Pleasure, Pregnancy and a Proposition (6 page)

‘I’
LL
be back in five minutes.’

Louisa acknowledged Luke’s words with a nod and let out a long breath as the car door slammed. She watched Luke walk across the garage forecourt, his purposeful stride both assured and intimidating. Louisa shivered instinctively and pressed the button on the dashboard to turn off the car’s air-conditioning. She cursed quietly. She had to stop obsessing about him—and she had to stop letting that dominant aura he exuded rattle her—or she’d be a goner.

Over the last hundred miles they’d exchanged less than ten words. She’d been grateful for the respite at first. But as the powerful car ate up the miles on the motorway out of London the tense silence had begun to take on a life of its own. A hot, stifling sensation had made her skin feel tight as she became more and more aware of the man beside her. Every time Luke shifted gears, or flipped up the indicator to change lanes, she thought of those long, competent fingers stroking her to orgasm—something he’d so thoughtfully reminded her of earlier. By the time they had passed Heathrow Airport on the M4 she’d been fidgeting like a two-year-old in her seat. She’d tried to ease
the tension by switching on the radio, but then Marvin Gaye singing ‘Sexual Healing’ had purred out of the car’s top-of-the-range speakers. She’d scrambled to change channels as the legendary soul singer’s honey-sweet voice had crooned, but the damage had been done.

Luke had glanced at her, his lips curving in a deliberately provocative smile. ‘Not a bad idea,’ he’d murmured, the husky tone of his voice making her pulse tick like a time bomb waiting to explode.

Her physical discomfort had not been helped one bit by the fact that in the last few months her bladder had shrunk to the size of a peanut. So far they’d stopped three times for her to use the loo. He’d been surprisingly gracious about the frequent stops—and she had to give him points for not mentioning that this was another blatant sign of her pregnancy that she’d somehow overlooked—but she was feeling less and less conciliatory the further they got from home.

She had a lot more pressing problems at the moment than her unruly sex drive.

What was she going to do about her job, for instance? How was she going to break the news of her pregnancy to her family? Her father, staunchly traditional, was certainly going to have something to say about his first grandchild being born out of wedlock. After spending most of her adolescence convincing Alfredo DiMarco that she could handle her own life, it depressed her to think she was going to have to fight that battle all over again. And then there was her living situation. Her postage-stamp-sized flat was going to become even pokier when the baby arrived.

But she couldn’t seem to focus on any of those burning issues—and her inability to concentrate was all Luke Devereaux’s doing.

If he hadn’t brought up the events of that night again
she wouldn’t be having this uncomfortable reaction to him now. And she had a sneaking suspicion he knew it. Why exactly was he whisking her off to his country pile? And why had she acquiesced so easily? She could see now this little sojourn he’d suggested had the potential for disaster. But she hadn’t managed to pluck up the courage to tell him that she’d changed her mind—that she wanted him to drop her at the nearest train station—knowing it would lead to another titanic spat.

She wasn’t usually one to back down from an argument, but she simply couldn’t muster the energy for it. And the further they got from London, the harder it got to say anything. The thought of her own weakness irritated her.

The man deserved to be taken down a peg or two.

Even if he hadn’t meant to deceive her that night—and even if she had overreacted a little to his ‘confession’—that still didn’t excuse his high-handed behaviour today. He was the most infuriatingly arrogant man she’d ever met, and she certainly didn’t appreciate being treated like a nincompoop who couldn’t take care of herself. She’d had enough of that from her father the whole time she was growing up, and she knew men like that had to be fought head-on. You absolutely could not let them see a weakness or they’d walk all over you. So why wasn’t she fighting back?

Even though the sun had started to dip towards the horizon, warm air shimmered off the tarmac, making the leather interior of the car stifling in a matter of minutes. Louisa grabbed her bag and stepped out into the dusky heat. Glad to see Luke was stuck in a long queue at the service station’s checkout, she walked to one of the wooden picnic tables uninvitingly situated on the grass
verge. He’d be waiting a lot longer than five minutes to pay for their petrol, which would give her a chance to freshen her make-up and prepare for combat.

Unfortunately, after slicking on lipgloss, renewing her mascara and brushing her hair till it gleamed, she still felt as if she’d been route-marched through the Patagonian jungle—hot, sweaty, achy, out of sorts and mind-numbingly tired. Slipping her emergency make-up kit back into her purse, she spotted her mobile phone and remembered something else she needed to do. Well, at least she could set some wheels in motion while she waited for battle to commence.

She needed to start getting her life back on track. She’d had a huge shock today, but that was no excuse to start panicking—or, worse yet, go into denial. She’d done quite enough of that already over the last few months.

There was only one person she would trust to advise her. Her best friend Mel Devlin. She should have told Mel about her night with Devereaux months ago. That Mel had noticed the consequences before Louisa herself only went to prove how intuitive her best friend was.

She dialled Mel’s number.

Her spirits deflated when she heard Mel and Jack’s answering machine message.

‘Hi, Mel, it’s me—Louisa. I really need to talk to you. I’ve got…’ She hesitated. She couldn’t tell Mel about Devereaux or the baby in an answer-machine message. ‘I’ve got some news. Some big news. I’ll ring back later.’

She ended the call and then dialled her GP’s surgery in Camden. There was one other thing she wanted to get sorted right away. She didn’t want her antenatal care in the hands of the good Dr Lester. She couldn’t afford a Harley Street doctor, and she didn’t want Devereaux paying the
woman’s no-doubt exorbitant fees. Especially as she wasn’t even sure what his intentions were towards the baby.

She watched the service station’s entrance as she waited for her call to go through. She couldn’t see the checkout queue from this angle, but there was still no sign of Devereaux. She turned to sit down, propping her back against the table and staring at the cars zipping by on the A303. The surgery’s answer-machine message finally clicked in on the tenth ring.

For goodness’ sake, what was this? Avoid Louisa day?

‘Hi, this is Louisa DiMarco. I’d like to make an appointment with Dr Khan at the earliest possible opportunity. I’ll make sure I attend. Please call me back—’

‘What the hell are you doing?’

Louisa yelped, dropped the phone, and spun round to see Devereaux towering over her.

‘Are you mad?’ Her hands were shaking. ‘You scared the life out of me!’

‘What’s the appointment for?’ he demanded, taking her arm and hauling her off the picnic bench.

‘Why are you listening in on my telephone conversations?’ she snapped back as she slapped her palm against his chest. It was hard as rock.

Her courage deserted her when she saw the icy rage on his face. She scrambled back, but the picnic table prodding her hips stopped her retreat. What was wrong with him?

He dragged her back.

‘You’re not aborting the child,’ he said, his voice low with suppressed fury. ‘I won’t allow it.’

She should have demanded he let her go. Should have told him the decision to have the baby was her choice, not his. But she was so shocked by the force of his anger, and
the raw, turbulent emotion swirling in his eyes, she simply blurted out, ‘I’m not having an abortion. I couldn’t.’

His eyes narrowed, the fury still bubbling. ‘You’re lying. I heard you make an appointment.’

‘No, you didn’t.’ She struggled against his iron grip, realised she was stuck fast. ‘I was making an appointment with my GP to sort out my antenatal care.’

‘Why?’ he said, loosening his fingers at last. ‘It’s already been arranged.’

‘Not by me it hasn’t.’ She tugged her arm out of his grasp, rubbed the skin where his fingers had dug in, and felt her own temper ignite. What was she playing at? She shouldn’t be on the defensive here. He had no right to talk to her like this. To manhandle her.

‘I want my own GP treating me during my pregnancy. Not that it’s any of your business,’ she said firmly.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Lester’s one of the top obstetricians in the country.’ That raw, savage fury had disappeared, to be replaced by the condescending proprietorial tone she hated.

Her fighting spirit kicked in with a vengeance.

‘I don’t care if Lester’s the top obstetrician in the known universe. It’s my decision who provides my antenatal care, just as it’s my decision whether or not I have this baby. Not yours,’ she shouted, her chest heaving with all the force and fury of a heroine in a penny-dreadful novel. How dared he presume to tell her what she was and wasn’t allowed to do with her own body? ‘Because, in case it’s escaped your notice,
I’m
the one having this baby. Not you.’

He frowned, but didn’t look all that chastened. ‘Considering the great job you’ve been doing so far, you ought to be grateful for my involvement,’ he said. ‘After all, if it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t even know there
was
a baby,’ he finished, but at a considerably reduced volume.

He sounded ever so slightly less sure of himself.

Louisa took heart. ‘Well, now I do know. So I can take things from here.’ She bent to pick up her phone, shoved it back in her bag. ‘I want you to drop me at the nearest train station. I’ve decided I’m going back to London.’ She swung the strap of her bag over her shoulder. ‘And from now on you can keep your great big interfering nose out of my affairs.’

She was feeling pretty good about her parting shot—until she went to march past him. He gripped her hips and stepped into her path, stopping her dead as she bumped into him.

‘Not so fast,’ he said, the volume now at a dangerously low level.

She struggled, bringing her hands up to his chest, but he just wrapped his arms around her and held her still. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked, her voice breaking on an annoyingly feeble squeak.

‘You’re not going anywhere until we get a few things straight.’

‘There’s nothing to get straight,’ she said, still squeaking. He was so close she could see the flecks of blue in his irises, and her belly was pressed against something that was fast becoming even less accommodating.

She quivered, felt the treacherous response at her core and hated herself.

‘I’m the father of this baby,’ he said softly, but there was no mistaking the menace in his tone. ‘Which means I get a say in every single detail of its life. So you’d better get used to the idea. I don’t shirk my responsibilities and I’m not shirking this one.’

The implication that she had shirked her responsibilities up till today was clear, and Louisa felt a dart of shame
pierce her armour. He’d scored a hit, and she could see he knew it when his lips curved in a confident grin.

‘And it’s a good thing you don’t want an abortion—because if you did you would have a major fight on your hands. No one hurts what’s mine.’

On some subconscious level she supposed she ought to be grateful that he was so determined to defend their child, but Louisa couldn’t get past her fury at his macho selfrighteousness. The same helpless anger had dogged her throughout her adolescence—had forced her to rebel whenever her father had insisted she do what he said, whether she liked it or not.

If Luke Devereaux thought he could decide what was best for her and her baby just because he was the father he could think again. And she didn’t like the way he was talking about the baby as if he owned it.

‘I don’t take orders from you, Devereaux,’ she said, between pants as she tried to wrestle out of his embrace. ‘Not now and not ever. And we happen to be talking about a child here. Not your personal possession.’

She braced her hands against his chest and shoved. He didn’t budge an inch.

She struggled some more, then heaved out a breath and gave up, well aware of the satisfied look on his face. Her struggles were futile. They were only tiring her out and increasing the friction between them. She could feel him more prominently now than ever, against her belly.

She should have been outraged by his blatant arousal, but her own hormones weren’t exactly indifferent to him either—in fact they were having a little party of their own. She glared at him.

‘Stop being such a bully,’ she said. ‘We both know you’re stronger than I am—but in this day and age it doesn’t make
you right. You can let me go now, because the Neanderthal routine’s getting tiresome,’ she finished, trying to sound bored despite the quiver in her voice.

‘I’ll let you go when you promise to listen to what I have to say.’

‘Fine—say your piece, Mr Caveman,’ she said, angry all over again that he was using his physical strength—and her inevitable response—against her. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’m going to do what you say.’

He loosened his grip, but not enough to allow her to step away. She could still smell him—and the tantalising bulge in his trousers wasn’t getting any smaller.

‘Let me go. You promised,’ she said, suddenly desperate to put some distance between them and the heat that was building. They’d never get anything settled at this rate—and she wasn’t about to let him ravish her in a petrol station, whatever her traitorous hormones might want.

‘Stay there—and stop acting the innocent.’ He barked out the words.

But she could hear the strain in his voice, could see the small beads of sweat forming on his brow, and then she heard a shuffling noise to her right. She glanced round and realised exactly why he was so eager to keep her close. She turned back to him, a sly smile on her lips.