The Price of Honor (15 page)

Him, for one. But he could see how that would appeal to her. She gesticulated as she prattled on about her plans. Her diamond engagement ring caught and refracted the sunlight with each graceful sweep of her hands. He studied her slender fingers, her long, manicured nails, her pale, flawless skin.

So different from Megan's.

Megan's nails were short and usually clean, but never painted. She had a spattering of tiny almost unnoticeable scars across the backs and palms, gained from a lifetime of working with horses. Megan's hands were strong enough to control the powerful mounts she rode and yet gentle enough, seductive enough to drive him mad with desire. Megan did not shirk hard work, whereas he was certain Cecille would pay someone to sweat for her.

The women could not be more dissimilar. Megan would have no interest in the ring Cecille had chosen—a five-carat emerald-cut white diamond solitaire surrounded by
yellow diamonds. If Megan ever married, her husband would be lucky to get her to wear a simple wedding band. She claimed jewelry got in her way and she rarely wore more than small stud earrings and a practical watch—a lesson he had learned early on in their association when he had tried to give her expensive pieces. She had refused to accept them, claiming the likelihood of her losing or damaging them was too high.

The sun crept around the edge of the building. Cecille shifted her chair to keep it in the shade. Megan never avoided the sun. She slathered on sunscreen—when she remembered—and relished the good weather which allowed her to ride without potentially hazardous mud beneath her horses' hooves. He suspected she cared more for the horses' safety than her own.

Cecille was graceful, articulate and elegant. Megan was an agile athlete who had been schooled by experience. She preferred to listen rather than talk, and she could read people better than any trained psychiatrist. Both women were confident, but Megan's assurance came from the belief that she could and had handled anything life threw at her. She was used to taking care of herself without a father or anyone else to bail her out of a tight spot. In fact, she had trouble accepting help because she disliked feeling indebted—a sentiment he understood all too well.

Cecille, on the other hand, had her father's wealth to smooth any of life's difficulties. If she found herself in trouble, she would call her father…and soon Xavier. Megan would attack the problem herself and—

“Xavier,” Cecille interrupted his thoughts. “I asked if you agree.”

He blinked and realized he had tuned out her chatter about the wedding preparations. “
Pardon?
Agree to what?”

Irritation flashed briefly across her face. She masked
it quickly with a radiant but saccharine smile. “I said I have chosen swans with interlocking necks to decorate the chocolates and the wedding cake. The same shape will be carved into an ice sculpture for the reception. Don't you agree the motif will be beautiful?”

Interlocking swans? “I am certain that every choice you make will be as lovely and elegant as you, Cecille. But as you have said, all eyes will be on the bride.”

She flushed and beamed as he'd known she would. Megan would have given him hell for dodging the question. But he was not with Megan. He was with his fiancée. The woman he planned to marry in less than a year's time.

“Why did you agree to this marriage, Cecille? We are under no illusions that this is a love match.”

Her lips parted in surprise. “Didn't Papa tell you? He promised to let me be the face for the new perfume if I married you.”

No, Debussey had not shared that fact. But no matter, Cecille would be a good spokesperson and a beautiful advertisement for everything a woman wanted to be—young, gorgeous, rich enough to afford the product's high price tag. “You wish to be a model?”

“It is all I have ever wanted. I only went to college because Papa threatened to disown me if I didn't.”

How had he not known this about the woman he intended to marry? But although they had been acquainted for five years, they had spent very little time alone together. Usually they attended dinner parties or her father was present, both circumstances that kept personal conversation to a minimum.

“There are more traditional means to achieving your career goal than marrying.”

She glanced away. “I have tried to break into modeling
on my own. I have a portfolio and everything. But I have had little luck.”

With her looks and her father's influence, there had to be a reason she had not succeeded. He doubted she had the work ethic required to become a model. He had dated several and knew each possessed a drive and stubborn determination that far exceeded anything Cecille had displayed to date. An attitude similar to Megan's.

“Is that why you needed to speak to me so urgently?” she prompted. “To ask why I'm marrying you?”

“Non.”
There was no way to finesse the news. He preferred to get to the point. “I asked to see you because I have recently learned that my mistress is pregnant. I preferred to inform you before you heard it elsewhere.”

Her smile faltered but only briefly. “Is she going to get rid of it?”

“Non.”

“Are you sure the baby is yours?”

“I am.” It surprised him that she did not ask if he intended to keep his mistress after the wedding, but then many men in their social strata maintained both mistresses and families. “Since my decision to take custody of the child affects you, you have a right to know.”

Heavily mascaraed—and possibly artificial—lashes descended once, twice, a third time. Her glossy painted lips pursed. “You want it?”

“Yes.”

“Xavier, I'm not…really into children. You absolutely must promise me you'll hire someone to look after it. A nanny or a nurse or something until it's old enough for boarding school.”

Boarding school. He had not thought that far ahead. As a child he had yearned for boarding school and begged to be shipped far away from the local village schoolboys
who teased him unmercifully about his mother's rejection. But the idea of sending his child—Megan's child—away, though practical, did not appeal in the least.

“I will contract an agency to begin searching for a nanny, but I cannot promise that boarding school will be an option. I would like to know my son or daughter and raise the child with the knowledge of the Parfums Alexandre business.”

Cecille fiddled with her silverware, something a woman with her poise rarely did. “I'm glad this came up, Xavier, because there's something you should know. I don't think I want to have children.”

Another conversation they had yet to have. “Ever?”

“I really have no desire to bear a child. I think I'm missing that maternal whatever it is that some women have. And I'm certainly not the cookie-baking type. In fact, I don't cook at all. And the idea of snotty noses and dirty diapers holds no appeal. Maybe when I'm old, like thirty-five or something, then I might reconsider. If you insist. But men don't lose their figures when they become parents. And you don't have to concern yourself with the day-to-day drudgery of parenthood and whiny children. So I'd really rather not have any children unless we can adopt like the movie stars do and have a full-time child care staff.”

He frowned as he considered her impassioned speech. She brought up several points. Megan would never complain about the messiness of motherhood and she enjoyed cooking. He could picture her now with a flour-covered child in the kitchen. He pushed the image away.

“I am thirty-five. Do I seem old to you?”

Her hesitation did not sit well. “Not really. I mean, you're still in decent shape. But you don't like to go out and have a good time. I can do that without you.”

“My wife will not conduct herself at nightclubs like a single woman.”

“I'm not staying home every night and playing hausfrau.”

Non,
Cecille certainly did not possess the maternal urge that made Megan fight like a lioness to keep her child. Which meant Megan's child would be his only heir.

He must get custody. Failure was not an option.

And he and his future bride still had much to work out about their pending marriage.

 

Megan jerked awake and lay in the bed, trying to figure out what had roused her. No sounds disturbed the silent, dark cottage, and she had remembered to lock her doors. She checked the bedside clock. Four.

Then she felt a funny flutter in her tummy. What the—?

The baby.

A burst of adrenaline instantly eradicated her sleepiness. She pressed her palm to the spot below her navel, held her breath and waited for it to happen again. And then it did. A sensation like the soft sweep of butterfly wings or the flip of a goldfish's tail stirred deep inside her, making her practically giddy with excitement.

When it ceased, she rolled toward the cell phone on the bedside table and stopped. Hannah would be sleeping. Who else could she call? She had to tell someone. She hadn't announced her pregnancy yet, so there was no one else.

Except Xavier.

Her pulse raced faster. The baby wiggled more. This was too big of a deal not to share. She grabbed her phone and speed-dialed his number.

“Allô.”
The sound of his voice made her heart skip, but then the fact that he'd used the generic
allô
instead of greeting her by one of the pet names he usually used
registered. Her name would have come up on his caller ID. He never greeted her with
allô.

“Xavier— The baby— You won't believe what just happened.” Exhilaration mingled with her confusion over the greeting, muddling her thoughts and words. She didn't know how to describe the sensation or her excitement.

“The
bébé?
Megan, what happened?”

“Megan? Is that her? Your mistress?” A husky female voice asked in French in the background.

Megan's euphoria vaporized. “Are you with
her?
Your fiancée?”

A moment of silence stretched between them.
“Oui.”

Jealousy rose like bile in her throat. Hearing his fiancée's voice slammed home the reality that Megan might not win this competition. Up until now, at least a part of her had believed she had a chance at victory.

“Never mind. It's nothing. I'm sorry I bothered you.” Megan disconnected the call and curled up in a ball, hugging a pillow to her middle.

Xavier was with
her.
The woman good enough to be his wife. And the last thing he'd want to hear about was the baby he'd never intended to make with Megan. The baby he would have asked her to get rid of if he'd known sooner.

W
ith apprehension crushing his stomach like a brawler's fist, Xavier pounded on Megan's front door. The darkened cottage and empty driveway were not good signs when combined with the odd tone of her voice when she had called and his inability to reach her by phone afterward.

The foyer light clicked on and the door opened. Megan stood in the narrow gap. He scanned her from head to toe, searching for whatever could be amiss. “Are you and the
bébé
all right?”

Looking mussed and sleepy but otherwise perfectly healthy in her running shorts, T-shirt and bare feet, she swept back her tousled hair. “Of course. Why wouldn't we be?”

Fear retreated, forced out by anger. “You did not answer your phone any of the dozen times I tried to call you back.”

Her expression turned defiant. “I told you it wasn't important.”

“You sounded upset.”

“I wasn't upset. I was excited.”

“Why?”

“Xavier, it's late. I'm not up to butting heads with you tonight. Can't this wait until tomorrow?”

“I left my fiancée sitting alone in a Monaco café, and I canceled a series of urgent business meetings with my executive staff to jet across the Atlantic to ensure you and the
bébé
were safe.”

As soon as he heard the words coming from his mouth, the reality of what he had done dropped on him like a massive boulder. He had abandoned his work and his future wife for Megan.

But the panic that had gripped him throughout the flight because she had not answered her phone did not mean he loved her. His concern was solely for his child, the future heir of Parfums Alexandre.

“Nobody asked you to race back.”

His fingers fisted, released, fisted, released in frustration over her stonewalling. “I am not leaving until you tell me why you called and hung up on me.”

She scowled at him. There were smudges beneath her eyes and a droop to her shoulders that he rarely saw. “Are you certain you are well? You looked tired.”

She slapped a hand to her chest and fluttered her lashes—unmascaraed lashes—dramatically. “Your flattery makes my heart pitter-patter. If I look tired it's because I've been up since four.”

He calculated the time difference. “You called me at four.”

“I didn't know who else to call, but don't worry, I won't make the mistake of disturbing you and your fiancée again.” She tried to close the door. He stopped her by sticking his shoe in the gap.

Her continued avoidance of the issue threatened to snap his composure. “Megan—”

She held up a hand and sighed. “Oh, for pity's sake. Come in. But don't get comfortable. You're not staying.”

He ignored her inhospitable words and followed her into the cottage. She picked up a small quilt from the sofa and folded it, then straightened the throw pillows and a stack of magazines. Baby and pregnancy magazines.

She bent to gather a jar of peanut butter and a banana peel, but he caught her shoulders to stop her bustling about. The urge to pull her close came over him. He attributed it to relief that she was okay, but that did not explain why, when he had barely been gone twenty-four hours, returning filled him with a sense of coming home. Home. To this place. Her temporary residence.

In the past, Megan would have greeted him by twining her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his and kissing him until they were both breathless. But not tonight. Tonight she looked as if she could not wait for him to leave—a circumstance that lit a fire under his already simmering temper.

“Why did you call, Megan?”

Her expression turned mulish. He expected her to refuse to answer, then she bit her lip and tried to shrug off his hold, but he held fast. “I felt the baby move for the first time.”

His heart skipped a beat. His gaze dropped to her stomach. His hand followed. She tried to back away but he held her captive with his right hand, covering her belly with his left. Her body heat seeped into his palm and then invaded the rest of him.

She pushed at his arm. “You won't be able to feel it externally for weeks yet. I can barely feel it.”

“What does it feel like?”

“It's a fluttery thing deep inside. Like a fish breaking
the water of a pond with his tail. The articles say babies are most noticeably active at night when the mother lies still. That's why I was lying down on the sofa when you arrived. I was waiting for the baby to move again. I guess I fell asleep.”

Her excitement sparked an inexplicable yearning to share her experiences and to see her body ripen with child. His child. Odd because he had never harbored such thoughts before about anyone. But he wanted to see his son or daughter grow, feel it kicking with impatience to get out and make its mark on the world.

“I do not care what the magazines say. I want to try to feel it move.”

“Xavier—”

“Ten minutes. Lie with me for ten minutes then I will leave you to your beauty sleep. Not that you need it. You are always lovely. Especially now. Pregnancy has made your skin luminescent.”

She exhaled an exasperated breath. “Don't even try—”

He held up a hand. “Please. I wish to feel our baby move or to at least share the experience with you.”

How different she was from Cecille who would have preened at his compliments.

Her shoulders slumped. “All right. C'mon. But no funny business.”

He followed her to the bedroom, ignoring his quickening pulse. He was not here for sex. Although he would not turn it down if she offered. And he was certain he could persuade her out of her clothes if he were so inclined. But he had been almost forty hours without sleep. They would both enjoy the intimacy more after he had rested.

She lay on top of the burgundy-and-gold spread. He kicked off his shoes and stretched out beside her in the
dark room. She turned on the bedside lamp, but the Tiffany stained-glass light did little to chase away the shadows.

He rolled onto his side and placed a hand on her stomach. She curled her fingers around his and shifted his hand lower—to the place where the elastic band of her panties usually rested. That band was noticeably absent tonight and the fact that she was naked beneath her thin shorts spiked his temperature and pulse rate.

Rather than pull away, she left her palm resting on the back of his hand. Her scent enveloped him, stirring his awareness and making him rethink his decision to delay gratification until after he had rested. But any sexual overtures would get him escorted to the door.

“Is he moving?”

“Not yet. That's what woke me this morning. His or her wiggling. It was just so
amazing.
I wasn't expecting it, and it was too early to call Hannah. But I had to tell someone and I didn't know who else to call so I called you. I'm sorry.” Her words gushed out like water through a broken pipe.

“I am glad you called me.”

She turned her head on the pillow to look at him. “Even though I interrupted your date with your future wife?”

“Oui.”
The hurt she tried and failed to hide pricked something inside him. It should not. He reminded himself—not for the first time—that he had made no promises and broken none. But his discomfort was undeniable.

“I flew to Monaco to tell Cecille about
le bébé.
” Megan would not be happy to hear her worries confirmed.

“What did she say?”

He could not lie. “She informed me she does not wish to have children. Your baby—our
bébé
—will be my only child.”

She shifted again, staring up at the ceiling. “Mine, too. As you said, children and the circuit are not a good mix.
By the time I'm too old to compete I'll be too old to have more children.”

He should not feel relieved. But he did, even though that meant denying Megan another chance at motherhood. “Tell me when he moves.”

“I will. But everything I've read says it's too soon for you to feel anything.”

“Tell me anyway.” He would live vicariously through her excitement.

They lay silently side by side not touching except for his hand on her belly, and Xavier realized he missed holding her—even the nights when sex was not on the agenda, few though they might be. He listened to the sound of her breathing as it slowed and knew the exact moment she drifted off to sleep. It was only then that he realized he had done this—listened to her succumb to slumber—often enough to recognize her breathing patterns. He could not remember ever having done so with any other lover.

Her hand became heavy on his and her face relaxed. His gaze shifted to her bedside clock. His ten minutes were up. But if he left he would wake her. She needed her rest. He would close his eyes for a few moments and enjoy her company. Once she entered a deeper level of sleep, he would be able to leave. A smile curved his lips. When she reached that level of sleep he could move the house without waking her.

But for now he was right where he wanted to be. And in the coming months he would remain as close as Megan would allow him to be until the last possible moment—when he must return home for his wedding.

With his son or daughter.

 

Megan halfheartedly flipped through a pregnancy magazine as the sun pinked the sky outside her window and
tried not to think about the man sleeping in her bed. Or the roller coaster of emotions he'd put her through. Again.

When Xavier had knocked on her door last night, she'd hated him. The animosity had burned her stomach like bad chili.

She'd hated him because he'd left her to fly off to be with his fiancée.

She'd hated him because he was putting his business and his greed ahead of their baby.

She'd hated him for breaking her and making her beg for his possession after the horse show.

Mostly she'd hated him for not loving her.

But when she'd opened the door, the concern etching lines in his face had cracked the wall around her heart just a little. His confession that he'd left his bride-to-be and jetted back to Megan's side because he was worried about her had widened the gap, flooding her with hope and joy.

And then the awe and anticipation on his face as he'd lay motionless beside her last night, his respirations shallow and his body tensed with anticipation, had chiseled away yet another piece of her protective barricade.

When he'd held her, simply held her with no sexual overtures, her will to resist him had crumbled and she'd had her first good night's sleep since learning of his engagement, wrapped in the strong arms of the man she loved.

But just because she was rested didn't mean she was going to be a pushover. Her baby's well-being came first.

A pair of hummingbirds outside the window pulled her attention away from the magazine she hadn't been able to concentrate on. She'd read the same paragraph about preventing leg cramps three times and didn't remember a word of it.

The birds, each trying to outsmart and outmaneuver the
other, darted and dashed in pursuit of the single daylily bloom and the nectar it harbored. Their battle seemed symbolic of her fight with Xavier over their baby.

But both birds could get sustenance if they learned to share. And as much as she hated to admit it, that was probably the only way to solve her problem, too.

Xavier's concern and his excitement over the baby's movement had proven he would be an interested parent, and her baby deserved two of those because, God forbid, sometimes tragedy struck. She and Hannah were proof of that. Two parents were insurance and therefore definitely better than one. The chance of losing both parents at once, as she had, was rare.

Hannah had had her father to fall back on after her mother's death in a riding accident. But Megan had only had an uncle who had resented her existence. If not for Hannah and Nellie, the housekeeper who'd taken a motherly role, Megan's life would have been very bleak and devoid of love.

For her baby's sake, she couldn't exclude Xavier from her—
their
—child's life.

Not even if he married
her
—the beautiful, rich, educated fiancée who was everything Megan was not.

But his admission that his future wife didn't want children had intensified Megan's fear that her child might be raised in a cold, loveless environment. She'd only suffered five years of that. She couldn't imagine a lifetime of being unwanted and in the way. But if Cecille didn't want children of her own, she certainly wouldn't want a mistress's child underfoot.

A true no-win situation.

To keep Xavier in her baby's life, Megan would have to compromise. And she detested compromising. In her mind,
compromise equated to quitting. Settling for less than the best. Less than winning.

She desperately needed an acceptable alternative that would prevent her child from being raised in a hostile environment—and one that would avoid the risk of a foreign parent's refusal to honor a shared custody agreement.

And despite racking her brain for the past half hour, she'd only come up with one solution—one that didn't satisfy her at all because it meant living in the shadow of Xavier's perfect wife and enduring the gossip that would follow her and her baby around the Grand Prix circuit. But until she found a better alternative, it would have to do. And sooner or later the gossip would die down. Wouldn't it?

A sound jerked her gaze toward the bedroom. Xavier strolled barefoot into the den, looking totally unlike his usual suave self. She had never seen him in rumpled clothing before, and unfortunately his beard-stubbled face, mussed hair and heavy-lidded eyes were both endearing and sexy as sin.

“Good morning,” he offered in a raspy morning voice that tweaked her heartstrings and made her yearn for those magical days before she'd learned of his engagement, before he'd destroyed her fairy-tale life. “I fell asleep.”

“You slept hard. You missed me getting up to go to the bathroom at two and getting up for good at six.”