The Heiress's Secret Baby (13 page)

‘And Grandfather, Grandmother. Thank you for raising Raff and me. I know it wasn’t easy, that we weren’t easy. I know it put a strain on you. I’m just glad you’ve found your way back together after thirteen years. You’re the most formidable team I know. So.’ She held her glass high. ‘To the Raffertys. Congratulations.’

‘The Raffertys,’ they chorused, glasses held to hers before they sipped.

Polly put her glass down thankfully.

‘Aunty Polly,’ Summer’s voice rang out clearly. ‘Why aren’t you drinking yours?’

Every eye turned to Polly and she sank back into her seat, instinctively looking over at Gabe for help.

But he just sat there.

‘You didn’t drink any wine either.’ Raff sounded accusatory.

For goodness’ sake, wasn’t a girl allowed to not drink? It wasn’t as if she were a lush!

But maybe Gabe was right. They had to know soon enough and although a big announcement hadn’t been her plan maybe it would be better to tell them all in one fell swoop. Like ripping off a plaster.

Polly took a breath, feeling the air shudder through her.

‘I have a little announcement of my own. This isn’t quite how I wanted to do it...’ she looked around the table, desperate for some reassurance ‘...but I suppose there isn’t an easy way so I’m just going to say it. I’m pregnant.’

‘That’s great, Polly.’ But Clara’s voice was lost as both Raff and her grandfather sprang to their feet.

‘Pregnant?’

‘You’ll marry her, of course!’ Her grandfather was glaring at Gabe.

‘What do you mean, pregnant?’

So much for extending the celebrations.

The noise levels rose. Polly couldn’t think, didn’t know which angry, accusatory face to answer first. ‘Stop it!’ She had risen to her feet as well, hands crashing down onto the table, rattling the crockery and silverware.

‘Come on, Summer, let’s go for a walk.’ Clara threw her an apologetic glance as she shepherded her daughter from the table. ‘We’ll talk later, Polly. It’s great news. Raff?’ Her eyes bored into her fiancé, an implicit warning. ‘I’ll see you at home.’

Raff sank back into his seat. ‘Sorry, Polly. It was just, it was a shock.’

Charles Rafferty wasn’t so easily cowed. He was still on his feet and glaring over at Gabe. ‘Well?’ he demanded.

‘Grandfather!’ Polly said sharply. ‘For goodness’ sake. You are not some medieval knight, much as you might wish it, and I am
not
some dishonoured damsel to be married off to avoid a scandal. This is a good thing and it has
nothing
to do with Gabe.’

Maybe she had put too much emphasis on the ‘nothing’, she conceded as the Frenchman whitened, and added: ‘I’ve only known him a few weeks.’

‘Then whose is it?’

‘Mine,’ she said firmly. ‘This is the twenty-first century, I am thirty-one and I am quite capable of doing this alone.’

‘Yes, dear, we know how independent you are.’ Her grandmother sounded like a dowager duchess from the turn of the last century. ‘But what your grandfather means is who fathered it? Unless you went to one of those clinics,’ she said a little doubtfully.

If only she had! That would be so much easier to admit.

‘Someone I met travelling.’ She held up her hand. ‘I don’t know his surname. Obviously if I had foreseen this I would have exchanged business cards but I didn’t. So it’s up to me. And you, if you want to be involved.’

‘Of course we do, dear, don’t be so melodramatic.’

But her grandmother’s words were negated by her grandfather’s expression. Shock, disapproval, horror, disgust passing over his face in rapid but sickening procession.

‘A granddaughter of mine? Besmirching the family name with some dreadlocked backpacker? I told you to get married, Polly. I told you to settle down...’

‘With respect,
monsieur
, that’s enough.’ Now Gabe was on his feet. ‘Polly has done nothing wrong. It may not be your preferred path for her but she is going to be a great mother—and a great CEO.’

‘A single mother in charge of Rafferty’s?’ Charles Rafferty huffed out a disparaging laugh. ‘I thought you had more sense than that, Beaufils. As for you, Polly, I knew letting you take over was a mistake. I should have stuck with my gut instinct.’

The blood rushed from her cheeks and her knees weakened. He’d admitted it. He didn’t want her. Her appointment, her career was nothing but a mistake in his eyes.

‘Clara’s a single mother,’ Raff said. His voice was mild but there was a steely glint in his eyes. ‘At least she was. Polly, I’m sorry, you...’ He rubbed his jaw, the blue eyes rueful. ‘You surprised me but you’re not alone. I hope you know that. Clara and I are right here.’ Polly nodded, numb inside, her eyes returning to her grandfather, still standing up, still glaring.

‘You two always did stick together,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t change anything. It’s hard enough for any working mother to be at the top, impossible for a woman on her own. It’s not old-fashioned, it’s common sense.’

‘There are plenty of single parents at Rafferty’s, men and women.’ Gabe’s voice was soft but it cut through the tense air, drawing all the attention away from Polly, and she folded herself back into her chair, clasping her hands together to keep them from trembling.

‘The only person,
monsieur
, who sees a problem here is you. Which is ironic because if you had seen her worth earlier, if you hadn’t pushed her away, then maybe she wouldn’t be in this position. You need to think very carefully about how you treat and value your granddaughter before you lose her for ever—and the great-grandchild she is carrying.’

Charles Rafferty paled and Polly and Raff exchanged a concerned glance as he sat down heavily in his chair. His tongue wasn’t weakened though. ‘I thought we had established that this has nothing to do with you.’

Gabe didn’t quail under the withering tone. ‘
Non?
Who held her hair when she was sick? Who sat with her during the first scan? I didn’t ask to be involved but she has no one else. You make it quite clear that she can’t come to you.’

Charles Rafferty gasped, a shuddering intake of breath, and Polly was back on her feet. Before she could move round to him Raff had passed their grandfather a glass of water and her grandmother had moved round to him, her usually aloof expression one of concern.

This was all getting horribly out of hand. ‘Gabe!’ How dared he? How dared he try and explain away her actions? Interfere? ‘A word? In private?’

Still trembling but now more with anger than with shock, she led him outside. Normally her garden was one of her favourite spots with shady, hidden spaces and a stream running across the bottom. Today it was just somewhere convenient.

‘How dare you talk to my grandfather like that? What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

His mouth hardened into a thin line. ‘Standing up for you.’

The nerve of him! ‘I didn’t ask you to.’

His eyes narrowed contemptuously. ‘
Non?
I must have misunderstood the beseeching look you threw me when you sat there mute as your family shouted at you.’

‘I didn’t, at least I didn’t mean for you to attack my grandfather! I don’t need help. I am quite capable of standing up for myself.’

‘
Oui
, keep telling yourself that.’

The words were thrown at her, sharp as arrows, and she quailed under them. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘What I say. You tell me, you tell yourself that you don’t need anything—anyone.’ His eyes had darkened with an unbearable sympathy. ‘But you’re still just a little girl tugging at her grandfather’s sleeve wanting attention. Without it, you allow yourself to be nothing.’

Polly hadn’t known words could hurt before, not physically, but each of Gabe’s words was like a sharp stab in her chest. ‘How dare you...?’

‘He rules the board, he rules you. He uses his health to keep you quiet and his disapproval to keep you tame. When he said you couldn’t take over, did you stay to fight, to prove him wrong? No, you ran away.’

How had this happened? How had the passion and need of yesterday turned into these cruel words, ripping her apart?

‘I couldn’t stay. You know that.’

‘You
chose
not to stay.’ He laughed, not unkindly but the tone didn’t matter. The unbearable sympathy on his face didn’t matter. The words were all that mattered and they were harsh.

They were true. He had seen inside her and he was stripping her to the bone.

‘You were quick enough to label me a coward, to judge me, but you know what, Polly? You were right when you said we were just the same. We define ourselves through work because without it? What is there? Who are we? Nothing.’

Polly stood there looking at him. She had thought that she knew him. Knew the feel of his mouth, the taste of him. The way the muscles on his shoulders moved, the play of them under her hands.

She’d thought that she understood him. That he might be coming to understand her. Maybe he did, all too well. She was defenceless.

‘Get out,’ she said, proud when her voice didn’t waver. When the threatened tears didn’t fall. ‘Get out and leave me alone.’

He stood there for a long moment looking at her. She didn’t move, didn’t waver.

‘You need people in your corner, Polly,’ he said softly. ‘People who will be there for you no matter what. Pick wisely.’

And he was gone.

Tears trembled behind her eyes but she blinked them back.
You don’t cry, remember?

She took a deep breath, almost doubling over at the unexpected ache in her chest, the raw, exposed pain and grief, like Prometheus torn open, awaiting the eagles. She had lost everything. Her grandfather. Gabe.

But no. She straightened, her hand splayed open on her still-flat stomach. Not everything.

She could do this. She could absolutely do this alone. Gabe was wrong. In every way.

Slowly she turned and walked back to the kitchen. Her family were at the table where she had left them and she was relieved to see colour in her grandfather’s cheeks. Maybe she could fix this. She had to fix something.

‘I’m sorry about what Gabe said.’ She took her seat and picked up her water glass, relieved that her hands had stopped shaking enough for her to drink. ‘He was out of line.’

She bowed her head and waited for more reproach and anger to be heaped on her.

‘Charles.’ Her grandmother spoke sharply and her grandfather leant forward, reaching for one of Polly’s hands.

She couldn’t remember the last time he had touched her first; she was usually the one bestowing a dutiful kiss on his cheek.

It felt comforting to have her hand in his. Unbidden, Gabe’s words sprang into her mind.
‘You’re still just a little girl tugging at her grandfather’s sleeve.’

‘I’m sorry, Polly.’ Charles Rafferty’s voice was a little wavery, his speech unusually slow and Polly’s chest tightened with love and fear. ‘I was shocked and I reacted badly. I said some terrible things and I hope you can forgive me, my dear.’

An apology? From the formidable Mr Rafferty? ‘I’m sorry too,’ she said, squeezing his fingers. When had they got so frail? ‘I should have told you earlier. I needed time to process everything, to deal with it all, but I should have come to you.’

‘You always were independent,’ he said.

Was she? Polly wondered. Or did she just want to be thought that way? Was Gabe right?

‘I didn’t mean for this to happen.’ She looked at her grandparents, pleading for them to understand. They might not be perfect but they were the only parental figures she had. She needed them. ‘I was lost and met someone as lonely as me. He was nice, a teacher in Copenhagen and recently divorced. I
have
tried to track him down but with no picture or surname the private investigator wasn’t hopeful. He gave it a week and then told me to save my money. You know how much I missed Daddy. I hate the fact that my baby will grow up not knowing his or her father.’

‘Polly dearest.’ Her grandmother was suspiciously bright eyed. ‘Did Gabriel say something about a scan? I don’t suppose there’s a picture...’

A glimmer of something that felt a little like hope skimmed through Polly. ‘There is a picture,’ she said. ‘Would you like to see it?’

CHAPTER TEN

‘I
T
DIDN
’
T
LOOK
this dark on the tin.’ Polly stood back from the wall and stared at the first splash of paint. ‘I’m not intending to raise a baby Goth.’

‘It’ll be lighter when it dries.’ Clara joined her and looked doubtfully at the wall. ‘I hope. Are you sure you don’t want me to find somebody to do it for you?’

‘No, I am doing it all myself. My baby, my walls, my botch paint job in deepest purple.’ Polly glanced at the tin. ‘It’s supposed to be lilac lace.’

‘You
can
outsource some of the work, you know. To Raff or to me. I do special discounts for family...’

‘I might consider outsourcing the actual birth part. That looks a little scary.’ The books Clara had given her were piled high on the chest of drawers in the sunny room at the back of the house Polly had decided on for the nursery. After a quick flick through the graphic words and even more graphic pictures Polly had put them aside vowing not to go anywhere near them again.

There was some protection in ignorance.

‘Sorry, Polly, there are some things even you can’t delegate away.’ Clara dipped her paintbrush in the deep colour and began to apply it to the walls in sweeping strokes. ‘Talking of delegation, have you spoken to Gabe?’ She sounded disinterested but the sly glance she slid Polly belied the light tone.

‘I’ve sat in meetings with him.’

‘Let me rephrase that. Have you had a conversation with Gabe, just the two of you, that hasn’t involved spreadsheets, budgets and forecasts?’

‘That would be a negative.’

Clara added a bit more paint to her brush. ‘Polly,’ she said slowly. ‘We’ve known each other for a while and I like to think that although we’ve never touched on anything really deep we’re good friends.’

Polly bit her lip. Truth was Clara was her only friend. And yet she knew so little about the woman who was going to marry her twin. ‘Of course we are, and I am delighted you’re going to be my sister.’

‘And the aunt of the lucky future possessor of these walls,’ Clara agreed. ‘So I hope you don’t mind me prying a little bit but what is going on with you and Gabe?’

That was easy enough to answer. ‘We’re colleagues.’

‘That’s all?’ Clara persisted.

Polly sighed and put her paintbrush down on the newspaper she’d spread over the furniture, before sliding onto the floor and hugging her knees. ‘We kissed. Twice. Well, once was an accident.’

Not the other. No, the other had been wonderfully intentional.

‘Don’t you hate those accidental kisses?’ Clara murmured, laughter in her voice.

Now she had started confiding Polly couldn’t bear to stop. It was almost a relief to let the words spill out. ‘We talked. Spent some time together.’ It didn’t sound much. Not the bare, bald facts. ‘He was there when I needed him. And he was brilliant; patient and helpful and understanding. He’s good to work with too, sparky and innovative and pushes me...’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Sounds good.’ Clara was still painting. It was easier talking to her back than to have to face her, see concern or sympathy in her eyes.

‘It was. I’ve only known him a couple of weeks but I thought maybe we had a connection.’ Polly pulled at her ponytail. ‘It’s stupid, hormones playing up. I should have known better. Neither of us are looking for anything, want anything. In a different time or place maybe we could have had a thing. But the timing was off.’

And she didn’t want a ‘thing’. Not any more. Not with anyone. Especially not with Gabe.

She’d spent her twenties valuing her independence, her ability to walk away. It didn’t seem such an achievement any more.

Clara painted another streak of colour onto the wall and stood back to assess the effect. Her voice was still light, conversational. ‘You don’t need to be looking to find it. I wasn’t, Raff wasn’t. We tried hard not to fall in love but it was too strong.’

Love? Polly swallowed hard, her heartbeat speeding up. ‘Who said anything about love?’

‘No one. Yet. But you said yourself there’s a connection; he pushes you, understands you—and the kisses were good enough to make your voice go hazy just thinking about them. Even if one
was
an accident.’

Clara put her paintbrush down beside Polly’s and slid into place beside her. ‘It might not be love, Polly, not yet. But it sounds pretty close to me. I don’t know why you’ve pushed him away, nor why he has let you. But isn’t it worth trying swallowing your pride?’

‘I miss him,’ Polly admitted.

But it was more than that. She’d lived alone in this big old house for so long, had never felt lonely in it before. But now his absence was in every room.

It was ridiculous; he’d hardly spent any time there as it was.

It was the same at work. Sometimes she would look up from her desk and glance over at the empty space where his desk had so briefly sat. It was so quiet without him typing loudly, his continuous conversations. The room so still without his pacing up and down. She would listen jealously for some mention of his name, to find out who he was flirting with this week.

But the staff grapevine was quiet.

And she
was
lonely. Raff and Clara were doing their best, almost overwhelming her with dinners and visits, trying to include her in everything. And she appreciated it, she really did. Only they were so very together.

It made her feel her solitary state even more.

She had never cared about being alone before. Or allowed herself to admit it.

‘He took you to the hospital, helped when you were sick, what makes you think he doesn’t want more? Have you asked him?’ Clara was pushing but Polly didn’t mind. The last few weeks, his last words had been going round and round in her head like an overactive carousel until she was so giddy she couldn’t think. This was her opportunity to get it all straight.

To get over it.

‘I don’t need to. He’s...’ Polly searched for the right word. ‘He’s complex, Clara. He has this amazing family.’ She could hear the wistfulness in her own voice and cringed. ‘They’re really supportive and loving, like yours if you multiplied your family by three, the noise level by ten, added in a host of toddlers and moved to France.’

‘Just like my family, then.’

‘Yours was the happiest, most together family I knew until I met the Beaufils,’ Polly admitted.

‘So he has the family you always wanted,’ Clara said shrewdly. ‘I still don’t see the problem.’

‘He was ill, really ill in his teens and it nearly killed his parents.’ Polly winced as she pictured the pain in his dark eyes. ‘I don’t know whether he really blames them for caring so much or himself for causing so much pain. I think it’s a mixture of both. Throw in a first love who died in her teens and you have one emotionally mixed-up man.’

‘We all have our scars, but most of us are redeemable. For the right person.’

‘That’s just it.’ Clara had got it. ‘I’m
not
the right person, Clara. Gabe needs someone who understands him, someone with the patience to wait for him, to help him. Me? I have a business to run, a baby on the way. I have no idea how a functioning family works. I can’t help him! He deserves better.’

Clara didn’t say anything for a long moment and then she got up and picked up the paintbrush. ‘It’s a lot, I agree,’ she said. ‘But you’ve never backed down from anything daunting before. If you think you and he have a chance, if you think it might, could be love, then you should go for it. But, Polly, if you’re backing down out of fear, then you’re letting yourself down and you’re letting Gabe down. Be sure before you let him walk away.’

* * *

He still had a key in his pocket but using it just didn’t feel right. Not with her car parked outside and the windows flung open.

A part of Gabe had hoped that Polly was out, working maybe or with her brother, that he could have nipped in, gathered his stuff and left again leaving no trace.

Taking a deep breath, he pressed the doorbell. How hard could this be? After all, they saw each other every day at work. They sent emails, held meetings. It was all fine.

Polite. Formal. Fine.

There was a pause and then the sound of light footsteps running down the stairs before the door was pulled open.

‘I left it open for you...oh!’ Polly stepped back, her eyes huge with surprise. ‘You’re not Clara.’

‘Non,’
he agreed.

‘She was just here, helping me paint and popped out for sandwiches so I thought, I assumed...’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Paint?’ That made sense, he thought as his gaze travelled up her despite his best intentions to stay cool and focused. Bare feet, long tanned legs in a pair of cut-off denim shorts. Who would have thought the elegant Polly Rafferty even owned such disreputable-looking garments, fraying and paint splattered?

Her vest top was falling off one shoulder, revealing a delicate lilac bra strap.

Lilac. The colour he had bought her. It might even be the same set. His breath hitched, his heartbeat speeding up, blood pounding around his body in a relentless march.

No. He dragged his mind back to the matter at hand. They weren’t on those kinds of terms, not any more.

They had almost got in too deep; he’d allowed her in too deep. Thank goodness Polly had seen sense.

Her hands tightened on the door. ‘I’m decorating the baby’s room purple, to go with the bunting. Only it’s a little darker than I thought, more bordello than nursery.’

‘It might lighten when it dries.’ He shifted his weight onto the other foot. Such a non-conversation. As if they were mere acquaintances.

‘That’s the hope,’ Polly said.

She still hadn’t asked him in.

‘I just wanted to return your key and get the last of my things.’

‘Oh.’ Her eyelashes dropped, veiling her eyes. ‘Of course, come in.’

She opened the door fully, stepping aside as she did so. ‘Is your flat fixed?’

Gabe grimaced. ‘Unfortunately not. The underground cinema and gym is proving most expensive for my oligarch neighbour. He’s still paying hotel bills for at least twenty people.’

‘Including you?’

He shrugged. ‘There’s a gym. It’s convenient for work. No more trains.’

‘That’s good.’

Gabe stepped over the threshold and stopped, unwanted regret and nostalgia twisting his stomach. The scent of fresh flowers mixed with beeswax and that spicy scent Polly favoured, a dark cinnamon, hit him. It smelled like home.

Only it wasn’t. Not any more. It never really had been.

She was right to have pushed him away. What did he have to offer? Financial security? She had her own. No, what Polly needed was emotional security.

The one thing he couldn’t offer.

She deserved it. Deserved more than a coward who spent his life hiding from his own family so that he didn’t have to face up to the possibility of losing them. Of letting them down.

‘I don’t have much.’ He needed to pack, to get out and leave the memories behind. Start afresh.

She turned to him, one hand twisting her ponytail, the other playing with the frayed cotton on her shorts. ‘Gabe, I’m sorry,’ she said.

What?
‘No, I should apologise to you.’ He squeezed his eyes shut. ‘I was harsh. Unfair.’

‘You were right.’ She exhaled. ‘You just gave me some home truths. I didn’t want to hear them, to admit them. That doesn’t stop them being true.’ She huffed out a laugh. ‘There doesn’t seem to be a warning sign with us, does there? We just say whatever is in our heads and damn the consequences. I’ve never been so honest with anyone before.’

‘No, me neither.’

‘I’m not sure I like it.’ She moved away towards the kitchen. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

Gabe had intended to make a quick exit but he recognised the offer for what it was: a peace offering. ‘Do you have decaf?’

‘A month ago I would have laughed in your face but pregnancy does strange things to a woman. I have decaf and a whole selection of herbal teas, each more vile than the rest.’

‘I could make you a smoothie,’ he suggested and laughed, the tension broken by the horror in her eyes.

‘Spinach and beetroot and those horrid seeds? I’m pregnant, not crazy.’ She busied herself at the expensive coffee machine and Gabe leant on the counter, idly looking at the papers there. One letter caught his eye and he read a few lines before realising it was personal. He pushed it away just as she looked over.

Awkward, as if he had been caught purposely snooping, he gestured at the letter. ‘You have a hospital appointment?’

‘Yes. Clara’s agreed to accompany me.’

His duties were well and truly over. He was free, to concentrate on work, to train for the Alpine triathlon in the autumn. To live his life the way he wanted it with no interruptions.

It was all going back to normal.

Polly walked back over, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. ‘Gabe.’ She put the coffee down next to him. ‘I really need to thank you. For everything.’

He shrugged. ‘I was here. Anyone would have done the same.’

‘Maybe, but you stepped up, more than once. You didn’t have to. Not just with the practical stuff.’

She pulled up a stool and sank onto it, pulling the letter from the hospital over towards her, folding it over and over. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot lately. About what I want from my life. I guess the pregnancy would have forced me to make some changes anyway but it’s not just that. You
made
me think. About the kind of person, the kind of parent I want to be. My work, Rafferty’s, is incredibly important, that won’t change. But it’s not enough. It shouldn’t be enough. I don’t want to turn into a female version of Grandfather, putting the business before family, before happiness.

‘I’m going to have a baby.’ Her eyes were shining. Gabe had seen Polly experience a whole range of emotions about the pregnancy: shock, grief, acceptance. But not joy like this. Not before today. ‘And I want that baby to have a family. I think, deep down, there’s a bit of me that’s always wanted your kind of family. Ironic, isn’t it? When you find them too much?’

‘Swap?’ he offered.

‘In a heartbeat.’ She folded the paper again. ‘I can’t conjure up parents and a partner for the baby, but I want him or her to grow up with love and laughter and security. Clara and Raff will help, if I let them. And I will. I need to start letting people in. So thank you. For helping me realise that.’