Suddenly Expecting (6 page)

She was having a baby. His baby. Theirs.

He swallowed thickly, a dozen emotions churning as he imagined her—his Kat—growing big with their child. Glowing, smiling. Happy.

But she isn’t, is she?

His brows took a dive.
Don’t think about that.

For once, she wasn’t talking. Odd, because they’d never had any problems talking about any topic, from exes to family to everything in between.

Well, almost everything. The ban on relationship talk was still in force, even though he’d wanted to overstep that boundary dozens of times. But for her, he’d bitten his lip and stayed frustratingly silent.

His speculative gaze ran over her sleeping form again. She might project a haughty, almost cool confidence to the world now, but to her closest friends she was just Kat Jackson, filled with doubt, frustration and a dozen dreams she worried she’d miss out on. She had a wicked sense of humor. She read literary fiction as well as popular crime novels. She was a
Star Wars
fanatic but adored the
Star Trek
reboots, had an insane collection of anime art and eighties retro music. She hated pickles on her burger, loved penguins and handbags, was funny, gorgeous, impatient, argumentative and incredibly intelligent.

And yet the press had first tagged her as ditzy and shallow, a party girl of the craziest kind with a penchant for bad boys. It didn’t help that she’d gone overboard when she’d turned seventeen, bouncing from one publicity event to the next, dressed in designer heels and revealing clothing, getting snapped drunk by every single reporter eager to plaster Keith Jackson’s spoiled baby girl all over the gossip pages. Not surprising that she’d taken up a position as society reporter, a job that had lasted until her mother’s death.

He’d been living in France, where he’d quickly become Marseille’s
Ligue 1
star forward on a million-dollar contract, treated like a rock star wherever he went. Ridiculous really, for a kid barely out of his teens to be suddenly thrust into celebrity life, rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous, dating supermodels and actresses, all while his best friend had been wrestling with life-changing events.

A low growl forced itself through clenched teeth before he bit it back. She’d turned up on his doorstep a week after Marseille had won the
Coupe de France
and broken down in his arms. Then they’d spent three months during his off-season backpacking through Europe, clearing their heads and getting their friendship back on track.

Those months had been a wake-up call for him, too. He’d stopped drinking, started making responsible choices, investing his money instead of blowing it all on thousand-dollar bottles of champagne, designer jewelry he’d never wear and vintage cars he’d never drive. And it had also been a turning point in their friendship. Now they were both thirty-three and had never gone longer than two days without a call or a text, except when he was traveling on business. And they told each other everything, no matter how private or painful. Well, except for that no-go relationship zone.

He still couldn’t believe she’d actually gone and gotten tested. God, he still remembered that huge argument, a week after her mother’s death, when they’d nearly ruined their friendship for good.

“How can you not want to know?”
he’d demanded.

“Because I don’t!
I don’t want a death sentence affecting how I live my life!”

She wasn’t alone in thinking that, either. He’d done the research. He knew more people chose to remain in the dark about being a fatal-disease carrier. Yet it still didn’t stop his heart from contracting every time he thought of her, his Kat, suffering the same fate as her mother. Dead within two years of diagnosis.

Marco released a long, slow breath, his eyes darting to the ventilation window at the far end of the cellar. The wind had downgraded to a strong breeze, the low hum of radio chatter white noise against it all. He grabbed a bottle of water and unscrewed the top, downing the contents in a few swallows, and then shoved a hand into his hair, dragging slow fingers through it.

This “let’s not talk about it” attitude wasn’t Kat. She always told him the truth, no matter how painful, and he did the same for her. And the only thing that had changed was the sex. Which meant it was already messing things up. She was awkward and self-conscious, holding things back, keeping her thoughts to herself. He didn’t like this new Kat, not one bit.

With a scowl he shifted in the chair and tried to get comfy. Pretty soon, the wind outside lulled him and he managed to fall asleep.

Four

M
arco was the first to wake. After glancing at the still-sleeping Kat, he quickly checked his phone—no signal—placed it back on the table and then cast an eye at the softly glowing lights, before to Kat, now yawning on the couch. She was rubbing her cheek where the cushion had imprinted, looking so adorably sleepy that for one crazy second, impossible thoughts of permanently waking up next to her rushed through his brain and his breath caught.

“What time is it?” she asked, voice hoarse with sleep.

“Seven a.m.,” he replied, glancing away. Desperate for something to do, he grabbed his phone again, determined not to focus on the way her long legs swung from the couch to the floor, her normally straight hair all mussed up and her half-lidded eyes still languorous. And of course, his mind latched on to the one thing he’d been trying to avoid.
That
moment. That hot, amazing moment on the couch when she’d crumbled beneath him.

“Phones are still out,” he said, then turned the radio up.

Pretty soon they were up-to-date with the full aftermath of Cyclone Rory.

“The ports are closed, then,” Kat concluded, combing her fingers through her hair.

“And there’s no planes going in or out, apart from emergency ones.” Marco rose, stretched and cracked his back, working his knee firmly back and forth.

“You okay?”

“Mmm.”

She studied him for a moment. “Does it still ache?”

“Only when I sit for too long.”

“Must be weird having pins in your knee.”

He smiled thinly. “You get used to it. Could have been worse.”

She nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. The on-field injury had ended one stellar career but he was lucky—it could’ve left him unable to walk. The bitterness still burned sometimes but it was something he refused to dwell on, not when all the other amazing opportunities had opened up for him a few months later.

“There’ll be debris in the water, so they’ll have to clear that up first,” he continued.

“So we’re stuck here until further notice.”

“Until they give water traffic the all clear in a few days.” At her unexpected smile, he tilted his head. “What?”

“I could name at least a dozen women who’d give their left leg to be holed up on a private island with you.”

He sighed. “Why do you do that, Kat?”

“Do what?” She looked confused.

“Always bring up the women.”

“I...”

She looked so genuinely flustered that his irritation quickly dissolved, leaving only an odd frustration. He sighed. “Look, forget it. We should go and see if there’s any damage to the boat.”

“I was only teasing.”

“I know.” When he held out his hand, her brief hesitation before she firmly grasped it and stood was telling.

It only increased that vague sense of wrongness.

He walked down the hall, a half-formed scowl on his face until he swung open the front door and their attention was immediately commanded by the outside world.

The warm air was rife with the smell of rain and dirt. The blue sky was cloudless, the sun already streaming through the trees to heat everything up. The palm trees still stood, but many were leafless; downed branches and debris were strewn over every inch of wet ground. As they stood there, taking in the damage, the familiar screech of rainbow lorikeets as they returned to their nests echoed.

Marco waited until they were in the buggy, making their way carefully down to the dock, before he said softly, “You know it’ll be different with your own child, right?”

Her gaze snapped to him but he kept his focus ahead, avoiding the fallen branches and clumped mountains of dirt the rain had swept across the road.

“Will it?”

“Sure it will.
Je vous le
—”

“So help me, Marco, if you say that stupid catchphrase I will seriously do you damage.”

He snapped his mouth shut but couldn’t completely keep the amusement from his voice. “Still don’t like it, huh?”

“
Je vous le garantis.
I can guarantee it? It’s lame. No one can guarantee something.”

“The press seems to think so. Everyone awaits my game predictions with bated breath.”

“Full of yourself much?” She snorted. “And you
have
called it wrong before.”

“Only you would remember that. Three times in two years,” he reminded her, grinning as he saw her mouth quirk. “Uh—I saw that smile.”

“Was not a smile.”

“Sure it was.” He glanced at her. “I hate seeing you so serious and angry,
chérie.
”

She crossed her arms and stared right ahead, her mouth twitching. “Keep your eye on the road. There’s debris all over the place.”

They finally reached the windswept dock, the trees familiarly bare, the water full of flotsam. But thankfully, his boat was still moored securely, bobbing in the water, jammed up against the jetty.

He cast an eye over the lines from bow to stern, then made his way on board to inspect further. Ten minutes later, satisfied there was no damage, they returned to the house.

* * *

It was only after they returned to the house, opened all the shutters and then went back outside to inspect the filthy pool that Kat’s stomach began to rumble so violently the ache made her wince.

“I need food,” she said as they walked in the patio door.

“Sure.” Marco moved to the kitchen. “What do you feel like?”

“I can do it.”

He huffed a sigh. “Seriously? What, you’ve had lessons since I was last home?”

“Don’t be facetious,” she sniffed.

“You haven’t. Which means
I’ll
cook. You—” he glanced over toward the bench “—do your usual and make the coffee.”

“Fine.” She opened the cupboard and grabbed the gourmet coffee beans, then the grinder. It felt so surreal, going through the motions of this familiar task when all around them everything had lost grip on reality. A cyclone had raged over the coast, devastating lives. A once-strong friendship had cracked from one impulsive night. And a baby would change their lives forever.

Stop.
She stared at the grinder as it tossed the beans. She couldn’t make that decision yet, not when the test results were still to come.

With that tiny mantra echoing in her head, they made breakfast then ate at the table, watching the TV reports outlining the damage, filling them in on every single detail, flashing up familiar scenes of devastation, until Kat’s head buzzed with overload. She glanced at Marco and then away, focusing on her plate until the silence began to cloy and she was desperate to break it.

When it got unbearable, she finally said, “So, I hear you’re up for a Hall of Fame award at the FFA dinner next month.”

He nodded. “Yep.”

“You taking anyone?” she asked casually.

When his gaze met hers, she winced. That totally sounded as if she was fishing, when it was definitely not the case.

“You, if you want.”

“Sure.” Her response was automatic. The Football Federation of Australia’s annual awards dinner, a three-course dinner in a five-star Sydney hotel, was always a good night. Ironically, in a nation where sport ruled supreme, soccer barely rated a mention on the national networks, and that included the biggest soccer awards event of the year. Which suited her low-key life down to the ground.

June. Three weeks away.
Three weeks plus ten weeks means...
She scowled.
No. Don’t think about that.
“So you’re staying in Australia until then?”

He nodded. “I have the coaching clinics to set up, plus a new shoot for Skins. And a guest appearance on
The Big Game
when the new season starts in October.”

She smiled. “Still in demand. I knew that knee injury wouldn’t slow you down.”

His mouth curved. “Always right, aren’t you?”

“Always.”

As they finished their food, Kat asked, “So what else is news?” Marco took such a long time to answer that she glanced up from her empty plate with a frown.

“Ruby’s on the cover of next month’s
Playboy,
” he finally said.

Oh. She waited for him to share, and eventually, with a clatter of fork on plate and a deep sigh, he did. “She’s my ex-wife. I shouldn’t care what she does.”

Kat nodded. “True.”

“We’ve been apart for four years, divorced for two.”

“Yes.”

He sighed, linking his fingers together on the table. “Call me old-fashioned, but I draw the line at having my ex-wife’s hoo-ha on display for every guy who’s got ten bucks to spare. Those things are private.”

She looked him straight in the eye. “I agree.”

He picked up the fork and continued to toy with the remains of his food in silence for a few more moments. “She didn’t even ask me. I don’t care about the whole media thing. I just would’ve liked to be forewarned.”

She nodded again, knowing that the situation cut deeper than he let on. It wasn’t about the damage to his reputation, although the media attention had already started to swell following the sneak peek of Ruby’s cover two days ago. It was more personal than that. It went to the core of who Marco was—a deeply honorable man who respected women, who valued manners and was known in the French
futball
league as a true gentleman, despite his multitude of girlfriends and on-field arrogance.

“You know, we should get married.”

She stilled, the fork halfway to her mouth. “I’m sorry. Did you just say...we should get
married?
”

He nodded, his expression deadly serious as he leaned in. “Totally.”

She gaped for one second. “Why?”

He stared at her, as if waiting for her to say something more. But when she just continued to gape at him in shocked silence, he shrugged and said, “Why not?”

Because you should be madly in love with me when you propose.
Kat swallowed the words as her brow dipped. “Because we don’t have to?”

“So you’re
not
worried about your pregnancy hitting the papers?” He tipped his head.

“Of course I am. I’m worried about everything hitting the papers. But I can’t live my life in a bubble because of it.” She eyed him. “Anyway, what does that have to do with marriage?”

“Because we can lessen the damage. If we—”

She held up a hand. “I’m sorry, what?”

He sighed. “Look, just hear me out. For over twenty years you’ve not shown one symptom, so let’s assume the results are negative until otherwise proven, okay? Like it or not, marriage is still a respectable option. You’ll be pregnant with my child. Once the cyclone news dies down, the press will be on the lookout for the next big story, and they’re going to love this. The attention they give it will be off the charts. They’ll hound you, your family, and when they find out I’m the father, they’ll come after me.” He held up a hand, cutting her off. “The papers are going to rehash every romantic involvement, including our marriages and divorces. And you can bet they’ll find a way to bring my father into it. Someone at my network is going to listen to all that crap, and there’ll probably be repercussions because I do have a code-of-conduct clause in my contract. Grace will probably demand an exclusive. The attention will drag on and on. Even better, they’ll bring the romantic ‘holed up during a cyclone’ angle into it.”

“Marco—”

“Now think about the alternative. We get married in a private ceremony then put out a press statement. The deed is done. Everything’s announced how we want it, when we want it. The media have their story for a week, two, max. We’d have to tell Grace, of course, but there’ll be no backlash for me at the network, no comparisons to the past. And everyone returns to their normal lives.”

She stared at him for a moment and then slowly placed her fork on the plate. “It’s not that simple.”

“Well, obviously not.” He followed with a frown. “It won’t stop the attention, but it will lessen the time we’ll spend on the front page. Then they’ll go back to real news.”

She shook her head slowly. “You would seriously marry me?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

She said nothing, just stared at him for the longest time. She’d be Marco’s wife. Mrs. Corelli. For one second her heart swooped, an alarming response that sent her into a panic before she swallowed and it all crashed back down to reality. He wanted to marry her, but for all the wrong reasons. Duty. Respectability. To avoid publicity. Not because of love.

Wait, what?

This was Marco here. He didn’t think of her in that way. Oh, she knew he loved her, but he wasn’t
in
love with her, which was a huge difference.

Anyway, she didn’t want him in love with her. Not at all.

“You know it makes sense,” he said, chewing on the last piece of toast.

There were those annoying words again.
Sensible. Smart. Logical.
Everything she’d wished for after Ezio’s betrayal. Everything Marco was offering.

She drew in a slow breath. “I don’t want to get married.”

“What, ever again?” His brow went up. “Or just to me?”

“I’ve done it twice already.”

“I know,
chérie.
I was there to pick up the pieces, remember?”

Her heart squeezed. Yeah, he was. He was always there. Through the divorces, the horrific tabloid attention. Through the aftermath of her mother’s illness. He was her rock, more dependable than any of her girlfriends or family. He’d dropped everything to listen to her rant, then cry, then get solidly drunk and make a complete fool of herself at some swanky French nightclub. Then he’d dragged her backpacking around Europe in blissful anonymity.

And now he was offering again, stepping up and taking on the responsibility for their one lapse in judgment.

“I can’t marry you, Marco,” she said now. “That would be selfish.”

“Why? I suggested it. And it’s not as if we have anyone else lined up.”

“Oh, that makes me feel so special.”

He laughed, much to her chagrin. “You are. You’re my closest friend.”

“What about Grace?”

He sighed. “What about her? We’re over, I told you. It’s all in her head.”

She crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair, trying to get a grip on her jumbled thoughts. “Marco, this isn’t the solution. I don’t want to force you into something you’ll come to resent. No, let me finish,” she added when he opened his mouth. “You love your freedom. You love being able to pick up and go away on assignment. I totally get that. But I need someone constant, to really
be here.
Fly-by parenting doesn’t work. I know that firsthand. A child can’t just be an appointment in your schedule, someone you see whenever you have a spare few weeks.”