Pregnancy Of Convenience

Her brow furrowed. “The name’s familiar…but we’ve never met, I’d have remembered you.”

“I’m a mountaineer.”

She paled. “That’s where I’ve heard your name—Franz was telling us once about the team you took up Everest.”

“Franz gave me Gustave’s climbing gear to bring to the Strassens.”

She clutched the bedpost, her voice ragged. “Did you know Gustave?”

“No. But I’d heard of him, of course. I was sorry to hear he’d died.”

“Play with fire,” she said unsteadily, “and sooner or later you get burned.”

The words were out before he could prevent them. “You being the fire?”

She raised her chin. “No, Cal. The mountains. The mountains that I grew to hate because they destroyed any chance I might have had of happiness.”

“So you think all mountaineers are irresponsible dare-devils?”

“You’re darn right I do.”

He tapped himself on the chest. “Not this one.”

Her eyes seemed to have glued themselves to the taut skin over his breastbone, with its tangle of dark hair. “Then you’re the exception that proves the rule,” she said, and couldn’t have disguised the bitterness in her tone.

“Gustave was a mountaineer when you met him.”

“And I was nineteen. Young enough to find both him and the mountains romantic.”

It was an entirely plausible reply. Feeling frustrated and unsure of himself, Cal ventured, “You were jealous of the mountains?”

“I suppose I was,” she said wearily. “Are you married, Cal? Does your wife hate it when the mountains take you away from her?”

Years ago, whenever Cal used to go on an expedition, Suzanne would fly to Paris and indulge in an orgy of shopping. He’d sometimes thought it would have suited Suzanne very well to have been left a wealthy widow; she’d have had the fun of spending his money without the bother of a relationship with a real, flesh-and-blood man. “That’s none of your business,” he said tersely.

“I beg your pardon,” Joanna retorted. “So you can ask questions but I can’t?”

Cal said impatiently, “I’m not spending the entire day trading insults with you.”

“No, you’re not. You’re moving into the other part of the house, where you can spend the day with Dieter and Maria.” With a flick of malice, Joanna added, “Have a good one.”

Curiosity overcoming everything else, Cal asked, “Has this house always been so bleak and bare?”

“Ever since I’ve been coming here.” Joanna bit her lip. “I’m sure it wasn’t easy for Gustave, growing up with such strict, joyless parents. At first I tried to be understanding, but that wore thin after a while.”

Wishing with fierce intensity that he’d just once met Gustave Strassen so he could have formed his own opinion of the man, and wishing with equal intensity that he could spend the entire day in bed with Gustave’s widow, Cal said harshly, “If you’ll excuse me I’m going to have a shower, get breakfast and check the weather report. Then I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“Bread and water?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s not so ridiculous. Because I’m a prisoner in this room, aren’t I?”

She was. No question of it. And he along with her. “Pray for sunshine,” Cal said ironically, and headed for the bathroom.

It would have given Joanna enormous satisfaction to have thrown her pillow at his retreating back. Or drummed her heels on the cold hardwood and screamed out all her frustration. She did neither one. Cal Freeman already thought she was the equivalent of pond scum. A tantrum would really finish her off.

Why did she care what he thought?

So he had a great body. More than great, she thought, her mouth dry. And she’d be willing to bet he was quite unaware of the effect of his physique on a woman who, apart from that one time a few months ago, hadn’t been to bed with anyone for at least four years. Including her lawfully wedded husband, Gustave Strassen.

Not that Cal would believe that.

Cal Freeman. She’d heard about him over the years. That spectacular ascent of the northeast ridge of Everest. His climbs on the Kishtwar range and the Kongur Massif. His heroic rescue of two French climbers in the Andes. Gustave had never encouraged talk about Cal Freeman; Gustave had always wanted to be the center of attention, another facet of his character that a love-blind nineteen-year-old had totally missed.

How ironic that Cal should have effected another rescue, this time of Gustave’s widow, from a blizzard on the prairies.

Hurriedly Joanna got dressed; she was already heartily sick of her blue sweater. Then she braided her hair, made the bed, drew the curtains, and undid her briefcase. If she was to be stuck here for the morning—beyond the morning, she refused to look—she might as well get some work done.

So when Cal emerged from the bathroom, his hair still damp, she had her laptop set up and was frowning at the screen. He said, “I’ll be back in half an hour with your breakfast.”

She nodded without raising her eyes. He added, an edge of steel in his voice, “Where I come from, you look at someone when they speak to you.”

“I’m working—can’t you see?”

“According to Franz you’ve got lots of money. So what kind of work do you do that’s so important that you can’t even be civil?”

This time her head snapped up. “What I do with all the spare time I have as a stinkingly rich widow is none of your business.”

“Don’t push your luck, Joanna,” Cal said with dangerous softness.

He hadn’t yet shaved; the dark shadow on his jawline did indeed make him look dangerous. But Joanna had done a lot of growing up since she was nineteen. “And what happens if I do?”

“I wouldn’t advise you to ask that question unless you’re prepared for the answer.”

Although her pulse was beating uncomfortably fast, she said with credible calm, “He-man stuff.”

His words had an explosive force. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are? Especially when you’re in a rage.”

A blush scorched her cheeks. “Don’t change the subject!”

“Oh, I don’t think I am.” He gave her a grin she could only call predatory. “I’ll be back.”

The bedroom door closed behind him. Joanna let out her breath in a long sigh. She wasn’t normally argumentative, nor was she overly aware of the male half of the species: if Gustave had been anything to go by, she was better off alone. But Cal Freeman seemed to destroy all the self-sufficiency she’d striven to achieve over the long years of her marriage.

Her first resolution, she thought fiercely, was to work all morning. And her second, to ignore the dark-haired man who was virtually her jailer.

She turned her attention back to the screen, and by sheer stubbornness managed to immerse herself in revising the tenth chapter. Her New York agent had already found a publisher for this, her second novel; she was determined it wasn’t going to bomb, as could so often happen with second novels. Especially after all the critical attention the first one had gained.