The Bachelor's Baby

No!

He dragged his fingers through his hair. Dear God, where had that thought come from? He’d blanked it out. Walled it up in the attic of his mind with all the other ghosts.

This was her doing. Amy, with her green eyes and gentle touch. His wall was defenceless against her. He knew, just knew, that if he wasn’t very careful she would dismantle it, take it down, brick by brick, and let out all the pain. It had already begun.

Emotion was a loose cannon. Uncontrollable. And the one thing he’d always promised himself was that he would never be out of control of his life. Never again. He would get this over with. Deal with it. Finish it.

For a moment, Amy thought the courier was back. She was behind the cottage, working off her bad mood on the weeds. They would never let her down. They were predictable. They’d always be there.

She was carefully easing out a dandelion with the trowel when she heard the motorbike roaring up the lane, then slowing. Then stopping at her gate. The dandelion root snapped, leaving half still embedded in the soil.

‘Damn!’

Damn, damn, damn. The day had begun so well, so joyfully; then Jake’s conscience had given him a jab in the ribs and after that it had been downhill all the way.

She straightened as the leather-clad figure rounded the side of the cottage, wondering what he’d sent her this time. A bigger cheque? Did he really believe that was what she wanted? Was he that stupid?

That scared?

The man pulled at the strap beneath the black helmet. Removed it. And her heart did a crazy flip-flop that made her feel just a little dizzy, so that she grabbed for the post of the compost bin. Not a courier this time; this time Jake had come himself. Which could be better—or much worse.

He looked tired, she thought. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and his cheeks had a sucked-in, hollow look emphasised by the stubble of a day’s dark growth of beard. He looked like a man to whom sleep was a stranger.

And the flip-flop happened again. Not just her heart this time, but her entire body responding, reaching out to him. It was a good thing that her feet were weighed down by her gardening boots, keeping her pinned to the spot long enough for her to drag her protesting heart—and hormones—back into line.

‘You’re the last person I expected to see,’ she said.

‘We need to talk, Amy. There are things we have to settle.’

Talk. Settle. Worse, then, because his voice, flat and expressionless, left her in no doubt what he wanted to discuss. He wasn’t bringing his heart, but his wallet. Maybe she’d got it right when she’d suggested to Willow that money was all Jake had to offer. Not a problem when you were a millionaire more times over than you could count.

But if money was all he had to offer, he was in the wrong place. This wasn’t the kind of conversation she wanted to have with the father of her child. She’d thought she’d made her feelings quite clear on that point.

Most men would have taken the hint, probably thanked their lucky stars and left it at that. Jacob Hallam wasn’t most men. He didn’t want to get involved but he couldn’t walk away. His conscience wouldn’t let him.

He was in for a bad time, she thought. And felt an unexpected twinge of pity for him.

‘Have you eaten?’ she asked.

‘We need to talk,’ he repeated. As if he’d learned the words and nothing would deflect him from his purpose.

‘You can eat and talk at the same time, can’t you?’

‘Please don’t—’

‘Don’t what? Make it difficult for you?’ She wasn’t doing that. ‘I’m making it as easy as I know how, Jake. You’re the one making things difficult.’ She stripped off her gardening gloves. ‘Have you eaten?’ she repeated.

‘No.’

‘Then come inside and I’ll get something.’

‘If you insist.’ His voice was firm, cold. It was the gesture that betrayed him. The tiniest lift of a hand in supplication.

He was already having a bad time.

She steeled her heart. ‘No, Jake. I don’t do ultimatums. You want to talk; I want to eat. Stay or go. You choose.’ And she walked towards the back door, kicked off her boots and headed for the sink, forcing herself not to look back and check that he was following.

‘How are you?’

How could he make the words sound so impersonal? After the way they’d been together? After such passion, such tenderness? Amy took a deep breath and made an effort to match him.

‘I’m fine. I had my first scan today.’

‘Scan?’

‘An ultrasound scan. Just to confirm dates, check the embryo has implanted properly.’ He’d like that word, she thought, scrubbing her hands at the old butler’s sink. Embryo. You couldn’t get much more impersonal than that when you were talking about a baby. She half turned, looked back to where he was silhouetted in the doorway, unwilling to step over the threshold. Vicki might be right about black leather, she thought. It gave a man a dangerous edge. Not that Jake needed any kind of edge to hold her attention. ‘And confirm the number of embryos present,’ she added, a little wickedly, just to make certain she had his.

The muscle tightening in his jaw was her only reward. ‘And how many are there?’

‘Does it matter?’ she asked, reaching for a towel. ‘It’s not your problem.’ Then, turning to face him as she dried her hands, ‘Do multiple births run in your family?’

‘How many?’ he demanded, with just a hint of panic.

‘Just one, Jake,’ she said, her voice softening, an antidote to his sharpness. ‘I was going to make an omelette. The eggs are very good. Free range…organic. One of my neighbours keeps a few chickens.’

Jake didn’t want to eat. He didn’t want to cosy up over supper. Didn’t want to know about scans, or anything else to do with her pregnancy. He wanted to get this over with and get back to London as quickly as possible. If eating with her would speed up the process… ‘An omelette will be fine.’

‘Then you’d better come in.’

He propped his helmet on an old scrubbed table, unbuckled his boots, stripped off his jacket and padded into the kitchen in his socks, feeling at a disadvantage. He hadn’t thought about that when he’d decided that the Ducatti’s two wheels would be a lot faster through the rush hour traffic than using a car. Right now he’d have welcomed the formality of a suit. Maybe he should have sent a lawyer.

The idea made him feel queasy. The cheque had been bad enough. He’d seen what she’d done to the cheque. His father, he realised with a sickening sense of his own inadequacy, would have followed up the cheque with a lawyer. At least he hadn’t made that mistake.

She waved in the direction of a saggy old armchair. ‘Shift Harry and make yourself comfortable.’ It wasn’t the glare from the cat in residence that kept him on his feet. Once he was sitting down he would have lost even the height advantage. Instead, he leaned against the doorjamb and watched her as she set about making their supper. The silence lengthened.

‘Have you seen Willow and Mike since—’ he began, then broke off awkwardly.

Amy broke an egg into a basin, stared at it for a moment, then looked up. ‘Since?’ she prompted. Then, ‘Oh, I see. Since. Yes, Willow came over as soon as you’d gone. The poor girl was in a bit of a state. I told her not to…’ She rubbed the back of her hand over her upper lip. Had it got warmer, all of a sudden? ‘I told her not to worry.’ She cracked another egg and watched as it oozed thickly from the shell to join the first in the basin. She hadn’t noticed before that eggs had any particular smell. Not beautiful fresh, free range eggs. She picked up a third egg, cracked it on the side of the basin. Sort of oily…

‘Amy?’ She looked up and registered briefly that Jake was frowning. Then she was assailed by a wave of nausea and egg number three hit the floor as she turned and ran for the scullery sink.

The heaving, the throwing up, seemed to go on for ever. She hung onto the edge of the sink, vaguely aware of Jake at her back, holding her, supporting her so that she wouldn’t just slither to the floor as her legs buckled beneath her.

Eventually, though, the spasms eased for long enough for her to apologise. ‘It’s not the cooking, I promise you,’ she said, smiling weakly as she leaned shakily back against him.

He said nothing, just damped the edge of a towel, wiped it over her face, around the back of her neck, over her throat.