Double Trouble: Pregnancy Surprise: Two Little Miracles / Expecting Royal Twins! / Miracle: Twin Babies

‘How long can she take, girls?’ he asked, crouching down in front of the now-restless babies and trying to entertain them. ‘She said she wouldn’t be long.’

He gave a rueful little laugh, and Ava reached out her hand and gurgled at him. ‘Da-da,’ she said, and he felt his eyes fill.

‘Oh, you clever little girl,’ he said, struggling not to embarrass himself in public, but then she said, ‘Mama,’ and He realised she was just babbling.

Idiot him. Of course she was.

He straightened up and looked around. What could he do to entertain them? There was a book shop, so he headed in there, all ready to find books for them to suck and chew and hurl on the floor, but then he saw cookery books.

Books for idiots. Books for people who’d never lifted a spatula in their lives. People like him.

He’d cook for her. He’d find a book that seemed straightforward and comprehensive, he’d find a recipe, and they’d drop into the supermarket on the way home and he’d cook for her.

Fish. She loved fish. Fresh tuna? He thumbed through the recipe books, found one that looked promising, checked out tuna and discovered that it took seconds. Whap-whap on a hot griddle and it was done. Excellent. And he could serve it with salad and new potatoes. Even he couldn’t screw those up.

He bought the book, hung the bag on the back of the buggy and then reached for his phone.

She was engaged. Damn. Oh, well, he’d give her a minute. She might be trying to call him. He was about to slip it back into his pocket when it rang, and he answered it instantly.

‘You were on the phone!’ she said accusingly, and he sighed.

‘So were you. I was trying to call you. The babies are getting restless.’

‘Oh. Sorry. I’m done.’

She told him where she was, and he looked at the map, worked out where he was and then made his way there through the teaming throng of happy shoppers.

Well, he was happy, too—or he had been, till she’d bitten his head off for nothing. Oh, well. He supposed she had some justification for thinking he was using the phone for work purposes, because he had made one quick call to Andrea. But only the one, and it had lasted three minutes tops, and it had been important.

So he couldn’t get on his self-righteous high horse and rip her head off right back, because she’d been right. He had cheated, and she was probably right not to trust him.

He found her, standing near a till with an armful of clothes, waiting for him.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her first words, and he felt a little prickle of guilt.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘So—what did you buy?’

She didn’t know what to wear.

He’d called into the supermarket on the way home, left her and the babies in the car, and run in to do a shop. He’d been less than five minutes, so she had no idea what he’d bought, but he had a small carrier with him.

‘What’s that?’ she asked, and he grinned.

‘Supper. I’m cooking for you.’

‘Really?’ Oh, lord, that sounded dreadful, but she could still smell the garlic on her skin after the paella, and she had no idea what he would go for this time.

‘Don’t worry, there’s no garlic,’ he promised with a wry grin, and she laughed self-consciously.

‘Sorry. So what are we having?’

‘Aha,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose. ‘I’m cooking. All you have to do is put on something pretty and be entertained.’

So here she was, washed and spruced, wearing a light touch of make-up for the first time in months, and standing naked in her bedroom contemplating her purchases.

A jumper, she thought, being chicken, but she’d heard him light the fire in the sitting room, and when she’d popped down for something for the girls she’d noticed he’d laid the table in the kitchen rather than the chilly and more formal dining-room.

So she wouldn’t be cold.

So—one of the new tops? The lacy one with the tiny camisole underneath, perhaps? Or the silky one with the little collar and the fine embroidery?

Lacy, she decided, and that dictated the bra and pants set, because of the colour combination. She’d only bought one pair of trousers, but they fitted her so well she was delighted with them, and she put them on to complete the outfit, stood back to look at herself, and blinked.

Wow. That was a bit different.

Gone were the jeans with the slightly grubby knees from spending her life on the floor with the babies, and the jumper with a little stain on the front from some tomato-and-pasta baby food that didn’t seem to want to wash out.

Gone, too, the dark rims round her eyes and the tired, straggly hair.

Instead she looked feminine, elegant and—yes—pretty. And it made her feel a million dollars.

In a fit of wickedness, she squirted scent into the air and walked through it, then slipped on her high heels and went downstairs.

He was sitting at the table flicking through a magazine, and he looked up and his jaw sagged.

‘Wow,’ he breathed, and, standing up, he put the magazine on one side and walked over to her, his eyes never leaving her. ‘Turn round,’ he instructed, with an edge in his voice, and she turned, slowly, and then came back to face him and met his eyes. His smouldering, fire-blue eyes. How could blue ever be a cold colour? Not on Max. Oh, no.

‘Will I do?’ she asked a little self-consciously, and his mouth twitched into a lopsided grin.

‘Oh, I think you’ll do,’ he said, his voice slightly gruff and gravelly, the way it was when he was aroused, and the words stroked through her like fire, sensitising every spot they touched. He stood there for another few seconds, studying her, then with another crooked smile he stepped back and held out a chair for her. ‘Would you care to take a seat, madam?’

‘Thank you.’

She smiled up at him, laughing when he flicked a napkin across her lap with a flourish. It would have had more impact if it hadn’t been a tea towel, but his mouth just twitched and he went over to the stove, set the griddle on it and watched it until it was smoking, then dropped two dark steaks on it.

She sniffed the air. Tuna? Her stomach rumbled, and she looked for the plates. Ah. There they were, just coming out of the bottom oven with a bowl of new potatoes. He put a knob of butter on the potatoes, sprinkled them with chopped chives and set them on the table, dished up the tuna steaks and set her plate in front of her with another of those flourishes which she realised were becoming part of the meal.

‘Salad, madam?’

‘Thank you. Murphy, in your bed, this isn’t for you. Max, sit down.’

‘I’m not sure that doesn’t put me in the same category as the dog,’ he said with irony, and she chuckled.

‘Of course not. Good boy.’

Giving a little snort, he sat opposite her, and then got up, lit the candle in the middle of the table and turned down the lights. ‘Better,’ he said, and handed her the potatoes. ‘No garlic, please note.’

‘Chilli?’