by Nina Milne
She hauled in a deep breath and dropped her hands to her sides. ‘I mean we won’t be working anything out. If I am pregnant any decision about the...the baby...is mine to make. Alone.’
‘Absolutely not. If you are pregnant we would have made that baby together. You and me. So any decision is ours.’ Fear gripped him. ‘If you are planning to have a termination then—’
‘I’m not!’ Her voice broke. ‘I’m not going to do that. Not because I don’t believe a woman has a right to make exactly that choice, but because that is not what I’d want to do. If I am pregnant then I will not have a termination—you have my word on that.’
Anger obscured his hurt. ‘So you are basically saying that it will be your decision whether or not I can be part of the baby’s life?’
‘Yes, I am.’
This was daft. ‘Why don’t we save this conversation until a week’s time, when we know whether we even need to have it?’
‘OK.’ Her relief was palpable. ‘Good plan. I’ll quickly use the bathroom and then call a taxi to take me to the hotel.’
‘Roberto can take you.’
‘Thank you.’
* * *
April stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, at the smudges of exhaustion and the green sheen of panic that clouded her eyes. Disbelief at her own stupidity dizzied her.
Oh, God... What was she going to do?
Well, what she was not going to do was break down. For a start, she might not be pregnant. But if she was, she knew the way forward—there was no way she could have a baby. The idea sent a surge of terror, anxiety and pain straight through her. No baby deserved a mother who had demonstrated such irresponsibility in her first shot at parenthood.
She had loved Edward with every fibre of her being, and yet her actions had set off a chain reaction that had resulted in his death. The thought of taking on the responsibility of motherhood again was impossible. Yet she had also meant every word she’d said to Marcus; she would not terminate a pregnancy.
Which left only one option.
Steeling herself, she returned to the sleek lounge. ‘OK. I’ll let you know what the test result is in a week.’
‘Whoa. Not so fast. I’ve been thinking.’
Great. Just what she needed.
‘I want you to spend the week with me.’
‘That’s nuts. Why on earth would I do that?’ The very idea was enough to add the fizz of anxiety to her already overwrought nerves.
‘Because if you are pregnant then I want to be part of the baby’s life. According to you, that is your decision to make—so why not stay here and get to know me better? Plus, this is going to be a stressful week of waiting for us both, so it makes sense for us to spend it together. And...’ For a second he looked almost embarrassed. ‘And if you are pregnant then I want to be part of it. I want to keep an eye on you, make sure you eat properly...’
Warmth touched her at the idea of being looked after—a warmth she doused instantly in a cold stream of reality.
‘There is really no need.’ Steeling herself, she dug her nails into the palms of her hands and forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘Because I know exactly what I will do if I am pregnant—my decision is already made. If I am pregnant I will be giving the baby up for adoption.’
There was silence. His face registered shock, disbelief, and worst of all disappointment. In her. And that hurt.
‘Why?’
‘It doesn’t matter why.’
It didn’t matter that the idea of giving up a baby half killed her. Bottom line: she knew any baby deserved so much more than she could give. She was too empty, too devastated, too guilty. Another baby would be a shadow, a substitute for Edward, and that was wrong. If there was a baby he deserved a family that felt joyful to have him, the way she had felt about Edward.
‘It matters to me.’
‘I told you—I don’t want my life to change. I have a job and a lifestyle that won’t fit a baby. I’d rather my baby had a stable, secure family.’
The words sounded hollow—however hard she tried she couldn’t infuse them with even a semblance of truth, and she saw the frown descend on his brow.
‘Let’s say that’s the truth. What about me? Do you really, morally, believe that it is OK to give my baby up?’
She closed her eyes. Why couldn’t Marcus be the sort of man who didn’t care? In fact, indignation touched her. ‘You said yourself that you don’t want to be a dad.’
His lips tightened. ‘No, I didn’t. I said that it wouldn’t be fair for me to have a child when I have no wish to be in a long-term relationship, when I can’t offer a child the stability of a family unit, and when my work hours are so erratic.’
‘Exactly. Adoption would offer a child everything that you’ve just said you can’t give. Parents in a long-term relationship who can offer stability and security. Parents who desperately want a child—who aren’t merely doing their duty.’
He shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t feel right for my own flesh and blood to know I had rejected him or her because I couldn’t be bothered to change my lifestyle to accommodate him.’
The words stung—she couldn’t hide the flinch—and his frown deepened.
Before he could say anything, she jumped in. ‘So you don’t agree with adoption?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
He paused, clearly weighing up the words he would speak, and there was a sudden ironic tilt to his voice she couldn’t compute.
‘Sometimes adoption is the best option for a child—circumstances in which the natural parents are truly unfit...alcoholics, drug addicts, violent hardened criminals who would have no idea how to keep a baby safe and loved. Then, of course adoption is in the child’s best interests. But your motivation is different; you would voluntarily be giving up a baby because motherhood doesn’t gel with your lifestyle.’
Condemnation hardened his tone.
‘That is your choice. But I don’t choose it. I want to be part of this baby’s life, if it exists, and I will fight for that right if need be. Or you can make it simple: let me have custody.’
For a second April stared at him, dizzy with emotions. But the one that seared her soul was guilt. How could she contemplate this? Could she truly give her baby up? She quelled the doubt in a torrent of facts. True, she was neither an addict nor a violent criminal—but she had already proved herself unfit for motherhood. Any baby she had would grow up in the shadow of his lost brother, would have to live with a mother who had been emptied of joy, who might slide back into the pit of depression. Her baby deserved the best—and that wasn’t April. Could it be Marcus?
She shook her head, the sheer enormity of that question too much. ‘I can’t do that. I don’t know you.’
And God knew her judgement of men was hardly top-notch. Her misjudgement of Dean had led to tragedy. She could not allow herself a replay.
‘How can I judge your capacity to be a father? I have no right to judge anyone but myself.’
Big mistake.
An arrested look entered his dark eyes and the anger dimmed. ‘Is that what you’ve done? Judged yourself to be unfit?’
‘Marcus. My mind is made up. If I am pregnant I am giving the baby up for adoption. I will inform social services or the adoption agency of your wishes and they can make the call.’ She took a deep calming breath. ‘Now I am leaving. I’ll be in touch in a week.’
‘No.’
His voice was firm, and yet thoughtful—she could almost hear the whir of the cogs and wheels of his brain.
‘My earlier comments stand. You can stay here. Right now I have nothing but your word that you will contact me or keep me in the loop. You say you can’t judge me...you say you don’t know me. We can at least remedy the latter. Get to know me. The real Marcus Alrikson. I’ll prove to you that I am good father material.’
The idea made her tummy swirl, caused nausea to threaten. This was all too much; she wanted to sink into a bed somewhere and wake up when it was all over.
‘Because what if I get it wrong, like I did before?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I am not a good character judge. I’ve proved that in the past.’
‘With the super-critical ex? Dean?’
‘Yes. I married him when I was twenty years old and our marriage lasted four years. In those four years he made me feel worthless. He sapped my confidence, made me feel stupid, ugly, clumsy... Name a negative and I felt it. But at the outset I thought he was wonderful—the ideal man, perfect husband and father material.’
Bitterness coated her tongue, painted her words with vinegar, and her voice broke.
‘I was wrong. So I will not—cannot—trust my judgement on this. Because if I get it wrong again the baby will suffer, and I won’t have that.’
‘OK. I understand.’
His face was inscrutable but she could sense his struggle to contain anger—though she suspected the anger was directed at Dean.
‘I am truly sorry that he put you through that. More sorry than I can say. All I can do is swear to you that I am not like that and ask you to give me a chance. Ask you to stay with me for this week. Until you can take the test. It’s going to be a difficult week. Let’s face it together.’
Weariness touched her, along with a desire to cry. Because there was compassion in his eyes, and how could she refuse a man who was merely asking for the chance to prove himself? What right had she to judge that he wasn’t a good man? He had done nothing to indicate anything but decency in his love for his country, his compassion for those teenagers...
‘OK,’ she said softly.
‘Thank you. I’ll make up the bed in the spare room.’
To her sheer disbelief her hormones—which must have been on vacation for the past twenty-four hours and had not yet caught up with the action—gave a sharp burst of protest. Cue a mental rolling of her eyes and the sudden desire to burst into tears on his broad chest.
Get real April.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
* * *
Marcus sat at his bedroom window and stared out as dawn crept over the city, turning the sky from grey to golden. Sleep had proved elusive, with his whole body preternaturally aware of April only a few doors away.
Stupid that desire still flared for a woman who planned to give up her baby so she could pursue her lifestyle. But desire wasn’t the only emotion in the mix—and when he remembered her explanation of her marriage his hands clenched into fists. An urge to comfort her, just hold her, had vied with an urge to find Dean and use him as a punch bag.
Damn it.
It did not add up. Every instinct he owned told him that April was talking through her hat, her shoes and every other accessory. For a start, he didn’t get the impression that she loved her lifestyle. Second, he knew with a bone-deep certainty that she would be a wonderful mother—that the best thing for this hypothetical baby would be April.
So why couldn’t she see that? There hadn’t been even a hint of indecision in the steel of her voice as she’d stated her intent. But her eyes had told a different story—of misery and despair.
It did not add up. Somewhere the equation was flawed. He had every intention of discovering what was going on, and if April were to be pregnant he would do his best to persuade her to keep the baby. Which, a small voice pointed out, would also be very convenient for him. That way he could be part of the baby’s life.
Selfish? Maybe.
Realistic? Absolutely.
Best for the baby? He believed so.
If it proved to be necessary in a week’s time, that was what he would fight for. But first, of course, there was a week to get through—a week with April in his home, his sanctuary, his space.
A noise caught his attention and he deduced that his house guest was also awake. Moments later he entered the kitchen, where April was opening a cupboard.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I wanted some water before I head off to the centre.’
‘Hang on. First you need breakfast.’
‘I thought you didn’t do breakfast?’
‘I don’t usually have breakfast at home,’ he agreed. ‘But I don’t usually have guests. I’m sure I can rustle up something. Scrambled eggs on toast?’
April shook her head. ‘I’d rather avoid scrambled eggs, just in case...’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Pregnant women are advised to avoid undercooked eggs. So eggs are fine, but they need to be thoroughly cooked.’
‘OK. How about an omelette? Or I have some cereal... I’ll go shopping at some point today if you make a list.’
‘Cereal is fine. And why don’t I shop and cook this week? I really don’t mind.’
‘OK.’
The domesticity of their conversation was surreal—as was assembling two bowls, a selection of cereal, making coffee for two, and eating at the table rather than standing up at the kitchen counter.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ April said as she poured milk onto chocolate flavour cereal stars. ‘I’d like to meet your family.’
The request caught him on the hop, and without thought his lips opened to voice emphatic refusal. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they don’t need to be involved at this stage. I’ve never taken a woman home to meet my family and I don’t want them to get the wrong impression.’
Or the right one, for that matter.
‘I understand that—but we could say it’s for the article. I did ask you if I could meet them at the outset.’
‘And I said no. I don’t like the idea of my family being interviewed about me.’
‘Well, it isn’t about your likes or dislikes. If you are serious about applying for sole custody of a baby, then your family are an integral part of the set-up. I need to meet them.’
‘I understand that, and if we discover you are pregnant then you can.’
Even if the thought sent a shiver of discomfort down his spine. Not because he thought Louise and Bill would disgrace him, but because he didn’t want April to see how much of an outsider he was in his own family. He had no doubt they would welcome a baby—would love a baby—but that wouldn’t change the fundamental distance between him and his adoptive parents.
April shook her head. ‘I need to meet them now—see what they are like now, when they have no stake in being anything other than what they are. At the end of this week if I am pregnant I can’t stay here—can’t meet your family knowing they’ll be judging me for my decision. But I want to meet them—want to know that if there is a baby, and if he ends up with you, he has a good family. Grandparents who will support you and love him. I want to meet them.’
There was anguish in her voice now, and his chest banded in sympathy even as he tried to understand why she would make a decision like this.
‘OK. I’ll set it up.’ Marcus pushed his bowl away in an abrupt movement of sheer frustration. ‘But I wish you’d tell me why you’re doing this, April. I don’t get it.’
‘You don’t have to.’ Weariness slumped her shoulders for a moment, and then she rose to her feet. ‘Thank you for agreeing. I promise I’ll be discreet. Now, I’d better go.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
APRIL GLANCED DOWN at the message on her phone.
Meeting arranged. Dinner tonight at family house. M
A flutter of nerves touched her but she quelled them; there was no need for her to worry about the impression she made. This was about her having some information in case she was pregnant. With the key words being ‘in case’.
Somehow over the course of the day, as she had cooked and scrubbed, sorted out food donations and thrown herself into hel
ping the hundreds of displaced and hungry people who’d come to the centre, her own worries had receded and some perspective had returned. It hadn’t helped that careful calculation of her cycle indicated that it was definitely possible that a baby was on the cards, but the sheer business of the day had meant there was no time to dwell on it.
With a final scrub of the counters and a quick check that everything was prepared for the next day, she exited the centre—then turned as she heard her name being called.
‘Hi, Gemma. Is everything OK?’
‘Yes. I just wanted to say thank you. Everyone has told us how fantastic you’ve been—with the food, and the way you’ve really listened to people and helped them.’
‘There is no need to thank me. I have been bowled over by how brave all these people are. God knows I wish I could do more.’
‘I think you can. That’s what I wanted to ask you. If you’d write about it all—about the centre, about all these people... I know the Prince is doing his best, and I know Marcus is too. But if more awareness could be raised maybe we could fundraise more—maybe we could make the world see that even places like Lycander, where the rich and famous hob-nob, have a darker side.’
For a second April’s mind buzzed with the idea and she considered taking it on, getting involved... And then cold, hard sanity screeched in and put a stop to such a nonsensical idea. Getting involved was exactly what had pitchforked her into the horrendous entanglement she was in now.
Ever since she had met Marcus something had happened to her. Willy-nilly, she’d taken a step away from the bubble-like, insulated existence she had created. Prompted by the unfurling of unwanted, unbidden feelings and desires, she’d been stupid enough to expose herself—and it needed to stop now. Before, her life had been the way she wanted it and, dammit, one way or another she had to get back into that bubble.
‘I’m sorry, Gemma. I’m a celebrity lifestyle writer. I wouldn’t be able to do the story the justice it deserves.’
The disappointment on Gemma’s face pierced her, but she forced herself to stand by her words. In six days, no matter what, she would leave Lycander—leave all this behind her.
