His Wedding-Night Heir (8 page)

Cally stiffened. 'What are you doing?'

He said quietly, 'If I'm not allowed to touch, I may at least

look.' He took the edge of the covers and tossed them back.

Cally made an unavailing grab for their protection, then lay

like a stone, staring into space, her lower lip caught in her

teeth, bitterly aware that the delicate layer of chiffon was no

barrier at all against his cool, lingering scrutiny of her body.

At last, she said in a small, stifled voice, 'Have you finished?’

He gave a brief, harsh laugh. 'Don't be naive, darling. We both

know I haven't even begun yet.'

He turned away from her, onto his side, extinguishing the

light and leaving her to draw the covers back into place. She

lay beside him, imprisoned by silence and his proximity, not

daring to move.

Even when his quiet, steady breathing told her that he was

asleep, Cally could not relax. How could he be so casual—so

unfazed, she asked herself, when he was behaving so

abominably?

He'd meant everything he said, she thought, fear tightening

her throat. They had a bargain, and—sooner or later— she

would be made to keep her side of it.

How many women did he want in his life at any given time?

she wondered, almost hysterically. And what kind of man

made time for his mistress just before he was due to depart on

honeymoon with his brand-new bride?

The cynicism of that terrified her.

But even if she confronted him about it—accused him, told

him openly that was why she'd left, why she could not bring

herself to live with him as his wife-would it make any real

difference? He'd simply shrug it off, without guilt or remorse.

A deal that had not paid off.

Or, even worse, he might see it as a confession of weakness

on her part. A sign that she cared more then she'd eve r been

prepared to admit.

And she couldn't risk that. Not at this juncture.

Cally brought her clenched fist up to her mouth, sinking her

teeth into the knuckles.

Her disappearance had undoubtedly embarrassed him, and it

would certainly anger him if she reneged on their bargain a

second time. But Nick wouldn't suffer—not as she'd done a

year ago, she thought with anguish. Or as the Gunners Wharf

residents would when he pulled the plug on their housing

scheme. As he assuredly would.

And she would be left to endure the guilt of that— knowing

that she could have prevented it if she'd submitted to his

demands.

But the reality of what he was asking had settled on her like a

stone, and she felt crushed by its weight.

A baby, she thought. A tiny human being to be created and

carried in her womb. To be brought into the world for her to

love and nurture. Or, as seemed more likely, a prize to be

fought over by two waning strangers.

Cally shivered. That wasn't what she wanted. How could it

be? Yet he'd already set off an emotional alarm bell. 'Joint

custody,' he'd said. 'At first anyway.'

Those were the words that had set off reverberations in her

mind. That lingered.

Indicating—

what, exactly? That there might come a time when she'd be

expected to surrender her rights to her own child? Virtually

give up her baby for adoption by a man rich enough to pay for

his slightest wish to be fulfilled, and sufficiently powerful to

fight anyone who stood in his way?

Was Nick really capable of being that uncaring—that

ruthless? Or would he simply say that the end—somehow—

justified the means, and believe it?

Oh, dear God, she thought achingly. Please—please don't let it

be so.

Yet he'd told her frankly that marriage wasn't for him. That

once she'd fulfilled his terms she'd be free to leave. But he

hadn't mentioned the baby.

If, of course, there was a baby...

She'd always assumed that one day she'd be a mother. After

all, it was the next natural progression from being a wife. But,

like so much in their relationship, she and Nick had never

actually discussed the possibility.

And it had certainly never occurred lo her that he regarded her

as some kind of brood mare.

Her pregnancy, she thought wretchedly, should have been one

of the crowning moments of their love. Except that the love

had never existed, and now one of the supreme joys of a

woman's life was being reduced to the status of duty.

Transformed into an obligation.

For the past year she had been alone. But in the next months

she seemed fated to learn the true nature of loneliness itself.

And how could she bear it?

Cally slept at last, exhausted by the weary treadmill of her

thoughts.

When she awoke, she lay for a moment, feeling disorientated,

wondering where she was. Then memory prompted her, and

she turned her head slowly, looking with trepidation at the bed

beside her. But it was empty, only the rumpled pillows and

the covers tossed back revealing that the space had ever been

occupied.

And, as if on some silent cue, Nick emerged from the bath-

room, immaculately shaved, dark hair still damp, fastening

links into the cuffs of his shirt.

'Good morning.' His tone was brisk. 'The bathroom's all

your’s, and I've ordered breakfast in fifteen minutes, so I

suggest you get a move on. We have things to do, and I want

lo be back at Wylstone by early afternoon."

'You're planning lo return there today—taking me with you?'

Cally was astounded.

'Naturally.' His brows lifted. 'Just as soon as the Gunners

Terrace business is completed.'

'But you have lo give me some leeway here,' she protested

huskily. 'You can't expect me simply to— abandon everything

and leave.'

He said icily, 'I didn't expect it last time, sweetheart, but you

managed it all the same. And you've had a year of ducking

and weaving since then to perfect your technique.' He paused

allowing dial to sink in, then added, 'Now, get dressed—

unless you want me to help you?'

'No.' She bit her lip. 'I can manage.'

The shower seemed to be working better this morning. Nick

had probably given it an executive order, she thought

rebelliously, as she zipped herself into the yellow dress, ran a

curvy brush through her hair, and went to join him in the other

room.

A trolley had just been brought in, and Cally saw grapefruit,

croissants with dishes of butter and preserves, and a t all pot

of coffee.

Nick rose. 'Come and sit down,' he said, indicating the sofa

beside him, and she reluctantly complied.

He put a hand under her chin, surveying her critically. 'I have

to say that you don't look particularly rested."

'I hardly slept at all,' Cally said curtly, jerking her head away.

'I'm not used to sharing a bed— particularly with a man.'

His mouth twisted sardonically. 'Just one of many new

experiences waiting for you, darling.'

She said slowly, 'I hoped—I prayed—that when I woke up

this morning it would all be just a bad dream. Or a cruel joke.'

She swallowed. 'Nick-please tell me that's all it was. Say that

you didn't mean any of the things you said last night. Because

I— I think I've been punished enough.'

'It's straightforward enough,' he said, pouring the coffee. 'And

I meant every word. Give me a child, and in return you'll get

your divorce. What part of that do you not understand?'

She said in a low voice, 'I can't understand how you can bear

to do this to me. It's barbaric'

'Your own behaviour, of course, being so civilised,' Nick

returned mockingly. "Have some coffee, and spare us the

cliché of saying it would choke you.'

Those very words had been on the lip of Cally's tongue, but,

chagrined, she bit them back, and accepted the cup he held out

to her in smouldering silence.

The coffee was surprisingly good, black and strong, putting

heart into her and enabling her to say eventually, 'When we

reach Wylstone I'd like to move back into the courtyard flat—

at first, anyway.'

'I'm afraid that won't be possible.' Nick said without the least

sign of regret as he finished his grapefruit and put d own the

spoon. 'I'd have to evict the Thurstons, and they wouldn't be

happy about it.'

Cally frowned. 'The Thurstons?'

'The couple who work for me.' He chose a croissant from the

dish.

'What happened to Mrs Bridges?' She was astounded. Sir

Ranald's housekeeper had been there for years— almost part

of the fabric of the building.

His mouth quirked in faint amusement. 'She preferred to

follow Adele into exile. But the Thurstons are a terrific find.

You'll like them.'

'I doubt that.' Mutinously, she returned her cup to the trey.

"Then at least try not to show your dislike too obviously,' he

said silkily. 'Save it for me instead, or I'll have to raise their

salaries.' He paused. 'Are you going to eat something?'

'I'm not hungry.'

His brows lifted. 'Planning to starve yourself into an early

grave? Or simply become anorexic?'

'Neither,' she said curtly. 'I'm not a breakfast person.'

'I stand corrected.' This time the glance he sent her was openly

amused. 'But maybe you should change your ways , darling.

After all, you need to keep your strength up.'

'I imagine I'm strong enough for your purposes.' Cally lifted

her chin.

'Ouch,' Nick said with perfect amiability, and went on eating

his croissant.

Oh, God, he was so pleased with himself— so enjoying his

triumph, thought Cally, her hands clenching in the folds of her

skirt.

She took a deep breath. 'If it can't be the flat, then maybe

there's somewhere else I can have. For a while. Somewhere of

my own. Some space.' She swallowed. 'One room would do.'

'You'll have the whole house,' he said. 'During the day, at

least. The nights, of course, will be a different matter.' He got

to his feet, dusting his fingers briskly with his napkin, then

dropping it on to the trolley. 'And now it's time w

Cally rose too. She said bitterly, 'You're not prepared to make

any concessions, are you?"

Nick picked up his jacket. He said quietly, ‘I gave you last

night. But today our marriage begins." He paused. "So shall

we go down to Gunners Wharf with the good news? I'D let

you break it to them, darling. Credit where credit is due, after

all.'

Her stormy gaze met the icy mockery in his.

She said, quietly but clearly, 'Damn you to hell, Nick

Tempest.' Then, head high, she walked back into the bedroom

to get her bag.

'You look so different,' Kit said. 'I've never seen you in any-

thing but black, white and grey. Now suddenly you're in

Technicolor.' He surveyed her moodily. 'You look—amazing.

But I feel as if I've never known you at all.'

Cally stifled a sigh. 'I didn't intend that you should,' she said

quietly. 'Because I wasn't planning to stay. And I'm just here

to clear my desk,' she added. 'Not part bad friends.'

'And I had no idea your name was Caroline until Tempest said

it,’ he went on, as if she hadn't spoken. 'Why did you call

yourself Cally?'

She shrugged defensively. 'When I was learning to talk, that

was all of Caroline I could manage. It—stuck.'

He shook his head. 'No wonder I never stood a chance. He's a

rich man, isn't he? A multimillionaire.' There was a note of

self-pity in his voice that jarred on her. 'And you've let him

buy you.'

Have I? Cally thought. Then, if so, why am I paying the

price?

Aloud, she said wearily, 'Kit—let's not over-dramatise the

situation. I'm going back to my husband—that's all. It was

bound to happen sooner or later.' At least that's what I have to

believe. She paused. 'And please remember I offered you

nothing.'

'No,' Kit said bitterly. 'I'm not likely to forget that.'

Cally slammed the empty drawer shut. 'Also, you seem to be

overlooking the fact that Gunners Terrace is alive and well,'

she said crisply. 'We just happen to have won a famous

victory, and Leila, Tracy and the others are jumping for joy

out there. You should be over the moon for them too, joining

in the celebrations.'

'Well, perhaps I'm not in a celebratory mood,' he snapped