Her Secret Pregnancy

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#u1f6d23b2-7e7a-57a7-a7c5-9125799bd923)

THE lawyer was slick and smooth and handsome—with the most immaculately manicured hands that Donna had ever seen.

‘Okay, Donna, if you’d like to sign just there.’ He jabbed a near-perfect fingernail onto the contract. ‘See? Right there.’

Donna was tempted to giggle. ‘You mean where your secretary has helpfully drawn a little cross?’

‘Ah, yes. Sorry,’ he amended quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to patronise you.’

The tension of the last few weeks dissolved. ‘Don’t worry. You weren’t.’ She signed her name with a flourish. ‘I’m just glad it’s all over.’

Tony Paxman did not look as though he echoed her sentiments. ‘I shall miss seeing you!’ he sighed. ‘Still, the premises are yours and you’ve got your liquour licence. Now it’s over to you. Congratulations, Donna!’ He held his hand out. ‘And I wish you every success for the future!’

‘Thank you,’ said Donna, hoping she didn’t sound smug. Or triumphant. Because she knew she should be neither. She was just lucky—though some people said there was no such thing, that you made your own luck in life.

She picked up her cream silk jacket and gave Tony Paxman a grateful smile. He had guided her through all the paperwork concerning the purchase with the care of a soldier negotiating a treacherous minefield. Most importantly of all, he’d kept the whole deal quiet. She owed him. ‘Would you like to have lunch with me, to celebrate?’

Tony blinked with the kind of surprise which suggested that a lunch invitation from Donna King had been the very last thing in the world he had been expecting. ‘Lunch?’ he said weakly.

Donna raised her eyebrows at him. She wasn’t proposing an illicit weekend in Paris! ‘Or have I broken some kind of unwritten law by inviting you?’

He shook his head hastily. ‘Oh, no, no, no! I often have lunch with my clients—’

‘That’s what I thought.’ She glanced down at her watch. ‘Shall we say one o’clock? In The New Hampshire?’

‘The New Hampshire?’ Tony Paxman gave a regretful smile. ‘Marcus Foreman’s place? I’d absolutely love to—but we won’t get a table today. Not at such short notice, I’m afraid. Not a chance in hell.’

‘I know that.’ Donna smiled. ‘Which is why I took the precaution of making a reservation weeks ago.’

He frowned. ‘You were so sure we’d wrap up the deal?’

‘Pretty much. I knew that the court hearing to get my licence was today. And I didn’t foresee any problems.’

‘You know, you’re a very confident woman, Donna King,’ he told her softly. ‘As well as being an extremely beautiful one.’

Time to gently destroy his embryo fantasies. It was just a pity that some men saw a simple gesture of friendship as an invitation to form some deep and meaningful relationship.

‘Please don’t get the wrong idea, Tony,’ she told him softly. ‘This is purely a business lunch—a way of me thanking you for all your hard work. That’s all. Nothing more.’

‘Right.’ He began to move papers around on his desk with a sudden urgency. ‘Then I’ll see you in The New Hampshire at one o’clock, shall I?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Donna. She reached for her bag and rose to her feet, the high heels of her brown suede shoes making her look much taller than usual. ‘I shall look forward to it.’

‘Me, too,’ he said wistfully.

Outside the lawyer’s office, Donna sucked in the crisp April air, scarcely able to believe she was back in the city she loved. Her visits over the last few weeks had been secretive, but there was no need for secrecy any longer. She was here—and here to stay.

It was a perfect day. Blue sky. Golden sun. The white waxy petals of a magnolia shining out like stars. A grey stone church whose spire looked like the sharpened tip of a pencil. Perfect. And the cherry on top of the cake was that she had swung the deal.

People had said that she was crazy to open up a tea-room in a city like Winchester, which was already bursting to the seams with places to eat. And they’d had a point. But most of those places were indifferent, and most were owned by large, faceless chains. Only one stood out from the crowd. And it belonged to Marcus Foreman.

Donna swallowed down excitement and nerves and something else, too. Something she hadn’t felt in so long she had thought she’d never feel it again. A lost, forgotten feeling. But it was there, potent and tugging and insistent just at the thought that very soon she would see Marcus again. Excitement.

And not the kind of excitement you got the night before you went on holiday, either. This was the kind that made the tips of your breasts prickle and your limbs grow weak.

‘Oh, damn!’ she said aloud. ‘Damn and damn and damn!’ And, turning her collar up against the sudden, sharp reminder that the breeze which blew in springtime had an icy bite to it, Donna set off down the street to window-shop until lunchtime.

She walked slowly around the shops, only half seeing the clothes in the expensive boutiques which studded the city like diamonds in an eternity band. Exquisite clothes in natural fibres of silk and cotton and cashmere. Clothes which would normally tempt her into looking, even if she couldn’t always afford to buy.

But today was not a normal day. And not just because it wasn’t every day that you ploughed your savings into buying a business which several people had predicted would fail from the start.

No, today was different, because as well as going forward—Donna would be going back. Back to the place where she’d met Marcus and learned about love and loss—and a whole lot more besides.

It was just past one when she sauntered her way into the reception area of The New Hampshire, hoping that she looked more confident than she felt. Behind the smooth, pale mask of her carefully made-up face, she could feel the unfamiliar thumping of nerves as she looked around her.

The place had changed out of all recognition. When Donna had worked there it had been during the chintz era, when everything had been tucked and swagged and covered with tiny sprigs of flowers.

But Marcus had clearly moved with the times. The carpet had disappeared and so had the chintz. Now there were bare, beautifully polished wood floorboards and simple curtains at the vast windows. The furniture had been kept to a minimum, and it looked simple and comfortable rather than in-your-face opulent. Definitely no overstuffed sofas!

Donna remembered how overwhelmed she’d felt the very first time she’d walked in through those doors. It had been like entering another world. But she’d been just eighteen then—nine years and a lifetime ago.

She walked up to the reception desk on which sat a giant glass bowl containing scented flowers. The fleshy white lips of the lilies were gaping open, surrounded by spiky green foliage which looked like swords. It was an exquisite and sexy arrangement, but then Marcus had always had exquisite taste.

The receptionist looked up. ‘Can I help you, madam?’

‘Yes, hello—I have a table booked for lunch,’ smiled Donna.

‘Your name, please?’

‘It’s King. Donna King.’ Her voice sounded unnaturally loud, and she half expected Marcus to jump out of the shadows to bar her way. ‘And I’m meeting a Mr Tony Paxman.’

The receptionist was running her eyes down a list, and ticked off Donna’s name before she looked up again.

‘Ah, yes. Mr Paxman has already arrived.’ She gave Donna a look of polite enquiry. ‘Have you ever eaten at The New Hampshire before?’

Donna shook her head. ‘No.’

She’d made beds and cleaned out baths and sinks in the rooms upstairs, and had worked her way through some of the more delicious leftovers which had found their way back to the kitchen. And just once she’d eaten with the rest of the staff in the private function room upstairs, when Marcus had been jubilantly celebrating a glowing newspaper review.

Donna swallowed down that particular memory. But she’d certainly never eaten a full meal in the fabulous restaurant.

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Then I’ll get someone to show you to your table.’