by Heidi Rice
Bronte’s mind continued to mull over all the possibilities as the nurse handed her some pamphlets about antenatal care, gave her the contact information for the local antenatal group and a referral notice for a local GP.
She stuffed the information in her bag as she left the clinic, and walked back through the bustling streets of Camden on a Monday afternoon. The thought of the conversation she must have with Lukas the next time they met had anxiety strangling the bubble of hope a little. His thoughts and feelings about her and the course of their relationship—other than how much he enjoyed igniting her senses to fever-pitch—still remained a secret in many ways. She hadn’t expected him to make a commitment so soon, but she had hoped that he might have been willing to confide in her a bit more.
She’d tried to probe about the kidnapping, tried to discover how he felt about Nico’s increasing attachment to him—which was bordering on full-blown hero-worship since Lukas had arrived unannounced to spend the afternoon the day before teaching the little boy how to throw a baseball—but he either derailed the conversation or distracted her with sex.
As she turned into Regent’s Crescent, she lifted the collar of her coat and put on her sunglasses despite the weak winter sunlight filtering through the trees. There were very few paparazzi around these days, and she’d taken precautions this morning to leave early to get to her clinic appointment but, even so, she checked her surroundings before slipping into the back alleyway that led to the mews behind her home.
The persistent buzz of her mobile phone stopped her in her tracks. The little bubble of hope expanded when she read the caller ID: Lukas mobile.
Entering the back garden, she answered the call. ‘Hey.’
‘Hey, yourself—where have you been?’ came the curt reply. ‘I just spoke to Maureen and she said you left the house this morning without a bodyguard.’
Guilt coalesced in her stomach. ‘I went for a walk,’ she murmured.
She would have to tell Lukas today, but she didn’t want to tell him over the phone. She needed to speak to him face to face—she still had no idea what his reaction would be to news of the baby. But what scared her most of all was how emotionally invested she had become in his response. If the news ended their affair she would have to deal with it. But if he rejected her and the baby it would be much harder to handle than it would have been four weeks ago, before she’d agreed to his proposition. Because now she had comprehensive proof that this autocratic, demanding, arrogant man also had the ability to be so tender, so protective, so caring.
‘Where are you now?’ he demanded, sounding more annoyed than tender.
‘I’m almost home.’
‘Almost home where, exactly?’
‘In the back garden,’ she said, locking the gate behind her.
She heard a muffled curse then a heavy sigh down the other end of the line.
‘Dammit, Bronte. How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t want you or Nico taking those kinds of risks. If you want to go for a walk, fine. But I expect you to take the proper precautions, which means having James or Janice or one of the other bodyguards with you at all times when you’re out of the house.’
Bronte supposed she ought to be at least a little indignant at his high-handed attitude, but all she could hear was his concern. And all she could think about was him as a child, torn from everything he knew for three horrifying days.
‘I never go out with Nico without protection,’ she managed in her defence, as guilt blossomed under her breastbone like a rash. She hadn’t taken James with her this time because she hadn’t wanted him to report back to Lukas where she was going.
When exactly had her altruistic reasons for keeping the baby a secret begun to feel dishonest and selfish?
She should have told him much sooner. She’d never intended to keep it a secret this long. But being with him had been so seductive. Not just the sex, but all those moments too when she would lie in his arms and he would ask her about Nico or they would chat about the new resort. It had seemed so normal, so different and new to have someone else to chat to about things that had once been her responsibility alone. To share details of her day—and the burden of bringing up a rambunctious little boy with someone else who had a connection to him. And to have him share details of his day with her—which appeared to involve endless meetings and high pressure decisions.
The wonder of having that companionship with a man as dynamic and charismatic as Lukas had made it that much easier for her to come up with excuses not to tell him about the baby, and risk jeopardising that closeness, that connection.
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. ‘Nico’s safety isn’t the only thing that matters to me,’ he said, his voice so gruff it was as if the comment had been wrenched from him.
It was hardly an admission of undying love, but still Bronte’s heart expanded, all the hopes and dreams she’d tried not to give free rein to galloping out of hiding.
‘Okay,’ she murmured, her throat closing.
She heard his strained chuckle.
‘Seriously?’ he said, his surprise evident. ‘No arguments about your independence?’
A smile edged her lips at the husky tone. ‘Not today.’
‘Good,’ he said, his voice becoming huskier. ‘But just so you know, next time you pull a stunt like this, I’m prepared to tie you to the bed to make you behave yourself.’ She could hear the smile in his voice and knew he was joking... Mostly. But still the tug of heat in her abdomen became a definite yank and the swell of emotion in her throat surged.
‘I’d like to see you try,’ she said, teasing him back in an attempt to slow her galloping heartbeat.
‘Don’t tempt me,’ he said. Then added, ‘I want to see you this afternoon.’
‘I’m coming over tonight,’ she reminded him, her anxiety resurfacing in a rush. They’d arranged their ‘playdate’ yesterday, after he’d spent the afternoon with Nico. But once she told him about the baby, would it be their last?
‘I don’t want to wait that long,’ he said.
She glanced at the clock on her phone, the tangle of emotions—desire, anxiety, tenderness and, worst of all, that unbridled hope—starting to crucify her.
‘It’s only four hours,’ she said. ‘I can’t come any sooner. I have to get Nico settled for the night before I can leave.’ It wasn’t entirely true. Nico was more than happy to have Maureen put him to bed, but Bronte had maintained the night-time ritual ever since she’d started her affair with Lukas. Partly because she had always loved those moments before bedtime with Nico—the feel of his sturdy young body, so healthy now, snuggled under her arm. But as she heard Lukas’s heartfelt groan she admitted that wasn’t the only reason why she’d refused to go to Lukas’s penthouse before Nico went to bed each night.
As the effects of her pregnancy had started to show—the swelling in her breasts, the tiredness, especially after they made love—she’d been that much more aware of how much she wanted to make them a family. Her, Lukas, Nico and the new baby. And it had been harder and harder for her not to give in to the hope.
‘So I’m being thrown over for a four-year-old,’ he murmured. ‘Way to shoot down a guy’s ego.’
‘I’m sure your ego will survive,’ she said as she knocked on the back door.
He barked out a strained laugh as Maureen opened the door and greeted her.
‘Is that Maureen? Are you inside?’ he asked, the urgency back in his voice, and it occurred to her he had been keeping her on the phone to make sure she got indoors safely. The balloon of hope—and tenderness—pressed against her larynx, cutting off her air supply.
‘Yes, I’m in the kitchen with Maureen,’ she said, taking off her coat one-handed while still clinging to her phone with the other.
‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a meeting. I’ll send the car at seven—make sure you’r
e in it,’ he added. ‘And no more unaccompanied walks, understand?’
‘Nico’s barely in bed by seven,’ she countered. ‘Seven-thirty would be better.’
‘Seven-fifteen, and no stalling—or I’m coming over there now to get you.’
‘You can’t—you’ve got a meeting.’
‘Bronte, I own the company,’ he said, the warning in his voice unequivocal.
‘Okay! Sheesh, don’t get your panties in a twist,’ she said, trying to inject the lightness back into the conversation that had been comprehensively lost—and get the desperate excitement of being wanted, being cherished, out of her system.
‘Fine,’ he murmured, the rough laugh echoing in her heart. ‘I’ll see you at the penthouse at seven-thirty,’ he said. ‘Prepare for your panties to be history by seven thirty-one.’
Bronte stared at the phone after he had ended the call, her heart jolting in her chest like a jackhammer.
‘Is everything okay, dear?’ Maureen asked as she hung up Bronte’s coat.
Bronte shoved the phone into the back pocket of her jeans. ‘Yes,’ she said.
But her galloping pulse and her trembling fingers told a different story.
* * *
‘Mr Blackstone,’ Lisa greeted Lukas as he stepped out of the penthouse elevator. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Of course,’ he said, unable to hide his smile as he tucked his phone into his jacket pocket. Only four hours until he would see Bronte again. Yesterday had been torture. Even though he had come to enjoy the trips he made to see the boy—Nico was a smart, funny and fascinating kid who had somehow wormed his way into Lukas’s affections—being with Bronte and not being able to touch her was a special form of torture.
Take that moment at the end of his visit to Regent’s Park yesterday, when he’d been bidding Nico and Bronte goodbye. Stifling the urge to sweep her into his arms and carry her off to the nearest bedroom had nearly killed him.
Tonight he was fixing at least some of his frustration. Tonight she was staying with him the entire night, and he was not going to countenance any more arguments on the subject. If it came to it, he actually was prepared to tie her to the bed.
He understood her devotion to Nico. He was pretty damn devoted to the kid too now. But no harm would be done by having the boy taken to Nursery by Maureen a few mornings a week.
He hated watching her drag herself out of their bed in the middle of the night after he’d exhausted her. The last time she’d been to see him, he’d actually regretted the sex he’d initiated in the shower. What with keeping their liaison a secret from everyone but his most trusted employees and the need to limit his access to her, he was making enough compromises already. It was starting to fuel a need to see her, to be with her, that didn’t feel all that healthy.
When was the last time he’d rung up a woman in the middle of the day and harassed her to come over to his place? Or contemplated dropping an important finance meeting to see her? But he knew if she’d given him the go-ahead he would have been in his car within ten seconds flat.
‘Are you sure you’re all right, sir?’ Lisa asked as they headed down the corridor towards the meeting room.
‘Yes, why do you ask?’ he said, noticing her astonished expression for the first time.
‘You just took the elevator down to the office instead of the emergency stairs.’
He frowned, the observation giving him pause. ‘I didn’t have time to take the stairs,’ he said, but couldn’t help the prickle of unease at Lisa’s revelation.
He always avoided elevators. Just like he had always insisted on having his living spaces open-plan and full of as much natural light as was humanly possible.
He hated to be crowded or to feel confined. The mechanical hiss of elevator doors closing had always unnerved him. But as he’d been absorbed in his call with Bronte, he’d walked into the metal box without even thinking about what he was doing.
And the usual cold sweat, the usual grinding fear hadn’t materialised, because he’d been way too distracted by the sound of her voice, and the thought of her wandering the streets without the necessary protection.
‘Have you got the report from Clinton on the final figures for the Maldives launch?’ he asked, cutting off Lisa’s line of questioning. Just because he’d been able to ride in an elevator for the first time in... Well, for ever. It did not have to be significant.
‘Yes, Mr Blackstone.’ Lisa handed the report over, looking almost as flustered as he felt.
He flicked through the pages until he got to the final profit and loss calculation, but as he stared at the figures he couldn’t seem to remember the projected calculations he would usually have on instant recall to compare with the final ones.
The pulse of heat, which hadn’t quite subsided since he’d threatened to tie Bronte to the bed, echoed in his groin.
Forcing himself to focus—on something other than Bronte—he walked into the meeting room ahead of Lisa and dumped the printout on the large walnut wood table. The executives he’d insisted travel to London from his landmark hotels in New York, Paris, Sydney and Hong Kong all jumped.
‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. Thanks for making the trip,’ he said and then stalled—as a vision of Bronte, laughing in the garden yesterday afternoon as he attempted to pitch the ball to Nico, blasted into his brain like a shaft of pure sunshine. He could still recall her unruly hair, that beautiful mix of auburn and russet and strawberry blonde, sticking out from under the ball cap he’d bought for her. Her smoky chuckle had rippled across his skin and made his heart thunder against his ribs.
His chest tightened and he lost his train of thought as his executives all stared back at him with a mixture of concern and expectation on their faces.
Dammit, Blackstone. Stop thinking about her.
But he couldn’t focus; he couldn’t even seem to remember what the heck these people were here to do. All he could focus on was Bronte and how much he’d wanted to hold her in that moment, to gather her up in his arms and kiss her senseless. And despite the surge of arousal that accompanied the thought, the desire, the need felt like more than that—wrapping around his heart like a warm blanket and smothering the monsters which had lurked for so long in dark corners.
Lisa’s phone blared out a ringtone, shattering the silence.
She answered it and her eyes widened. ‘Okay, I’ll let him know.’
She cupped her hand over the receiver and said under her breath, so that only he could hear, ‘It’s Dex. He says it’s about Bronte.’
He didn’t wait to hear more, but grabbed the phone and marched out of the room. ‘Make my excuses,’ he said over his shoulder and headed into a private office next door.
‘Dex, what’s going on with Bronte?’ Was she sick? Had something happened to her? The thundering in his chest became painful and he began to feel light-headed as the blood raced out of his head and flooded into his heart.
The flop sweat was back, dampening his shirt—the monstrous thoughts careering through his mind more terrifying than every one of his childhood nightmares. He wrenched open the button on his collar, loosened his tie, struggling to get enough air into his lungs to stay upright as his PR chief began to speak.
‘I’ve just had a call from one of my contacts at Sleb Hunt,’ Dex said, mentioning one of the most intrusive Internet gossip sites. ‘They’ve got pictures of your nephew’s aunt leaving an abortion clinic this morning.’
‘What?’ he croaked, his mind failing to compute the news.
‘According to my sources, she’s not having an abortion,’ Dex continued as the decibel level in Lukas’s ears rose to deafening and his thundering heart began to choke him. ‘She was only there for pregnancy advice and she’s been referred to a doctor for antenatal care. The even better news: the press are already speculating the kid is yours. Please tell me it is,’ Dex a
dded and for the first time Lukas caught the febrile excitement in the man’s tone. ‘Because this could be the major coup we’ve been waiting for with the family demographic on social media.’
But Lukas couldn’t make any sense of the words any more. Because the only thing that kept going through his mind was the image of Bronte as she’d been yesterday—sweet, seductive, happy, the veneer of innocence and acceptance capturing his heart—and the shattering truth.
She’s pregnant and she didn’t tell me.
He wanted to be angry. But all he felt was betrayed. The frozen feeling numbed his brain, dragging him back to the lowest point in his life. Aged seven, the bandage on his face itching, his head aching with the effort to hold back the sobs locked in his throat, his limbs limp with exhaustion after the endless nightmares filled with monsters he knew were real.
Paying the ransom would have been a bad business move, Lukas.
‘Lukas, are you still there?’ Garvey’s hectoring voice pulled him back.
‘Sure,’ he said, clearing his throat. His larynx felt as if someone had sandpapered it.
‘So is the kid yours?’ Garvey asked.
‘Yeah, it’s mine.’ The surge of possessiveness was all-consuming—and finally forced the anger at her deception to the fore. To cover the hollow ache.
Garvey cursed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner, buddy? We could have managed this situation a lot better. But hey, this is terrific news...’ The PR chief’s voice perked up considerably as he droned on about weddings and honeymoons and social media outreach, but Lukas had already tuned him out.
Bronte had lied to him, and carried on lying. Why was he even surprised? And why did it even matter?
Surely all that mattered now was the child. His child.
CHAPTER NINE
BRONTE STEPPED OUT of the limousine Lukas had sent to collect her, startled by the flash of lights.
‘This way, Miss O’Hara.’ James, her regular bodyguard, ushered her towards the hotel’s back entrance, shielding her from the muffled shouts.
