Happy Mother’s Day!: Accidentally Pregnant, Conveniently Wed / Claiming His Pregnant Wife / Meant-To-Be Mother

Aisling kept her expression bland as she faced him. ‘By your side?’ Her eyes travelled over his shoulder to where the blonde was staring rather disconsolately in his direction. ‘You looked like you were fully occupied.’

‘That isn’t the point,’ he said softly. ‘You’re supposed to be here tonight, working for me.’

‘And that’s exactly what I have been doing! If you really want me to give you my opinion of how I think the hotel is being run these days, then I can certainly accomplish it better by working the room on my own. Rather than being constantly watched by the spectators,’ she added, glancing across the room to where the blonde had been joined by a popular soap actress, ‘who seem to be following your every move.’

Gianluca smiled. ‘Jealous?’

‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

‘The irony is that I don’t usually need to,’ he said coolly. ‘But I take your point, cara—and you must have seen enough by now. So let’s go and have dinner. I’ve booked the Starlight.’

He saw her lips part but he shook his head. ‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘Because the more you fight me, the more determined I become to get my own way.’ He let his gaze drift over her flushed face. ‘If it was anyone else but me, then you’d agree to dinner straight away—because that’s the sort of business you operate in. You can’t make exceptions just because it’s me, cara. And you really shouldn’t sleep with your clients if you feel that it is going to compromise your ability to do your job properly.’

‘That’s a bastard thing to say,’ she whispered.

He felt a heady thrill at her reaction. ‘And I don’t think calling your boss names in public is setting a very good example, do you?’

‘Whereas issuing veiled threats is textbook behaviour, I suppose?’ she retaliated.

Better and better! ‘If it’s the only way of getting what I want, cara, then I’ll do it. So be nice.’ He reached out and touched his finger to the tip of her nose, seeing her blue eyes grow startled.

But just what did he want? Aisling wondered dazedly as they left the ballroom and headed towards the lift. She felt he was playing games with her—as a cruel kind of sport, perhaps? And the trouble was that she didn’t know how to respond to them because the boundaries between them of work and play had become so blurred.

The Starlight restaurant was aptly named—an awardwinning circular room of windows at the very top of the hotel. Outside, the crescent moon looked close enough to pluck from the night sky and below them lay the goldenbathed Houses of Parliament and the glittering snake of the river as it wound its way through the capital.

It was one of the most breathtaking views in London and Aisling stood for a moment, just staring down at it.

‘Ever been here before?’ he asked.

‘Once. A long time ago.’

But back then she had been excited and impressed by the magical setting of the twinkling stars and the chance of spotting someone famous. Tonight was different. With Gianluca sitting opposite her, it was difficult to concentrate on anything and the richly romantic setting seemed to mock the curious nature of her brief affair with him. How did other women cope in such situations? she wondered. Did they instinctively know what to do—or, deep down, were they all flailing wildly and making up the rules as they went along?

Gianluca watched her studying the menu-card as if it were an examination paper, flickering his eyes over her bent head with a slight ache of amusement—realising that this was the first time in a long, long time that he had been forced to endure a dinner for the sake of propriety. ‘What would you like?’

‘Oh, I don’t know—whatever it’s best known for. Isn’t there some kind of signature dish?’

He spoke to the waiter in French, ordered them both some fish and wine and waited while their drinks were poured. Then he leaned back in his chair and studied her. ‘You do realise that you’re still a complete mystery to me? That I’ve known you for almost two years, we’ve had sex together and yet I don’t even know where you live?’

‘Gianluca!’

‘Doesn’t that strike you as strange?’ he questioned, ignoring her protest.

‘There’s never been a reason for you to know,’ she said. ‘There isn’t really one now.’

He watched as she picked up her glass of water with a hand which wasn’t quite steady. ‘Being evasive won’t work,’ he said evenly. ‘I’m curious.’

‘Do you always interrogate when you’re out on a date, Gianluca?’

‘Is this a date, then, cara?’

Oh, but he managed to twist everything she said!

In the circumstances, it seemed bizarre to give him a potted life history—it seemed the wrong way round, really. They’d done the bed bit, without any of the getting-toknow-you stuff. But how else were they going to endure a whole meal together, if he was determined to find out and she was equally determined not to tell him? It would simply become a battle of wills, which she suspected he would win. ‘I live in Putney.’

‘By the river?’ he observed. ‘You must be doing well.’

‘I’m actually about ten minutes’ walk from the river and it’s only a one-bedroomed apartment—but I love it. I’ve been trading up ever since I got a foothold on the property market.’

‘And when was that?’

‘As soon as I could afford to. I saved up like mad for a deposit. I hadn’t really …’

Her words tailed off and he pounced on the rare chink in her armour. ‘Hadn’t really what?’

Surely if she made herself sound vulnerable, then she would make herself seem vulnerable? And what would he understand about savings, and deposits? Gianlucawasn’t just rich, he had been born rich—everyone knew that. How could a man like that possibly relate to her story? ‘I’d never lived anywhere that wasn’t rented before,’ she said reluctantly.

He raised his dark brows. ‘Not even as a child?’

How few people had experienced it in the world she now occupied, she thought wryly. These days, in the UK, home ownership was seen as a right rather than a privilege, and Aisling gave a brittle smile. ‘No, not even then,’ she agreed, glad that the waiter chose that moment to bring a basket of bread, and hoping that Gianluca might let it go.

But he didn’t.

‘That’s unusual for this country,’ he said slowly.

‘Not that unusual,’ she contradicted. ‘It’s just that a lot of people never get out of the poverty trap and I was lucky that I did.’

‘What happened?’

She hesitated. ‘My mother was a single parent, without a proper career of her own.’ ‘And your father?’

‘I never knew my father. He left before I was born.’ He frowned. ‘So no stable male influence when you were growing up?’

‘No.’

He filed the fact away. Was that why she didn’t flirt and dress up like most women—because she didn’t trust men, or she just didn’t know how they operated? ‘You never felt the need to trace him?’

‘Never. I couldn’t see the point. There.’ She looked at him defiantly. ‘End of subject.’

‘That must have been hard for you,’ he observed slowly.

But shewasn’t asking for his sympathy. ‘Put it this way—a few knocks on the way didn’t do me any harm. It’s what fed my ambition and my determination to be self-sufficient. And it’s made me what I am. An independent woman.’

He affected a look of horror yet inside he felt an admiration for how she had coped, more than coped—succeeded—in a tough world by making a go of her own business. ‘Don’t you know how terrifying a man finds it when a woman describes herself as independent, cara?’ he murmured.

‘I can see it might bother a certain type of man.’

‘What type?’