Having His Babies. Lindsay Armstrong

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      ‘Perhaps,’ she answered eventually. ‘Not that it’s ever bothered me greatly,’ she added honestly.

      ‘It hasn’t frightened me away—it’s part of the attraction,’ he said quietly. And he started to kiss her for the first time.

      Initially she was aware that the feel of his fingers moving gently on her cheek was pleasant. That his lips were cool and dry and she seemed not to mind parting her own for him. Then her senses took over.

      The hunger that she’d battened down for twelve months asserted itself and the intimate act of being kissed by a man became a mutual pleasure.

      The difference between her own soft skin and the slight graze she felt as she trailed her fingertips along his jaw, the knowledge that he could probably span her waist in his long, strong hands—all this brought a heady feel of elation and desire.

      The feel of his arms around her, the feel of him against her body was rapturous and ignited a steady flame within her that made her forget the beach, the bench, the park. It was as if the only beacon in the night was this man and the mixture of excitement and quivering need he aroused in her...

      When they drew apart, Clare was stunned and speechless for a few moments. Then she said, ‘I didn’t expect that...’

      He grinned. ‘That we would generate those kind of fireworks? I did.’

      Two weeks later they became lovers.

      

      Coming back to the present again, Clare moved restlessly in her office chair and put her hand on her stomach.

      It was six months since she’d begun a relationship with Lachlan Hewitt. Six months during which she’d been—well, almost blissfully happy, she conceded to herself. Six months during which the power of their attraction still took her by surprise.

      He still called her Slim, but he used it now in moments of great intimacy, when her slender figure with its pale satiny skin fascinated him and together they experienced the kind of passion she’d thought might never exist for her.

      Then there was the friendship they enjoyed, the moments of laughter, the things they did together such as climbing to the top of Lennox Head and watching the hang-gliders take off. But there were no ties—she still worked as hard as ever and if she wasn’t available he never made a fuss, and vice versa.

      She visited Rosemont, the family home, often, and knew young Sean as well as Lachlan’s aunt May who ran the house, and Paddy and Flynn who were the size of small ponies but otherwise charming and gentle dogs.

      By mutual, unspoken consent, she never stayed at Rosemont, however, although Lachlan stayed often at her apartment. But she didn’t feel excluded by this; she wouldn’t have felt right about it anyway.

      Yet there had been times, she mused, still with her hand resting gently on her stomach, when an unidentifiable sense of unease had troubled her. How strange that an unplanned pregnancy should crystallize it all, she thought suddenly, and sat up.

      She picked up her pen to doodle absently on her blotter and asked herself some things that she should have asked months ago; where had it all been leading, for example?

      Had that inexplicable sense of unease grown because she, paradoxically, had wanted more than this undemanding relationship that she’d thought so suited her career? How would she feel if he ended the affair—perhaps she’d been a stopgap while he rebuilt his life after Serena?

      And, of course, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, she mused as she drew a dollar sign on the blotter: what really happened with Serena to make it all go so terribly wrong?

      She put her pen down and contemplated the unlikelihood, if she’d been asked to forecast it, of Clare Montrose getting herself into this situation. Because she’d never been able to visualize herself getting deeply, emotionally tangled with anyone. But then again she’d never visualized herself having this kind of relationship with a man, she reflected. Was she mad?

      Because even without this complication she knew she was deeply and emotionally tangled up with Lachlan Hewitt, although she might not have cared to admit it. The crunch was, however—and she flinched as she acknowledged it—she had no idea where she stood.

      She did have a week, though, she thought suddenly, to really think this through while he was in Sydney on business.

      Her phone buzzed and she rubbed her face wearily, knowing her half-hour was up and she was about to be deluged.

      But it was Lachlan. ‘Clare, can I come for dinner tomorrow night? I’m still in Sydney but instead of being down here for the week I’ve had a change of plan.’

      ‘Of course,’ she said.

      ‘Is something wrong?’

      It shook her that he should have been able to read the sudden tension that had gripped her in her voice.

      ‘No, not at all. Well, I’m flat out as usual.’

      ‘See you about seven-thirty, then?’

      ‘Yes. I ... I’ll look forward to it. Bye!’ She put the phone down and closed her eyes. Because her week to prepare her—defences?—had suddenly shrunk to overnight.

      And her phone rang again and would keep ringing all afternoon, she knew.

      CHAPTER TWO

      AT SEVEN-FIFTEEN the following evening, Clare was ready—or as ready as she’d ever be, she thought.

      The table was set on the veranda of her first-floor apartment; it was a beautiful evening and the sun was setting. The beach at Lennox Head curved in a seven mile arc towards Broken Head to the north, and the setting sun bathed it in a transitory, golden pink and whitened the surf as it rolled in to a luminous radiance.

      In front of her two-storey apartment block, built tastefully like a cluster of town houses with pale grey walls and shingled roofs, thick lush grass grew to the rocks that fringed the water’s edge. Immediately to the south, Lennox Head itself rose, clad in emerald-green, to its rocky lip. It was a favourite hang-gliding spot and on weekends provided a colourful, at times heart-stopping spectacle.

      The bay formed by Lennox Head and Broken Head was a fisherman’s paradise—of the human variety, who fished off the rocks and launched small boats from the beach, and the dolphin variety. It was common to see them in the morning and late afternoons as they curved through the water, flashing their fins.

      The village itself was within walking distance, small but colourful with pavement cafés and a holiday atmosphere.

      None of this was on Clare’s mind as she stood before her bedroom mirror and studied herself anxiously.

      She wore a long, cool dress in a soft watermelon-pink, gold sandals, and her dark hair was tucked behind her ears to reveal gold hoop earrings studded with tiny pearls.

      The dress was loose and cut on a bias so it flowed around her as she moved, and it was perfect for a warm January evening, but she’d actually chosen it for its unrevealing nature.

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