His Pregnancy Bargain (3 page)

‘Can I get you anything? A glass of water?'

She nodded; her throat felt oddly achy and constricted.

Without a further comment he left and returned with a glass of water. He stood there, arms folded across his chest while she drank. Megan was very conscious of his silent presence. He wasn't the sort of man you could forget was there.

‘Thank you,' she said politely, handing back the empty glass. Their fingers touched briefly during the exchange; the contact did uncomfortable things to Megan's pulse.

‘Can I call anyone for you?'

‘Gracious, no!' Very conscious of her warm cheeks, she forced a smile but didn't meet his eyes. ‘I'm fine.'

‘Despite a matchmaking mother.'

The comment brought her head up. ‘I've tried everything to put her off,' she admitted ruefully. ‘Nothing works.'

Head tilted a little to one side, a frown deepening the line between his flyaway brows, he scanned her face. ‘What are you…thirty…?'

The almost-spot-on estimate disconcerted her; she had enough female vanity to feel peeved.

‘Sorry, have I touched a nerve?'

Megan glared at him. ‘No, you haven't,' she denied angrily. ‘I have no problem with being thirty…actually,
almost
thirty.'

‘Good for you,' he interposed with silken gravity. ‘Don't you think at
almost
thirty it's time you told your mother to mind her own business?'

Megan coloured angrily. He made it sound so simple, but then it probably was, if you had no problem trampling all over the feelings of people you loved. ‘Oh, why didn't I think of that? Of course, it might be because I don't want to hurt my mother.'

His shoulders lifted in a disdainful shrug. ‘Well, if you don't mind people running your life…?'

‘My mother doesn't run my life!' she flared.

‘No?'

Megan clenched her teeth. ‘No, she doesn't. She has had a tough time the last few years,' she informed him, swallowing past the emotional lump in her throat. ‘She isn't some cold control freak, she is just a caring mum who wants to see her daughter happy and settled.' She dragged a frustrated hand through her hair and gave a dejected sigh. ‘Unfortunately happy and settled for her equates with a man and marriage, which is why I had this idea…a sort of line-of-least-resistance thing.'

Luc watched as she gazed abstractedly into the distance, her smooth brow furrowed.

‘Least resistance…?' he probed softly.

She nodded. ‘If I could get one of the prospective grooms to pretend to be smitten, Mum would be happy and leave me to get on with more important things.'

Luc's deep-set eyes widened slightly as comprehension struck home. ‘And what do you consider important?'

‘My job.'

‘You can't live and breathe your job.'

‘My work is very demanding; it leaves no time for relationships. ‘

‘So you're married to your career.'

She frowned; he made her sound freaky. ‘I've nothing against marriage, but I don't think I'll ever find a man who is willing to take what little I would have to give.'

‘You don't have a very high opinion of men.'

‘I'm a pragmatist.'

‘You think you were being pragmatic when you came here to ask Lucas Patrick to…
pretend to be smitten
…?'

A mortified flush mounted Megan's cheeks—when he said it, it sounded even more off the wall. ‘I didn't say that.'

‘But that's what you came here for?'

‘It's not as crazy as it sounds.'

‘Did I say it was crazy? I'm just wondering…what was going to be in it for him?'

M
EGAN
frowned.
‘In it…?'

‘As in what would he get out of it?' Luc looked into her bewildered face and laughed. ‘You thought he'd do it out of the goodness of his heart.' His mobile lips lifted cynically at the corners. ‘You really never have met Lucas Patrick, have you?'

‘And unlike you I'd prefer not to bad-mouth him in his absence.'

For some reason her angry reproach caused him to laugh. It was a deep, warm, uninhibited sound that made Megan's pulse rate quicken. ‘Just bad-mouth his books…?'

She wrenched her appreciative stare from the mesh of fine lines around his smiling grey eyes and frowned. ‘Don't put words in my mouth,' she warned him.

The stern warning brought Luc's attention to her lips; she was attempting to compress them into a thin, disapproving line. As he contemplated the soft, cushiony contours it took considerable self-discipline to prevent his thoughts diverting into a carnal direction.

‘And I'm sure Mr Patrick has survived worse than anything I might say about him. And actually,' she added, ‘I happen to think that he's quite a talented writer.'

‘But you were willing to overlook his dubious literary talent in the interests of a quiet life?' he questioned.

The soft charge brought a guilty flush to her cheeks. She squared her shoulders and sighed. ‘All right, I admit it was a pretty daft idea, but as the man isn't here it's fairly academic, isn't it?'

‘Maybe…'

‘There's no
maybe
about it,' she rebutted morosely.

‘Would I be right in assuming that nobody at this house party, including your mother, has ever met Lucas Patrick…?'

‘Well, no, since Uncle Mal won't be coming I don't suppose…but I don't see what that has to do with anything, Mr…what is your name anyhow?' The weirdness of discussing such personal things with a total stranger whose name she didn't even know suddenly struck Megan forcibly.

A slow, wolfish grin split the nameless stranger's lean, dark face, revealing a set of white even teeth and causing her stomach to flip. Not only had she lost all control over what came out of her mouth, she had lost control of her nervous system as well!

‘To cut down on confusion, perhaps it's better if you just call me Lucas…?' he suggested smoothly.

‘What…?
Megan's impatient expression vanished as her eyes snapped open to their fullest extent. God, he couldn't be saying what she thought he was…
could he
…?

She scanned his face with suspicion. ‘What are you suggesting?'

‘I'm suggesting that you need a face to fit your fantasy lover.' He adopted an expression of enquiry. ‘Is there anything wrong with this one?' His fluid gesture indicated his own lean face.

Megan looked at the golden toned skin stretched across the perfect arrangement of strong angles and intriguing hollows and went perfectly pale.

‘You're insane.' Despite her attitude of total conviction, there was a small voice in her head that said it could just work…

‘I'm assuming you weren't expecting Lucas Patrick to actually marry you…?'

‘Don't be absurd,' she breathed faintly. Like a hypnotised rabbit, she couldn't take her eyes off his face. That voice in her head was getting louder.

‘Did you have a time factor in mind…?' When she
looked back at him blankly he spelt it out. ‘How long did you imagine this fake romance had to last? Six months or so?'

‘I hadn't really thought that far ahead.'

His disturbing eyes glittering from beneath the sweep of long, curling ebony lashes, he slanted her a sardonic look.

‘Oh, I guess so,' she conceded crossly. ‘If you're suggesting anyone is going to believe you're a famous author…' She gave a forced laugh.

‘Nobody has the faintest idea what Lucas Patrick looks like.'

‘They may not know what he looks like—' she deliberately trailed her eyes along the long, lean lines of his athletic frame; about midway she lost her scornful air ‘—but I think they might know what he
doesn't
look like,' she finished hoarsely.

His self-satisfied air intensified as he surveyed her heated cheeks. ‘If I had claimed to be him when you walked in you'd have been none the wiser.'

‘Nonsense! Of course I would,' she instantly rebutted indignantly. ‘What do you take me for?'

A look she couldn't quite decipher flickered at the back of his steely, dark-lashed eyes. ‘Someone who thinks they can tell, just by looking at a person, who he is…or should I say what he does? The two seem to be the same thing as far as you're concerned.'

‘Of course I can't.'

‘And neither can anyone else. The fact is you assumed I was the hired help because of the way I'm dressed. If I came out of the bedroom with a stethoscope around my neck you'd have assumed I was a doctor. It's all about props.'

‘This is all academic…I'm not going to invite a total stranger into my home.'

‘Afraid I'll steal the silver?'

She shook her head and refused to respond to this taunt. ‘This isn't going to happen. Even if you did carry it off…'

‘I will,' he promised.

His smug smile made her frown. ‘Even if you did my mother is never going to believe I'm attracted to you.' Then she would be wrong wouldn't she?

‘What's wrong with me?'

‘You're simply not my type.'

‘What is your type?'

‘Shall we drop this subject?'

‘Because you find it uncomfortable?' The idea seemed to amuse him.

‘I find
you
uncomfortable.' Too much information, Megan, she told herself not liking the thoughtful expression on his face. Recalling his earlier cynical comments, she asked, ‘What do
you
get out of it?'

He smiled. ‘Your uncle Malcolm looks at my manuscript.'

So that was it. ‘If you've written a load of rubbish, nothing I say is going to make Uncle Malcolm publish you.'

‘It isn't rubbish; it's good.'

‘You're very confident.'

He didn't deny her accusation. ‘I just need a break and you need a lover.'

‘A
fake
lover.'

‘I'm applying for the job…?'

Megan clutched her head and groaned. ‘I must be mad!'

‘You won't regret this,' he promised, extending his hand.

Megan, who was pretty sure she would regret it, allowed her fingers to be enclosed in his firm grip. A shot of heat zapped through her body.

She was regretting it already. She carried on regretting it and questioning her sanity during the next twenty-four hours. In the end it didn't matter.

Her fake lover was a no-show.

T
HE
day was grey and drizzly, there had been no buyers for a brisk walk, so Megan hadn't had company when she'd walked the dogs. She was still in her muddy shoes and outdoor clothes when a noisy Land Rover drew up onto the gravelled forecourt right beside a Porsche and a Mercedes. She stopped towelling the muddy terrier and got to her feet, her heart pounding—
please let it not be him…!

‘I wonder who that is?' her mother asked with a frown. ‘I do wish you'd fetch the dogs in through the kitchen when we've got guests,' she remonstrated gently. ‘Hilary will have hysterics if they go within ten yards of her…tiresome woman,' she added to herself. ‘Down, Fred,' she added sternly to the large dog who had planted his damp paws on her stomach.

‘I can't imagine who it is,' Megan replied, her heart thumping madly in her chest.

Her mother looked at her sharply. ‘Are you feeling all right, Megan?' She considered her daughter's face with a frown. ‘You look a little flushed.'

‘Me? I'm fine, absolutely fine!' The cheerful smile she pinned on her face felt as though it was about to crack…or was that her face? ‘I'll go and see who it is, shall I?' she added brightly.

‘Would you, dear?'

Megan was already running across towards the vehicle, her boots crunching on the gravel. Seconds later she arrived breathless and quivering with tension.

‘You're late!' she fired as the tall figure stepped with lithe, fluid ease from the disreputable-looking four-wheel drive. ‘I thought you weren't coming.' If she was honest
she had been relieved when she had thought he wasn't honouring their bargain.

‘Something came up,' he revealed casually.

‘And it didn't occur to you to let me know,' she quivered accusingly.

One dark brow angled sardonically. ‘Don't you think you should wait until we are irresistibly attracted before you get possessive…?' he suggested mildly.

The sarcasm brought an angry sparkle to her eyes. ‘This might be a joke to you, but—'

‘Not a joke,' he interposed. ‘But I don't see any reason we can't make the best of it. We might even enjoy ourselves…'

‘
Enjoy?
Are you insane?' Then, transferring her attention to the off-roader, she continued without missing a beat. ‘Is that yours?'

If I had an ounce of foresight, she thought, I would have considered the question of transport and hired him the sort of car people would expect a best-selling author to drive around in. If I had any foresight I wouldn't have done this at all.

‘No, I stole it on the way here,' he returned, straight-faced. His dark eyes moved from the tendrils of hair that curled damply around her fair skinned face to her wide, anxious eyes. ‘Is that a problem?'

Megan tore her attention from the Land Rover and cast him a look of seething dislike…as she did so she immediately realised that nobody would notice if he rolled up riding a child's tricycle!

‘Oh, my God…' she groaned, grabbing agitated handfuls of damp hair.
‘Look at you!'

She followed her own instructions and allowed her glance to travel down the long, lean length of him once more. It was a cue for a heat flash to consume her all over again.

He was sheathed from head to toe in black. The leather, age-softened jacket he wore was moulded to truly fantastic
shoulders. It hung open to reveal a plain white tee shirt that clung to his powerful chest and lean, washboard belly. His dark moleskins followed the muscular contours of long, powerful thighs. God, was that a hole in the knee…? She despaired that a tiny glimpse of flesh could make her break out in a sweat.

This was never going to work.

‘What's wrong with me?'

Nothing, if you liked being hit over the head with sex appeal.

‘Everything!'
she snapped in a doom-laden drone.

His mobile mouth quirked at the corners; he didn't appear particularly chastened by her pronouncement. ‘Harsh.'

‘You might have made an effort to look less…'
Sexy.
Her eyes slid from his as she added huskily, ‘More…like a writer. And you could have shaved; you look like you haven't been to bed.'

He lifted a hand to the strong curve of his jaw covered with a layer of dark stubble and grinned. ‘I haven't.' He had had an idea for his next book; when inspiration struck, he listened. He had worked through the night to get it down on paper.

‘Spare me the details of your conquests,' she begged.

‘Relax, nobody knows what this particular writer looks like.' Persuasive as his argument was, it didn't stop her feeling as though she had made a terrible mistake. ‘And isn't this the way they want your writer to look…?'

‘
Want?
That's the problem—nobody actually really
believes
he looks like a Byronic hero. You look too good to be true—they'll smell a rat.' But he wasn't true, was he? He was a fake. He was also quite simply the most impossibly good-looking male she had ever seen.

‘Why, thank you.'

‘Look, if you're not going to take this seriously drive away now,' she instructed. This was almost certainly going
to go wrong. ‘No,' she added urgently. ‘Drive away anyway. This was a very bad idea.'

‘Chill out,' he drawled, looking infuriatingly laid-back.

The suggestion made her see red. ‘Chill out?
Chill out!'
she repeated in a shrill squeak. ‘Easy for you to say. If this goes wrong people aren't going to think you're the desperate sort of woman who has to resort to hire a lover!' she declared with a groan of self-recrimination.

He scanned her anguished face, with deep-set eyes that revealed none of his feelings. ‘Presumably they'll just think I'm a gigolo,' he cut back. ‘Actually I wasn't aware that sleeping with you was part of the deal, but what the hell?' His sensual mouth formed a wide smile that didn't touch his eyes. ‘I'll throw that in for free.'

There was a lengthy silence while Megan cleared her head of disturbing images and sounds: A darkened room, soft groans, intimate murmurs, two sweat-soaked bodies intimately entwined…. She tugged fretfully at the neck of her sweater as she fought for breath. Inch by inch she fought her way back to control…or something that passed for it.

‘God, don't go sensitive on me,' she begged, still haunted by the humiliating memory of the suffocating white-hot excitement she had felt when she had imagined— She caught her breath sharply. Don't go there, Megan, she told herself sternly.

‘You know I wasn't speaking literally,' she contended calmly, meeting his eyes. ‘I've simply realised I can't go through with it. Late in the day, I know, but don't worry—I'll still have a word with Uncle Malcolm. He'll look at your manuscript, I promise.'

Megan heard the crunch of gravel behind her and looked over her shoulder. Her mother was advancing towards them. When her attention flickered back to her co-conspirator he was shaking his head.

‘I don't want charity. I'm perfectly prepared to fulfil my side of the bargain.'

Megan looked at him with frustrated incomprehension.

His body curved towards her. ‘Smile, sweetheart, and try and remember you've just found the man of your dreams.'

‘Nightmares, more like.'

He laughed and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. It was so light it barely constituted a brush but Megan experienced an electrical thrill that travelled all the way to her toes. She stepped backwards, her nostrils flared as she tried not to breathe in the warm male fragrance that made her stomach flip. ‘Well, I suppose we'll just have to make the best of it.'

‘Is this a friend of yours, Megan?'

Megan, her hands held up in front of her, backed farther away from the tall, handsome figure who was the object of her mother's obvious appreciation.

‘No—whatever gave you that idea?' The sharpness of her tone brought her mother's frowning attention to her own face. ‘I've never seen him before in my life.'

He spared her a sideways look of amusement as he advanced towards her mother with his hand outstretched. ‘You can know some people for years and never really know them, others you can know seconds and there's a rapport—' He broke off and gave a self-conscious laugh. ‘Does that sound crazy?'

Megan was staggered to see her mother looking as though he'd just said something profound instead of something profoundly silly.

‘Not at all, I know
exactly
what you mean!' Laura exclaimed.

‘I think it's dangerous to go on first impressions,' Megan inserted drily.

‘You're not a romantic?'

‘My daughter is a cynic, Mr…'

‘I'm Lucas Patrick.'

Megan drew a deep breath and squared her slender shoul
ders. Well, that was it! With those words he had committed them both for better or worse…she suspected the latter.

Laura took an audible deep breath and pressed her hand to her mouth. Megan felt a fresh spasm of guilt to see her mother's childlike delight.

‘Of course you are.' She laughed. ‘Why, this is marvellous.' A faint furrow appeared between her delicately arched brows. ‘My brother told me you had flu…'

‘Mal's prone to exaggeration, but then you'd know that.' Laura nodded happily. ‘I had a head cold, that was all.' He looked around expectantly. ‘Where is Mal?'

‘Didn't he mention he couldn't make it?'

‘No, that's a pity.'

Megan, who was amazed at how he had immersed himself in the part he was playing, watched with unwilling fascination as a troubled expression of suspicion spread across his handsome features.

‘He did…you
were
expecting me…?' he pressed.

‘Of course we were,' Laura the perfect hostess responded without skipping a beat. ‘We just weren't sure when you'd be here, were we, darling?'

‘No, we weren't.' Megan glanced at her watch, how many hours of this did she have to endure? The irony was this was a situation of her own making.

‘So long as I'm not imposing.'

‘Gracious, not at all. Actually we've been thrilled at the prospect of having you stay. Haven't we, darling?'

‘Thrilled,'
said Megan obediently.

‘Megan has read all your books, haven't you?'

In full charm mode, his eyes crinkled delightfully at the corners, he turned his attention briefly to a squirming Megan. ‘I think you've embarrassed…' he gave a quizzical look of apology ‘…Meg…?'

‘Megan.'

The lack of animation in her response earned her a reproachful glare from her mother. God, he seemed to be en
joying himself…! If he wasn't a con man he'd missed his calling, she decided grimly. A man like that could convince a girl of almost anything, especially if she wanted to believe it! This was something worth keeping in mind the next time her hormones went haywire, she told herself.

‘Megan will show you to your room, won't you, darling?'

‘Thank you, Megan.'

‘My pleasure,' she replied with equal insincerity.

‘Please call me Luc,' he invited them.

‘I have a French friend called Luc,' Laura commented.

‘My grandfather on my mother's side was French.'

‘I knew there was something Gallic about you the moment I saw you…French men have such style,' Laura observed. ‘Is your mother alive, Luc?'

‘No, she died when I was nine. She named me after her own father, my grandfather.'

Behind her mother Megan shook her head and telegraphed a warning with her eyes. Her fake lover smiled back enigmatically.

‘Do you speak French, Luc? I'll get someone to bring your luggage in…'

‘No need, I travel light,' he said, extracting a rucksack from the back seat of the Land Rover.

‘How refreshing,' Laura said, as though she were used to guests turning up carrying a rucksack that looked as if it was about to disintegrate. ‘Show Luc up to the red room, Megan, then bring him down for tea… Then you can meet the other guests.' Megan shot Lucas a questioning look.

‘A quick shower and I'm all yours,' he promised.

Ignoring her mother's hissed instruction to,
for God's sake, smile, he's gorgeous
, she stalked towards the house with a face like thunder. She kept a tight-lipped silence until they reached the kitchen. Reaching the door that led to the back staircase, she turned and found that he was no longer at her shoulder but standing some yards away looking around the vast room.

‘There really are an amazing number of original features intact,' he observed, opening the door of an original bread oven set in an alcove of the cavernous inglenook.

‘Save it for my mother,' Megan, in no mood to discuss the architectural merits of her home, snapped. ‘Did you have to lay it on with a trowel?' she demanded. ‘Why on earth did you say you spoke French?'

‘I didn't say I did.'

‘You implied.'

‘I do speak French.'

‘Oh! And what was all that stuff about a French grandfather…?'

‘My grandfather was French.'

Which was probably where he had inherited his dark Mediterranean colouring. ‘You're not meant to be
you,
you're meant to be Lucas Patrick.'

‘I am Lucas Patrick,' he contradicted.

Megan sighed. ‘There's such a thing as overconfidence. Let's just hope the real Lucas Patrick isn't a litigious man.'

‘You're an awful worrier, aren't you? Do you always assume the worst?'

‘I only worry when there's something to worry about.' She scanned his dark face resentfully—he wasn't meant to be enjoying this. ‘Aren't you even
slightly
nervous?'

‘Not especially.'

‘Well, you should be. From now on say as little as possible and follow my lead. Do you understand?' she asked him sternly. It was about time, she decided, to remind him just who was in control here. Her lips curved in a self-derisive smile; had she ever felt less in control in her life?