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The Heir From Nowhere
Trish Morey


‘You don’t know me, but I’m having your baby. ’Dominic Pirelli’s carefully ordered world falls apart when a female stranger phones with staggering news: an IVF mix-up means she is carrying the baby that he and his late wife dreamed of having! Though he distrusts her motives, Dominic is determined to keep waif-like Angelina Cameron close.Taking her to his luxury home, reluctantly the hardened tycoon begins to admire Angie’s strength and gentle beauty as her body swells with the precious life inside her. But when their baby is born, who will have custody of the Pirelli heir?










‘I look after me, Mr Pirelli,’ Angie huffed, finding some of that lionhearted feistiness she tapped into from time to time. ‘I’m not a child.’

As much as he admired her courage, anger curled the corners of his senses. Her husband had walked out on her. He’d abandoned her, leaving her pregnant and alone. Who was there to look after her? Who was there to ensure she ate properly or make sure she took proper care of herself? There was no other option.

‘Get some things together,’ he ordered. ‘We’re leaving.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You can’t stay here. You’re coming with me.’

‘No, I’m not. This is my home.’

‘What do you have to stay for? You have no family and no husband. You have nothing—except a child that doesn’t belong to you.’




About the Author


TRISH MOREY is an Australian who’s also spent time living and working in New Zealand and England. Now she’s settled with her husband and four young daughters in a special part of South Australia, surrounded by orchards and bushland, and visited by the occasional koala and kangaroo. With a lifelong love of reading, she penned her first book at the age of eleven, after which life, career, and a growing family kept her busy until once again she could indulge her desire to create characters and stories—this time in romance. Having her work published is a dream come true. Visit Trish at her website, www.trishmorey.com

Recent titles by the same author:

PRISONER IN PARADISE

FORBIDDEN: THE SHEIKH’S VIRGIN


(#ulink_49c0ccfb-c93b-5e9b-977c-4b62cd0f965d) HIS MISTRESS FOR A MILLION




(#ulink_30ec231c-c1f0-57cf-b7f2-d41660863ebe) Part of the Dark-Hearted Desert Men mini-series




THE HEIR FROM

NOWHERE


TRISH MOREY
























www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CHAPTER ONE


‘YOU don’t know me, but I’m having your baby.’

Was it possible for your blood to stop flowing before you were dead? Dominic Pirelli believed it, the way his veins suddenly clamped shut and his blood seemed to congeal in a heart that had itself long ago turned to stone. And even if he’d wanted to slam the phone down in denial, he was incapable of movement, one hundred per cent of his energy concentrated and distilled down, focused on just one tiny word.

No!

And then the need to breathe kicked in and he dragged in air, and slowly his pulse resumed, pounding out a message in his temples, echoing his disbelief. It was impossible! It didn’t matter what the doctor had tried to tell him this morning. It didn’t matter what this woman was telling him now. It had to be impossible.

‘… having your baby.’

The words played over and over in his brain, defying logic, making no sense. He dragged in air, trying to reestablish a foothold in a day gone mad.

This was not the way he was used to operating. On a normal day it took a lot to blindside Dominic Pirelli. Many a business competitor had tried to gain an advantage over him and been unsuccessful, washed away in the wake he left behind as he forged ahead with his own plans. Many a woman had tried to tie the billionaire investor down and failed, swept aside like so many brightly coloured petals on a fast-flowing stream.

On a normal day, nothing happened in his life that he didn’t professionally desire or personally sanction.

But today had ceased being a normal day one short, cataclysmic hour ago.

When the clinic had called with the news.

A mistake, he’d first assumed.

An impossibility.

It was so many years ago and someone had clearly pulled the wrong name from its files; someone had clearly rung the wrong number. And he’d argued exactly that, only to be told that the only mistake had occurred some three months back, when the wrong embryo had somehow been put in the wrong woman. And even through the torrent of apologies, he’d still refused to believe it could be true.

And then the phone had rung a second time and a woman’s voice uttered the words that turned a horrific concept into chilling reality.

‘I’m having your baby.’

He sank heavily into his chair, wheeling it around so that he could see something—anything—other than the nightmare that consumed his thoughts and vision. But the view he knew should be there, the picture-perfect view over a glittering Sydney Harbour, the yachts and ferries zipping their way beneath the Harbour Bridge and between the park-lined shores, was lost to him in a blur of incredulity. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched his nose so hard that fireworks shot through his closed lids, but still nowhere near hard enough to blot out the anguish or the pain.

This could not be happening!

Not this way.

It was never supposed to happen this way!

‘Mr Pirelli …’ The voice resumed. Hesitant. Shaky. Almost as if the caller were as shocked as he was. Not a chance. ‘Are you still there?’

He exhaled. Long and loud, not caring how it sounded down the line. He didn’t care about anything right now, least of all about sounding civil. ‘Why are you doing this?’ he heard himself say. ‘What’s in it for you?’

He heard a gasp, a muffled cry and almost felt sorry for speaking his mind. Almost. But he’d only spoken the truth. Experience told him that people rarely did anything if not motivated by profit.

‘I just thought, given the circumstances, you should be informed.’

‘Like hell.’

A pause. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t help how you see it. I just wanted to talk to you. To see if we can find some way through this mess.’

This mess. At least she had that right. ‘You think there’s some way through this? You think there’s some simple solution that can be plucked from the air? Do you have fairies in the bottom of your garden, or simply in your head?’

He expected she’d hang up. He’d hoped she would, if only to terminate a conversation he didn’t want to have—wasn’t equipped to have.

Because he wasn’t sure he could hang up first. He was no more equipped to close off the chance of—what exactly?—the chance of having a child that had long since died, along with his marriage?

But there was no telling click at the end of the line to momentarily assuage his pain and relieve what little guilt he felt. No sound but a pause that grew heavier and weightier by the second. Until he found himself inexplicably awaiting her response. What was she thinking? What did she really want? Fifteen plus years building the biggest business empire Australia had seen had left him woefully unprepared for anything like this.

‘I know this has been a shock,’ she said softly. ‘I understand.’

‘Do you? I doubt it.’

‘This is hard for me too!’ Her voice sounded more strident, more pained. ‘Do you really think I was overjoyed to discover that I was pregnant with your child?’

His child? The realisation slammed into him like a blow to the gut. No mere concept; this woman was carrying his child. His and Carla’s. The child she’d been so desperate to have. The child she’d been unable to conceive. Even success through their last resort, IVF, had eluded her, cycle after futile cycle. He put a hand to his brow, felt the shock of events thunder in the beat of blood at his temples, tasted the bitter taste of bile in the back of his throat.

And yet this woman—this stranger—had succeeded where Carla had failed so very many times.

Why?

Who was this woman that she could turn his life upside down? Who was she that she could stir up the ghosts of his past? Who gave her the right to mess with his life?

All he knew was that he couldn’t do this over the phone. He had to meet her. Had to deal with this face to face.

He tugged on his tie, undid his top button, but still the room felt sticky and overheated. And still his voice, when it came, felt like gravel in his throat. It sounded worse. ‘What did you say your name was again?’

‘It’s Angie. Angie Cameron.’

‘Look, Miss Cameron—’

‘It’s Mrs, actually, but just Angie is fine.’

Of course. He pushed back in his chair. She might sound like some nervous teenager over the phone, but she would have to be married and for some years to be undergoing fertility treatment. ‘Look, Mrs Cameron,’ he said, ignoring her invitation for informality when he was still having trouble believing her story, ‘this isn’t something I can discuss over the phone.’

‘I understand.’

He sucked air into his lungs and shook his head. God, did she have to sound like some kind of therapist? If she was so upset about carrying his child, then why didn’t she rant and scream and rail about injustice in the world like he wanted to? Didn’t she realise his world was tearing apart—the world he’d taken years to rebuild?

He could so not do this!

‘We should meet,’ he said somehow through near-gritted teeth as he wheeled around in his chair, his finger resting over a button on the phone that would connect him to Simone. ‘As soon as possible. I’ll put you back to my PA. She’ll organise the details.’

If she had anything else to say, he didn’t hear it before he punched that button and slammed the receiver down, lungs burning as if he’d just run ten kilometres along the cliffs, his brow studded with sweat. Simone could deal with it. Simone was good with tidying up after him while he worked out what came next.

And what did come next? What followed the disbelief?

Anger, he recognised, as the blood pounded loud in his ears and fire burned hot in his gut. Right now anger boiled up inside him like lava looking for an exit—lava ready to burst him apart like a volcano set to erupt.

Because the impossible had happened.

The unthinkable.

And somebody was going to pay!




CHAPTER TWO


ANGIE set the receiver down, her hand still trembling, her cheeks damp with tears. But what had she expected? That the man would welcome the news she was carrying his child as if it was some kind of miracle?

Hardly. She swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand, pulled a tissue from a box and blew her nose. After all, it hadn’t felt like any kind of miracle when she’d been given the news. Far from it.

Still, did he have to sound so angry? Anyone would think it was all her fault.

She put a guilty hand over her still flat stomach, home to the child she’d never really wanted, the child she’d only agreed to have because Shayne had so desperately wanted a son, the child that had turned out not to be his.

Maybe it was her fault.

Unnatural, Shayne had called her. A real woman would want babies, he’d said, saving the most hurtful for when they had to cancel a holiday in order to scrape together the money for the procedures because he’d managed to get a subsidised place in the Carmichael Clinic, the best fertility clinic in Australia.

A real woman wouldn’t need IVF to get pregnant.

And then, when finally the IVF had succeeded and she was pregnant and it looked like Shayne would have the child he’d wanted so desperately, the clinic had called with the news of their terrible mix-up and she was a failure once again.

Because a real woman wouldn’t want to carry another man’s baby. Because a real woman would take the clinic up on their generous offer to fix it.

Maybe Shayne was right.

Maybe this was her punishment for not being a real woman. Cursed with a child she’d never really wanted and that wasn’t even hers, and yet unable to bring herself, as Shayne had so eloquently put it, to fix it.

Fix it.

He’d made it sound so simple, like taking out the rubbish or tossing away old clothes. But this wasn’t about a bag of trash. She wasn’t carrying around a bag of old clothes. Whether or not she’d wanted it, there was a baby growing inside her belly. A life. Someone else’s child.

And after all the effort the clinic had gone to, all the tests and injections and procedures and hand-holding to get her pregnant, they thought they could just turn around and somehow make it better?

It was never going to happen.

Besides, it wasn’t only her decision to make. Not when there was a couple out there who’d put their heart and soul into creating this new life. Not when this child was rightfully theirs. Whatever happened now, whatever they decided, at the very least they deserved to know of this baby’s existence.

She squeezed her eyes shut as her fingers curled into the denim of her shorts. Poor baby, to end up with her of all people, the woman who never really wanted a child in the first place, the woman who’d only agreed in order to save her marriage.

What a joke!

‘I’m sorry, baby. But we’ll meet your dad soon. Maybe even your mum too. They’ll want you, I’m sure.’

And if they didn’t?

A solitary tear slid down her cheek as she thought back to the phone call, remembering the deep and damning tones of the man’s voice, as if she’d been to blame for visiting upon him some momentous disaster. Then again, it probably felt like some momentous disaster to him right now. She’d gone through the same stages herself. The shock. The disbelief. The sheer bewilderment that came with discovering that a mistake so fundamental could have occurred in a medical facility, a place that was supposed to specialize in making dreams come true, not in creating nightmares.

And then she’d borne the full brunt of Shayne’s reactions. He’d gone from shock to fury in the space of a heartbeat. Fury that the baby he’d been bragging about to family and friends for a month wasn’t his at all. Fury with the clinic for messing with his plans. Fury that had changed direction and headed straight for her when she’d refused point-blank to have the abortion the clinic had offered and that he’d demanded.

Oh, yes, she understood full well how shell-shocked Mr Pirelli would be feeling right now. But for all his aggravation, for all his strident accusation, he could have hung up on her. He could have simply denied the child was his.

But he had taken her call and he had agreed to meet her tomorrow. And right now that was the best she could bequeath to the tiny baby growing deep inside her—the chance for it to be with its real parents, the people who had gone through hell and back to create it, the people who had first rights to this child.

A car slowed outside. She glanced up at the clock on the wall above her head, saw that it was almost six and for just a moment imagined it must be Shayne home from the foundry, and for just a moment panicked that she hadn’t started dinner yet.

Before a pain still jagged and raw ripped through her as she remembered.

Shayne wasn’t coming home any more.

She was alone.

The Darling Harbour boardwalk was crowded and congested with holidaymakers taking videos and eating ice creams, vying for space with performers busking for spare change. Seagulls squawked both overhead and underfoot, fighting each other for crumbs, while a reproduction sailing ship spewed a hundred excited tourists back onto the wharf.

Dominic sighed, feeling out of place as he and Simone waited near the designated meeting spot and half wishing his PA had chosen somewhere less public and more private for this meeting, but then the crowds were apparently half the attraction. Keep it informal, Simone had suggested. On neutral territory. Away from his lawyer’s offices, which might give the impression he was ready to broker some kind of deal. Away from the Pirelli building where his wealth was obvious as soon as you stepped into the stunning marble lobby. This Mrs Cameron might have pretended to be making some kind of altruistic gesture, but he had no proof of that. There was no point putting temptation right in front of her.

Simone had a point, he’d conceded, catching a whiff of her expensive perfume amidst the salt and popcorntinged air. It was her favourite, he recognised, the one he’d given her a bottle of last Christmas. It suited her. Sleek and no-nonsense, feminine without being flowery. Exactly, in fact, like she was and exactly what he needed in a PA.

Come to think of it, Simone had been right about this place, he revised, peeling off his jacket and hooking it over his shoulder. He could be anonymous here, no longer Dominic Pirelli, billionaire investor and market strategist, but just one more suit escaping his office for an hour.

Except that this suit was waiting to meet the woman who was carrying his child.

Anticipation coiled in his gut. He glanced down at the platinum Tag Heuer at his wrist, saw that she was already late.

‘Do you think she’ll turn up?’ Simone looked over her shoulder, putting voice to his greatest fear, her asymmetrical black bob swinging around her head. ‘What if she changes her mind? She didn’t leave a contact number.’

‘She’ll turn up,’ he said, willing the woman to show. After the way he’d spoken to her yesterday, he’d be the last to be surprised she was having second thoughts, but it didn’t matter if she had changed her mind. He had her name. She had his baby. And there was no way she was escaping him now. ‘She’ll turn up.’

Angie’s eyes felt heavy and scratchy as she hurried along the pedestrian bridge linking the hurly-burly of Sydney CBD streets to the tourist precinct of Darling Harbour, and she didn’t need to see her reflection to know how red they appeared to the outside world. She could tell that from the inside.

Screams had driven her from sleep and dreams filled with snarling dogs snapping and tugging at her clothes and body. One had taken Shayne’s face while it circled, barking out his taunts, telling her she would never be a real woman. Another had soothed her with words of comfort while trying to snatch her baby at the same time. And yet another had taken his place, larger and more powerful than all the rest, growling with teeth bared, moving closer, ready to savage.

And she’d woken in fear to her own screams, panting and desperate, the sheets knotted around her, her body damp with perspiration and her lonely bed more empty than ever. But safe, she’d realised, blessedly safe from the nightmare.

After that it had been impossible to sleep, the images the night had spun leaving her shaken and afraid, the night sounds of Sherwill—the barking dogs, the squeal of tyres as the hoons did burn-outs around the streets, the neighbours yelling—all keeping her company while a hundred scenarios for how today’s meeting would unfold spun their way through her mind. No wonder she hadn’t slept.

And now the light summer breeze whipped at her hair, carrying with it a combination of diesel fumes from the highway below and greasy doughnuts from a nearby stall and Angie’s stomach roiled anew. She protested at the unfairness. There was nothing left in her stomach, and yet still she wanted to heave.

Please God, she thought, swallowing back on the urge. Not now. Not here. Not when she was rushing to get to this meeting. She’d lost breakfast—one piece of dry toast and a cup of tea—ten minutes after she’d pointlessly forced it down, and that had been hours ago. An hour on a jostling, crowded train hadn’t helped, nor had the man who had lurched against her from behind as she’d left the train and almost sent her sprawling to the platform. He’d disappeared into the crowds without a word of apology, while she’d had to sit down for ten minutes to see out the cold sweat and wait for her heartbeat and temperature to get back under control.

Ten minutes she hadn’t had.

So much for being relaxed and composed before she met the father of the child growing inside her.

Damn.

She blinked against the lunch-time sun, pushing her sunglasses higher on her nose as she descended the last few steps to the crowded boardwalk, suddenly wishing she’d worn something lighter. She’d wanted to cover herself up but it was much too hot for jeans and her old cardigan and she felt tatty and dated. Families strolled by as she hesitated on the last step, speaking in languages she didn’t recognise, the children laughing with painted faces and hanging on to fat balloons that bounced against the air as they ran. Couples walked hand in hand, sharing secrets, oblivious to everything and everyone. Lunch-time joggers darted between them all, all lean limbed and firm skinned under Lycra and nylon and wired for sound.

Angie pulled her thin discount department store cardigan tighter around her shoulders as she made her way through the crowds, half wishing she’d never agreed to a meeting here. Darling Harbour had sounded both cosmopolitan and exotic when she’d heard Mr Pirelli’s secretary suggest it as the meeting location and she’d made out she knew exactly where she was supposed to be, too embarrassed to admit she hadn’t been here for years.

Besides, she’d been so relieved that he’d agreed to meet her at all, she wasn’t about to argue about the location.

It was a good sign, wasn’t it, that he wanted to meet her? And if he met with her, surely that meant he would want the child? She held that hope close to her heart, nurtured it. It was all she wanted, for this child to be with its rightful parents, to be cherished by them.

And if they decided they didn’t want it?

She sucked in a mouthful of the salt-tinged air. Well, there were other options, other couples unable to have children who would adore a tiny baby as their own. This baby would make someone happy, she was sure of it.

She pulled a crumpled note from her pocket, checked again for the details of where she was supposed to meet and scanned the surroundings, feeling a sizzle of apprehension when she recognised the green arch of the Harbourside Shopping Centre the PA had told her to wait outside. Her steps slowed as she approached. She was close now but, with the shifting crowd milling around the water’s edge, it was impossible to pick out individuals. What if he hadn’t waited? What if he’d given up and left?

Then, as she drew closer, she saw a couple sitting at a table holding hands, their heads bowed, the mood intense. She hesitated, her heart thudding hard in her chest. Could they be them? Could this be the parents of the child growing inside her?

Even as she watched, she saw the woman swipe tears from the corners of her eyes. Angie felt those tears like a tug against her womb. Surely it must be them? This was the right place and she was late. Was that why she was crying—because she feared Angie wasn’t going to show?

Yet still she wavered, unwilling to intrude on this private moment. She looked around, shifting from one foot to the other, searching for any other more likely looking couple. There was a party of Japanese students lining the edge of the boardwalk, and an Italian family seated at a nearby table enjoying gelati and then there was a man in a white shirt with his jacket slung over his shoulder standing with his back to her.

Her eyes almost skated over him.

Almost.

All too soon they skated back. He stood tall and dark and somehow compelling, even from this angle, and when he turned his head to talk to the slim woman Angie had missed standing beside him, his profile only added to his appeal. A strong nose and jaw, and a dark slash of brows atop eyes that seemed focused on the woman beside him.

Another couple, she surmised, and way too unlikely. The woman looked cool and collected and nowhere near anxious enough to be meeting the woman inadvertently carrying her child, while surely he was too perfect, too virile-looking. For even while she knew fertility had nothing to do with looks, somehow the prospect that this man needed help seemed too far-fetched. Her eyes slipped away. And then she heard a cry of anguish and turned in time to see the woman on the bench jump up, the man reaching for her hand to stop her.

Guilt consumed her. She shouldn’t have been so late. She should never have hesitated and added to her distress. She dragged in air, desperate to find a way through the sudden tangle her nerves had become, forcing herself to take the few tentative steps towards the couple.

‘Over there. Could that be them?’

Dominic’s eyes followed in the direction Simone indicated, settling on a couple sitting at a table not far away. He sucked in air. Could this be the woman who’d called? Was the man sitting alongside her husband? They were clearly not tourists, not the way they were dressed, and the woman’s expression, her tightly drawn features and reddened eyes signalled that something was definitely not right between them.

Could it be because she was carrying someone else’s child? Carrying his?

Breath whooshed from his lungs as every organ inside him contracted. Was the child Carla had so desperately and futilely wanted somehow growing inside this woman instead?

He studied the couple while he willed his breathing back to normal, studying them between the holidaymakers and honeymooners and strollers tied with balloons. The woman was blonde and slim, not unattractive under her sad eyes. The man was older, he noticed, whereas she looked around thirty-five—the age, he guessed, where she might be starting to panic about never having children. Had the child she’d longed for turned out to be someone else’s?

His eyes flicked over their clothes. Both of them had the kind of grooming that took money. Maybe she’d been honest about not wanting his—it looked as if they had plenty of their own to go around. Of course, he rationalised, at the rates the Carmichael Clinic charged, they would have to have money.

It all seemed to fit.

‘What do you think?’ Simone prompted.

‘Must be,’ he mused, his eyes leaving the couple for a moment to scan the crowd. There were families and tourists and a gaunt-looking woman who looked as if she was lost in the crowd. No, there was nobody else it could be. He nodded, feeling a strange tightening in his chest as he contemplated this next step, twenty-four hours’ notice strangely nowhere near enough to prepare himself to meet the woman carrying his child. ‘Let’s go find out.’ He’d barely got the words out when the woman suddenly cried out and jumped to her feet.

The man followed, trying to placate her. Dominic cut a swathe through the pedestrian traffic. Did the woman think he wasn’t going to show? He shouldn’t have hesitated. Who else could it be? She was arguing through her sobs, her head turned back to the man holding her hand when he reached them.

‘Mrs Cameron?’

‘Mr and Mrs Pirelli?’

The couple looked around, both of them stunned for a moment, but Dominic’s attention had already been snagged by the woman who’d arrived from left field, the woman with his name on her lips.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded.




CHAPTER THREE


SHE was shabby and pale, a ghost of a woman dressed in drab clothes and with hair the colour of dishwater pulled into an unkempt ponytail. Even as he took her in she seemed to shrink before him, her focus over his shoulder on the couple behind. ‘I thought … I thought that was Mr and Mrs Pirelli.’

‘I am Dominic Pirelli.’

‘Oh.’

Simone came up alongside him with a click of heels and a whiff of that French perfume. ‘Then you must be Mrs Cameron.’

Dominic wanted to argue the point. What did Simone think she was saying? He’d already decided who Mrs Cameron was and it wasn’t this ragged excuse for a woman. Mrs Cameron was right here next to him—he swivelled around to see the couple rapidly disappearing into the crowd—and turned back, still not wanting to believe it could be true. How could this woman, this dishrag of a woman, be capable of carrying his child?

How could the clinic possibly have put his child into her?

But she was here, where they were supposed to meet, and she had uttered his name …

The shabby woman swallowed, and Dominic followed the movement down a neck so thin it looked too small for her head. ‘That’s right,’ she uttered, almost as if she were afraid of the admission. ‘I’m … I’m Angie Cameron.’

Her voice cemented it as much as her admission. Unsure. Afraid. Sounding more like that teenager again when she must be—he peered at her, trying to put an age to her appearance—and failed. She looked nothing like the women he was used to dealing with in his life. For a woman so undernourished, she looked—weighed down.

‘And you,’ the ragged urchin offered, wiping her palms on her jeans before she held out her hand, ‘must be Mrs Pirelli. I’m really sorry we have to meet in such circumstances.’

Her words were unnecessary. Dominic could not possibly imagine meeting her in any other. ‘Simone is not my wife,’ he said sharply. ‘Simone is my PA.’

Something flickered in the PA’s eyes at her boss’s rapid fire correction, vanishing just as quickly, the brief touch of her fingers just as cool as the smile in her newly resumed demeanour. Angie blinked, way out of her depth, still reeling from making a fool of herself by approaching the wrong couple without being faced with this man—the man she’d decided could not possibly be the one. And now the woman with him was not his wife.

She could barely keep up.

She turned to offer her hand to the man but caught how he was looking at her—as is she were some kind of scum—and thought better of it, pulling her hand back.

Besides, even if she hadn’t felt his revulsion, she wasn’t sure she could cope with having her hand swallowed up in his. He’d looked tall from a distance before, but now, standing before her, he might well have been a mountain. Tall and broad-shouldered and composed entirely of rugged angles and treacherous planes. An insurmountable obstacle that she sensed with just one touch would drain her of what little strength she had.

No way would she risk that. Not when she needed every bit she did have for the tiny scrap of a baby growing inside her.

She closed her eyes. Oh, God. This man’s baby.

A sudden gust of wind caught her and she swayed with it, stumbling a little before a manacle closed around her arm. But when she opened her eyes it was his hand that encircled her arm, his long fingers overlapping with the thumb. ‘Sit down,’ he growled, his deep voice all rough edges that rippled down her spine, ‘before you fall down.’

He steered her backwards to the now empty seat and she collapsed gratefully onto it, still stunned that something made of skin and bone could feel like iron against her flesh. She put one hand to the place, sure she could feel the heat of his grip in the tingling band of skin.

He said something to the woman beside him, who disappeared efficiently in a click of heels and a flick of her hair while he looked around, raking the fingers of one hand through his hair. ‘Where is your husband?’ he asked, searching the crowd. ‘Surely he came with you?’

‘No. He’s not here.’

His head swung back in disbelief. ‘He made you come alone? In this condition?’

She almost managed to find a smile, certain he wasn’t referring to her pregnancy, but then she remembered the look in his eyes—as if she were the lowest of the low—and any thoughts of smiling departed. She knew she looked like rubbish lately. Hadn’t Shayne told her plenty of times? So instead she shrugged. ‘It’s hardly terminal. I get a little morning sickness. It passes by lunch time.’

Or it usually did. Today being the exception, of course. ‘And then it was a mad dash from the station.’

The woman reappeared, holding a bottle of spring water. ‘Here,’ she said, holding it out. ‘You look like you could do with this.’

Angie thanked her and unscrewed the cap, genuinely grateful for the gesture even if she hadn’t needed yet another reminder of how bad she looked. The water was cool against her throat, refreshing both heated body and scrambled mind, opening the door to hope again. Maybe now the worst was over and there would be no more shocks. Maybe now they could just deal with the situation and get on with their lives.

‘Have you eaten anything?’

‘I’m not hungry,’ she insisted, just wanting to get on with it and make the arrangements that needed to be made. But her stomach had other ideas, rumbling so loud there was no way she could hide it, and she cursed a fickle stomach that could be threatening to turn one moment and suddenly so desperately hungry that it felt as if it was about to devour itself in the next.

‘Of course you’re not hungry. Simone, go and find us a table at Marcello’s. As private as possible. We’ll be right along.’

‘Are you sure? I thought you wanted somewhere public.’

‘We can’t talk here. Besides, this woman needs to eat.’

‘Of course,’ she said with a tight smile, though the look she flashed at Angie made it clear that she wasn’t impressed. Then she flicked her head around and marched briskly off, her shiny bob swinging from side to side.

‘I don’t want to cause any fuss,’ she said, her eyes on the departing woman, momentarily mesmerised by the movement in the sleek curtain of hair, knowing that the cut must have cost a fortune. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to the hairdresser instead of cutting her hair herself in front of the bathroom mirror.

‘Can you walk? Do you need help?’

She looked up at him and caught that look in his eyes again, as if he was weighing her up and assessing her suitability to bear his child and finding her wanting. Tough. He was stuck with her and she was stuck with him and they’d just have to make the best of it. She pushed herself to her feet, determined to show him that she didn’t spend her entire day being blown around by gusts of wind. Or men who looked like mountains, for that matter. ‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. Neither will lunch. I’d rather just work out what we’re going to do about this situation we happen to be in.’

‘We can talk about “this situation” when you’ve had some sustenance. It will be easier to talk then,’ he said, taking her forearm to steer her in the direction Simone had disappeared, sending a burst of shooting stars up her arm as she made to follow him. Instinctively she jerked her arm away, but he had already released her and she wondered if it was because he’d felt that same unexpected zing of current. But no. Far more likely that he’d simply achieved what he’d set out to do—he’d bossed her into submission and he could let her go, mission accomplished.

But she was too hungry to argue any more, too prepared to find the logic in his argument as she fell into step beside him. She needed to eat and they needed to talk. She’d probably have enough in her purse for a sandwich or something—anything to distract her from the strange tingling sensations under her skin. Like pins and needles except on the inside.

‘Did I hurt you?’

She glanced up to find him watching her without breaking stride. ‘Your arm,’ he said. And only then did she realise she was absently rubbing the spot he’d held her.

‘No,’ she said, looking away from his penetrating gaze, suddenly afraid he might see too much. What was it about this man that he made her so uncomfortable? Because she knew he didn’t like what he saw? Because he so clearly resented having to have anything to do with her? Well, that was his problem, not hers. And yet still she was the one who felt as skittish as a wild rabbit.

‘Good,’ he said, without glancing down at her. Not that he had to worry about looking where he was going. The crowd before them seemed to part in front of his purposeful stride, clearing a path for him to sweep majestically through, leaving her to wonder what kind of man he was, that he could part crowds with the sheer force of his presence. ‘You’re so thin I was worried I’d broken something. At least I know you will not be getting back on that train without having had something decent to eat.’

So now she was so thin she might snap? She told herself it really didn’t matter a damn what he thought of how she looked and what she weighed. It wasn’t as if they even had to like each other. Because after this baby was born, they’d probably never see each other again. After today if he’d prefer it. Yet still, his tone stung. She wasn’t perfect by any means—she knew that more than anyone—but she’d be as good a mother for this child as she could possibly be in the months it was in her care. What more could anyone ask?

And then she wondered about his absent wife. Why had he brought his PA to this meeting instead of his wife? Surely she’d be curious.

Unless she’d been too upset by the news to come?

Or maybe he hadn’t even told her yet?

Maybe he’d organised this meeting to vet her, to make sure she was actually worthy of carrying their child before breaking the news to his wife.

She stole a glance up at his compelling profile, at the strong blade of nose and sculpted angles of his jaw and suspected Mr Pirelli might be just that ruthless. And if today had been a test, then she had failed. His contemptuous looks were enough to make it clear she simply didn’t make the grade.

She pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders, too hot beneath it even with the breeze whipping off the harbour, but needing the camouflage over arms that felt unusually thin. Then again, could she blame him if he was trying to protect his wife? How would she feel if their situations were reversed? Wouldn’t she want the woman carrying her child to at least look human rather than some hollow-eyed stick insect? She’d stopped weighing herself lately. Her doctor had assured her she’d put on weight and look more like her old self as soon as the morning sickness stage passed but lately she was beginning to wonder if that would ever happen.

‘Up here,’ he said, gesturing towards a flight of steps leading inside, his fingers brushing past her elbow and sending another unwanted jolt of electricity up her arm that made her pulse race.

God, but she was jumpy! She hugged her tote closer to her side, pulling her elbows in as she climbed and making sure she kept her distance. Maybe it would be better if they didn’t have to meet again after today. She didn’t know how much of Dominic Pirelli her nerves could withstand.

But her nerves felt no better when she realised the stairs led away from the crowded tourist areas and food courts into an arcade spilling with gilded shops. It was quieter up here, the tone more exclusive. Without him by her side there was no way she’d ever venture up those stairs. They passed galleries displaying native art of dot paintings and carvings, and jewellery shops with windows filled with fat, lustrous pearls along with boutiques the likes of which she’d never have the courage to enter.

Beyond it all lay an intimate restaurant entrance. On the wall outside, the restaurant’s name was spelled out in florid letters of burnished gold. Marcello’s. They might just as well have spelled out the word expensive. Her footsteps slowed, despite the alluring scents coming from inside. He had to be kidding. She’d been thinking a quick sandwich, but this was a world away from the fast-food-type restaurants she was familiar with.

She stopped so suddenly he was halfway inside before he noticed. ‘I can’t go in there!’ she said as he backed up, one eyebrow raised impatiently in question. ‘Look at me.’ She held out her arms and cast her eyes over her faded top and jeans. Had he forgotten the way he’d looked at her when he’d sized her up before? ‘I shouldn’t be here. I’m not dressed to eat out, let alone in a place like this!’

‘It’s no big deal.’

‘They probably won’t even serve me.’

‘You’re with me,’ he said bluntly, making no concession to her ego by telling her she looked fine. ‘They’ll serve you.’

She shifted nervously. Did she really have to spell it out? ‘The thing is, I didn’t bring …’ She hesitated, not wanting to reveal the sad truth of her finances even if it would probably come as no surprise. ‘Look, I can’t afford to eat in a place like this.’

He didn’t blink. ‘My treat. Ask for anything on the menu.’

‘You’re kidding? Anything?’

‘Anything at all.’

Her stomach applauded with another growl, her resolve wavering even though she resented being made to feel like some kind of charity case. It was no contest. Forget haircuts, she told herself, already imagining the dishes to which those amazing scents belonged—she could cut her hair in front of the mirror for ever and she wouldn’t care. But when was the last time she’d eaten out? Really eaten out in a proper restaurant, not a takeaway outlet? And in a surge of emotion she remembered.

Christmas, five years ago.

The Christmas just before her mother had died …

Hormones combined with harrowed nerves combined with dusty memories, resulting in a spontaneous rush of tears as she remembered a day that had broken her heart and set her on a collision course with disaster. ‘Damn,’ she said, brushing away the sudden moisture. ‘I’m sorry. Thank you.’

‘Don’t read too much into it,’ he said thickly. ‘It’s the baby I’m worried about.’

The door to her memories snapped shut. Arrogant man! Did he really think her tears were out of gratitude? Did he fear she was about to fall to the floor and kiss his feet or was he worried that she might possibly imagine he might be concerned for her welfare?

Not a chance!

She stiffened her spine and drew herself up to her full five feet eight. ‘Tell me something I don’t know, Mr Pirelli.’ She swept past him in her faded jeans and chain store cardigan with as much dignity as she could muster.

Hadn’t he already made it crystal clear with his unveiled disdain that she was some kind of lesser being? She was under no misapprehension at all that he actually wanted to dine with her. His only concern was to make sure she ate something in order to nourish his precious baby.

Fine. But, baby or not, she was determined to enjoy every mouthful.

Her bravado lasted as long as it took to be noticed by the maître d’, who with just one withering look managed to remind her who and what she was. Then he noticed who she was with and instantly he seemed to forgive her unseemly intrusion. He smiled widely, opening his arms in greeting. ‘Signor Pirelli, it is always a pleasure to welcome you and your guests to Marcello’s. This way, please.’

Angie tried to make herself as unobtrusive as possible as she followed in the men’s wake. Except, she discovered, it was impossible to be unobtrusive when you were with the likes of Dominic Pirelli. Heads turned. Women who looked as if they’d been dressed by the boutiques they’d passed outside threw hungry glances his way, their eyes greedily devouring him, before turning to her, eyebrows rising, clearly wondering at the mismatch. She bowed her head and stared at the rich red carpet so she didn’t have to read their expressions, but nothing blocked out the ripple of conversation and the titter of laughter that marked their progress through the room.

Her cheeks burned. Everyone knew she didn’t belong here. Everyone, it seemed, but Mr Pirelli. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

Their table was set in a private room, tucked discreetly away from all the others and boasting a wall of windows that gave an unrivalled view over the sparkling water below and caught her attention.

‘Madam?’ And she realised the maître d’ was waiting, holding out a chair obviously intended for her and again she wished desperately they could have gone somewhere more casual, somewhere that had swivelling white plastic stools bolted to the floor like she was used to. She swallowed and sat, reaching for her serviette in relief when she hadn’t managed to disgrace herself, unravelling its skilful folds only to realise another waiter was performing some kind of artful flick and drape into laps with the others. His hand hovered momentarily over the empty place hers should have been and she shrank down, wanting to hide. She did so not belong here in this upmarket world where even the waiting staff made her feel inferior.

Even the menu offered no respite, written entirely in Italian, so that she understood only the odd word. There were no prices. Angie blinked, mentally trying to work out how much eating here would cost. She’d been wrong in thinking it merely expensive. Diners here probably had to take out a mortgage.

And yet he came here often enough to be personally welcomed by the maître d’? How much money did he have that he could do that, let alone invite someone to eat here and not blink? What kind of work did this man do?

She looked longingly out of the window where ferries left white trails as they ploughed their way across the harbour and pleasure craft took a more leisurely approach, the moving vista a feast for the eyes, laid out beyond the glass like one more sumptuous course.

‘We’re in a hurry today, Diego,’ she heard him say. ‘Mrs Cameron has a train to catch.’

She turned in time for his nod. ‘I understand. Would you like to order now, in that case?’

‘Just my usual salad,’ the other woman said.

‘What would you like, Mrs Cameron?’

And she was faced with the question she’d been dreading ever since she’d looked at the menu. She was half tempted to say she would have the same as Simone except the only thing she did know was that a salad wasn’t going to do it for her. She needed something entirely more substantial if she was going to soothe the savage beast inside her any time soon. She looked up at the waiter uncertainly. ‘I don’t suppose you happen to do steak?’

Simone smirked. The waiter blinked.

‘The osso buco, I think,’ Dominic said, taking her menu and passing them both to the waiter. ‘Good choice. It’ll be quick. Make that two.’

She nodded dumbly, thankful beyond measure for his intervention and knowing that whatever he’d ordered, she’d eat it. And at least it didn’t sound like a salad.

‘Did you have far to travel?’ he asked.

‘Not too far. Just out to Sherwill.’

‘All that way?’ Simone said as if she’d said she’d come from outer space. ‘But that’s halfway to Perth! Why would anyone live all the way out there?’

Because it’s cheap, Angie thought, even if it is nasty with it, fully aware that everyone in Sydney would know of the outer western suburb given it featured on the nightly news so frequently. ‘It’s only an hour on the express.’ When the trains were running to time.

Dominic scowled, no doubt racking up another black mark against her, courtesy of the area where she lived. And then he surprised her. ‘Simone, I think I can handle it from here. You might as well go back to the office.’

‘But Dom, surely you need minutes?’

‘We’ll manage. See you back at the office.’

Dismissed, the other woman had no choice but to leave as a waiter appeared bearing crusty bread and sparkling water. Angie fell upon both gratefully. The bread was dense and chewy and divine when slathered with butter so good it must be real, the sparkling water cool and refreshing.

She was still chewing when two waiters swept in bearing steaming plates of food and for a moment Angie was too staggered by the sight in front of her to think straight. There were mountains of meat in a rich tomato and vegetable sauce over an equally generous serving of golden rice. It looked and smelt fantastic and nothing like the steak she’d been expecting.

‘This is what I ordered?’

‘Osso buco,’ Dominic said, as his own plate descended in front of him. ‘It’s actually veal, rather than steak. I think you’ll like it.’

‘It smells fantastic.’

‘It’s a classic Italian dish,’ he said, picking up his fork. ‘Do you like Italian food?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly, contemplating her plate, wondering where to start. Shayne had never been one for anything fancy or spicy, so she’d given up experimenting long ago. And at least it hadn’t cost a lot to keep them in sausages and mash.

‘Try it,’ he prompted.

She didn’t need her knife, she discovered; the meat fell apart with just her fork. She gathered a piece together with some of the sauce and rice, and lifted it to her mouth and tasted it, sighing with contentment as the flavours hit her tongue. It was divine, the meat so tender it practically melted in her mouth, the sauce rich and tasty, the rice golden with butter and tangy cheese.

‘It’s delicious,’ she said, and then stopped, staggered to see what looked almost like a smile. It was so amazing the difference that one tiny tweak of his lips made to his face, transforming him from chiselled rock to flesh and blood in an instant. And suddenly he didn’t just look powerful. He looked almost—real.

Devastatingly real.

And then he realised she was staring and the scowl returned.

‘Eat up,’ he ordered, the hard lines of his face back in control. ‘And then we’ll talk.’

He couldn’t believe how much she could eat. Simone would have poked and prodded and chased around bits of tuna in her salad and still left half of it sitting in her bowl, whereas this woman had devoured—no, demolished—her entire plateful, as if it was the first decent meal she’d had in years. Then again, maybe it was, given the way the woman was now reaching for the bread to mop up the gravy. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a woman even eat bread, come to think of it. But then he’d never seen any woman eat like this one.

At least he knew that she wouldn’t be going home hungry. More to the point, his baby wouldn’t go hungry tonight.

His baby. Even twenty-four hours on, the very concept still sent a shudder through his veins, the news so unexpected and left-field he was still having trouble trying to assimilate it.

Once upon a time he’d prayed for it to happen, if only so he could see Carla smile again and know that she meant it, if only so that she might finally find that elusive happiness she sought.

But the whole IVF process had been so intense, so clinical, and as it turned out, so laden with despair and disappointment that it had been a relief when the doctors had put a stop to it. He’d written off his chances of having a child then.

That it should happen now, so many years later, was a victory as bitter as it was sweet.

Because by some freakish accident, by some cruel twist of fate, he was going to be a father after all.

It had finally happened.

But why—damn it all, why—in the womb of this woman?

Cruel twist of fate?

Or cruel joke?

He screwed up the napkin in his lap, dropped it next to his plate. Cruel either way. Because the one thing she had in common with Carla was the one thing he’d hated about her the most.

God, and Dr Carmichael had assured him she was healthy. She didn’t look healthy. And hadn’t she practically fainted on him earlier? She was gaunt, her arms perilously thin and when she’d taken off her sunglasses to come inside, the dark circles under her eyes had threatened to swallow up her whole face.

And right now a niggling concern tugged at the edges of his admiration for her appetite. For there had been those rare times that Carla too had eaten well, getting his hopes up that maybe she was recovering, only for her to spend the next few hours locked in the bathroom purging herself of every last calorie.

He watched the woman opposite put down her knife and fork and take a sip of water. Any second now, he thought, the past flooding back with bitter clarity, she’ll excuse herself …

But, instead, she surprised him by sitting back in her chair with a look of utter contentment on her face. ‘That was amazing,’ she said. ‘I am so full.’

He might have smiled in other circumstances, if he hadn’t already been counting. He knew the drill. Twenty minutes would be enough for her body to absorb vital nutrients for his child. He just had to keep her sitting there for twenty minutes.

The plates were cleared away, an order for coffee taken. The woman stuck with water though she’d been offered decaf. She made no attempt to go to the bathroom. He didn’t like that he couldn’t find fault with either of those things, even though there was an abundance of things about her that still rankled, from the way her hands fidgeted when she wasn’t eating to the fact that this meeting was even necessary. But it was her appearance that was right up there near the top of the list.

Though he had to concede she looked better for eating. There was colour in her face now, he noticed, her cheeks faintly blushed, her lips pink and wide and surprisingly lush now that he thought about it. Strange, how much difference colour made to her features. Even her eyes seemed to have found colour somewhere, maybe because her face was no longer dominated by the dark circles under her eyes. Clear blue, like crystal clear pools where you could almost see the bottom but for the ripples on the surface, they looked almost too big for the rest of her face. He searched them now, wishing the ripples away so he could find out what it was that motivated her, what had really brought her here today, but they chose that moment to skitter away and he was left wondering—was she hiding something?

There was only one way to find out. ‘Okay,’ he said, placing a small voice recorder on the table between them, ‘let’s get down to business.’

Angie licked her lips. A moment ago she’d been enjoying the afterglow of the best meal she’d ever had, her tastebuds still tingling, alive with new flavours. But that was then. Now she felt his resentment coming in waves across the table and she didn’t understand why. His tone and his words made it sound as if they were in the midst of some kind of business meeting rather discussing the future of the child she carried. ‘What’s that for?’

‘For the record, Mrs Cameron. Rest assured, you’ll be given a copy.’

She blinked. ‘You don’t trust me.’

His eyes pinned her across the table and for the first time she noticed just how dark they were, as dark as his voice was deep, as if they’d both been tapped from the same dark cavern, deep below the earth. ‘Who said anything about not trusting you?’

Was he kidding? His answer was right there in his eyes, if not in his actions. ‘But you don’t trust me. You only bought me lunch because you couldn’t trust me to eat it otherwise.’

Across the table he sat back hard against his seat back, the movement unwittingly drawing her eyes to the pull of fine, crisp cotton against broad masculine chest, a random thought approving of the contrast of white cotton against the olive skin at his open neck. ‘Put it this way,’ he said, and she blinked, annoyed with herself that she’d been distracted. She had no business noticing such details. She didn’t want to notice such things. Certainly not about him.

‘The thing is,’ he continued, ‘I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. And, even if we did know each other, given the fact it’s months until this child is born, I think it’s wise to ensure from the beginning there are no misunderstandings down the track. Don’t you?’

‘What kind of misunderstandings?’

He shrugged, no casual shrug but a deliberate and calculated movement of those broad shoulders. This time she didn’t allow her eyes to linger longer than to get the impression that he would just as easily shrug her off, if only he could. ‘Either one of us could say things today and then change their mind before the baby is born.’

‘I’m not changing my mind!’

‘Then you have nothing to worry about.’

‘And you don’t need the recording.’

‘No?’ He leaned forward. ‘But what if I were to change my mind? Trust works both ways, Mrs Cameron.’

If he changed his mind? Angie sat back in her chair, her fingers knotting in her lap, her fingertips finding the absent place where her rings had once been. He was messing with her head, talking trust and misunderstandings. She’d assumed she’d turn up today and he’d agree to take the baby. It was that simple.

Wasn’t it?

‘So what you’re actually telling me, Mr Pirelli, is that you’re not a man to be trusted.’

Even as his mouth curved into a smile, one look at his cold, glittering eyes and Angie realised she’d just overstepped some unseen line. ‘Like I said,’ he clarified in that deep voice that seemed to rumble its way through her very bones like the growl of a jungle cat and sounded just as ominous, ‘we don’t know each other. And this is no stray cat or a dog we’re talking about. This is a child. My child. A baby that won’t be born for six months. You think I’m going to leave that to chance? I want whatever we decide on paper. I want it watertight. And I don’t want there to be any chance that one of us can change our minds. Not where this baby is concerned.’

She sighed, dropping her head into her hands. This was so not how she’d imagined this meeting going. But maybe she’d been naive in thinking this would be simple. Maybe he was right. For it wasn’t as if they were talking about a puppy that had wandered into the wrong house that she was returning. It was a baby, a child that had been implanted into the wrong woman and which wouldn’t be born for six long months. Of course they would need some kind of record of their agreement. ‘Okay,’ she conceded, ‘we’ll do it your way.’

‘Good,’ he said, impatience more than satisfaction weighing down the word as he leaned forward to switch the machine on. ‘Let’s get on with it. First to the basics. You’re currently approximately twelve weeks pregnant with a child that is not your own, is that so?’

‘That’s right.’

‘After being mistakenly implanted with my biological child rather than your own embryo.’

She nodded, adding a late, ‘Yes.’

‘And you called me yesterday to tell me this.’

‘Yes.’

‘And why did you do that, Mrs Cameron? What is it you’re proposing, exactly?’

Was he kidding? ‘I’m having your baby, Mr Pirelli. And I’m here now. What do you think I’m proposing?’

‘You’re the one who called. You tell me.’

‘Okay.’ She sucked in a breath tinged with frustration. Hadn’t they been through this? ‘The way I see it, this baby growing inside me is not my child. I thought that you would want to know about it. And I was hoping that maybe, just maybe, you might actually want the child once it is born.’

‘Because you don’t?’

He made it sound like an accusation. She didn’t want any baby. Not really. But that was none of his business. ‘This baby is yours. I thought—I hoped—that you’d want it.’

‘So you’re saying you’re prepared to have this baby and hand it over?’

‘Of course.’

‘As soon as it’s born?’

‘It would be difficult to do it any earlier.’ Across the table, a jaw clenched, tightening to rock and dark eyes glittered ominously, warning her this was no joking matter. But what did he expect? He was the one turning this meeting into an inquisition. ‘Of course that’s what I’m saying! That’s why I’m here. This child, this baby, has nothing to do with me. Not really.’

‘So you would hand over this child and walk away, and expect to have nothing to do with it ever again?’

‘Why would I want to when it’s not my child?’

He leaned forward. ‘You see, that’s what I’m having trouble understanding, Mrs Cameron. Why would you carry through with this pregnancy when it is not your child?’ Dark eyes caught menacingly in the downlights, gleaming dangerously as he leaned across the table towards her. ‘Unless there’s something you’re expecting in return?’




CHAPTER FOUR


ANGIE blinked, her heart racing, her mind scrambling to keep up. ‘I have no idea what you mean.’

‘Oh, come on. You expect me to believe you’re making some kind of altruistic gesture out of the goodness of your heart and that you’ll hand this baby over and expect nothing in return? Nothing? Why don’t you just come clean? How much are you asking?’

She shook her head. He’d asked her yesterday over the phone what was in it for her, but she’d figured it was a knee-jerk reaction, born of shock. She’d never imagined he really believed it of her. ‘This has nothing to do with money.’

His expression darkened with disbelief, his eyes raking over her and making no attempt to disguise his scorn. ‘Come on, Mrs Cameron. You’re expecting me to believe you couldn’t do with a little extra cash?’

He was actually serious. Okay, so maybe she could do with some extra cash and it showed. But there was no need for him to sit there, looking so smugly imperious, like a Roman emperor ready to toss some scraps to a waiting pleb. She didn’t want his scraps. She didn’t want anything of his.

Ever again.

But some perverse part of her insisted she play his game. Maybe he was right. Maybe she should be asking for money if he was so very keen to force it on her. The clinic had promised to cover all her medical expenses, but Shayne had given her nothing in maintenance and her little nest egg wouldn’t last for ever now she’d lost her job. And that perverse little voice asked if it would be so very wrong to ask, given he seemed so keen to part with his money. ‘So what exactly are you offering?’

Nothing about him moved, save for his lips that turned into a half smile, and she tried to ignore the feeling that she’d just made some terrible mistake and wondered whether there was any chance she could make it right if she had.

‘Inconvenience money,’ he offered, watching her intently now, ‘given what you’re undertaking and given your own plans for a child have been delayed. Surely you must be anxious to try again.’ He was sure he had her now. Her point-blank denials had been frustrating him but they hadn’t lasted long until she’d been the one to ask what was on offer. It had been the crack he’d been waiting for. Nobody would do what she was doing for nothing, and with that lapse she’d proven it. He waited while she stared at the glass in her hand, waited while she weighed up his words, wondering if already she was counting the dollar signs; wondering if she even realised she was worrying that bottom lip of hers with her white teeth. The gesture spoke of an innocence he knew she couldn’t possibly possess. Yet still he found himself unable to look away.

And then she looked up and met his gaze. ‘Look, that’s actually very sweet of you, Mr Pirelli,’ she said, ‘but my next pregnancy is my business. And I’ve decided I can wait.’

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, not when he’d thought he had her, now when she’d been the one to ask what was on offer. He cursed himself for insisting on the recording device. It had to be what had made her so reluctant before and what was inhibiting her now. But he wasn’t about to give up yet. ‘What about your husband—what does he think?’

She looked anxiously around, and he wondered if she was looking for a waiter. But no, her water was still full so it couldn’t be that. ‘He … he’s happy for me to handle this.’

‘But surely he must be upset about this whole thing?’

She licked her lips, reaching for the glass. Not drinking, but just twirling the contents, as if searching for something to do and something else to focus on. ‘We’ve come to an agreement.’

‘What kind of agreement?’

Her glass stopped twirling. Her eyes snapped up. ‘The kind of agreement that’s between Shayne and me. The kind of agreement that doesn’t concern you.’

‘Doesn’t it, given right now you’re carrying my child?’

What did he want? Blood? She was sick of her motives being questioned when she was only here to offer him his baby. Had he never heard of the words thank you? ‘Look, Mr Pirelli, do you actually want this baby or not? Only there’s an adoption list a mile long.’

‘This baby will not be adopted!’

‘Fine. But you’re lucky there’s even going to be a baby, given what the clinic offered!’

Cold hard silence descended over the table. Like a blanket of fog, it chilled the atmosphere and set his face to stone.

‘What did the clinic offer?’

She cursed the impulse that had made her lash out at him, cursed the words that had issued from her mouth when she’d never had any intention of acting upon them. But maybe he needed to hear them. Maybe then he would appreciate what she was trying to do. She swallowed, her throat almost too tight to get out the words. ‘They suggested I have an abortion. Cover the whole thing up quietly. Without you ever knowing.’

Skin pulled tight over cheekbones, the cords of his throat stood out rigid and tight, a throbbing pulse at his temple, and she was suddenly back in her dream, the snarling dog closing in on her, its powerful shoulders bringing it ever closer until she could almost feel its hot angry breath against her face. Was this the man she’d imagined in her nightmare? Was this man the snarling danger in the dark?

‘I said no!’ she insisted, shaken by the return of the images in her nightmare. ‘Obviously, I said no.’ It had never been an option as far as she was concerned.

‘Obviously, you said no,’ he echoed, the words sounding as if they’d been ground out of all the dark, jagged places inside him. ‘Because you realised this baby was worth more to you alive. You decided you could sell it instead.’

‘No! You honestly believe I could sell this baby—your baby—back to you? What kind of person do you think I am?’

‘I don’t know what kind of person you are, Mrs Cameron. I don’t know why anyone would want to willingly bear someone else’s child—a stranger’s child. Why would they do that, if not for money, when you are clearly on the bones of your arse.’

It was too much! She stood shakily to her feet, sick of his mistrust, sick of his constant references to how pitiable she was. ‘Just like you said, Mr Pirelli, you don’t know me. You don’t know me at all. And clearly I made a mistake coming here. I thought you’d be interested in raising your own child, but I can see now that all you’re worried about is your money. And it seems to me that this child would be much better off being raised as far away from you as humanly possible. Thank you for lunch. I’m leaving.’

She swung her tote over her shoulder even as his voice boomed out across the table. ‘You’re not going anywhere!’ His hand caught the swinging bag and sent it crashing to the floor, throwing its contents across the carpet.




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