by Liz Fielding
‘That would be a first.’ He was the one who should be grateful, he thought as he went down to the kitchen. Grateful for the chance to escape, get his libido back under control, get his head straight. He couldn’t quite make it. ‘Where is Dorothy?’ he asked when he returned, as he placed the fresh pack carefully over her swollen knee, taking the opportunity to check out the damage and trying not to notice that her beautiful ankles hadn’t swollen a bit.
‘It’s the pensioners’ lunch club today. She’s helping out.’
‘She should be here, with you.’
‘That’s what she said, but I really needed a break. Dorothy is a wonderful woman, but she has this thing about polishing. Everything squeaks it’s so clean. Poor Harry has been banned from the bedroom altogether.’
‘Is that why he’s looking so fed up? Shall I fetch him?’
‘Later,’ she said. She moved the bundle of knitting, dumping it in a basket beside the bed, and then patted the bed. Not the edge, where he’d sat so briefly, but the wide inviting space at her side. ‘I really need some human company. Come and put your feet up, tell me what you’ve been doing.’
‘Nothing,’ he said, staring at the double bed with longing. ‘Working, mostly.’ If only the longing was simply for rest. But he’d been on the move for twenty-four hours and was bone weary, so despite that swift jag of desire it would probably be all right. He peeled off his jacket, kicked off his shoes and lowered himself carefully beside her so as not to disturb her knee.
‘Successful trip?’ she asked.
‘I’m not here to discuss business,’ he said, stretching out on his side, propping himself on his elbow so that he could look at her. He needed to feast on the sight of her, reassure himself that she was safe. He reached out for her hand and she met him halfway, carried his hand to place it on their growing baby, covering it with her own. The closeness came as a shock after weeks of abstinence, of keeping his distance, and he closed his eyes as he remembered his mouth on her breasts, his face against the swell of their growing child. Then tried to shut it out. Too late. ‘I want to know what’s been happening to you,’ he said thickly.
‘Me? I’m just a total fraud. If it wasn’t for this stupid knee—’
‘And the “stupid” bang on the head,’ he said, bending to touch the bruise darkening her forehead with his lips. ‘Not forgetting the “stupid” bruised shoulder.’ He resisted the urge to kiss that better, too. Who knew where that kind of thing might lead to?
‘Uh-oh… Someone’s been telling tales,’ she said, brushing off her injuries with a laugh, making a joke of it.
‘It’s not funny, Amy. I went racing to the hospital expecting to find you at death’s door—’
‘Did you?’ She frowned. Then groaned. ‘Oh, no. Please don’t say you came rushing home just because someone told you I’d had an accident? I mean, as accidents go, it was a pretty minor affair.’
‘Willow may have omitted to tell me that you’d been treated as an outpatient,’ he agreed. ‘But when you’re pregnant no accident can be considered minor.’
‘Willow?’ She lifted her free hand in a helpless little gesture, pushing back a thick cowlick of pale gold hair.
‘Not Dorothy?’
‘No, and I’ll be asking her why she didn’t think it necessary to call my office when I see her. I rang Maggie every day—’ He stopped. He’d rung Maggie every day to check for messages. Just in case. He should have been phoning Amy.
When he didn’t continue, Amy said, ‘You musn’t blame Dorothy, Jake. She was going to ring your office—’
‘So why didn’t she?’
She lowered her lashes. ‘Poor Dorothy. I’m ashamed to tell you.’
‘But you will.’
‘Will I?’ She glanced sideways at him, from beneath a fringe of lashes that should have had a health warning attached. As should her eyes. She could switch from go-to-hell wicked to little-girl innocent in a second. Right now they were all innocence, but he wasn’t fooled for a moment. He responded to her challenge with nothing more than a lift of his brows. ‘I was really bad, Jake.’
‘So what’s new?’
She pulled a face. ‘I refused to eat the chicken soup, or the lightly boiled egg, or any of the other good things she assured me were absolutely essential for my recovery until I extracted her solemn promise not to call you. You know Dorothy. She’s not the kind of woman to break a promise.’
‘That was bad,’ he agreed. ‘Pity about Willow.’
‘Yes. I assumed she had more sense than to bother you with something this minor.’
‘She didn’t call me. I rang her,’ he said. ‘Or rather I rang Mike. About something else entirely. It’s just as well, since there seems to have been a conspiracy to keep me in the dark.’
‘Nonsense.’ She shrugged. ‘Dorothy put up a spirited fight, but in the end even she had to agree that whilst this—’ she pointed at her knee ‘—might be incapacitating and painful and a monumental nuisance, it’s nothing to make a transatlantic drama about.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ He shifted the pillows at his shoulders, settling down to make himself more comfortable. Getting closer. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘There’s nothing to tell.’ He didn’t respond to this obvious understatement, simply lifted his hand in a gesture that said, Please be serious. ‘Well, not much. It was all so stupid. The bus was pulling into a stop and I—’
‘You drove into a bus?’
‘What?’ She looked down at him, frowned. ‘No, of course I didn’t. I didn’t drive into anything. I’m an excellent driver. I’ve already passed my written test. That entitles me to half your life story, by the way—’
‘No, it doesn’t, sweetheart. All or nothing.’
‘Oh, be fair! I’ve had to cancel my test!’
He wasn’t falling for that. ‘Don’t change the subject. The bus was pulling into a stop. If you didn’t hit it, what did you do?’
‘Nothing! I was a passenger. I was on my way to the antenatal clinic. Just a routine check-up,’ she added, before he could ask.
‘And you haven’t heard of taxis, I suppose?’
‘If we don’t support our local bus service, Jake, we’ll lose it.’ She waited for an argument, but he didn’t waste his breath. ‘Anyway, the bus was pulling into my stop. I’d just got up when a child dancing around at the bus stop toppled off the kerb. The driver hit the brakes and I lost my balance. She wasn’t hurt,’ she reassured him. He said nothing, but she was apparently reading his mind, because she said, ‘I’d have been all right, too, but for the wobbly muscles and the dodgy centre of gravity.’ She paused, waiting for him to smile. He didn’t. ‘It’s nothing, Jake.’
But it could have been everything. On the long flight from California he’d managed to scare himself witless thinking about just how bad it could be. How empty the world would be without Amy somewhere in it. Without their baby.
‘It isn’t nothing. You were hurt.’
‘Yes, well, it’s just a twisted knee—and when I say just a twisted knee I want you to know that I’m being forbearing and patient and incredibly noble here—’
‘What about the baby? No after-effects? You’ve seen a specialist?’
‘She’s fine.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘You don’t have to take my word for it.’ She reached across and took a small folder from the night table and handed it to him. ‘See for yourself.’
He opened it up and was confronted with an image that for a moment didn’t mean anything to him. Then it did, and the earth turned while he forgot to breathe.
‘Is this what I think it is?’
‘It’s a picture of your daughter at thirty-two weeks old. They did a scan, just to be on the safe side.’
His daughter. Until now the idea of the baby had been a vague, remote idea. Something to be dealt with on a practical level. But to see the reality of her, a tiny hand, fingers. He swallowed, reached out blindly, and Amy caught his
hand.
‘It’s incredible…’
‘I know. She’s amazing, isn’t she? I’ve been playing her the CD you bought her, and I’ve been reading to her from the poetry book.’ She took his hand and placed it on the place where her baby lay beneath her breast.
‘She’s awake. Listening to your voice. Talk to her, Jake.’
He opened his mouth, but couldn’t think of a thing to say. He didn’t know how to speak to his child. He’d had no example to follow. No childhood legacy of soft words to draw on, no deep memory well of paternal affection to draw on.
‘I’m amazed at how much bigger you are,’ he said.
Her sigh was little more than a breath. Then, holding his hand against the curve of her belly, as if willing him to embrace the baby she was carrying, she quipped, ‘Nothing to choose between me and a hippopotamus.’
‘A very small hippopotamus,’ he replied.
‘How kind.’
No. Guilt wasn’t kindness. But he couldn’t expect her to understand. No one could understand. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, didn’t know how important this small life was.
He knew only too well. But he also knew how easy it was to inflict hurt—not physical hurt, but the careless kind that left no visible scars, no bruises. Just, nothing. A legacy he had determined never to pass on.
‘I can’t believe how time has flown,’ he said, abruptly changing the subject. ‘You’re still set on a home delivery?’
‘It’s all arranged. The midwife is booked, Sally is standing by—’ Beneath his hand the baby shifted, the movement unexpectedly powerful, and he looked up in surprise. Amy was watching him. ‘She turned over,’ she explained. ‘She’ll sleep now.’
‘Babies sleep?’
‘Of course.’
‘And they said it was definitely a girl?’ He looked at the scan again. He was no expert but he’d have said otherwise.
‘I didn’t ask. I know it’s a girl. Do you mind?’
About to say that it made no difference to him, he thought better of it. He was no longer sure what he felt beyond a desperate longing that the child should be strong and happy. And, of the two, he thought happy was the most important. But she was waiting for an answer.
‘So long as it’s one or the other.’
‘I think I can manage that,’ she said, but he thought that she smiled out of politeness, and perhaps to hide her disappointment that he couldn’t have shown a little more passionate involvement.
He longed to tell her that it was the most important thing in the world to him. He was no longer sure what he felt. The rollercoaster of fear, exhaustion, relief, was just too much. He needed a shower. He needed to put some space between them before he said something that he could never recall and knew he would immediately regret.
‘A girl is fine. But I think you’re fooling yourself,’ he said, returning the picture to her. ‘That is without doubt a boy.’
‘If it’s a boy, you can choose his name.’
‘George it is then.’
She smiled indulgently. ‘You look as if you’re about to drop, Jake. Take a nap if you want to. Dorothy’s taken the futon into my office. She found the nursery decor a little too stimulating,’ she explained, ‘so I’m afraid you’ll have to bunk up with me.’ Then she grinned. ‘But, hampered as I am by my injuries and imminent maternity, you’ll be quite safe.’ Thus neatly implying she didn’t expect him to be in the least bit turned on by her.
She was underestimating herself.
He might be safe from her physical presence, but inside his head he didn’t feel safe. Just to think of her was taking a risk. ‘You could use more room,’ he said, not so much changing the subject as shifting it sideways. ‘You’ll need somewhere for a nanny.’
‘I don’t need a nanny.’
‘Be realistic, Amy.’ On her own with a baby, running a growing business, she’d have to have live-in help.
‘You could use your office for the time being, I suppose…’
‘It’s not big enough for a baby, let alone a nanny. And I need my home office even more now.’
‘Oh?’
‘This accident has forced me to rethink my plans. I’ve put Vicki in charge of the shop full-time; I’m going to concentrate on the postal and internet business.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose. And Vicki’s right about the name. Why don’t you franchise it?’
She glanced at him thoughtfully. ‘Put an “Amaryllis Jones” in every high street?’
‘Why not? The black and gold image is very powerful and the name is memorable.’
‘Even jet-lagged you’re a money machine, aren’t you?’ She didn’t sound particularly pleased. ‘Do you ever stop thinking about business?’
‘Everyone should be good at something, and since you won’t take my money I’ll have to concentrate on making you a millionaire in your own right. Leave it with me. I’ll make some enquiries. But you are still going to need more room here.’
‘I’ll convert the attic one day, when Polly needs a study, somewhere to be private.’ She smiled. ‘There’s no rush.’ And, having evoked an image of his daughter as a teenager, with a life of her own, secrets, boys falling in love with her, she lay back against the pillows and stroked the curve of her belly.
‘There’s always less time than you think, Amy.’ Then, because he wasn’t letting her off scot-free, ‘And George will need somewhere to lay out his train set.’
‘What train set?’
‘The one I’m going to buy him the day he’s born. Isn’t that what fathers are supposed to do?’
‘Right after passing round the cigars,’ she agreed, with undisguised amusement. ‘Thanks for racing home, Jake. I really needed a laugh. I’m sure Polly will love having a train set to play with.’ She kissed his brow. ‘And I appreciate your concern.’
Concern? Did she really think he’d felt something as pallid and milksop-weak as simple concern? The feelings that had raged through him had been far more complex, extraordinarily powerful. New.
Tenderness, fear, a fierce protectiveness.
‘Yes, well, maybe I overreacted a little,’ he said, mentally stepping back from the brink, rubbing his hand over his face. He was tired, and she was right; he’d been concerned. His imagination had been working overtime, that was all. ‘Willow was uncharacteristically vague.’
‘How unlike her. Was it a bad line?’
It had been as clear as a bell between Upper Haughton and Silicon Valley… Maybe between his ear and his brain the message had got a bit scrambled. Maybe guilt had clouded his usual clarity of thought. Willow’s lack of lucidity might have been intentional, but he hadn’t asked any of the right questions. Maybe he hadn’t wanted reassurance. Maybe he’d just wanted an excuse to come home. He closed his eyes. Home.
‘Jake?’
‘Mmm?’
Her fingers feathered his forehead, his temples, his cheeks, and his last coherent thought was that he was being stroked with rose petals.
Amy saw Jake’s heavy lids succumb to gravity with considerable relief. He looked terrible, as if he’d been pushing himself beyond endurance for too long. Or maybe flying nonstop from California accounted for his hollowed eyes, the drawn look about his mouth.
Crazy.
He could have phoned Dorothy. Called his secretary. Jumping on the first aircraft was…promising.
She murmured his name. ‘Jake?’ He mumbled something unintelligible from the slow slide into sleep and turned onto his back.
She smiled, reached for the scented oil on her night table. The blissful scent of rose absolute was reputed to ease emotional stress, and she’d been giving it a pretty tough workout since Jake had driven off into the night weeks ago.
She poured a little into her palm, spread it over her hands and then stroked her lightly oiled fingers over his forehead, smoothing out the lines, brushing her thumb-tips over his temples. Her fingertips grated over his unshaven chin, the hollow cheeks. He’d lost so much weig
ht that she’d been hard pushed to hide her shock when she first saw him.
She stroked his neck, eased her fingers beneath his collar and over his shoulders, and gradually she felt the tension slip away from him as he sank into a dreamless sleep. Then she carefully unbuckled his belt and slipped it through the loops, before unfastening the button at his waist and lowering herself down beside him. Her shoulder was touching his, her foot was resting against his ankle and, since he was asleep and wouldn’t ever know, she slipped her fingers through his.
The door was open and after a while Harry leapt onto the bed, purring loudly, pounding at the cover with his paws until Jake stirred, turned over, and settled with his face pressed up against her breast.
Amy put her arm around him, gently kissed his forehead and watched him sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
EIGHTH MONTH. The good news is that your baby is growing steadily. The bad news is that the heartburn is getting worse, your ankles may be swollen and you feel slightly less graceful than a hippopotamus. Keep emergency numbers close at hand.
JAKE stirred, drifting slowly up from the depths of sleep with a feeling of well being. An unaccustomed peace. And when he opened his eyes he knew why. He was in Amy’s bed. He was home.
It got better. He was naked in Amy’s bed. Sadly he had no recollection of getting that way. He looked at his wristwatch and groaned. It was nearly two o’clock and the thin, watery sun creeping over the windowsill made that two in the afternoon.
He needed a shower, he needed to call his office—be in his office—but mostly he needed to see Amy. As his own bag was still downstairs, he unhooked a roomy bathrobe from behind the door, wrapped it about him and went in search of her.
She was in her tiny office at the far end of the landing, her leg propped up on a cushioned chair as she worked at her computer. She turned, smiled at him, and he forgot why it had ever seemed so important to leave.