His Pregnancy Bargain (2 page)

‘So you've only Uncle Malcolm's word that he's coming…?' In her experience, to stop his sister nagging her uncle would promise literally anything. ‘Was Uncle Malcolm sober at the time…?'

‘Don't be rude,' Laura reprimanded. ‘And if you possess a skirt, pack it for the weekend, dear, do. You have very pretty legs—in fact you really are a very pretty girl, or would be if you took a little more effort. First impressions
do
count, Megan.'

Back to the task in hand, Megan squared her shoulders with resolution and, with a deep breath, she pressed the button. This idea might be a long shot but she just
had
to try. If Lucas Patrick was game she had figured out a fairly foolproof way to get her mother off her back
and
keep her happy.

A voice over the intercom responded almost immediately.

‘About time too…' It was a deep voice, a bit gravelly at the edges and decidedly cranky which didn't bode too well for her plans.

‘This is—'

‘Yeah…yeah, you're here now. Just bring it up.' There was a buzz and the glass door swung open.

Megan shrugged and walked inside.

The lift rose smoothly and quickly, giving her no opportunity to change her mind. She knocked on the ajar door to the penthouse and heard the same impatient voice.

‘Just bring it in—the money's on the table. If there are no extra anchovies don't take the tip.'

Oh, God, he's expecting a pizza and he's got a woman who wants him to pretend to be desperately in love with her!

Megan cleared her throat and looked curiously around the vast open-plan living space. With its steel support columns and lofty vaulted ceiling, it wasn't what she considered homey. She couldn't imagine coming here after a tough day, kicking off her shoes, pouring a glass of wine and switching on the telly. No, this was strictly bachelor territory and a rich bachelor at that, she thought, but then by all accounts the owner was worth a small fortune.

It was hard to gauge his taste as what furniture there was
was covered in dust-sheets. Her nose wrinkled; the place was permeated with the smell of paint and turps.

She cleared her throat and projected her voice to reach the invisible and grouchy presence. ‘Mr Patrick, I'm afraid…' As the word left her mouth a lean, broad-shouldered figure materialised in a doorway.

Megan was pretty hopeless when it came to ages but she put this hunk somewhere in his early thirties. He was also tall, well over six feet, and dressed in tatty paint-stained jeans and a tee shirt that was clean but looked as though it had shrunk in the wash. The shrinkage meant it was impossible
not
to notice how well-developed his lean torso was. The tee shirt also revealed an inch or so of lean, flat belly and gave a glimpse of the thin line of dark hair that disappeared suggestively beneath the loose waistband of his jeans.

His dark flyaway brows drew together above a strong aquiline nose as he frowned suspiciously across at her.

‘Who the hell are you?' he demanded as he dragged a hand through his collar-length sable hair that gleamed with health and was liberally speckled with blue paint. The jagged ends that rested on the nape of his brown neck suggested he hadn't seen the inside of a hair salon for some time.

This was the sort of guy who had women falling out of upper-storey windows to get a better look at him.

His presence undetected at first Luc had had an opportunity to study his intruder. Dressed casually as she was in jeans, there was nothing to distinguish this young woman from any number of others you saw in the street, except perhaps that this one appeared to carry herself with a certain air of quiet assurance.

She was tall and slim with hair like warm honey and candid china-blue eyes, which widened as they met his. The colour was so dramatically intense it could almost constitute an assault on the senses, he decided. The eyes had the sort
of impact that made you not notice at first that her nose was undistinguished and her jaw slightly too determined. As far as he could tell she wasn't wearing any make-up, something she could get away with because her skin was smooth, the colour of milk and flawless.

Despite the fact she wasn't his type Luc felt his interest sharpen.

Megan's generous mouth tightened. Being a fairly direct person herself, she could appreciate the characteristic in others, but his question hadn't been brusque, more downright rude!

Clearly she had not made a favourable first impression on the decorator…she'd have to do a lot better with his employer if this wasn't going to be a total waste of time and energy.

‘I'm Dr Semple.' Somehow what was meant to be a simple statement of fact emerged sounding pompous, but men this good-looking always made her feel slightly defensive…not that she had ever seen a man
this
good-looking.

His dark brows soared and the corners of his wide mouth twisted…something definitely cruel about that mouth, Megan decided, raising her glance hurriedly to eye level as something deep in her stomach twisted.

She sounded as cool and sure of herself as she looked. Luc liked her voice and found himself wondering what she would look like flustered. That hair spread out around her flushed…
Don't go there, Luc.

He spread his expressive hands wide, inviting her inspection. ‘Do I look like I have need of a doctor?' she heard him demand with vitality leaking out of every gorgeous pore.

He looked, from the top of his dark head to his… Her eyes dropped and her tummy did a crazy little back flip as she registered that his feet were the same even, toasty brown as the rest of him—at least the bits she could see. Not that
she had any desire to see any more—what she was seeing was quite enough!

No doubt he'd be standing there oozing the same level of self-assurance if he had been bare all over.

Megan lowered her eyes quickly as the image that accompanied this maverick thought brought a lick of heat to her pale cheeks.

‘I'm not that sort of doctor,' she mumbled. With thoughts like hers it was just as well—she'd have been struck off!

When she looked up a moment later he was still surveying her in unfriendly silence. The moment and the silence lasted too long for her comfort. His expression remained vaguely hostile as he brushed a hand carelessly along his chiselled jaw—God, but this man had perfect bones!—leaving a faint smudge of paint against his olive skin.

For no logical reason she could figure, she found herself wondering what he would do if she licked her finger and wiped the offending mark away from his smooth, blemish-free skin. She took a deep breath, horrified by the direction of her wilful imagination.

It was time to take control here.

L
UC
had obviously reached the same conclusion and he got in before Megan.

‘I don't know how you got in here,
Doctor
, but I'd like you to go back the way you came.'

Or else
—unspoken but definite, the warning hung in the air.

It wasn't his threatening posture that bothered Megan, it was the illicit and inexplicable little shiver that traced a path up her spine. Good looks, even ones as spectacular as his, she could take in her stride. At a subconscious level she recognised it was the earthy, sensual quality that he possessed in abundance that had her standing there like some inarticulate teenager.

She blinked, determined to rectify any false impression she had given that she was a brainless bimbo. Actually she had forgotten to breathe, which might account for the dizzy sensation; she took a deep, gulping gasp and immediately felt a little better.

‘Well, unless your short-term memory is shot to hell you ought to know…you asked me in,' she reminded him.

A flicker of something that might have been surprise flickered behind his sensational eyes for a split second before shoulders that any athlete would have envied lifted fractionally. ‘And now I'm asking you to leave.'

This was no invitation—it was an order.

Megan's chin went up the same way it had been doing, if her mother was to be believed, for twenty-nine years whenever she had been told what to do. ‘I came to see Mr Patrick.'

The grey eyes narrowed but stayed like lasers on her fo
cused face. The dark rings surrounding his irises highlighted the pale metallic colour of his eyes.

Did he ever blink…?

He gave another graceful shrug. ‘Well, as you can see, I'm the only one here.' He placed the towel he had been holding on a dust-cloth covered table and picked up a bottle of mineral water. He unscrewed the top and raised it to his lips.

So she'd been dismissed…? Did he actually think she was going to leave just because he told her to…? The angry glow in her eyes became distracted as she watched the contraction of muscles in his brown neck as he swallowed, there was a faint sheen of moisture on his skin. She looked away.

‘Is Mr Patrick likely to be home soon?'

‘Are you a friend of his or just a groupie?'

Her outraged attention swung back to his mocking, handsome face. His insulting cynicism brought an angry flush to her face, or did that rise in temperature have something to do with the beads of moisture he brushed off his sensual lips…?

‘I hardly think that's any of your business,' she retorted haughtily. ‘Perhaps you'd like to carry on with whatever Mr Patrick is paying you to do, other than eat pizzas.'

He looked amused. ‘Even a humble painter is allowed a lunch break,
Doctor
. Would you like me to give the boss a message?' he offered, casually looping the towel around his neck. The action revealed another inch of smooth, hard flesh.

Megan swallowed and lowered her gaze. ‘It's personal.'

‘You wish.'

Pale grey eyes clashed with turbulent blue.

‘I'll wait,' she announced frigidly. Other than physically remove her, he couldn't do much about it, and if he did come over heavy handed she'd stick him with a lawsuit for assault before he could blink!

‘Suit yourself,' he drawled. ‘But then I'm sure you gen
erally do.' This woman had spoilt and privileged written all over her, from her smooth voice to her assured manner.

Just as Megan's bottom made contact with the dust-sheet-covered chair there was a sudden upheaval beneath her that sent her with a startled shriek to her feet.

A bundle of spitting fury struck out at her with sharp claws as it hurtled across the room like a ginger flash of lightning.

‘Ouch!' she yelled. ‘That thing scratched me.' Rolling up the right leg of her jeans revealed a long, though admittedly shallow, scratch along her calf.

‘That thing is called Sybil and you did sit on her. Poor cat,' he crooned to the cat from the flat downstairs.

Megan wasn't surprised to see the animal respond to his velvety croon, and in lightning transformation.
That voice…!
She could imagine any number of women who were old enough to know better purring if he used that voice on them.

‘Is the skin broken?'

‘I'll live,' she replied, rolling down her trouser leg. Superficial or not, the scratch stung. ‘Do you have any idea when he'll be back?'

‘Who?'

Megan gave an impatient grimace. ‘Mr Patrick.'

‘Oh, him…he'll be back in the country some time next month, I understand.'

Megan, her high hopes dashed by the casual revelation, felt her face fall. ‘But he has to be back before then,' she protested.

‘Really…?'

‘He's spending next weekend in the country with us.'

‘Maybe it slipped his mind…?'

Megan, who had flopped disconsolately into the cat-free chair, cast him a look of scorn. ‘Or maybe Uncle Malcolm lied through his teeth,' she muttered half to herself.

Look on the bright side, she told herself, no eligible suitor
equalled not being paired off with anyone, and it always had been a long shot.

The bad news was there would be other weekends!

‘Malcolm Hall is your uncle?'

Megan shot him a startled glance and began to sneeze. ‘You know him?' She felt another sneeze building and began to ransack her bag for tissues, she found the packet just in time.

‘We're not members of the same club,' she heard him drawling scornfully when her sneezes subsided. ‘And I don't play golf…but they let us unskilled labourers into quite a few places these days.'

Megan gave her pink nose a last angry scrub, her china-blue eyes snapping with anger. Where did this man get off automatically assuming she was some sort of snob? There was only one person here guilty of judging by appearances and it wasn't Megan!

‘In my book decorators aren't unskilled, although…' she allowed her gaze to travel significantly over his paint-stained person ‘…in your case…'

‘I'm helping out a friend.'

‘So what is your actual day job?'

‘I do a bit of this, a bit of that,' he revealed casually.'

‘You don't have a regular job?' Megan's voice lifted in amazement—like most of her friends, her life revolved around the demands of work.

Luc found the fact she was looking at him as though he were a rare specimen amusing. ‘I don't starve and I don't sponge.'

Megan was immediately embarrassed. ‘I never imagined that you…it really isn't any of my business how you live your life, Mr…'

‘Not being tied down to a nine-to-five routine gives me time to write. Some of my work is even now sitting on your uncle's desk.'

‘You want to be a writer?' That would explain his instant
recognition of her uncle's name. Though he had to be incredibly naive if he thought the work of every unknown who sent in an unsolicited manuscript ended up on her uncle's desk. You had to produce something very special indeed to get that far.

Much more likely his work was languishing at the bottom of a pile on some junior's desk. Being a naturally kind person, Megan didn't have the heart to explain the brutal facts of the publishing business to him.

‘Is there any reason why I shouldn't be a writer?'

Her eyes swept over his tall, impressive figure. The truth was he exuded so much vitality and energy Megan couldn't imagine him doing anything that required long periods of physical immobility.

Megan smiled sunnily and had the satisfaction of hearing his teeth grate. ‘Listen, I don't know the first thing about publishing and I have no influence with my uncle but if you're serious about writing I think it would probably be a good idea to find yourself an agent.'

‘Anybody you could recommend…?'

‘Afraid not.'

‘Maybe you should see a doctor,' he observed with a grimace as she began to sneeze loudly again.

‘Look, I'm not in publishing, but good luck and don't worry—' Megan sniffed ‘—I'm not ill. I'm allergic to cats,' she explained as she got to her feet.

‘Now, if you'll excuse me…?' She nodded, and slung the soft leather satchel she carried over her shoulder and smoothed down her jacket.

The long, lean, intensely aggravating stranger didn't step aside to let her pass. Instead he tilted his head back slightly to look curiously down at her and asked, ‘What kind of doctor are you?'

‘I'm a research chemist.'

‘Interesting,' he said, looking and sounding as though he meant it.

‘It has its moments.' Her bag hit her thigh as she hitched it on her shoulder and she winced as the fabric of her jeans rubbed against the fresh scratches on her leg.

‘You should put some antiseptic on that; cat scratches can get infected. If you like I've got some…'

An image of those long brown fingers moving over her skin flashed into Megan's head. The reaction to the image was immediate and intense; the surface of her skin broke out in a rash of goose-bumps; her skin tingled; her sensitive stomach muscles contracted violently.

Her wide eyes lifted and collided with a steel-grey interrogative stare. There was a silence. The electric tension in the air had to be a product of her imagination, but it felt disturbingly real.

‘That won't be necessary,' she replied huskily. ‘But thanks for the offer.'

Adopting a brisk, decisive air, she stepped forward. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and hesitated when he didn't move. There was room to edge past, but that would mean touching him. The desire to get away from this man's disturbing presence was strong, but her reluctance to make physical contact was stronger. ‘I'm sorry to have held you up…'

‘So Lucas Patrick is a friend of yours…?'

‘Actually I've never met the man in my life,' she admitted. ‘Now if—'

‘You're a fan, then?' he theorised, talking across her. ‘If you leave your address, perhaps he'll send you an autograph.'

‘Do I look stupid enough to give a total stranger my address?' she demanded.'

The dark, satanically slanted brows lifted, but Megan had no more intention of responding to the gesture than she did the quivery demands of her oversensitive tummy muscles.

‘And I don't want his damned autograph,' she grunted, blushing darkly.

‘Then you don't like his books?'

‘I've read some of his earlier ones, I can see why he's popular,' she observed diplomatically.

‘But not with you?' he suggested shrewdly.

‘I think he's slightly overrated.' Unfairly she vented her antagonism towards this man on the absent and talented author.

She expelled a silent breath of relief as he finally moved aside to let her pass. As she did so she lifted her head as a thought occurred to her. ‘Have you actually
met
Lucas Patrick?'

‘In passing.'

Megan's eyes widened. He didn't seem to appreciate this put him in a pretty unique category. ‘Really—! And how did he seem?'

‘Seem?'

‘What was he like?'

‘He seemed a pretty ordinary sort of guy to me,' he divulged disappointingly.

‘Then is he…what does he look like?' She shook her head. ‘No, on second thoughts, don't tell me, leave me with my illusions—though if you happened to nod when I said balding, or paunchy, that wouldn't be totally out of order, would it?'

‘I thought your uncle was his editor?'

‘He is, but Uncle Malcolm's lips are sealed when it comes to Lucas Patrick,' she admitted regretfully.

‘And you're curious…?'

A grin of pure mischief spread across Megan's face. ‘A girl always likes to know ahead of time what her future husband looks like.'

‘Future
husband
…?'

The look of horror etched on his dark, dramatically perfect face could not have been more heartfelt had she just announced her intention to marry him. Megan loosed a gurgle of laughter. ‘A joke,' she placated.

‘He might not think so,' the tall stranger observed as he scanned her amused face.

‘Then he has no sense of humour,' Megan proclaimed.

‘You still haven't said what brought you here…'

Halfway to the door, Megan turned back at the sound of his voice. Why not? the reckless voice in her head suggested. You're never going to see the man again. Maybe there was something in that old maxim that it was easier to discuss things with a stranger.

‘My mother wants me to be happy.' She began to experience a familiar tightness in her chest and she sat down cautiously on the arm of a chair.

‘And that's a problem?' Luc watched her fumble in her bag.

‘She believes no woman is complete without a man.'

‘And you don't have one.'

Megan's chin went up. ‘I don't
want
one,' she rebutted firmly. Her fingers closed over the inhaler she never went out without and she gave a sigh of relief. ‘At regular intervals she tries to set me up with someone she imagines…'

‘Is good breeding stock…' came the straight-faced suggestion.

Megan's eyes narrowed. ‘Will make me happy,' she corrected and raised the inhaler to her mouth. The relief was almost immediate. ‘This is why I avoid cats,' she said, anticipating his question.

‘You have asthma?' he queried, watching the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

‘A little,' she admitted. She went to rise but a large hand fell on her shoulder, anchoring her to the spot. Her eyes slid from his brown fingers to his face.

‘Take a minute to get your breath,' he suggested, actually it was more than a suggestion, it was a quiet command.

Normally Megan didn't respond well to commands but on this occasion she found herself strangely willing to let it
pass. His concern, even though unnecessary was oddly comforting.