Bestselling Authors Collection 2012

by Trish Morey; Day Leclaire; Natalie Anderson; Brenda Jackson; Ann Voss Peterson

  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 ab
out 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.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ she cried as she surveyed her scattered possessions—the folded train timetable, her old comb with its broken teeth, the cheap mascara and lipstick she hadn’t felt well enough to apply today, and what was left of the bottle of water his PA had given her—and knelt down to collect everything, until she lifted the now empty bag and, with a sickening lurch to her heart, realised something was missing. ‘Where’s my wallet?’

  There was no wallet. ‘Are you sure you had it?’ he asked with a hand under her elbow to lift her, his touch still tripping her nerves in a way she was now convinced was caused by making contact with the force field of his resentment.

  ‘I know I had it!’ But with a thud she remembered the man who’d shoved into her as she was coming off the train, nearly sending her sprawling, before rushing off into the crowd. She looked up at him. ‘Someone pushed me getting off the train. I thought it was an accident, but do you think…?’

  She’d gone from spitting she-cat to victim again, looking so devastated and ashen he was worried she was going to faint again. He steered her back down into her seat and pulled his mobile phone from his pocket, dialling the police and cursing the scumbag who would steal from someone who clearly didn’t have two cents to rub together. ‘How much was in it?’

  ‘More than twenty dollars!’ And then she paused, shocked. ‘Oh, God, and my train ticket.’ She looked up at him, her eyes already spilling over with tears. ‘I’m sorry. I realise you hate me and I know I said some awful things just now, but do you think you could loan me the money for the fare home?’

  Alongside him in the passenger seat she said nothing. He didn’t prompt her, he didn’t try to fill in the silence. They’d said enough over lunch.

  She’d surprised him with that outburst. He’d assumed from her appearance that she lacked passion. He’d assumed any personality was as lacklustre as her appearance. But instead of the admission he’d been expecting in response to his goads, she’d simply turned around and given as good as she’d got. The mouse that roared.

  Albeit only until the time she’d realised her purse had been snatched. Since then she’d returned to the land of the hapless and forlorn.

  It must have nearly killed her to have to ask him for the fare home.

  Angie sat back in the high-backed leather seat that seemed to wrap itself around her, the smell of fine leather and expensive car and expensive man all wending its way through her senses, and only wished she could enjoy the experience. The man alongside her made that impossible. She dared a glance in his direction, unable to stop herself from admiring the long-fingered hands resting on the wheel, the way they manoeuvred the car and the gear changes with complete assurance and control. Powerful hands, she thought, remembering the impact of their touch on her skin, powerful hands for a powerful man. Powerful and utterly ruthless.

  And so sure she was after his money. She looked around at the car’s interior, drank in the smell of l
eather upholstery and figured he must have plenty if this kind of car was his city runabout.

  So why the hell was she fighting him? He already thought the worst of her. He’d made no attempt to deny that he hated her. Why not take his money? It wasn’t as if she couldn’t use it.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. She’d been so naive! Shayne had walked out on her and she’d become so obsessed with finding this baby’s parents, so consumed with ensuring its future was assured, that she hadn’t stopped to consider her own. Shayne had walked out on her and her brain had shut down.

  Of course she could do with the money. The mortgage on the house her mother had left her wasn’t big, but she would need some kind of income in the coming months to meet the repayments and bills and keep her in groceries. Not to mention if she wanted to replace the furniture Shayne had taken with him any time soon.

  Why had she made such a big deal of his offer?

  Because of the way he’d framed it? As if she were some gold-digger out to make what she could by selling his own baby to him? Or because she was just sick of men expecting her to do what they wanted?

  Maybe both.

  He stole a glance at her profile, noticing her frown and the teeth worrying her lip again. She’d be worried about her stolen purse and how she was going to get by without the measly twenty bucks it contained, though to her twenty dollars probably seemed like a fortune.

  Maybe he shouldn’t have been so hard on her.

  Maybe she was genuine.

  Yeah, sure, and maybe this whole thing was one bad dream.

  After all, hadn’t she asked him what he was offering? What was that if not an admission of guilt?

  His teeth ground together, gnawing on the problem, still not satisfied. So why had it taken so much effort on his part to get her to bite? What was her angle? She had to have one.

  Because it was clear she would need money. The child in her womb should not go wanting for the next six months of its life merely because she was too proud or too foolish to accept his help. If she didn’t want to ask for it, he would make her take it.