Her Secret Pregnancy. Sharon Kendrick

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       CHAPTER THREE

      DONNA paid her bill and then made her way out of the restaurant, trying not to notice that people were staring and wondering if it was because she’d been sitting with Marcus.

      It had not been the meeting she’d fantasised about. She had been naive. And stupid. Imagining that all those sparks of sexual attraction would have been extinguished over the years.

      Outside, the afternoon sunshine was beginning to fade, and a tiny breeze had blown up which made her shiver, turning her flesh to goosebumps beneath the cream silk jacket.

      She turned and walked up the street towards her newly purchased future, her high-heeled shoes clipping over the familiar pavements until she stopped outside The Buttress and looked up at it. At the worn, wooden door and the ancient brick—all warm and terracotta-coloured in the dying light of the sun. Hers.

      The new sign would be erected tomorrow, and the notices would go out in all the trade press. The tea-room had been dominating her thoughts for so long now. She’d been bubbling over with excitement about all her plans and hopes for it—but seeing Marcus today had made her confront the fact that he still had the power to affect her in a way that no other man had ever come close to.

      She felt the beat of her heart, heavy and strong, as she remembered the way he looked. Different. Older and rougher round the edges. All tousled and tough—and radiating an earthy sexuality she knew she was incompatible with.

      The first time she had met him he’d been kind to her. Kind and caring, yes—but in the way that a Victorian benefactor might throw a bone to a starving dog…

      As a teenager, Donna had arrived in Winchester on a rainy December day, dressed in jeans and a jumper and a worn tweed jacket she’d picked up at a car-boot sale and which had been too thin to withstand the constant drizzle. She’d been soaked. Her face had been bare of make-up, her lashes matted with raindrops and her hair a wild ginger mess frizzing all the way down down her back.

      There had only been one week to go until Christmas, and there’d been fairy-lights threaded everywhere: outside all the shops and pubs, woven into the bare branches of the trees—their colours blurred like jewels through the grey of the relentless rain.

      As she’d turned the corner into Westgate street Donna had seen the welcoming blaze of The New Hampshire hotel and had shivered. It was the sort of place you usually only saw in story books—a beautiful, elegant old building, with two bay trees standing in dark, shiny boxes outside. The windows were sparkly-clean and the paintwork gleamed. It was the kind of place which reeked of money. You could tell just by looking. And places like this were always looking for seasonal workers.

      Clutching onto her holdall with frozen fingers, she’d pushed the glass doors open and walked into the foyer, where a man had been standing at the top of a ladder, positioning a huge silver star on top of a Christmas tree whose tip was brushing against the high ceiling.

      Donna had quietly slid her holdall onto the thick carpet and watched him. He’d been wearing dark trousers, which had looked new and neatly pressed, and his shirt had been exquisitely made. Quality clothes on a quality body.

      She had waited until the star was firmly in place. ‘Bravo!’ she cheered, and he looked over his shoulder, frowned, then came slowly down the ladder to face her.

      His hair was thick and dark and tapered neatly into his neck, and his eyes were the most extraordinary colour she had ever seen. Icy and pale. Clear and blue. As if they had been washed clean. And Donna felt the first tiptoeing of an emotion she simply didn’t recognise.

      He frowned again as he looked her up and down, and his voice matched his clothes. Rich. ‘Can I help you?’

      The implication being that he couldn’t. That she was in the wrong place. The story of her life, really. She decided to brazen it out.

      ‘Do you have a room?’

      The surprise in his eyes was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared, and he shrugged his shoulders apologetically. ‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid we’re fully booked. It’s our busiest time of year and—’

      ‘Actually, I don’t want a room,’ she interrupted quickly, thinking that it was nice of him to pretend that she could afford a room in a hotel when it was pretty obvious she couldn’t. ‘I’m looking for work.’

      His eyes narrowed. ‘What kind of work?’

      ‘Anything. You name it—I can do it! I can wait tables—’

      He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. We’re a silver-service restaurant,’ he said politely.

      ‘Or peel potatoes?’

      He smiled. ‘We have our full complement of kitchen staff.’

      ‘Oh.’ She pursed her lips together to stop them wobbling and went to pick up her holdall. ‘Okay. Fair enough. Merry Christmas!’

      The man sighed. ‘Now you’re making me feel like Scrooge.’

      ‘You don’t look like Scrooge.’ She grinned. Too cute by far.

      He СКАЧАТЬ