The Innocent's Shock Pregnancy

by Carol Marinelli

  The Devereux men were all private, but they all had an intrinsic licentious edge.

  His father, though, had done nothing in his life to curb it.

  ‘I came to see you.’ Ethan did his best to keep his voice even. ‘And to see if there was anything I could do to help.’

  ‘Oh, it’s no big deal,’ Jobe said. ‘I’ll be back in the office on Monday.’

  ‘How was Dubai?’ Abe asked as he closed his laptop, clearly just about to leave. ‘Did you look at the hotel site?’

  ‘I did.’ Ethan nodded. ‘But I was thinking...’ He paused. Ethan was rather more interested in the potential of Al-Zahan, but decided now wasn’t the time to talk about it. ‘Helene’s writing up the report.’

  ‘Good,’ Abe said. ‘Maurice and I are going to get dinner—are you coming?’

  Ethan shook his head. ‘I’ve already eaten.’

  He hadn’t actually eaten since the plane, and that had been several hours ago, but Ethan simply wasn’t in the mood for more business talk, and with Maurice and Abe that was all it would be.

  Once he was alone with his father it was somewhat awkward.

  While it might look like a plush office or a hotel room, Ethan could now see the room held subtly placed equipment, and the antiseptic in the air gave it a slight nauseating edge.

  ‘Where’s Chantelle?’

  Ethan didn’t generally enquire about the whereabouts of his father’s latest lover, but five minutes into his visit the conversation had already run out.

  ‘We broke up.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Do I ask you about your love life?’ Jobe barked.

  ‘No, but only because I don’t have one,’ Ethan said.

  He had a sex life, and fully intended to keep it at that. He’d seen the damage relationships caused. His father’s marital history was on par with Henry VIII’s. Well, minus the beheadings and with the added fact that not one of Jobe’s marriages had survived.

  But there had been plenty of divorces.

  And his mother had died.

  Ethan could not forgive his father for that.

  Not her death. More the circumstances.

  Ethan had been five when she’d died, but he had been ten, maybe eleven, when he’d finally decided to find out for himself if the rumours about his father having an affair with their nanny were true.

  Sure enough, the papers at the time had spoken of a huge argument, and Elizabeth Devereux leaving home sobbing and heading for JFK.

  He’d looked at endless photos of the happy family they had once been and had confronted his father.

  ‘You had everything and you ruined it. Is that why Meghan left?’ he’d asked.

  Jobe had sat silently nursing a drink as his youngest son had raged. Only as he’d stormed off had he called out.

  ‘Ethan! Get back here!’

  ‘Go to hell!’ He had run upstairs, taking down one of family pictures that hung on the wall and throwing it at him. ‘I hate you for what you did.’

  It had never been spoken of again. The picture had been rehung, and to this day remained in its place on the wall, and still they avoided any topics of the personal kind.

  But now, given his father was having surgery, Ethan tried.

  ‘So, what’s happening tomorrow?’

  Ethan wanted specifics. But Jobe refused to give them.

  ‘It’s just a minor procedure.’ His father shrugged. ‘Exploratory.’

  ‘Can’t they just do a scan or something?’

  ‘Oh, so you went to med school now?’

  ‘I’m just saying I don’t understand what you’re going to theatre for.’

  ‘That’s what we’re finding out.’

  They went in ever-widening circles, talking about everything and nothing and getting nowhere fast.

  ‘I’m going down at eight in the morning and I’ll be back up here by nine. I wanted to stay home the night before the op, but Prof Jacobs insisted I came in.’

  ‘Because had you been at home you would have ignored his instructions to have only a light supper and forgo your nightcap,’ Ethan said.

  ‘True,’ Jobe admitted. ‘Look, if you really want to do something for me then you can attend the Carmody function.’

  If Ethan hadn’t known already that something was seriously wrong with his father, he knew it then. The Carmody function had been an annual feature on his father’s calendar for as long as Ethan could recall. Amongst the many pictures on the walls of his father’s home was one of his parents standing on the red carpet there.

  The ball was more than two weeks away. For his father to be pulling out now sent a shiver of dread down Ethan’s spine. Not that he showed it. Instead, he agreed to attend in his father’s place.

  ‘You’ll need a date to take with you,’ Jobe huffed.

  ‘I’m sure that can be arranged.’ There was nothing left to say. ‘I’ll come and see you in the morning.’

  ‘No, don’t,’ Jobe warned. ‘The damn press is on to me. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘On to what?’ Ethan challenged.

  For a moment near identical black eyes met, but Jobe wasn’t about to open up to anyone.

  ‘Just carry on as normal. The professor will let one of you boys know when I’m back from the OR.’

  Boys.

  His father still referred to him and Abe as boys, when they were thirty and thirty-four respectively, but there was no affection in the term. If anything, it was said dismissively.

  With the duty visit done, Ethan walked through the private wing and towards the elevator, turning right with little thought even though he’d never been there before.

  Then he halted.

  Ethan had been there before.

  Shards of memory felt as if they were working their way to the surface of his brain as he stood waiting for the elevator. He looked down the corridor and could almost see himself—five years old and dressed in his new school uniform, accompanied by his new nanny and walking beside Abe as they headed out from a waiting room to go and visit their mother.

  To say goodbye.

  He took the elevator, trying to banish the memory, yet as he stepped out into the brightly lit foyer he recalled it again. The press had been waiting outside, but their instructions that day had been different from usual—Don’t wave or smile. Look sad.

  Who had told a couple of kids that? Ethan thought as he walked quickly to the waiting car. Who the hell had told them how to act, how to react, on the day their mother died?

  His long stride halted as the answer came to him—the new nanny had.

  His driver was waiting, but Ethan dismissed him. He wanted to walk—to get rid of the hospital scent which still filled his nostrils.

  Suddenly, twenty-five years on, he was back to that day and the utter bewilderment he’d felt.

  The grief.

  And the guilt—oh, yes, the guilt.

  Because he hadn’t missed his mother as everyone had assumed he must.

  Meghan.

  It was his nanny, Meghan, he had missed at that time.

  * * *

  The gallery website was a constant thorn in Merida’s side.

  Clint had been supposed to update it before he’d headed off to an art fair, though of course he hadn’t.

  And with Reece being away Merida needed to change the opening times advertised there. Especially as she wouldn’t be here tomorrow morning because of her audition.

  It was for a prime-time television show and, while excited, Merida was incredibly nervous about it. She had to get the part. Although theatre was her passion, Merida desperately needed credits to her name—and as well as that she loved the show. It would be a huge boost for her résumé as well, and who knew what doors it might open?

  So she updated the opening and closing times on t
he website, and a few other things, and then, instead of clicking off and closing down the computer, Merida couldn’t resist looking Ethan up.

  God, he was beautiful.

  His dark, slightly hooded eyes were so brooding, and in every photo she saw, that mouth utterly refused to smile.

  Just as it had refused to smile with her.

  For a moment she let herself wonder how it might feel to be in the path of his gentler gaze.

  Merida drank the glass of champagne that Ethan hadn’t wanted and nibbled on the caviar blinis he’d declined as she gazed upon his image.

  Then she ate dark-chocolate-covered blueberries and read about the man who quite simply intrigued her.

  Reece had been right. His life was a quagmire indeed—and Ethan Devereux’s playboy status was well-documented. His older brother Abe’s was too, although he seemed to have settled down a touch of late. As for his father...

  Goodness!

  It would seem that all the Devereux men dated and discarded with ease. It was Ethan she wanted to find out more about. Yet they all seemed inextricably linked.

  Merida clicked on a recent news article: Twenty-Five Years On.

  There was a photo of the Devereux men in dark suits and ties at what appeared to be a memorial service. Merida read that a quarter-century ago his mother had been involved in an accident in the Caribbean. She had been flown back to New York, but had died two days later.

  The country had mourned—particularly here in New York City—and there had been accusations against her husband.

  Merida topped up her glass as she read about the rumours that Jobe Devereux had been embroiled in a salacious affair, rumoured to be with the nanny, and that that was the reason poor Elizabeth had fled.

  Merida raised her eyebrows.

  Certainly if she found out her husband was sleeping with the nanny she’d be kicking him out, rather than running off.

  Still, it made good reading.

  There were photos of the two Devereux children, accompanied by nannies, arriving at the hospital to say goodbye.

  How awful, Merida thought, but how riveting!

  So engrossed was she that she barely looked up when the gallery door opened.

  ‘We’re actually closed,’ Merida said—and then promptly wanted to die when she turned. Because there were few things more embarrassing than looking up to see the object of your desire at the very same time you were looking him up online.

  He now had on a long dark coat, worn open over his suit. There was an emergency button under the desk and Merida was rather tempted to push it. Not because she felt threatened—not in the least. Just because every cell in her body had moved to high alert.

  ‘Hi,’ Merida said, and probably undid all the changes she had made to the website as she frantically clicked the mouse in an attempt to delete him from the screen. ‘Did you forget something?’

  ‘You know I did.’

  Merida swallowed, and though she could have cast her eyes around for his keys, or a forgotten tablet, or anything else that might have forced his return, deep down she knew what he was about to ask.

  And he didn’t disappoint. ‘How about dinner?’

  There were many reasons that she should say no to his offer. Merida had been warned about his reputation—not just by his terrible press, but also by Reece. And possibly the hairs that stood up on her bare arms should have served as another reason to decline.

  Yet that shiver was borne of awareness rather than nervousness, Merida was certain.

  He made her aware of her own body.

  Ethan Devereux reminded her, without a word or even a gaze in that direction, that she was not wearing a bra, because suddenly her small breasts felt tight and heavy, and her legs, even though she was sitting, felt weak.

  He made her want to throw caution to the wind and say yes.

  ‘I have to close up first.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Her legs felt as if they might give way as she stepped down from the stool.

  Everything that she usually did so easily suddenly felt new and unfamiliar.

  From walking to breathing, she had to focus anew over and over again.

  She tidied up the gallery as he wandered around, looking again at the exhibitions.

  ‘I’ll go and get changed,’ Merida said, but he gave a brief shake of his head.

  ‘No need.’

  In the tiny staffroom Merida wondered if Gemma would mind if the little black dress and pearls were taken out for the night. Surely any woman would understand?

  Merida re-tied her hair and then topped up her lipstick. She placed her kilt, jumper and boots in her bag and slipped on her trench coat. When she came out of the staffroom he had given up on the exhibits and was scrolling through his phone.

  She did her usual walk-around, and Ethan said he’d wait outside as she finished up.

  In fact, aware that she was somewhat distracted by the six feet two of testosterone waiting for her, Merida took extra care, turning off the computer and lights and then setting the alarm and locking up with diligence.

  When the gallery was secured, she stepped onto the chilly street and turned—and there he was.

  Merida wished there was a code that might secure her heart.

  She stood watching the most beautiful man on the most beautiful street lounging against the wall, and then he turned to walk towards her, his long coat flapping behind him in the breeze.

  ‘There’s something else that I forgot,’ Ethan said.

  ‘Oh?’

  She cast her mind again to keys and laptops, whatever it was that she might have locked up in the gallery, and it took a second for her to register to what he was referring.

  It wasn’t just asking her to dinner that he’d forgotten. Ethan had omitted a kiss.

  On a night that was turning a bit chilly, and under a sky that was being painted a dusky rose, the setting was photo-perfect.

  Merida wanted to capture the dusk of the park, the yellow of the taxis—how the world appeared in the seconds before he kissed her. She would be kissed here, Merida realised, and this moment would be seared in her memory for life.

  He cupped her face in her hands and she stared deep into his eyes. While there was not a fleck of colour that she could perceive in his gaze, there was depth and complexity and hues from another realm.

  He was perfect.

  And so was his kiss.

  His lips were firm, yet with traces of tenderness. She wanted to keep her eyes open, just to capture each second, yet there was no chance of that, for his kiss was so exquisite that her eyes closed, so that she could fully sink into its measured bliss.

  He pulled her closer, and she was wrapped in the warmth of his arms as the cool spring air between them evaporated. His tongue was warm, and tasted like a cocktail designed solely for her. She felt dizzy, yet steady in the capture of his embrace, and when he kissed her harder the roughness of his jaw and the smoky notes of his cologne inflamed her.

  She kissed him back with an ardour that had been missing in every other kiss and in her every imagining to date.

  And then—cruelly, but necessarily—before they edged towards the indecent, he tore his mouth away.

  He had started their date with a kiss.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘GOOD EVENING, MR DEVEREUX,’ the doorman greeted him. ‘Madam.’

  They walked through the sumptuous foyer of a luxurious hotel that was filled with columns of flowers and beautiful people milling about.

  He was greeted everywhere by name, and clearly that name did not require a prior booking.

  Merida was relieved of her coat and bag at the restaurant, and the maître d’ led them to a table, beautifully set for two.

  The restaurant was stunning, with an old-fashioned New York elegance, subtle music and
a dance floor. Beside the windows there were candelabras, taller than Ethan, and even with the huge chandelier that sparkled above the dance floor the lighting was subdued enough that there was a shroud of intimacy as they took their seats.

  Merida was nervous. Far more nervous than she dared to let on. So she breathed her way through their seating, and then the pouring of champagne, and pretended she was seated at a table onstage, because it was easier than the reality of sitting opposite him.

  The first thing he did was switch off his phone, and that small gesture told her they would not be interrupted.

  ‘Well, here we are,’ Ethan said and they clinked glasses. ‘It’s good to be back.’

  ‘Back?’ Merida checked. ‘D you come here a lot, then?’

  ‘I meant back in New York. I’ve been away for a few weeks.’

  ‘On holiday?’ Merida asked, but he gave a small shake of his head.

  ‘Work,’ Ethan said. It always was.

  The food was delectable, but it wasn’t the hors d’oeuvres Merida had consumed that killed her appetite, it was the overwhelming presence of him. He didn’t put her at instant ease; instead he kept her on a delicious edge.

  Merida chose a burnt butter and sage ravioli, and Ethan ordered steak. She noted that the waiter didn’t ask how he would like it done. He already knew.

  It was the tiniest detail, yet it served as a reminder for Merida that this was not new to him as it was to her.

  ‘So you’ve been at the gallery for nearly a year?’ Ethan prompted, as if their earlier conversation was still left unfinished.

  ‘For ten months,’ Merida said. ‘As I said, I’m just there part-time. I’m actually an actress.’

  Ethan looked over, his dark eyes narrowing a fraction. He had dated more than a few actresses in his time, and was generally suspicious of them. Most wanted to hook their rising star into his or milk their fifteen minutes of fame when things ended between them.

  As they inevitably did.

  ‘It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be,’ Merida admitted. ‘I wasn’t getting very far back home, so I decided to try my luck here.’

  ‘Home being England?’ he checked.

  ‘Yes.’ Merida nodded. ‘London. Although, as my father pointed out, if I can’t get work in London then why should New York be any different?’