by Liz Fielding
‘I think, under the circumstances, a little more enthusiasm is called for.’
‘Sorry, Maggie. I can’t do enthusiasm. Not for this.’ He continued to stare at the bootees. They were so…so…small. He tried to imagine feet tiny enough to fit them. Toes… He snapped his mind back from the brink. ‘She knows that. I thought the cheque would help.’
‘Did you?’ Maggie shook her head. ‘And I thought you were quite bright, for a man. Never mind, keep trying. I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually.’
‘You think that I’m heading for wedding bells and happy ever after?’ He could read her like a book. ‘Give me a break.’ She said nothing, but she was thinking for England, he could see. ‘Okay, what would you do? If you were me? Forgetting the white lace and promises bit,’ he added quickly.
‘That would depend on what I—as you—wanted.’ Maggie waited a moment. Then asked, ‘What do you want, Jake?’
‘Me? I’ve got everything I ever wanted.’ He was successful, rich. His father would have been proud… ‘I don’t want this.’
Maggie gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘It appears that you don’t have a choice. It is yours?’ She quirked an eyebrow. ‘There’s no doubt?’ He shook his head. It was his. The only thing he could imagine worse than this situation was knowing that Amy was expecting someone else’s baby. It didn’t make sense, he knew, but then emotional stuff never did. ‘You know, Jake, having a baby is a bit like a bacon and egg breakfast.’
He dragged his thoughts back from the golden moment when they’d made the baby. ‘This should be good.’
‘It takes two to make it happen,’ she said, ignoring his muttered interjection. ‘But while the chicken makes a contribution, the pig is totally committed. The mother of your baby can’t walk away, Jake. Or pretend it isn’t happening. Or pay someone else to feel the pain.’ About to say more, she apparently changed her mind.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. At least… Well, maybe you shouldn’t take the way she handled your cheque too seriously. Her hormones are probably acting up. Leave it a few weeks. Try again when everything’s settled down.’ Then she shrugged. ‘Or you might get lucky. It might just take an extra nought.’
What did he want?
That was easy. He wanted Amy. He wanted to stop the world, rewind the tape, replay those hours they’d spent together. He wanted to breathe in the sweet scent of her skin, he wanted to wake with her in his arms, wanted to hear her whimpering softly as he took her over the edge, followed her there, briefly, to a place beyond pain. For now. He knew it was a fleeting thing. An ache that would soon pass.
Unlike fatherhood.
He didn’t want to be a father. He didn’t know how to be a father. Not the kind of father any baby would want. What he wanted, what he needed, was for Amy to take the money so that he could walk away with a clear conscience. Money to pay for help. Money to pay for everything.
Maggie was being over-sentimental about that. Money would do it every time. One way or the other. And Amy would take it. Eventually. She’d have no choice. But maybe sending it like that had been a mistake. It had been cold and impersonal, and she was a warm and caring woman. In her place, he realised, he would have been angry, too.
That she was angry he didn’t doubt for a moment. It would take a really angry woman to reduce his cheque to such tiny shreds of paper. What the bootees meant, why she had enclosed them with the cheque, was a mystery he refused to confront. He suspected he already knew the answer. She wanted him. On his knees.
He crumpled the bootees in his hand, stuffed them out of sight in his pocket. No way.
But Maggie was right, he acknowledged belatedly. The cheque had been crass. His father would have sent a cheque. He should have thought of something less direct, something that she could have accepted without losing her dignity. A trust fund for the baby, maybe. She wouldn’t, couldn’t refuse that, not once she accepted that he wasn’t to be turned to marshmallow by a pair of pink bootees.
He’d go down there tonight. Apologise. Check that she was keeping well. Not overdoing it. She shouldn’t be on her feet all day…
Dammit, he was doing it again. Thinking about her. Worrying about her. He spat out an expletive that had once earned him a beating from…
No!
He dragged his fingers through his hair. Dear God, where had that thought come from? He’d blanked it out. Walled it up in the attic of his mind with all the other ghosts.
This was her doing. Amy, with her green eyes and gentle touch. His wall was defenceless against her. He knew, just knew, that if he wasn’t very careful she would dismantle it, take it down, brick by brick, and let out all the pain. It had already begun.
Emotion was a loose cannon. Uncontrollable. And the one thing he’d always promised himself was that he would never be out of control of his life. Never again. He would get this over with. Deal with it. Finish it.
For a moment, Amy thought the courier was back. She was behind the cottage, working off her bad mood on the weeds. They would never let her down. They were predictable. They’d always be there.
She was carefully easing out a dandelion with the trowel when she heard the motorbike roaring up the lane, then slowing. Then stopping at her gate. The dandelion root snapped, leaving half still embedded in the soil.
‘Damn!’
Damn, damn, damn. The day had begun so well, so joyfully; then Jake’s conscience had given him a jab in the ribs and after that it had been downhill all the way.
She straightened as the leather-clad figure rounded the side of the cottage, wondering what he’d sent her this time. A bigger cheque? Did he really believe that was what she wanted? Was he that stupid?
That scared?
The man pulled at the strap beneath the black helmet. Removed it. And her heart did a crazy flip-flop that made her feel just a little dizzy, so that she grabbed for the post of the compost bin. Not a courier this time; this time Jake had come himself. Which could be better—or much worse.
He looked tired, she thought. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and his cheeks had a sucked-in, hollow look emphasised by the stubble of a day’s dark growth of beard. He looked like a man to whom sleep was a stranger.
And the flip-flop happened again. Not just her heart this time, but her entire body responding, reaching out to him. It was a good thing that her feet were weighed down by her gardening boots, keeping her pinned to the spot long enough for her to drag her protesting heart—and hormones—back into line.
‘You’re the last person I expected to see,’ she said.
‘We need to talk, Amy. There are things we have to settle.’
Talk. Settle. Worse, then, because his voice, flat and expressionless, left her in no doubt what he wanted to discuss. He wasn’t bringing his heart, but his wallet. Maybe she’d got it right when she’d suggested to Willow that money was all Jake had to offer. Not a problem when you were a millionaire more times over than you could count.
But if money was all he had to offer, he was in the wrong place. This wasn’t the kind of conversation she wanted to have with the father of her child. She’d thought she’d made her feelings quite clear on that point.
Most men would have taken the hint, probably thanked their lucky stars and left it at that. Jacob Hallam wasn’t most men. He didn’t want to get involved but he couldn’t walk away. His conscience wouldn’t let him.
He was in for a bad time, she thought. And felt an unexpected twinge of pity for him.
‘Have you eaten?’ she asked.
‘We need to talk,’ he repeated. As if he’d learned the words and nothing would deflect him from his purpose.
‘You can eat and talk at the same time, can’t you?’
‘Please don’t—’
‘Don’t what? Make it difficult for you?’ She wasn’t doing that. ‘I’m making it as easy as I know how, Jake. You’re the one making things difficult.’ She stripped off her gardening gloves. ‘Have you eaten?’ she repeat
ed.
‘No.’
‘Then come inside and I’ll get something.’
‘If you insist.’ His voice was firm, cold. It was the gesture that betrayed him. The tiniest lift of a hand in supplication.
He was already having a bad time.
She steeled her heart. ‘No, Jake. I don’t do ultimatums. You want to talk; I want to eat. Stay or go. You choose.’ And she walked towards the back door, kicked off her boots and headed for the sink, forcing herself not to look back and check that he was following.
‘How are you?’
How could he make the words sound so impersonal? After the way they’d been together? After such passion, such tenderness? Amy took a deep breath and made an effort to match him.
‘I’m fine. I had my first scan today.’
‘Scan?’
‘An ultrasound scan. Just to confirm dates, check the embryo has implanted properly.’ He’d like that word, she thought, scrubbing her hands at the old butler’s sink. Embryo. You couldn’t get much more impersonal than that when you were talking about a baby. She half turned, looked back to where he was silhouetted in the doorway, unwilling to step over the threshold. Vicki might be right about black leather, she thought. It gave a man a dangerous edge. Not that Jake needed any kind of edge to hold her attention. ‘And confirm the number of embryos present,’ she added, a little wickedly, just to make certain she had his.
The muscle tightening in his jaw was her only reward. ‘And how many are there?’
‘Does it matter?’ she asked, reaching for a towel. ‘It’s not your problem.’ Then, turning to face him as she dried her hands, ‘Do multiple births run in your family?’
‘How many?’ he demanded, with just a hint of panic.
‘Just one, Jake,’ she said, her voice softening, an antidote to his sharpness. ‘I was going to make an omelette. The eggs are very good. Free range…organic. One of my neighbours keeps a few chickens.’
Jake didn’t want to eat. He didn’t want to cosy up over supper. Didn’t want to know about scans, or anything else to do with her pregnancy. He wanted to get this over with and get back to London as quickly as possible. If eating with her would speed up the process… ‘An omelette will be fine.’
‘Then you’d better come in.’
He propped his helmet on an old scrubbed table, unbuckled his boots, stripped off his jacket and padded into the kitchen in his socks, feeling at a disadvantage. He hadn’t thought about that when he’d decided that the Ducatti’s two wheels would be a lot faster through the rush hour traffic than using a car. Right now he’d have welcomed the formality of a suit. Maybe he should have sent a lawyer.
The idea made him feel queasy. The cheque had been bad enough. He’d seen what she’d done to the cheque. His father, he realised with a sickening sense of his own inadequacy, would have followed up the cheque with a lawyer. At least he hadn’t made that mistake.
She waved in the direction of a saggy old armchair. ‘Shift Harry and make yourself comfortable.’ It wasn’t the glare from the cat in residence that kept him on his feet. Once he was sitting down he would have lost even the height advantage. Instead, he leaned against the doorjamb and watched her as she set about making their supper. The silence lengthened.
‘Have you seen Willow and Mike since—’ he began, then broke off awkwardly.
Amy broke an egg into a basin, stared at it for a moment, then looked up. ‘Since?’ she prompted. Then, ‘Oh, I see. Since. Yes, Willow came over as soon as you’d gone. The poor girl was in a bit of a state. I told her not to…’ She rubbed the back of her hand over her upper lip. Had it got warmer, all of a sudden? ‘I told her not to worry.’ She cracked another egg and watched as it oozed thickly from the shell to join the first in the basin. She hadn’t noticed before that eggs had any particular smell. Not beautiful fresh, free range eggs. She picked up a third egg, cracked it on the side of the basin. Sort of oily…
‘Amy?’ She looked up and registered briefly that Jake was frowning. Then she was assailed by a wave of nausea and egg number three hit the floor as she turned and ran for the scullery sink.
The heaving, the throwing up, seemed to go on for ever. She hung onto the edge of the sink, vaguely aware of Jake at her back, holding her, supporting her so that she wouldn’t just slither to the floor as her legs buckled beneath her.
Eventually, though, the spasms eased for long enough for her to apologise. ‘It’s not the cooking, I promise you,’ she said, smiling weakly as she leaned shakily back against him.
He said nothing, just damped the edge of a towel, wiped it over her face, around the back of her neck, over her throat.
‘Um…I hope you meant it when you said you weren’t bothered about supper. I don’t think I could…’ For a moment she thought it was going to begin again.
‘Take deep breaths through your mouth.’ Jake looked down at her, at the pale damp strands of hair clinging to her cheeks and forehead. She had gone dead white before the sickness struck. She was still very pale, and in the face of her attempt at humour he felt utterly small.
‘You should be lying down.’ If anything happened to the baby… ‘Let’s get you up to bed.’
‘Bed? After that? You’ve got to be kidding.’ Then she laughed a little, just to show that she was only joking.
‘Bed,’ he repeated. She still looked ghastly and his heart squeezed painfully. ‘Then I’ll call your doctor.’
‘Jake, it’s nothing. Morning sickness, that’s all.’
‘Morning sickness?’ What did she take him for, a fool? It was after seven in the evening. ‘You know that for a fact? Has it happened before?’
‘Well, no, but—’
‘It could be anything. Food poisoning. Or you might have picked up some bug in the garden.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘That too. The compost heap is no place for a pregnant woman.’ He wanted to pick her up and rush her off to hospital. ‘Tell me, Amy. How can it be morning sickness when it’s seven o’clock in the evening?’
‘Well—’ she began. Then stopped. ‘I just assumed—’
‘Exactly. Come on, lean on me.’ About to protest that she could manage on her own two legs, that she was already feeling a lot better, she thought better of it and let him put his arm around her and help her up the stairs.
Let him take off her damp shirt. Let him help her out of her trousers. Confronted by her underwear, he hesitated, then, apparently deciding that he’d removed enough of her clothes, he held up the covers to let her slide between the sheets. Tucked her in before briefly touching her forehead with the back of his fingers.
‘You’re cooler,’ he said, absently brushing her hair back from her face. ‘You’ve got some colour back.’
‘I feel better.’
‘Is there anything you need?’ Just him beside her, holding her. Holding her and their baby. That would be perfect. ‘Anything I can bring you?’
‘No, thanks.’ Then she yawned. ‘Actually, I’m a bit sleepy. That’s all I need. Sleep.’
‘You’ll be all right if I leave you while I call the doctor?’
‘Don’t bother Sally. I’m fine now. Honestly.’ Amy snuggled down against the lavender-scented pillow while his fingers gentled her temple. ‘Absolutely great.’ And she closed her eyes. She had to do that before she could bring herself to send him away. ‘Can you let yourself out, Jake? Lock the door behind you?’
Jake watched her for a moment. Her colour had returned but he still wanted to hear it from a doctor, and after a moment, when he was sure she was asleep, he went downstairs. Dr Sally Maitland was listed on the fast-dial directory.
Her, ‘I’ll be right there,’ did nothing to reassure him.
‘Amy didn’t want me to bother you,’ he said ten minutes later, when he opened the door.
‘It’s no bother. She’s upstairs?’
‘She’s drifted off to sleep. Is that a good thing?’
‘The best.’ She went upstairs and looke
d in, but didn’t wake her. ‘Is it her first bout of sickness?’ she asked when she rejoined Jake.
‘I think so. She said it hadn’t happened before. But it can’t be…well…just…’
‘Morning sickness?’
‘Well, can it? I mean it’s not the morning. Nowhere near.’
‘Yes, well, I’m afraid that early pregnancy nausea can strike at any time of the day.’ She grimaced. ‘Sometimes all day. Give her some dry toast, or a cracker when she wakes up, if she wants it. And if you can find a bottle of ginger ale about the place, she might find that helps the queasiness. I did suggest she get some in.’
‘But…’
Dr Maitland’s eyebrows suggested that ‘but’ wasn’t a word she would countenance. ‘You weren’t thinking of leaving her alone tonight?’
His thoughts—mostly revolving around his own stupidity—weren’t fit for the ears of a lady doctor. ‘No,’ he said, after the pause grew uncomfortably long. ‘No, of course not.’
‘Good.’ She nodded, apparently satisfied. ‘Don’t hesitate to call me again if you’re worried about anything.’ And she headed for the door.
‘That’s it?’
‘No point in disturbing her, Mr Hallam.’ And the lines on her harassed face arranged themselves into a smile. ‘I’ve seen all I need. Tell her I’ll give her a call in the morning.’
He went back upstairs. She was sleeping like a baby now. Her cheeks flushed with colour, her hair pale gold against the pillow. She looked so defenceless, so utterly desirable, and deep within him a siren call promised that if he just stopped fighting it, if he slipped into bed beside her and held her, everything would be fine.
He turned abruptly and took the stairs two at a time. Before he succumbed.
Downstairs, dealing with the basics, clearing up the mess, it was easier to concentrate. He didn’t have any choice but to stay tonight. If at any time in the future he felt the urge to come racing down to the cottage, he’d go and lie down in a darkened room until the feeling passed.
The next time he checked on her, she stirred. ‘How’re you feeling?’