Knight's Game (39 page)

But her search wasn’t reassuring.

She still could be wrong, she told herself. Really, how could it possibly happen when Yash had given her the shot in Singapore? There must be some reasonable explanation. Recalling a conversation with Justin’s wife, Amanda, jogged Kate’s memory. Amanda had mentioned her obstetrician’s roster of celebrity clients and the doctor’s name had sounded movie-star-like as well.
Bryce Clifton
. So Kate called Dr Clifton’s office and made an appointment. Not because she was interested in the celebrity factor, but she expected someone like Amanda would choose a good physician.

Two days later, her nausea not improved, Kate was nervously flipping through a magazine in Dr Clifton’s waiting room that resembled a cosy country-house parlour rather than the chrome and plastic décor normally found in doctors’ offices. She was the only person waiting. Apparently, posh doctors didn’t stack up patients like they did in the clinic back home.

A nurse came in, summoned Kate in a hushed murmur, conducted her to another cosy room painted in warm colours – save for the white-sheeted, stainless-steel examining table. Kate was handed a flower-print hospital gown to put on and directed to a cheerful little dressing room with rose garlanded wallpaper, pink leather chairs and paintings of pretty landscapes on the walls.

If the object was to make you relax, it was working.

When Dr Clifton came in, he introduced himself with well-mannered charm, as if they were meeting over tea, even made similar small talk. Then he said with a smile, ‘Let’s see what we have here.’ The nurse helped her lie down, and as he examined her, he spoke softly to the nurse in a kind of medical shorthand.

Then, disposing of his surgical gloves, he helped Kate sit up and said with another smile, ‘Congratulations, Miss Hart. You’re going to have a baby.’

‘Impossible!’ she blurted out, because denial is more powerful than deductive reasoning.

Dr Clifton’s smile broadened. ‘You’re not the first one I’ve heard say that.’

‘But I’m on the contraception shot.’ Kate schooled her voice to a more polite tone. ‘How is it possible?’

‘The shot isn’t infallible, my dear. Were you not told?’

‘But I was told the percentages were extremely small. Obviously,’ she said, trying to remain calm, when her pulse was racing, ‘not small enough. Have you any idea? That is …’ She tried to count back.

‘You’re approximately twelve weeks along, Miss Hart. When was your last period?’

She told him; he did some calculations. ‘You’re due in early November. I’d say the tenth.’

Kate went pale. A bona fide date made it terrifyingly real.

The doctor patted her shoulder. ‘Would you like to lie down for a few minutes? Many patients need a moment or so to absorb the news. Or would you like me to call someone to come and see you home?’

‘No!’

‘Well, then,’ he said tactfully, because he’d seen other young women like Miss Hart who were concerned with their privacy. ‘Nurse could show you to a quiet room where you could rest.’

Kate shook her head, sat up straighter. ‘Thank you, but that’s not necessary. It’s just a shock … when you think you’re protected.’ And stark and clear, the words
Don’t use that. OK?
rang through her mind. It had been her decision that first night they were together in Singapore.

So she couldn’t blame Dominic for not using a condom, although she’d love to since he’d broken her heart – twice.
She
was to blame, though. No one else. Which just went to show how much havoc a tall, dark, shockingly handsome man with a world-class dick could cause when a woman wanted him.

Soon after her return to work, Kate realized she couldn’t possibly maintain the necessary businesslike diligence or even minimum attentiveness required when her life was in
complete free fall. So she begged off sick, telling her fellow consultant and weekend accounting partner, Joanna, ‘It’s just a migraine. I’ll be fine tomorrow.’

An unfortunate lie since Joanna actually had migraines, which meant that, one, Kate had to endure a recitation of a long list of remedies that were only marginally effective. (Apparently the cause of migraines was either completely obscure or heatedly debated.) And, two, Kate had to try to discuss her symptoms with some personal awareness. She mostly punted by nodding at appropriate moments and repeatedly saying, ‘That’s it – exactly.’

After making her escape, overcome with nausea – probably induced by stress at this late hour of the day – she quickly ordered a pot of tea in the café downstairs, found a quiet corner seat by the window and immediately drank down half a cup: tea actually helped her queasiness, she’d discovered.

Then sitting quietly, nursing her tea, she felt her stomach settle, and resorting to the slow countdown she’d learned from Gramps, she tried to relax. There were times he’d waited for days in enemy territory for a target to come into his sight, he’d said, and when he could barely move for days on end, he needed to stay calm. Jesus, she missed him. Her eyes filled with tears. She missed Nana too and she smiled, thinking of what Nana would say when she told her she was going to be a great-grandmother. She’d probably say,
Beat that news, Jan Vogel,
because Jan was always bemoaning the fact that she didn’t have grandchildren. And in a hidden-away
spot that had resisted all her best attempts to scour her life of Dominic’s presence, she wondered for a fleeting moment what Dominic would say.

Nothing probably. He was good at not answering.

Then she saw a young mother pushing a pram and she was instantly transfixed. She watched until they moved out of sight and then began to notice other prams and strollers with babies in the passing pedestrian tide, and toddlers, then girls and boys on their way home from school. She’d catch her breath from time to time, as though suddenly the sight of babies and young children left her breathless and spellbound. As if she were aware for the first time of the miracle of birth.

But a small panic also underlay her astonished wonder.

And a faint unsettling doubt washed over her in irresolute waves.

Jesus, what was she going to do with a baby?

*

That same afternoon, Dominic was surprised to get a call from Max well before their regularly scheduled time.

‘I just wanted to let you know, Katherine went to Harley Street,’ Max said.

‘Yes, I already know.’ GPS in action: map, street, address, name.

‘She went to see a doctor.’

‘Yes, I know. To get her contraception shot. It’s been three months.’

‘She didn’t get her shot.’

Dominic shifted slightly in his desk chair, glanced at the clock in his Paris office as if on some subconscious level the time was significant. ‘You know that?’

‘You wanted me to be thorough.’

‘And? Cut the drama. If you have something to say, say it.’

‘She’s pregnant.’

Dominic sat up like a shot. ‘Impossible.’

‘Apparently, that’s what Katherine told the doctor.’

Dominic softly swore. ‘A fucking three percent chance? And the casino still wins? Jesus.’

‘I didn’t know the odds, but the nurse mentioned it. I chatted her up. Nice older woman, lives in Woking, two children, a new grandchild—’

‘Christ,’ Dominic muttered. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘Fuck.’ He slumped in his chair, shut his eyes.

‘Katherine might decide she doesn’t want it.’

Dominic’s eyes snapped open and a collection of raw memories raced through his brain, images of Katherine fifty different ways. ‘I’m not sure that’s a solution,’ he said, a brooding note in his voice.

‘It might be for her.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ Dominic replied curtly. ‘Have a car waiting at Heathrow. I should be there in an hour and a half.’ Dominic was already punching numbers on his desk phone.

‘Katherine’s still at work. You probably shouldn’t embarrass her there.’

‘I’ll see the doctor first. George, file a flight plan for London. I’ll be at the plane in fifteen minutes.’ Dominic slammed down the desk phone, came to his feet and spoke into his cell. ‘Thanks, Max. Gotta go.’

Three hours later because traffic from Heathrow was a nightmare, Dominic was in Doctor Bryce Clifton’s personal office, his shoes leaving prints in the plush carpet as he crossed the large room. The panelled office was elegantly appointed, the eighteenth-century fireplace still in working order, a real Canaletto on the wall, antique furniture artfully placed to best show its lines. The doctor clearly made a very good living. Dominic almost asked,
Is Amanda Parducci your patient?
but he didn’t want to involve her. Katherine wouldn’t have found this man otherwise, though. Clifton wasn’t the kind of doctor who advertised.

‘Please, sit,’ the doctor offered smoothly. Dominic’s name had granted him immediate access.

‘Thank you.’ Dominic chose the larger of two Sheraton armchairs placed before an impressive desk and sat.

Dr Clifton took note of Dominic’s double-breasted, navy-with-white-chalk-stripe vicuna suit. ‘Anderson and Sheppard?’

Dominic flicked a quick glance downwards. ‘The lapels always give it away, don’t they?’ He’d worn the fifty-thousand-dollar suit for a reason. The world’s rarest and most expensive fabric was an indulgence for only the very wealthy. It was official notice of his status.

‘Yes, indeed. A signature feature.’ The doctor showed his perfect teeth in a polished smile; his hair implants were equally impeccable. ‘Now, how may I help you?’

Dominic viewed such vanity in an older man with suspicion; it hinted at possible ill-advised relationships with his patients. Filing the thought away, Dominic returned the doctor’s smile. ‘You recently saw a Miss Katherine Hart. I’d like to know the particulars of her visit.’

‘That’s impossible, of course. Patient confidentiality, you understand.’ The doctor’s smile was still in place. He folded his hands on his immaculate desktop. ‘The law is quite clear, Mr Knight.’

Dominic’s brows lowered marginally and his smile was only slightly less pleasant. ‘Spare me the lecture, doctor. I know all that. But the matter is of some importance to me,’ he noted gently, rather than hit the smug bastard, ‘Then you should take it up with Miss Hart,’ the doctor said irritably, unfamiliar with being countermanded.

‘I intend to. But she’s back at work and she doesn’t like to be disturbed.’ Dominic’s voice was exquisitely restrained. ‘I couldn’t help but notice your Canaletto,’ he added, glancing at the beautifully framed and lighted painting. ‘
The Horse Guards
, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ The doctor immediately preened. ‘It was done when Canaletto was in England.’

‘He had a way with light, didn’t he? Atmospheric. You can almost feel the sun. I’ve seen another rendition, but not so fine a one as yours. Have you had it long?’

‘It’s been in my wife’s family for generations,’ the doctor said proudly.

And yet it was in his office, greedy fuck. Although that might make things easier. Dominic took his phone from his suit jacket pocket, quickly brought up a few screens and, leaning forward, turned the phone to the doctor. ‘Have you seen this Canaletto?
Doge’s Palace
. It’s equally good.’

‘I have.’ The avaricious light in the doctor’s eyes was bright as a beacon. ‘The Hamilton Gallery has had it for sale since March.’

‘Why don’t I buy it?’ Dominic said smoothly. ‘What’s your address here?’ He knew the address. He just wanted a commitment from the doctor.

Ten seconds.

Fifteen.

Dominic leaned back, tapped the screen a few times. ‘There. I can always use another Canaletto if you don’t want it.’ He looked up and smiled at the doctor. Then he stared at the screen for a second more before he chuckled. ‘Douglas said he’d open his reserve whisky for me. I’ve bought a few things from him over the years. Where should I tell him to send it?’

Dr Clifton struggled with his conscience for only a few seconds more. Then he gave Dominic his address.

Dominic keyed in the doctor’s address, turned off his phone, and slipped it back in his pocket. ‘They’ll deliver it tomorrow at two. I hope you enjoy it. Now then.’ He needed confirmation, not secondhand information.

‘You understand my responsibility to my patients?’ Dr Clifton said, looking Dominic in the eye like any good horse trader who never gives anything away.

Dominic smiled. ‘Of course.’

‘So I can neither confirm nor deny that Miss Hart is twelve weeks pregnant. Nor can I confirm or deny that she is in excellent health.’

Dominic sat quietly for a moment, absorbing the quick shot of happiness. Then he came to his feet. ‘Thank you, Dr Clifton.’ He dipped his head. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you.’

Dominic left the office, a million thoughts tumbling through his brain, a continuous flicker of a smile twisting his mouth as he got in his car and was driven to Eaton Place. According to the doctor, Katherine was three months pregnant. Which meant he
should
have used a condom the night she’d had the shot. He smiled faintly. As if any man alive could have refused her huge, pleading eyes when she’d said softly,
Just don’t. Please?

But fond memories aside, he had a problem on his hands.

Because he was still in hock to Gora for two more weeks, or slightly more, depending on the birth of his son.

An inflexible interval. On the other hand, he expected it would take at least that much time for any woman to plan her wedding. So he only had to say,
Let’s get married in three
weeks,
and no further explanation was required. Although the timing was the least of his problems. Getting Katherine to talk to him was the dilemma. He hadn’t had much luck in the past ten weeks.

Hours later, when Max called to tell him that Katherine was home, Dominic was still indecisive about how to approach her.

With no firm conviction yet, his emotions strange, happy, fearful, his entire world in flux, Dominic found himself standing on Katherine’s doorstep, the sun a faint golden glow behind him, the horizon streaked with the brilliant magenta of sunset.

He knocked on the door, saw a curtain twitch on one of the street windows.