by Heidi Rice
She remained mute, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes widening. Reminding him, as if he needed any reminding, of how inexperienced she was.
‘What happens between the two of us has nothing to do with Nico or my relationship with him,’ he said, trying to repair the damage he’d done with that knee-jerk threat to take her to court for the boy’s custody.
She just stared back at him, the emotions crossing her face—shame, concern, panic—so transparent it only made her more vulnerable.
His phone vibrated in his pocket and he tugged it out.
It took him a moment to register the flight reminder that flashed up on the screen.
‘I need to leave.’ He shoved his phone back into his pocket. He didn’t care about the damn flight. He’d probably missed it already. But he needed to take this opportunity to retreat and regroup.
He was behaving like a lunatic—a man he didn’t even recognise. Threatening Bronte, however unintentionally, or kissing her into submission wasn’t the answer. All it would do was inflame the situation, bringing volatile emotions into something that was nothing more than a strong sexual connection.
The look of relief on her face made him more aware of just how badly he’d messed up.
‘As soon as I’m back in the country,’ he added, trying to keep his voice even, the tone pragmatic, ‘I’ll send a car to get you, so we can continue this conversation in private.’ By which time he would be in complete control of his faculties again—if it killed him.
‘I’m not one of your employees, Lukas,’ she said, finally finding her voice.
‘Don’t I know it,’ he muttered as he walked past her to grasp the door handle. ‘Two weeks.’
The sparkle of temper in her eyes at his ultimatum was an improvement on the wary shock of moments before. So he’d take it.
He walked out of the room, refusing to look back. But as he made his way down the stairs his pulse pounded in his ears almost as violently as the heat firing through his veins from their aborted kiss.
He had two long weeks to get a grip before he saw her again.
But as he settled into the chauffeur-driven car parked outside the mews entrance the desire pooling in his groin became painful. He shifted in his seat. The dumb decision to kiss her hadn’t just hoisted him by his own petard; it might very well cripple him too.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BRONTE WATCHED AS the pink lines in the window of the pregnancy testing kit thickened and spread, like the anacondas writhing in her stomach and tightening around her throat.
It can’t be right. It just can’t.
She shook the white plastic stick frantically, but the two thick pink lines refused to disappear.
Collapsing onto the toilet seat, she fumbled one-handed with the instruction leaflet and scanned it again. Looking for an out. A reinterpretation that wouldn’t force her to face the truth.
She was pregnant. With Lukas Blackstone’s child.
No. No. No.
She’d taken the test as a precaution, sure she was overreacting, convinced it was just a formality. That she couldn’t possibly have fallen pregnant.
She’d been trying not to think about Lukas and everything that had happened two weeks ago—her emotions had been in turmoil for days after his visit. She’d hardly slept. So she’d made a concerted effort to put him, and his ultimatum, the kiss she’d been unable to resist and his threat to take Nico away from her out of her mind. But this morning she’d received a text from Lisa informing her that Lukas’s car would be arriving to pick her up at four o’clock—and it was only then that she’d realised it was two weeks since she’d seen Lukas. And slept with him. And she hadn’t had a period.
Standing on shaky legs, forcing herself to breathe, she dumped the test in the bathroom bin and stared at her face in the mirror.
So what are you going to do now?
She’d been in denial about what had happened in his penthouse, refused to deal with any of it. And now her situation was about a billion times worse.
Running away from your problems never solved anything.
When exactly had she lost sight of that, as well as everything else—her common sense, her practicality, her sense of self-worth?
He’d dragged her into his arms, pressed his face into her neck, made her feel needed, wanted, important, desired. And she’d responded, instantly and unequivocally. She’d kissed him back, letting her own needs consume her, despite his ruthless threat to take Nico from her, despite his arrogant demand that she become his mistress.
She touched a hand to her abdomen, panic and fear churning in her stomach and sending the writhing snakes into the pit of her belly... Or maybe it was the first sign of morning sickness.
A termination, of course, was the sensible answer. And the answer that Lukas would no doubt suggest. He might even try to insist upon it. But even the thought made the bile rise up in her throat and threaten to gag her.
Her hand pressed into her flat stomach.
She couldn’t have this baby. She didn’t even want to tell Lukas about it. If he’d been pushy and domineering up to now, surely he would be even more so when he found out how stupid she’d been. And that she’d lied to him.
Not only that, but what about Nico? He was her first priority. Would this give Lukas even more ammunition to have her declared an unfit guardian?
The memory of Lukas’s face, shocked and wary, and the way his whole body had stiffened when Nico had charged towards him on his visit two weeks ago spun through her mind and taunted her. As she recalled how he had changed during the course of the morning, how he’d made a concerted effort to talk to the boy, to communicate with him on a level he understood. How he’d reached out in that one unguarded moment and stroked Nico’s hair.
She had to be realistic. Lukas wouldn’t want this child. Maybe he had reluctantly begun to bond with Nico. As an uncle. But he’d made it very clear he did not want to be a father.
He would be furious at this turn of events. And while she wasn’t scared of his temper, she was terrified of wanting to ask something of him that he was incapable of giving.
Her hand trembled as she caressed the non-existent bump.
But, even knowing that, she knew she couldn’t have a termination. Because, however big a mistake this pregnancy was, however unforeseen and catastrophic, however much it would complicate her life and Nico’s and even Lukas’s, it already felt like more than just a problem that needed to be solved.
The soft knock on the bathroom door startled Bronte.
‘Bronte, a car has arrived to take you to Mr Blackstone’s hotel,’ Maureen’s soft voice came through the wood.
Panic and an unwanted desire—the same unwanted desire that had been tearing her apart for the last two weeks as she waited for Lukas’s return—coalesced in the pit of her stomach and churned like a perfect storm, spreading heat and horrified yearning over the snakes writhing in her belly.
She switched off the tap and dabbed the heat blazing in her cheeks with a towel, while also attempting to damp down the hysteria rising up her throat.
She would have to tell Lukas about the baby.
She dropped the towel, a thought skidding into her fevered mind that seemed grimly fortuitous. At least the news of this pregnancy would solve one problem. He would have no desire to pursue a relationship with her now. So she wouldn’t have to worry about her kamikaze reaction to his kisses any more.
‘Tell them I’ll be down in a minute,’ she murmured.
Despite all her frantic qualifications though, as she walked down the stairs towards the mansion’s back entrance and bid goodbye to Maureen, the hot snakes in her stomach hissed... And she didn’t feel anywhere near as relieved as she should.
* * *
Anticipation and frustration washed through Lukas as the elevator bell pinged in his penthouse. He turned
from his contemplation of the afternoon traffic on Park Lane to see the bodyguard he’d sent to accompany Bronte step out.
The tight knots in his shoulder blades released as the bulky man held the door open and Bronte followed him out of the elevator.
Her head rose as he walked towards her, trying to keep his steps even and slow.
‘Hello, Bronte. Thank you for coming,’ he said. She was stunningly beautiful, those wide tilted eyes mossy green pools of emotion.
The flare of desire was sharp and swift and all-consuming. He shoved his fists into the pockets of his pants to stop himself from reaching out and dragging her into his arms.
He’d had fourteen sleepless nights since he’d last seen her, and he still hadn’t got a handle on the effect she had on him.
She wore her trademark tomboy attire of well-worn jeans and a tank top and checked shirt. If she was trying to disguise her lush curves though, or the appeal of that supple, responsive body, she was failing.
‘I didn’t think I had a choice,’ she replied, but the flash of defiance he had hoped for wasn’t there.
He nodded to the security guard, who disappeared back into the elevator. He didn’t want an audience for what he had to say next.
He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Bronte. About the things they’d done together the last time she had come to him here. And the way he’d behaved the morning after. It seemed she hadn’t forgotten either from the bright flush on her cheeks, or the wary watchfulness in those expressive eyes.
‘You did have a choice,’ he said, determined to make amends. ‘I’m sorry; I didn’t make that clear.’
He’d gone over their parting words, and that brutal parting kiss, a million times in his head. And there was no way of getting around it. He’d behaved like a prize jerk. That she turned him on to the point of madness wasn’t an excuse.
She’d been innocent, inexperienced. A virgin, for goodness’ sake. Initiating virgins wasn’t something he’d had any experience of. But that was no excuse either. He should have been careful with her, gentle, persuasive—not pounced on her like a starving man. If he had been struggling to control the strength of his attraction to her, the hunger that had consumed him then and was consuming him now, how the heck did he expect her to deal with it? Other than to try and shut it down?
He was going to have to pay a penance now. And make the effort to show her that an affair could be good for both of them. It was a new experience for him, having to disguise the strength of his attraction to a woman. Mostly because he’d never been as attracted to any woman as he was to this one. Before now, if things weren’t working out he’d always been able to walk away. He didn’t pressure women into sex, and he’d never had a mistress either. But he wanted that security and stability with Bronte. He already knew his thirst for her wasn’t going to be easily quenched. Not least because it wasn’t just the sex that captivated him, but so many other things about her. Her fierce loyalty to Nico. Her determination to maintain her independence. Her refreshing honesty and the myriad emotions he could read so easily on her open, extraordinary face—despite her best efforts to hide them.
She wasn’t doing a lot to hide them now, he noted. She looked tense and anxious. And unfortunately there was no point in deluding himself any longer. He was the cause.
‘Come and sit down so we can discuss this situation rationally.’ He swept his hand towards the couches facing the panoramic view of Hyde Park.
‘I’d rather stand,’ she said, her stance stiff and uncomfortable. She folded her arms around her midriff in a protective gesture that had a novel feeling engulfing him.
Guilt.
‘Are you scared of me, Bronte?’ he asked.
Those deep emerald eyes flashed to his and he saw surprise. Thank God.
‘No, of course not,’ she said, seeming genuinely perplexed and even a little guilty. Even if she didn’t have a damn thing to be guilty about. Unlike him.
Time to own it, Blackstone, and then start working on that charm offensive you’ve been planning for two solid weeks.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then sit down and I’ll get you a drink.’ He strode to the bar, grateful to have something to do with his hands.
This was a novel experience for him too, he realised. He’d never had to work to get a woman into his bed before now. Which was probably why he’d made such a monumental mess of this seduction two weeks ago. Letting his temper and his sexual frustration blind him to her needs, her nerves and her inexperience. That wasn’t going to happen again.
‘What would you like?’ he asked, pouring himself a glass of bourbon. Another first, he thought, as he downed the stiff drink in one and the shot of fire burned his throat to warm his belly.
He didn’t usually drink hard liquor, and certainly not while with a woman. He preferred to keep his instincts sharp. But right now dulling them wouldn’t be a bad move; his instincts were sharper than they needed to be with this woman. He had to take this slow and easy. He couldn’t risk scaring her off again. Or he might never get what he wanted. What they both wanted.
‘Wine? Beer? Something stronger?’ he asked when she didn’t reply.
The guilty flush spread up to her hairline. ‘Um...something soft, please. Water?’
He nodded and selected a bottle of Scottish mineral water from the fridge. He unscrewed the top, popped it in the trash and then poured the liquid into a glass. Taking his time, he sat in the seat opposite her and handed her the glass.
Their fingertips brushed and he felt a jolt. She jerked her hand away, sloshing water over her wrist, then took a hasty gulp.
He had to hold back a smile.
Good to know.
She still felt it too. The desire which was already tying his guts in knots. All he had to do was show her that what she felt for him didn’t have to be dangerous or complicated. It was simply a strong biological connection.
He knew that, she didn’t, because she’d never had this connection with anyone else. Well, hell, neither had he. Nothing this strong anyway. But at least he knew how to handle it. And how much pleasure they could get out of it. But first he had to dismantle the defences she’d erected—then prove to her what he was proposing was a great deal more flexible than he’d let her believe.
He watched her drink the water, the sight of her throat working as she swallowed sending another jolt of lust to his groin—which was probably perverse, but everything about this woman turned him on.
‘I have a proposition for you,’ he said.
Her eyes flashed to his, igniting his senses even more.
‘I can’t be your mistress,’ she said, her distress all too obvious from the hectic colour staining her cheekbones. But her choice of words—can’t, not don’t want to be—gave him an opening. An opening he intended to exploit if he could.
‘And I can’t stop you from threatening to take Nico away from me either,’ she said, blinking furiously. ‘But I have something to....’
‘Bronte, don’t say any more.’ He cut her off, the renewed wave of guilt unprecedented as he caught the sheen of moisture in her eyes. ‘You misunderstood me. I didn’t threaten to sue for custody of Nico because I wanted you to sleep with me.’
Damn, he had really screwed this up.
‘Then why did you say it?’ she asked, not looking convinced.
‘I panicked,’ he admitted, feeling like a fool.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said, as forthright as always. ‘What did you panic about?’
Leaning forward, he threaded his fingers together, not quite able to look at her as he was forced to break his golden rule and explain himself.
‘You threatened to remove him and yourself from the house in Regent’s Park. I can’t let you do that. But whether or not you were willing to sleep with me had no bearing on that.’
‘Why can’t you let me?’ she asked
without a hint of sarcasm.
He sighed, knowing he would be forced to reveal something only a handful of people knew. Something he had never wanted anyone to know.
‘When I was seven years old I was kidnapped,’ he said. Ignoring her sudden gasp, he made himself continue. ‘They were a ruthless criminal gang. They snatched me in Central Park, while I was there with Alexei and our governess. They’d been planning it for months. They kept me for three days, while they tried to persuade my father to pay a million-dollar ransom.’ He rubbed his thumb over the scar on his cheek as the memory of the rending pain, the childish terror, bombarded him.
‘The scar? They cut you?’ Bronte’s eyes widened with horror and something a great deal more disturbing. Compassion. ‘It wasn’t an accident?’
He let his thumb drop, disturbed by her intuition and her reaction to the news. ‘That’s not relevant,’ he qualified quickly because she looked devastated by his revelation. And the one thing he didn’t need from her was her pity. ‘The point is, they would have killed me, were preparing to kill me, when I was rescued by the SWAT team. I was lucky to survive. I’m not prepared to put your life or Nico’s life at risk in that way because of your association with me. Which means you have to stay where I can keep you safe. Now do you understand?’
* * *
Bronte nodded, the power of speech having deserted her. He looked so indomitable, his expression rigidly controlled. But she’d seen the flicker of something raw and so painful in his expression when he’d rubbed the jagged scar—that the horrifying thought of him as a child, being brutalised in that way for money, had felt like being stabbed in the stomach.
‘Okay,’ she managed at last because he seemed to need an answer.
There were so many more questions she wanted to ask him. How had he survived? Not just the pain, but the fear? Three days would be an eternity to a child. Was that why he kept his emotions under such ruthless control? Why he’d struggled with making an attachment to Nico? Surely a trauma of that magnitude at such an impressionable age would have a devastating effect on any person.
