dow Jones averages.”
She folded the afghan and returned it to the back of the couch. “You just described an office. Why would you think I lived in an office?”
The Promise Page 2