How could she possibly tell him her news?
And how could she possibly not?
It was nearing winter in Melbourne now, and as the plane descended through the low, grey clouds Millie wondered for the millionth time what his reaction would be when she landed on his hotel doorstep.
Maybe she would ring up to his room and ask him to meet her in the bar. Maybe she should actually sit down and write the letter that was permanently penned in her head, give him a little time to digest the news before they had to face each other.
It was all she’d thought about for the last weeks and months, but especially now—walking through Arrivals—all Millie could think was that she was back in Levander’s world, that soon she would see him. The thought was so consuming she had to ask the immigration officer to repeat his question as he flicked through her passport.
‘I asked what is the reason for your visit?’
‘Business,’ Millie answered, frowning at his scrutiny and colouring just a touch as she realised she wasn’t being entirely honest. ‘Well, there are personal reasons too. But I am here for my work.’
‘I’m more interested in those personal reasons.’
Immigration control was probably the only place on the planet where they could say such a thing and not get back a smart answer.
‘I’m hoping to catch up with someone,’ Millie croaked.
‘A boyfriend?’
‘Not really,’ Millie said, flustered. ‘He’s just someone I met last time I was here—I’m hoping to see him, that’s all.’
‘Where will you be staying?’
‘I’ve booked a hotel.’ Millie tried to answer evenly, but her voice was growing more shrill. ‘The same hotel I stayed in last time.’
‘And you’ve no intention of staying longer than a month?’
‘None…’ Millie frowned, flummoxed by all the questions and for the first time worrying that she mightn’t actually get in. ‘Look, is there a problem?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’ The officer gave a tight smile. ‘Can I see your travel insurance documents?’
Blushing from her toenails to her roots, Millie handed them over, swallowing hard as he checked out the forms.
‘I did check with my doctor that it was okay to fly while I was pregnant—I wasn’t aware—’
‘Have a nice stay!’ Cutting her off mid-sentence, he stamped her passport, and Millie gave a tiny bemused shake of her head as she realised the mini-interrogation was over. It was almost as if he’d known she was pregnant and had been waiting for her to reveal it, Millie thought as she made her way over to baggage reclaim, and lugged her case and her carefully wrapped mountain of boxes onto her trolley. Oh, well, it was their job to be thorough.
Customs, in comparison to Immigration, was a breeze. Faithfully following the redline that meant she had ‘something to declare,’ Millie braced herself for a further barrage—but after a cursory look at her mountain of artwork and a brief look at her paperwork she was in.
‘Welcome to Melbourne.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Would you like someone to escort you out, Miss Andrews?’
‘I’ll be fine.’ Millie beamed, taken aback by the friendliness and steering her massively overloaded trolley along the red line and out through the sliding doors.
For a second the flash of lights dazzled her—twenty-four hours on a plane and she was a touch dazed, to say the least, because at the end of the walkway was a group of photographers, all shouting out. For a second Millie faltered. Clearly she was blocking the path of someone rather famous. It entered her head to turn her trolley around and go the other way, but it was just too big and too overloaded to attempt the manoeuvre. Instead she glanced over her shoulder, ready to let whoever it was past. Somewhat puzzled, she took in the elderly couple dragging along behind her, and the frazzled mother with the even more frazzled toddler who had cried non-stop from Singapore: they didn’t look particularly famous.
‘Over here, Miss Andrews.’
‘This way, Millie.’
It was her they were calling to. Mid-step, Millie literally froze, completely taken aback that these photographers were calling out to her. On closer inspection there were a few microphones amongst the crowds and a television camera. That a couple of radio interviews and a few lines in a newspaper could generate such interest just didn’t add up. This was surely more the type of reception afforded Princess Mary than a struggling, almost known artist. Aware that her lank hair, her unmade-up face and, worse, her rather scruffy leggings and T-shirt, though comfortable for a flight, were pathetic to face the cameras with, for the second time Millie considered turning and running. What they hell did they want? Why were the press here?
And in that split second her question was answered.
It had little to do with her and everything to do with him.
Stepping out of the sidelines and into her line of vision was the man who had invaded her thoughts for sixteen weeks now…or one hundred and twelve days…or two thousand, six hundred and eighty-eight minutes. She knew that because she’d done the maths on the plane—only she’d never factored in this.
Dressed in a charcoal suit, his shirt so white Millie was tempted to scrabble in her bag for sunglasses, Levander actually surpassed the generous realms of her memories. He was, quite literally, breathtaking. Like some delicious Mafiosi movie figure who had stepped off the movie screen and into real life—her life—with that unruly dark hair neatly brushed back now, his dark morning shadow a mere memory because he was utterly, utterly clean-shaven. What was more, he was walking towards her as if he’d been waiting for her—walking towards her so purposefully that every atom in her body told her to run to him. She was the iron ore shavings in a school experiment; he was her magnet.
But as she let go of the trolley and in a reflex action went to run, something stopped her—something in his stance, his expression, telling her that even though he was holding his arms out to her, even though he was calling her name, for Levander there was nothing tender about this reunion. The thought was confirmed as menacing eyes held hers, his generous mouth taut and strained…
‘Levander!’ It was too confusing—too much to take in. Cameras flashed over his shoulder as her fellow travellers bumped their way past, the noisy buzz of a busy airport small fry to the whirl of questions spinning in her mind. ‘What’s going on?’
He didn’t answer, just confused her more with his actions—dragging her fiercely into his embrace, clamping his mouth on hers so firmly that even breathing was impossible, kissing her so thoroughly, so passionately, holding her so tightly, that all resistance was smothered. He tasted just as divine as she remembered, felt as taut and as terrific as memory had told her. His scent was so intrinsically masculine, so replicate of her dreams, that it should have had her keeling over—this was the reunion she had secretly hoped for. If only his eyes weren’t so cold…two black chips of ice staring down at her, belying the warmth of his embrace. And the hands seemingly holding her close were actually restraining her, holding her, kissing her, confusing her—until finally he drew back just enough to whisper into her ear.
‘You, Millie, will say nothing—I will do the talking.’
‘I don’t know what…’ Her voice was lost in the ferocious crowd. A man, presumably one of Levander’s sidekicks, took her trolley as Levander walked her towards the waiting journalists. For all the world it looked like a protective arm around her, but it was more of a vice grip. She could feel the tension in his fingers as they dug into her shoulder. She was still reeling with shock as a microphone was thrust into her face, the sea of faces blurring as question after question hit.
‘When is the baby due?’
‘Do you have plans to settle here in Australia?’
‘How long have you known?’
‘When were you planning to tell Levander?’
Helpless, aghast, she looked up at Levander. The news she had wondered over and over how best to d
eliver was already public property. And the blows just kept coming—each revelation, each turn of events tumbling her further into confusion. Until Levander took control. Somehow, despite the slight grey tinge to his complexion, he appeared utterly unruffled, even the tiniest bit bored with the whole circus as he authoritatively addressed the hungry crowd.
‘You will understand that my fiancée is tired after such a long journey.’
She opened her mouth to protest, to correct him, but his fingers tightened their grip around her waist—and thank God they did, Millie thought. Because otherwise her legs might have crumpled beneath her.
‘Contrary to the scurrilous reports in your paper this morning…’ Levander eyeballed one particular journalist, and Millie noticed the colour drain out of the poor woman’s face as Levander continued with his response. ‘We are both thrilled at the news that we are expecting a baby.’
‘So you two are engaged?’ Remembering her training, the journalist thrust a small tape recorder under Levander’s nose.
‘I believe that is what the word fiancée indicates.’
His sarcasm was biting—not that it stopped them. Microphones jostled for space as another burst of rapid fire hit, and Millie wanted to duck for cover, actually leaning into Levander as somehow, despite his loathing, he shielded her.
‘What about your family?’ a voice boomed above the rest, and the babble hushed as they awaited his answer.
‘Delighted—naturally—and looking forward to the event.’
‘Which is when?’
‘Enough questions. My fiancée is clearly exhausted.’
And without another word he marched Millie out of the airport to a sleek black car waiting on the no-standing zone outside. Her luggage and her precious paintings were being loaded into the boot. When the driver opened the back door, for a second Millie wanted to turn and run—the photographers and the chaos in the arrivals lounge were infinitely preferable to facing Levander. Getting on a plane and heading for home even after a twenty-four-hour trip was way more appealing than getting into the car and facing him now. His anger was palpable as he snapped his orders to her.
‘Get in.’ Levander’s words were like two pistol shots, and that once beautiful mouth was pale and taut as he spat the words out and took a seat. Only then did she realise how much she was shaking. While the driver finished loading her belongings into the boot they were alone for a few seconds, and she tried to regain control—tried to assert herself with this impossibly distant stranger.
‘You had no right to say that I was your fiancée, Levander. No right at all.’
‘No right?’ He gave a low, mirthless laugh. ‘You have no idea how many rights I have, Millie. And I intend to exercise each and every one of them.’
As the driver got into the car he leant closer towards her, and for a second she thought he was going to kiss her again, recoiling at the thought of another feigned show of affection. But the disgust in his eyes told her he felt the same, and his breath was hot with fury as his harsh whisper hit her ear.
‘Some reading material for the journey,’ he said, handing her a newspaper.
The bottom fell out of her world as she read the article, bile rising in her throat as she saw in print the hundred conversations that had taken place over the past few weeks with Janey, her friend. Private words, spoken in confidence as she’d struggled to come to terms with the fact she was pregnant, were all distilled into the most potent of poisons. Tiny fleeting thoughts that had entered her troubled head were neatly typed in black and white for the world to see, and worse—far worse—for Levander to read…
‘Oh, God, Levander. I never—’
‘Save it,’ he hissed, calling for his driver to get going, then leaning back on the leather seat and reading over her shoulder as tears coursed down her cheeks. ‘This bit’s my personal favourite…’ He jabbed his finger at a paragraph.
Millie couldn’t have read it if she’d tried, her eyes were swimming with tears. But she knew without looking what he was referring to: that horrible night when she’d explored her options out loud, the fleeting moment when she’d examined the possibility of ending the pregnancy and getting on with the scattered fragments of her life. How cold, how emotionless it sounded as he read it aloud to her—how devoid of the desperation that had made her voice tremble as she’d sobbed the appalling thought to Janey. Though what trashy journalist worth his salt, what friend greedy for a quick dollar, would bother to add in the convulsive tears that had followed, to say that even before she’d finished talking she’d shaken her head in hopelessness, knowing for her it could never be an option?
But how could a man like Levander possibly understand?
‘Maybe we should cut this out and save it for the first page of the baby album?’ Back in his hotel room, still the onslaught continued, his contempt so palpable it was like being slapped.
‘Don’t say that,’ Millie begged.
‘Oh, but you were the one who did,’ Levander threw back at her coldly.
‘I know it must have been awful to find out like this—’
‘You know nothing,’ Levander sneered. ‘Is this all true—what is written?’
‘No…’ Millie attempted, then gave a helpless shake of her head. ‘Some if it. I did say some of it…’
‘All of it, perhaps?’ Levander interrupted. ‘Don’t lie to me here, Millie.’
‘I’m not,’ Millie gulped, still frantically looking for an out. ‘Papers make up stuff—exaggerate things… Surely you of all people would know that?’
‘They would not dare.’ He halted her attempt, his voice curiously calm now. Only it did nothing to soothe her, each word he delivered backing her further into her miserable corner. ‘This newspaper I have already sued—already forced to print a retraction when they were less than accurate with their reporting. Two years ago they accused me of sleeping with the wife of one of our rivals—the truth was we had met for lunch twice, as she was planning a surprise party for him. That surprise party nearly cost her her marriage. They have been waiting to get me ever since, and I know they would not go to print unless they could account for every word. So tell me, Millie, and I would appreciate the truth—did you or did you not consider withholding the news about the baby from me? Consider that you would just raise the baby without my knowing?’
She had—the night she had performed her pregnancy test, when her whole world had spun out of control, yes, she’d thought about it—about if she was actually pregnant never letting him know. But almost instantly she’d dismissed the idea, and now, sitting on his sofa, hearing the accusation in his voice was more than she could bear. ‘I did—but I’m here, aren’t I?’
Levander didn’t respond, just hurled another question. ‘And did you also consider terminating the pregnancy?’
Millie ran a dry tongue over her lips, a fresh batch of tears threatening. Her attempts to hold them back were rewarded with a running nose, and she gave a rather ungracious sniff before she finally answered, in the shakiest of voices, ‘For about two minutes.’
The look of absolute disgust on his face told her exactly what he thought of her response.
‘And while you were so—you will forgive me if I quote,’ he checked nastily, picking up the hateful paper and reading loudly, each word like a hurtling knife aimed in her direction. ‘While you were so “confused and vulnerable”, it says that your friend Janey kindly pointed out to you that, given my extreme wealth, you and the baby would be well looked after, and that there were “plenty of women who would give their eye teeth for a regular maintenance cheque from a Kolovsky”.’
‘They were her words.’ Millie shivered.
‘But, “I’m here, aren’t I?” were yours,’ Levander cruelly pointed out. ‘Here to arrange your regular cheque, Miss Andrews? Here to make sure that your future is secured?’
‘I’m here to tell you that I don’t know what to do…’ The tears were coming now, and the fear, the misery, the utter bewilderment of the pa
st sixteen weeks was nothing compared to the horror of facing Levander in this mood. ‘I’m here to tell you that I’ve messed up our lives and that I’m having a baby.’
‘Well, as you can see…’ utterly unmoved, he stood there ‘…I already know.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Save it for later,’ Levander sneered. ‘Save it for our child when it learns how to read.’
‘Stop it,’ Millie sobbed, placing her hands over her ears, hysteria rising in her voice. ‘Please, just stop it. I never meant for those things to be printed, and I never, ever want the baby to hear them.’
‘Drop the drama, Millie, it does not move me.’ His voice was eerily calm, but his face was menacing as he stepped in closer, his two hands removing hers from her ears and pushing them down by her sides, pinning her against the wall, not with his strength but his hatred. ‘Tell me, have you cancelled your gym membership yet?’
‘What?’ She had no idea where he was going, her mind a blizzard of thoughts attempting to focus on his strange question.
‘You told me that night you pay for your membership but you don’t go…’
‘So…?’ Her eyes darted, looking for an out, looking at anything other than him—the wall preferable to the sheer loathing in his eyes.
‘I find that lazy.’
‘I don’t understand…’ Millie whimpered, feeling his hot breath on the shell of her ear, feeling the bristling emotion emanating from him, shivering with misery at all they had become. ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying.’
‘Then allow me to explain better. When I sign for something, when I pay for something, when I set my mind to something, I make the most of it—every time.’
‘What does my gym membership have to do with this?’ Millie asked. But she knew what was coming, and wanted to slam her hands over her ears again as he spat out his demands.
Playing the Dutiful WifeExpecting His Love-Child Page 20
