Pregnant By The Millionaire

Hebe flinched slightly at his callousness. ‘Well, when you find it,’ she said evenly, ‘please let me know—because after this I would like to talk to him too!’

Nick’s mouth twisted derisively. ‘You’re right; talking isn’t something you do too much of when you’re in bed, is it?’

‘Insults are going to get us nowhere, Nick,’ she told him shakily, the chocolate seeming to have done very little to allay her shock. In fact, she felt decidedly sick now.

But then, it wasn’t every day you were confronted with a painting possibly of the mother you had never known. A painting, moreover, that was everything Nick said it was.

Whoever the woman was, Andrew Southern had been in love with her when he’d painted her portrait. It was there in every brushstroke, every soft nuance of the woman’s sensual beauty.

Did that mean that the artist was Hebe’s father…?

Or had that been the man who had owned the portrait all these years and kept it hidden from view?

They were questions that Hebe certainly wanted answers to.

But for the moment she had to deal with Nick’s disbelief…

She drew in a deep breath. ‘You can think what you like about the portrait, Nick. Your opinion is really of little interest to me. I know that woman isn’t me, and that’s what’s important.’

He looked at her frustratedly for several seconds. ‘You’re seriously expecting me to believe, if that portrait is of your mother, that it’s—what?—twenty-six, twentyseven years old?’

She shrugged at his sceptisism. ‘That timescale would certainly fit in with the period when Andrew Southern was still painting portraits, yes. And for the record, Nick,’ she added ruefully, ‘I’m not expecting you to believe anything. I told you, it’s what I think that’s important.’

And what she thought was that she had to see Andrew Southern herself, and ask him about the woman in the portrait…

But if a man like Nick Cavendish, with all of the prestige of the Cavendish Galleries behind him, couldn’t get past the reclusive artist’s agent, then how did she expect to do so?

She would find a way.

She had to!

There was no way she could just leave here and pretend she had never seen that portrait. The portrait of the woman who surely had to be her mother…

She would need to speak to her parents too, of course. She couldn’t just go off in search of her real parents without telling them about it first. She owed them that, and they would understand, she was sure. They had brought her up with a sure sense of how important she was to them, of how much she was loved, but at the same time had taught her independence of spirit and mind. They couldn’t fail to support her in her search for the woman in the portrait.

‘Well, if that’s all, Nick, I think I’ll go now.’ Hebe put the glass of water down on the low table in front of her before standing up.

And instantly swayed dizzily again.

In fact, she felt as if she really were going to be sick!

‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ Nick stepped forward to grasp her arm, his expression dark and brooding.

She looked up at him with slightly unfocusing eyes. ‘I told you—I haven’t had any lunch today.’She tried to move away from him. Even that light touch on her arm was enough to send a thrill of awareness coursing through her veins.

So much for hating him!

Reasonably she might do so; he had been nothing but insulting today, with none of that exciting lover of six weeks ago about him. But emotionally her body still responded to his slightest touch.

‘You’re coming upstairs with me,’ he announced grimly.

‘Upstairs?’ She stared at him with startled eyes.

His mouth twisted derisively. ‘Don’t look so worried, Hebe; I’m not so filled with lust for you that I’m dragging you upstairs to have my wicked way with you!’

‘Again!’ she came back tartly, stung by his mockery.

‘Again,’ he acknowledged tauntingly, keeping a firm hold of her arm as he walked her over to the door. ‘You’re dizzy from not having eaten any lunch, and I have food upstairs in my apartment; the logical thing to do is take you up there and feed you,’ he explained dryly.

Logic? When had logic had anything to do with their relationship so far?

‘If you’re happy to let me go for the day, I can easily go home and get myself something to eat.’ She firmly stood her ground.

She did not want to go upstairs to his apartment. Today had been humiliating enough without returning to the scene of her naïve stupidity in thinking this man seriously liked her!

Nick’s mouth tightened. ‘No, I’m not happy to do that, Hebe. For one thing, you don’t look as if you could make it downstairs, let alone home,’ he derided. ‘And, for another, I haven’t finished talking to you yet.’

That sounded ominous…

‘I’ve told you—I don’t know anything about Andrew Southern,’ she insisted stubbornly. ‘Not where he is or how you might get to meet him. I wish I did!’

Nick eyed her frowningly. Did she seriously expect him to believe that?

Yes, he acknowledged impatiently after a glance at her guileless expression, that was exactly what she expected.

It was up to him to ensure that she knew she hadn’t succeeded in convincing him of anything. Not for a moment!

‘We’ll talk again after you’ve eaten,’ he told her firmly, taking her with him out into the carpeted hallway.

Hebe glared at him. ‘Do you never take no for an answer?’

Nick gave a wolfish grin. ‘You, of all people, should know that I don’t!’

That had certainly silenced her, he noted with satisfaction. That poutingly kissable mouth was set firmly as the two of them got into the private lift to go up one floor to his apartment.

Meaning that Hebe would enter his completely private domain for a second time!

‘Is an omelette okay with you?’ he rasped tersely, releasing her arm to stride through to the open-plan kitchen with its white and chrome fixtures.

Hebe took her time following him, obviously no more comfortable being back here than he was to have her here.

He would feed her the omelette, get some straight answers out of her, and then she could leave—

Where the hell was she?

He strode back out into the sitting room, coming to an abrupt halt as he saw her holding and looking at one of the photographs that usually stood on the coffee table in front of the window. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he bit out coldly, his face devoid of all expression.

Hebe almost dropped the photograph she had picked up to have a better look at, grasping it with both hands against her chest, knowing from the furious look on Nick’s face that his question didn’t require an answer—that he knew exactly what she had been doing.