One-Night Pregnancy

by Lindsay Armstrong

  Marie-Claire, Bridget thought. Just her name says it all…

  ‘And I can’t get this bleak little image of ending up on my own like Julius out of my mind,’ he said with obvious frustration. He looked fleetingly wry. ‘Perhaps that’s why we need each other.’

  Bridget opened her mouth, but he waved her to silence.

  ‘I played God that night in the shed,’ he said. ‘I should have known better. I did. But it was a page we wrote together, Bridget. If it’s brought more than you bargained for, the same goes for me. Even so, you obviously don’t feel like tearing it up and throwing it away, and neither do I.’ He paused. ‘Despite everything, there’s a right feeling to it.’

  Bridget stared at him with her lips parted.

  He had been looking into the blue yonder over her head, but now brought his gaze down to her. ‘I know it’s not a declaration of undying love, but that’s the truth. And, contrary to what you said earlier this morning, I do like you.’ His lips twisted. ‘A lot.’

  He reached out and brushed her hair out of her eyes. ‘I don’t like to think of you alone, and even if you have decided it’s your brave new world—and I’m sure it will be that from time to time—it doesn’t need to be.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT WAS the sound of a car driving away that broke the spell for Bridget—that long, long moment when she was mesmerised by what he’d said, what he’d admitted, and the impact it had had on her.

  ‘Who…?’ she whispered.

  He looked across at the departing plume of dust on the driveway behind the house. ‘Fay. If we have no dinner guests she takes the afternoon off.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He looked at her wryly.

  ‘I’m just a little speechless,’ she confessed.

  ‘You’ve offered me advice yourself,’ he reminded her. ‘To move on,’ he elucidated.

  ‘I know, but I didn’t expect to—’ She couldn’t go on.

  ‘To feature so prominently in it?’ he suggested, humour glinting in his eyes.

  ‘No.’ She took a shaky little breath. ‘But when you put it like that, it’s terribly tempting. It sounds like a partnership. It sounds—sensible. But that’s what it is, isn’t it?’

  He frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s…’ She sought for the right words. ‘It’s a marriage of convenience, really.’

  He didn’t speak for a long time, then said, ‘But that seems to recommend itself to you?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Bridget,’ he said slowly, ‘I made some of the worst decisions of my life in a rush of—of passion, I suppose you could say. But respect, affection, and something to build on like a child, our child, recommends itself to me, yes.’

  ‘I—I still need to think about it,’ she murmured in some confusion—because his words, while so sane, seemed to strike a little chill through her. ‘You must see that—well, it’s the last thing I expected, and—’

  ‘No, I don’t think you need to think about it,’ he contradicted. ‘There can’t be any reason why it isn’t the best solution. You’ve told me your life—career-wise, anyway—is probably due for an overhaul. Is there anyone in your life it could make the slightest difference to?’

  ‘No,’ she denied. ‘There’s no one. Apart from my mother, and whatever I do is going to take her by surprise.’

  ‘Then is there any reason to deny this baby both its parents in a secure home? Is there any reason not to put its welfare before everything else?’

  Bridget turned away suddenly as his gaze bored into her. Was she thinking only of herself now? Was the fact that Adam had so much to offer—billionaire status, in other words—irrelevant really? She’d accused him of dangling a carrot before her, but perhaps that was immaterial. So what was behind her reluctance? Her own feelings?

  Or a secret, inner suspicion that she was far better off without an Adam Beaumont who didn’t really love her, even though he respected and felt some affection for her?

  How selfish was that, though?

  ‘Bridget?’

  She turned back at last. ‘I—maybe you’re right.’

  ‘Should we do it, then?’

  Bridget discovered that she couldn’t speak, because a fine trembling had started within her and had spread so that she was shaking from head to toe, shaking and feeling quite incapable of coherence.

  She was unaware that she was also paper-pale and her eyes were as dark as emeralds.

  Adam Beaumont cursed beneath his breath as he read accurately the enormous strain she’d been under, was still under, and did the only thing he could. He put his arms around her.

  She didn’t resist, but she didn’t respond either—not for an age, at least. But gradually his warmth and the solid, secure feel of his arms got through to her, and she laid her cheek on his shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, barely audibly. ‘But you will be safe now.’

  Bridget rested against him as all sorts of thoughts ran through her mind. One seemed to stand out. It was his child she was carrying and he did want it. Surely she owed that to the new life within her?

  Her thoughts ran on. Did that not transcend any doubts she had that he might never have her in his heart the way he did the mysterious Marie-Claire?

  Here her thoughts performed a little jig, so much so that she suddenly found herself wishing she’d never heard that name—because it seemed to embody for her an allure and a magnetism no man could resist.

  I’ll have to get over that, she cautioned herself, if I do this.

  ‘Bridget?’ He slipped his fingers beneath her chin and tilted it so he could see into her eyes.

  Her lips parted. ‘All right. Yes, I will marry you. Thank you,’ she whispered.

  He hesitated, as if about to say something, then changed his mind and lowered his mouth to hers.

  She stood quite still in his arms, waiting for the magic to start to race through her, but nothing happened.

  He lifted his head. ‘Still worried, Mrs Smith?’ he queried.

  ‘I think I must be.’

  He looked pensive. ‘You don’t suppose I need to conjure up a wild storm and an old shed?’

  Bridget’s eyes widened.

  He traced the outline of her mouth. ‘You may not realise this, and I certainly have not given you cause to, but I’ve thought of us together, when it was the last thing I should have been thinking of.’

  ‘You have?’ She blinked at him.

  ‘Yes. For instance, I happened to be in a business meeting and I found myself doodling something most—unusual for the kind of meeting it was—a blue teddy bear, of all things. And that led to all sorts of inappropriate thoughts about you—and us. It wasn’t my best meeting.’

  Bridget smiled faintly and leant against him. ‘That’s nice, though. I don’t mind being associated with blue teddy bears.’

  His lips twisted and his hands moved on her hips. ‘It was what was under them that caused me more embarrassment.’

  She looked into his eyes. ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  She studied the rueful look in his blue eyes, the darkness of his wind-ruffled hair, and a little inner tremor ran through her that was quite different from the panicky tremors she’d experienced before. Not, she found herself thinking, that he looked as he had that night in the shed. He was clean-shaven now, and although he’d discarded his tie, and his shirt was open at the throat, and he’d rolled up his sleeves, he was still Adam Beaumont—not just a man called Adam…

  Or was he?

  Had the way he’d recalled memories of that night brought the other Adam to mind? Something had. Something about him was awakening her senses—senses that she had begun to think had been bludgeoned to death under the weight of all the trauma. Something was causing her fingertips to tingle with the longing to be able to touch him and her body to thrill at his closeness.

  Perhaps it was something quite simple—he’d bewitched her almost from the first moment.

 
; She took a breath that was a little sigh of relief. ‘You’re back,’ she murmured.

  ‘Back?’ he queried, barely audibly, his breath stirring the fringe on her forehead, a question in his eyes.

  ‘I—I’ve thought there were two of you. The man in the shed and Adam Beaumont. Sometimes,’ she explained, ‘I had these wonderful memories; at other times they were so sad because you were so different.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He kissed her forehead and then, after they’d stared deeply into each other’s eyes, he sought her lips and they kissed deeply.

  Bridget realised she was lost not much later. Just as lost as she’d been the night they’d first made love—only this time she was standing beside a paddock fence, with a couple of horses as spectators. But she didn’t protest when he released her, only to take her hand and lead her back to the house.

  Nor did she protest when she found herself in a round bedroom that might have been modelled on a traditional rondavel but was a symphony of sheer luxury. Beneath the soaring thatch roof, on the rich timber of a polished floor, stood a wooden four-poster bed with sheer white drapes. The coverlet was cream and the pillows lime-green. There were two beautiful sofas also in cream, with lime cushions, and wrought-iron candle sconces on the walls. The lamps were also fashioned of wrought-iron. The room felt exotic and slightly foreign, but it was breathtaking.

  Even more breathtaking was the current that seemed to be flowing between her and Adam. She’d wondered at the back of her mind if the change of venue would stifle her urgent need of him—she was amazed at how urgent it had grown, when not that long ago she’d felt nothing but a sense of a partnership in the name of her baby.

  Now, though, as he closed the door and took her in his arms again, the longing and thirst for him she’d escaped for a time in that strange little cocoon she’d inhabited became alive and vital. She breathed in the essence of him with a burgeoning feeling of joy.

  She came alive beneath his wandering hands, and as he undressed her she returned the compliment. She undid his shirt buttons and slipped her arms around his waist.

  ‘Mmm…’ It was a sound of pure appreciation she made as she revelled in the long, lean, strong lines of him, and the feel of his shoulder beneath her cheek. But it wasn’t only appreciation of the finer physical points of Adam Beaumont that prompted her appreciation. It wasn’t only her growing desire and the waves of pleasure he was arousing in her. It was that warm, safe feeling he’d given her once before, coming back…

  ‘Not a scratch or a bruise,’ he said as he ran his fingers down between her breasts. They were lying on the bed, their clothes were lying on the floor, and he’d drawn the bed’s curtains, so they were isolated from the rest of the room—the rest of the world almost, she felt.

  ‘No, all healed,’ she agreed with an effort as his fingers returned to her nipples. ‘That’s too nice.’

  He grinned—a sudden, wicked little grin. Then he sobered and lifted his head to rest it on his arm so he could look down at her. ‘Too soon?’ he asked, although his wandering hand drifted lower.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Bridget gasped, and clung to him suddenly. ‘I might die if you don’t…don’t…’

  ‘So might I, Mrs Smith. Shall we do it together?’ He rolled onto her, and the lovely rhythm of two bodies as one commenced and grew to fever-pitch, which he sustained for longer than she would ever have believed possible. Then the slow drift back to reality came, but the closeness remained.

  ‘That was—so—so…’ She tried to talk when she was able to speak again, but she couldn’t put it into words.

  He pulled the linen sheet up over them and took her back in his arms. ‘It was.’ He paused, then said with suspicious gravity, ‘I can’t think of the right word either.’

  She laughed softly and ran her hand over his shoulder then through his tousled hair, and finally laid it on his cheek. ‘One of my fears—one of my many fears,’ she said, and looked askance, ‘has been laid to rest.’

  ‘Only one?’ he queried.

  ‘Well, probably a lot of them,’ she amended. ‘But this was a really awkward one. I don’t know if that’s the right word—but I’ll tell you all the same.’

  His lips twisted. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Why are you laughing at me?’ She took her hand away and looked hurt.

  ‘If I am,’ he replied, ‘it’s because it seems that, far from striking you speechless, I’ve had the opposite effect on you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Bridget digested this. ‘Is it not the right etiquette to be talkative after sex—glorious sex?’ She lowered her lashes so that he wouldn’t see the glint of humour in her eyes.

  ‘Now, that puts it in a nutshell—why didn’t I think of putting it like that?’ he asked wryly. ‘Anyway, you may talk to your heart’s content. I’m listening.’

  Bridget suddenly grew quite serious, ‘I was afraid that I’d only be able to do it if I’d thought I was going to die—like before. I know it sounds ridiculous, but there you go.’

  ‘You did happen to mention something about dying,’ he reminded her.

  She looked rueful. ‘Not that kind of dying—that’s a different kind of death. You know what I mean.’

  He studied the serious green depths of her eyes, and the perfect skin of her neck and shoulders, then stirred. ‘Precisely, as it happens since I was in the same boat. But I think you’re right. Can we lay the other fears to rest now?’

  Bridget opened her mouth and closed it.

  ‘What?’ He kissed her forehead. ‘You might as well tell me all of them.’

  She grimaced. ‘I thought…’ she began, and hesitated, then plunged on, ‘I thought that you would insist on all kinds of tests before you accepted this baby—if you accepted it, if you even wanted it.’

  He shrugged. ‘You can go through life being cynical and skeptical, but there comes a day when…I don’t know…to have faith seems more rewarding.’ He looked at her penetratingly.

  ‘You can trust me on this one,’ she said steadily.

  He kissed her and ran his fingers through her hair, then walked them down her arm to her waist.

  Bridget took a breath, but he grinned and kissed her again. ‘Unfortunately we need to go. Do you mind? Otherwise we’ll be flying in the dark.’

  ‘Is it that late? No, of course not.’

  But he took his time to kiss her and hug her thoroughly, before he threw back the sheet and they got up to have a shower.

  As he was driving her back to her flat, he said, ‘Will you come and have dinner with my uncle Julius tomorrow night?’

  Bridget, who’d been in her own private little world, and still spiritually seemed to be at Mount Grace, came back to the present with an effort. ‘Yes. If you like. Will you tell him?’

  ‘That we’re getting married? Yes. About the baby? That’s up to you.’

  ‘I think,’ she said slowly, ‘I’d like to keep that private for a while. It’s still very early.’

  ‘Fair enough. Look—’ he brought his BMW to a halt ‘—I’d love to spend the evening with you, but I’m going to be playing catch up this evening and tomorrow as it is. Will you be OK?’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she assured him. ‘It has—it did turn out to be a lovely day,’ she added quietly. ‘It did.’ He closed his fingers around hers. ‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow, around six-thirty.’

  Bridget spent that night feeling a bit like Alice in Wonderland.

  One thing had caused her to sigh with relief: there was a message on her answering machine from her mother. She’d be incommunicado for a few days, as they were going up country for a break.

  But it did cause Bridget to wonder whether, even in a few days, she’d be able to explain things coherently to her mother.

  It had all—finally—made sense to her at the time, and in Adam’s presence, but her mother could be a different matter.

  She broke off her thoughts to bite her lip, and felt a little hot at the memory of being in Adam’s presence. Then she realised that
being alone in her apartment was another matter.

  Alone in her apartment she was able to examine the events of the previous day in detail. Such as how she’d gone from anger, disbelief and hurt—from the conviction that she’d be far better off having her baby on her own—to allowing him to make love to her and loving every minute of it.

  Would the Adam she remembered from the shed always have the power to seduce her?

  And always be able to make her feel lonely and as if something precious was missing from her life when he wasn’t there?

  The other thing that perturbed her was the fact that she’d been able to take an impartial view of a woman Adam’s brother had stolen from him—even offer advice on the subject—but now she could only think of her with a little bubble of dread.

  She was ready when Adam pressed her doorbell.

  She’d been to the hairdresser and had her hair styled. She’d chosen a cropped jacket in a fine wool plaid, black on blue-green, over a short fitted black dress. With it she wore sheer black stockings and black suede shoes.

  When she stared at herself in the mirror and thought she didn’t look right—smart, yes, but too formal—she sternly took herself to task and refused, simply refused, to indulge in an orgy of redressing. Which was just as well, because Adam arrived early, bearing a bottle of French champagne.

  His reaction was satisfying and vindicated that decision.

  ‘How utterly elegant, Mrs Smith,’ he murmured in the moments before he kissed her. ‘And how wise to have waited to apply your lipstick,’ he added, as he lifted his head with points of laugher dancing in his eyes.

  ‘It’s not that I waited. I just hadn’t got around to it,’ she denied. ‘Truly! You’re early.’

  ‘I know,’ he murmured, and pulled a long, slim box from the pocket of his beautiful grey suit, worn with a navy shirt. ‘But I thought we might need a few minutes to sort this out.’ He put the box and the bottle on the dining room table. ‘Glasses?’

  ‘Oh. I’ll get them—but I shouldn’t drink.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Not even half a glass?’

  Bridget moved into the kitchen and took two glasses out of a cupboard. She brought them back to the table as he expertly removed the foil and popped the cork. ‘As a toast to us?’ he added.