Modern Romance August 2019 Books 1-4. Heidi Rice

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      Her fingers crept to touch her still-concave belly and she saw him follow the movement with the watchful attention of a cheetah she’d once seen on a TV wildlife programme, just before it pounced on some poor and unsuspecting prey.

      ‘How...pregnant are you?’ he questioned, lifting that empty gaze to her face.

      He said the word pregnant like someone trying out a new piece of vocabulary, which was rather ironic given that he was such a remarkable linguist. And Tara found herself wanting to tell him that it felt just as strange for her. That she was as mixed up and scared and uncertain about the future as he must be. But she couldn’t admit to that because she needed to be strong. Strong for her baby as well as for herself. She wasn’t going to show weakness because she didn’t want him to think she was throwing herself in front of him and asking for anything he wasn’t prepared to give.

      ‘It’s still very early. Seven weeks.’

      ‘And you’re certain?’

      ‘I did a test.’

      ‘A reliable test?’

      Silently, she counted to ten. ‘I didn’t buy some dodgy kit at the cut-price store, if that’s what you’re hinting at, Lucas. I’m definitely pregnant.’

      ‘Have you seen a doctor?’

      She hesitated. ‘No. Not yet.’ Would it sound ridiculous to tell him that she’d baulked at going to see the friendly family doctor in Dalkey—himself a grandfather—terrified of how she was going to answer when he asked her about the father of her baby? Terrified he would judge her, as people seemed to have been doing all her life.

      She watched as Lucas walked over to the cocktail cabinet—a gleaming affair of beaten gold and shiny chrome—but he seemed to think better of it and turned back to face her, that remote expression still making his face look stony and inaccessible.

      ‘So what do we do next?’ He raised his dark brows. ‘Any ideas? You must have had something in mind when you flew all this way to tell me. You want to have this baby, I take it?’

      Tara screwed her face up as a blade of anger spiked into her and for a moment she actually thought she might burst into tears. ‘Of course I want this baby!’ she retaliated. ‘What kind of a woman wouldn’t want her baby?’

      She wondered what had caused that look of real pain to cross his face and thought it ironic that if they had some of the closeness of real lovers, she might have asked him. But they weren’t real lovers. They were just two people who had let passion get the better of them and were having to deal with the consequences.

      ‘So is it a wedding ring you’re after?’ he enquired caustically. ‘Is that it?’

      ‘I’ve no desire to marry someone who finds it impossible to conceal his disgust at such a prospect!’

      ‘I can’t help the way I feel, Tara. I’m not going to lie. I told you I never wanted children,’ he gritted out. ‘And the logical follow-on from that is that I never wanted marriage either.’

      ‘I didn’t come here for either of those things,’ she defended. ‘But at least now I know exactly where I stand.’ Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag, which was still tied diagonally across her chest like a school satchel—in case anyone had tried to mug her. ‘And since I’ve done what I set out to do, I’ll be on my way.’

      ‘Oh, really?’ Dark eyebrows shot up and were hidden by his tousled dark hair. ‘And where do you think you’re going?’

      She drew her shoulders back proudly. ‘Back to Dublin, of course.’

      He shook his head. ‘You can’t go back to Dublin.’

      ‘Oh, I think you’ll find I can do anything I please, Lucas Conway,’ she answered, and for the first time in many hours she actually found comfort in a sense of her own empowerment. ‘And you can’t stop me.’

      But it was funny how sometimes your own body could rebel and that you had no idea what was going on inside you. Maybe it was the economy flight which had been extremely cramped, or perhaps it had something to do with the dreadful food she’d been served during that journey, which she personally wouldn’t have given to a dog. Add to that her see-sawing hormones and troubled emotions and no wonder that a sudden powerful wave of nausea washed over her.

      Did her face blanch? Was that why Lucas stepped forward, an unfamiliar look of concern creasing his face as he reached out towards her? ‘Tara? Are you okay?’

      There was no delicate way to say it, even though it was an intimacy she had no desire to share with a man who’d shown her not one iota of compassion or respect since she’d got here.

      She swayed like a blade of grass in the wind. ‘I think I’m going to be sick!’ she gasped.

      He muttered something in French—or was it Italian?—and Tara moaned in dismay as he caught hold of her before she fell, lifting her up into his arms. Last time he’d carried her it had been a shortcut to his bed—and hadn’t that been the beginning of all this trouble?—but this time he merely carried her to the nearest bathroom so she could give into the intense nausea which was gripping her. And as she bent over the bowl and started to retch he was still there, brushing away the curls which were dangling around her face, even though she tried to push him away with her elbow.

      ‘G-go away,’ she gasped, mortified.

      ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

      ‘I don’t want you seeing me like this.’

      ‘Don’t worry about it, Tara,’ he drawled. ‘I’ve been on enough school football trips to have witnessed plenty of boys being sick.’

      ‘It’s not the same,’ she moaned.

      ‘Stop talking.’

      She did but it took a while before she felt better-which was presumably why she allowed Lucas to dab at her face with a deliciously cool cloth. Then, after a moment of cold, hard scrutiny, he handed her some paste and a spare toothbrush.

      ‘Wash up and take as long as you like. Call me if you need me. I’ll be right outside.’

      Tara waited until he had closed the bathroom door behind him, and as she staggered to her feet to the mirror she looked in horror at the white-faced reflection staring back at her. Her eyes were huge and haunted and her hair couldn’t have been more of a mess, which was saying something. She tugged at the elastic band so that her curls tumbled free and shook her head impatiently.

      What had she done?

      Thrown up in front of a man who didn’t want her here. Given him news he didn’t want, a fact which he’d made no attempt to hide. Even worse, she was thousands of miles from home.

      Past caring about her old vest top, she peeled off her too-hot sweater, splashed her face with water and then vigorously washed her hands until the suds stopped being grey. Then she brushed her teeth until they were minty-fresh and removed a hotel comb from its little packet of cellophane. It was slightly too small to properly attack her awry curls but she managed to marginally tame them before going over to the door. Whatever happened, СКАЧАТЬ