Beauty and the Wolf / Their Miracle Twins
Page 17
Who got around like that in London?
Bel’s eyes drifted down long demin-clad legs to those boots. They’d genuinely seen time out in the fields and were unmistakably the source of the eau d’earth since the rest of him was straight-from-the-shower spotless. The familiar scent gave her flagging spirits the tiniest boost.
Outdoors. Her favourite place in the world.
Not that she’d be getting out of her flat and into the wilds much once she was heavy with child. Another sacrifice she’d willingly make to raise her sister’s children. Though not without some sorrow.
As she lifted her eyes, she realised he’d tracked her glance down to his mud-crusted boots. She quickly returned to her paperwork as he spoke to the admissions clerk.
‘Russel Ives is expecting me.’
Every hair on Bel’s neck stood on end and she sucked in a breath as painful as the coldest blast of Thames-chilled air.
Australian. Not American.
She hadn’t heard the Aussie accent for two years, since they’d lost Drew. To hear it now, on a stranger, on this day of all days … She blinked rapidly past the unexpected sting in her eyes.
‘Legal dep—?’
Tanned fingers shot out into mid air to halt the clerk’s speech. Her mouth snapped shut with an audible click. Bel felt heat on her bent head and glanced up from her mountain of admissions paperwork to meet two male eyes. They should have been pretty—the ash of the tempestuous skies outside and with lashes to rival her own—but they were flat and … lifeless. And they were staring right at her.
‘Do you mind?’ His voice was as empty as his eyes.
Bel stiffened immediately at the presumption. She gave him her best up yours smile. ‘Not at all. Say whatever you want.’
His silent glare was all the answer she got.
God, he even looked a bit like Drew—in the heavy-lidded shape of his eyes, the furrowed brow. Who knew, maybe all Australian men looked a little bit alike? Colonial origins, small founding gene pool and all that. But this man’s arrogant manner was nothing like the charming Aussie her sister had fallen in love with, even if the single eyebrow lift was straight out of Drew’s playbook.
Her stomach curled. His former playbook.
Sobriety brought her back to the whole purpose of today’s visit. This wasn’t a day to be messing with the minds of egotistical foreigners. But it galled her to concede even something as simple as an admissions desk, so she took just a tiny bit longer than necessary pulling her papers together and tugging the loaned clipboard to her chest, then she stepped quietly away and crossed to one of the comfortable waiting room couches to finish the forms.
Maybe his wife’s in here somewhere, dying of cancer? Reasonable Bel forced her way forward to try and justify the man’s appalling manners. Maybe he’s dying of something himself? Her eyes flicked up briefly and assessed the back view of him. Fit, strong, excellent carriage. Amazing in jeans. No, that body wasn’t the slightest bit ill. And as he ran his agitated left hand through his freshly washed hair, she confirmed something else, too.
No wife.
Just a jerk then. The simplest solution was often the best. Wasn’t that what Gwen used to say? Thinking of her sister helped take her mind off the unsettling feelings that being treated like crap engendered. If she wanted to be treated like dirt she could go home to her parents.
She got it free there!
It was part of the reason she’d made the decision to raise her sister’s babies as her own. A chance to have someone look at her as if she meant something. Something she’d not had for over two years since losing the people closest to her. She slid her hand low on her flat belly. In a couple of hours she was going to have two lives nestled in there—Gwen and Drew’s DNA but her children. And Rochesters. Just a bunch of frozen cells right now, not even human in the eyes of the law, but family in the eyes of their biological aunt.
Their about-to-be mother.
Bel’s heart tripped and thumped hard in its recovery. Even thinking the word was a huge adjustment. What did she know about mothering? But the alternatives were purely unthinkable. Disposal, donation or eternity suspended in ice. Either way, that was her blood being banished from the family. And Bel was determined that no more Rochesters would feel the sting of not being wanted.
Her loud sigh achieved the unimaginable and drew the admission clerk’s gaze off the man in front of her. Mr Personality had finally finished his long discussion and now leaned on the admissions counter, waiting, as she had. Refusing to yield an inch more to some overly decorative tourist, she pushed to her feet and returned her forms to the desk, clattering the clipboard down noisily right next to his elbow.
The clerk gave Bel her full attention now, her attempts at engaging the man visibly fruitless. ‘The doctor will see you now. You know the way?’
Bel smiled. ‘Thank you. Have a nice day.’ It was directed to the clerk but purely for the benefit of the Wonder from Down Under. A little lesson in etiquette for him.
Heh.
The clerk reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘Good luck, yeah?’
Bel nodded, but as she turned towards the corridor her gaze collided with a pair of male eyes, still flat but harbouring a strange new quality.
Was that a hint of … regret? Was he possibly embarrassed by his dreadful manners earlier? She glanced at the rugged, closed face and doubted it, then she pulled her overnight bag up into a death grip, turned towards the corridor and let her long legs carry her off.
She was halfway to the ward before it dawned on her that she was no longer the slightest bit nervous.
‘Is it too late to vote for drugs?’ Bel asked with less quaver in her voice than she felt.
She looked at the array of probes, tubes and long, long needles laid out beside her and asked herself—again—whether staying conscious was the right decision. But if there was no conception to be around for, then the transfer was as close as she was going to get to the moment Gwen’s embryos became hers. Besides, her specialist had elected to go in through her belly button rather than up the birth canal given her … status … and that made it possible to watch the procedure with only a local anaesthetic.
The nurse added a nasty-looking hypodermic to the tray.
‘Far too late.’ Dr Cabanallo smiled at her.
‘But going up has to be easier, surely. Isn’t that what it’s designed for?’
A nurse chuckled but the specialist’s eyes widened in horror. ‘And risk ruining my first ever miracle birth? Surely you jest.’
Ah, yes … Apparently the virgin jokes just never got old. Though the jury was still out on which Dr Cabanallo thought was more miraculous—a virgin having a baby in the first place, or a girl from Chelsea still being … intact … at twenty-three. It wasn’t the first time she’d faced that silent scepticism.
‘Right,’ she said lightly. ‘I forgot this was all about you.’
‘Well, of course it is, Belinda—did you not read your agreement before you signed it?’
Despite the banter, she and Marco Cabanallo got on brilliantly. She’d shopped three IVF clinics until she’d met and clicked with the man now fiddling around with her midsection.
‘Okay,’ he said, lifting his head from a brief inspection in a microscopic device across the room. ‘Let’s get this party started …’
Somewhere down the hall voices were raised. One nurse turned to frown towards the unusual interruption as the other attended the specialist. The voices continued and drew closer. Dr Cabanallo lifted his head. So did both nurses. So, finally, did Bel.
‘What the hell …?’ He stripped off his gloves and stormed from the theatre as two suited men, one security guard and one ominously familiar face appeared on the other side of the observation glass.
The Wonder from Down Under.
His eyes widened and his brow formed more lines than a topographical map as he saw her propped up on the table. But the surprise quickly turned dark as she stared back at him. Bel glanced dow
n at her gown to make sure everything important was covered now that there was a room full of strangers along for the ride. With the exception of an iodine stained square of her flat belly visible through the window cut in her blue gown, it was.
Dr Cabanallo’s heated entry into the viewing room muted immediately as he spoke in a low tone to the men in suits. He glanced up at Bel, then back at the two men and shook his head, his waving hands testament to his Italian origins. Bel frowned, then looked back at the stranger, whose eyes had not left hers. As if he was studying her for the slightest reaction. Or trying to figure something out.
Dr Cabanallo’s entire body language shifted. Became defensive. He pulled his face mask down around his throat and shrugged, shaking his head.
Bel could make out a few recognisable shapes on his lips. No. Then, too late. There was more furious discussion and then some hand waving from one of the suits. The Australian still did not take his eyes off her but he didn’t say a word to anyone on his side of the glass, either.
She turned to him and frowned in query.
Without so much as blinking, he drew a sheet of paper from his pocket, unfolded it carefully, stepped forward to the glass nearest her and slapped it hard up against the window so she could read it.
Bel had to tip her head at an angle to see it and the text was too small to make out from this distance, but she recognised the crown letterhead immediately, and the formatting of the document which matched that of her court approval to proceed with the embryo transfer …
Her stomach tightened.
… and the big, fat, bold word centred at the top of the page.
Injunction.
Her whole body heaved as the air rushed out of it. Then she lifted her eyes back to the twin bullets peering at her over the top of the court notice.
Hate-filled. Pitiless.
Then she burst into tears.
CHAPTER TWO
RIGHT up until then …
Right up until the moment that Belinda Rochester’s picture-perfect face had crumpled and folded in on itself in a flood of anguished tears, Flynn Bradley figured he had her nailed. A spoilt princess used to getting her own way. A younger version of her upper class sister.
But then she’d spread her hands across her face as if she could possibly hide from them all. From the truth. Except they weren’t tantrum tears. They were genuine, one hundred per cent pure devastation. The same tears his mother had cried when they were notified about Drew’s death. By the authorities, not by the high-and-mighty Rochesters, who’d never so much as sent a text message to offer condolences.
Now, the medical staff worked hard to help calm Gwen’s little sister down. One of them muttered something about the hormones she was pumped full of—but it seemed to be more for Belinda’s reassurance than for his—and slowly, awkwardly, she managed to regain some composure. The Italian was livid, ranting and roaming around the theatre in his surgical scrubs between bouts of staring obsessively at the clock. The security guard was tense, ready for anything. The hospital legals were—typically—remaining calm and quiet and waiting for all the histrionics to die down.
And he …
He was almost weak-kneed with relief. It was only the Bradley iron will that had him still upright.
But he’d made it in time.
Ten thousand miles and a three-hour sprint by car and he’d walked in here just as they were beginning. He’d been insane to take himself on a brisk circuit of the neighbouring gardens to settle his nerves, but he’d really needed to feel earth instead of pavement beneath his feet. Getting the injunction was the first win; it gave him enough time to appeal against this ludicrous court order. He’d picked it up from an out-of-hours bailiff on the way from Heathrow and he’d headed straight to the hospital to slap it on their legal department.
When he’d discovered the transfer procedure was happening right now, while he sat in a room full of hospital lawyers … That had nearly broken him. They’d practically chased him down the warren of corridors to this theatre.
He looked at Gwen’s sister again. All geared up in her hospital gown, looking all of sixteen with her flame-coloured hair piled high on her head and her face free of make-up. So horribly close to being ready.
‘Would someone please tell me what is going on?’
Belinda Rochester’s tiny voice matched her appearance perfectly. He’d been floored when he realised she was the same woman from the hospital foyer—she of the forever legs and the provocative knee-high suede boots. Her snipe was the only thing to even vaguely slap him out of the pressure-induced dark place he’d been in since getting word of the approval of the injunction.
The flash of haughty disdain in her blue eyes as she looked at his muddy boots had managed to bring him back to the real world. Just a little bit. He should have guessed then that she was a Rochester.
No wonder Drew had loved it in London so much. Where cultured manners reigned.
‘Miss Rochester …’ One of the legals stepped in to bring her up to speed. Her red-rimmed eyes widened and kept on widening as she discovered why he was here. ‘It’s simply an unacceptable level of risk for the hospital. I’m sorry.’
She turned her confusion to Flynn. ‘Appealing the custody award? Why? On what grounds?’
‘On the grounds that my family wasn’t consulted,’ he bit out.
‘Wh … What family?’
‘The Bradley family. Drew’s family.’
Blue eyes narrowed. ‘But … Drew’s family were contacted. They made no petition.’
He shrugged. ‘The letter was delayed.’ Actually, not entirely true but close enough.
That seemed to fire her up. A single strand of phoenix-red hair fell down over her face. She brushed it away savagely. ‘You’re kidding me—you’re playing the “we didn’t get the letter” card? It’s been ten months!’
He shrugged again. They had, in fact, received the letter. But some bureaucratic bungle saw it addressed to Drew by mistake, and his still-grieving mother had buried it amongst his other belongings, unable to face one more reminder of his death or—worse—one more demand for death taxes. As if losing him once wasn’t bad enough … It was only luck that saw Flynn find the legal-looking letter when going through his brother’s things the month before.
He’d nearly killed himself driving the three hours to Sydney at top speed to get the best lawyer his savings could buy.
Belinda swung her legs over the edge of the table to sit up straighter. He’d thought they were long back out in the foyer. Here, they went on eternally. Her sister hadn’t been that tall. He dragged his eyes back up to her blazing ones.
So, she was a fast rebounder.
‘Regardless, I’m the closest living relative.’
He snorted. ‘In what universe?’
‘Gwen was my sister. Biologically, I’m the closest relative to these children.’
‘And Drew was my brother. That makes me just as close, genetically, to the embryos.’ Damned if he was going to let her emotionalise this any further by acting as if two living, breathing kids stood in the room with them.
She reeled back. ‘Drew didn’t have a brother.’
Flynn sucked back the knives. Why that, particularly, should have hurt so badly after everything that had gone down between him and Drew … But to effectively disown him … ‘I have a birth certificate that says otherwise.’
She frowned. ‘Gwen wouldn’t keep something like that a secret.’
Had Drew been so under the Rochester spell he’d denied his family’s existence? His brother’s? Old hurts fuelled his anger. ‘Well, the fact remains Drew and I were brothers and I have a court injunction to prove it.’
The cornflower eyes blazed with bewilderment and fear. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want to stop the transfer.’
‘Why?’
‘Because your right to the embryos is no longer absolute. I have an equal right under the law.’
She frowned and pressed slim, perfect
ly manicured fingers to her temples. Every other person in the room was silent. ‘You want to raise the babies?’
‘I want the question of custody revisited,’ he hedged. He sure as hell didn’t want the only thing left of Drew being lost to his family. This was something concrete he could do. Something positive.
‘But … There’s no time …’ She turned her pained face to the doctor. ‘Is there, Marco?’
All focus shifted to the doctor. He’d tell her—that what started on ice could stay on ice indefinitely. Certainly long enough for him to get custody of Drew’s biological material for his family. Not hers.
‘Actually, no, there’s not.’
Flynn’s head snapped around. What? ‘But the implantation hasn’t started.’
‘The embryos are prepared for transfer. They’re human DNA, Mr Bradley. You can’t simply re-freeze them like a pound of sausages if you change your mind.’
Belinda’s blue eyes flared. ‘They need to go in!’
The doctor nodded. ‘Yes. They do.’
One of the hospital attorneys chimed in, drawing Belinda’s focus with a snap. ‘They’re not going in.’
‘But they’ll die!’ She dragged her eyes back to his, glittering blue again, but this time with fear. ‘Please! You’ll kill them.’
Tight claws skidded down his spine. That DNA was the only tiny part of Drew the fates had left behind when that Thai ferry sank. It was the gift of life none of his family had known a thing about. A second chance. He didn’t want those cells anywhere near the Rochesters, let alone in one of them, but letting them die was absolutely not going to happen.
He turned to the attorneys. ‘What are our options?’
The Italian cut in. ‘How many verdant, prepared wombs do you see in this room, Mr Bradley?’
He looked around desperately and his eyes landed on one of the nursing staff.
She snorted and crossed her arms across an ample chest and barked at him disapprovingly in her broad accent, ‘Don’t you look at me, sunshine!’
He snapped his gaze back to the suits. ‘There must be another option. Somewhere else to store the embryos …’