Impossibly Pregnant

Emma shook her head. ‘Uh-uh. Believe me, if I’d seen that dreamboat before I would’ve remembered.’

‘The name Lachlan Brant ring any bells?’

‘The Lachlan Brant?’ Emma scanned him from head to foot and dabbed at the corner of her mouth. ‘Wow, he’s got the bod to match that incredibly sexy voice. Excuse me while I drool.’

‘Yeah, he’s not bad.’

As her friend quirked an eyebrow, Keely grinned. ‘Okay, he’s pretty cute.’

Emma’s other eyebrow joined the first.

‘Make that good-looking.’

If Emma’s eyebrows shot any higher they would be hidden under her blonde fringe.

Keely held up her hands in surrender. ‘Okay, he’s hot. Hotter than hot. He’s so hot he’s burning up. There, satisfied?’

Her friend sighed. ‘I would be if a guy like that looked twice at me.’

Keely rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, right. Like you’re interested in anyone but Harry Buchanan. Though for the life of me I can’t understand why you’re still pining over your first love. Get over it already.’

At the mention of Harry, Emma’s eyes glazed over as if lost in some precious private memory.

Keely made an exasperated sound akin to a snort. ‘Anyone ever tell you you’re a hopeless romantic?’

Emma smiled. ‘And I wouldn’t have it any other way. What do you think he’s doing here?’

Filling her cup from the water-cooler and taking several long gulps to dislodge the lump of foreboding in her throat, Keely hoped to God it wasn’t for the reason she suspected.

‘Who knows? He’s probably dating our illustrious leader.’

Or else he’d discovered the real identity of the caller who had given him more than he’d bargained for last week on his popular radio talkback show.

‘No way! He’d have better taste than that, surely?’

Keely shrugged, not in the mood to dish the dirt on Rabid Raquel, the boss from hell, as most of her employees liked to call her. Right now, she was torn between wanting to keep an eye on Lachlan Brant and running back to her office and hiding from him.

Besides, she had more important things to think about, like putting the finishing touches to the website for Melbourne’s largest athletic company, designing an upbeat site for Flirt, the newest women’s magazine about to hit the shelves, and planning Emma’s surprise birthday party.

‘I need to get back to work,’ she said, casting one final appreciative glance in Lachlan Brant’s direction before turning away.

Emma sighed. ‘Yeah, me too. Lunch at Sammy’s? Midday? I’ll e-mail Tahlia.’

‘If she can tear herself away. Our Director of Sales seems tied to her desk these days.’

‘She’s gunning for that promotion, you know.’

Keely nodded. If anyone understood, she should. After all, wasn’t that one of the main driving forces behind her maniacal hours at the moment? She’d coveted the role of Director of Graphic Design for the last year and might have a shot at the job if Nadia would ever announce her pregnancy.

‘Fine, but if she misses one more of our lunches she’ll become a very dull girl. You know what they say, all work and no play…’

Emma sent her a sceptical look.

Keely chuckled. ‘You’re right. As if anything about Tahlia could ever be dull.’

Tahlia Moran was brash, effervescent and the life and soul of every party. Throw in gorgeous and confident and it was little wonder that Keely felt like faded wallpaper next to her other closest friend.

‘See you at midday.’

However, before Keely could make her escape, Chrystal, receptionist extraordinaire—and all-round good-time gal if the office rumour mills were correct—waved her over.

Thankful she’d worn her favourite power suit today, Keely strolled across the chrome and glass foyer as if facing Lachlan Brant, her would-be nemesis, was something she did every day.

‘Keely, Ms Wilson wants to see you in her office for a second before you pop back here and take Mr Brant up.’ Chrystal flashed her an Oh-goody-look-what-Santa-brought-me-this-year smile as she stared up at Lachlan Brant—her next apparent intended victim in the bedroom stakes—with adoration, barely casting Keely a second glance.

Trying to keep her nerves at bay and wondering what Raquel wanted—and why she had to show him up to the boss’s office—Keely schooled her face into what she hoped was a professional mask and turned to face him.

‘Hi, I’m Keely Rhodes. If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll be with you shortly.’

Then it happened.

The man she’d publicly berated on radio turned and fixed her with a penetrating stare, the deep blue of his eyes highlighted by a shirt of the same colour.

And her heart lurched.

For the first time in her twenty-six years, the organ she’d managed to shield from breaking by only dating Mr Averages did some weird pumping that sent blood pounding through her body at a million beats a minute.

‘Pleased to meet you.’ He smiled and held out his hand—her heart didn’t stand a chance.

Keely didn’t believe in love at first sight. She was a realist who had both feet firmly planted on the ground and it hadn’t steered her wrong to date. Why have romantic notions like Emma or follow nebulous predictions like Tahlia? Wishing for something that would never come true was asking for heartache and she had no intention of taking a fall.

Aware that she’d hesitated a fraction too long, Keely quickly slid her hand into his and shook it, the warmth of his touch doing strange things to her insides as his long, tapered fingers closed over hers.

Now she knew for sure. Not only had her heart flipped out, her common sense had joined the party. Since when did a mere handshake feel like an intimate touch designed for her and her alone?

‘I’ll be waiting.’ His deep voice washed over her, so much richer, mellower, in person than over the airwaves.

How many nights had she lain awake listening to this man and the advice he dished out to the masses, listening to his voice for the sheer pleasure of it? She’d imagined an older man, someone with a wealth of life experience, till she’d seen his photo in the newspaper, though Lachlan Brant in grainy print was nothing compared to the man in the flesh.

Mentally shaking herself out of her reverie, she extracted her hand and tried to get a grip—on her wits, not the man looking at her with an amused gleam in those all-knowing eyes.

‘Fine. I’ll be back soon,’ she said, wondering what it was about him that had her so flustered.

So he had a great body, a soulful voice and a lethal smile. That didn’t make him God’s gift to women. Or did it?

He also had a degree in psychology and analysed people for a living, a fact she’d rubbed his nose in during her five-minute brush with fame—or infamy—last week. And boy, would she be in trouble if he recognised her as the crackpot who had made scathing fun of him during that call. ‘Quack’, ‘thick as a brick’, and ‘out of touch’ were a few of the insults she’d levelled at him that sprang to mind—and they’d been the tame ones!

Hoping her legs wouldn’t wobble, she walked away, resisting the urge to glance over her shoulder and see if he was checking her out.