Pregnant With The Boss's Baby

His head tipped back and he blinked. Not expecting any questions? ‘I run quite a lot, do the occasional half-marathon. Socialise, go fishing with Mac, visit places within easy driving distance.’

‘Playing the tourist? I can’t see you following the umbrella-waving guide and listening to a taped explanation about the geysers in Rotorua or the Hole in the Rock up north.’

His alluring mouth lifted in a wry smile. ‘I am a visitor to this country. I might be working but I also want to see some of the sights. There’s so much that’s stunning. I could spend months just travelling the length and breadth of both islands.’

‘Why do you want to go to Australia, then?’ Or would that now be on hold?

Conor sat up straighter, stared at some place behind her. ‘It’s time to move on. Staying in one place too long often leads to complications.’ Definitely holding back. ‘Okay, make that it was time to move on. Everything’s up in the air since your announcement. Apart from becoming a father.’

‘You intend returning home some time?’ Would he expect her to follow wherever he decided to go? Did she want to?

‘Dublin is where I grew up, where all my family live. Dublin is who I am—what I am.’ Was it her imagination or had his accent thickened?

‘If that’s how you feel, why leave in the first place?’ What would it be like to live in Dublin? There was nothing to keep her in Auckland. On a positive note, there’d be no interfering television crews to bug her in Ireland.

He’d been yawning when she’d asked that question, but instantly his mouth slammed shut. The relaxed mood had gone in a blink.

When he didn’t answer she gave him a break and changed the subject. ‘Maybe you should stop running if it makes you so tired.’

‘Never.’ One word, spoken firmly, quietly, but full of don’t go there.

It was all too much. They were going round in circles, and she didn’t have the energy to try to figure it all out. Her eyes were itchy with tiredness, her head heavy and her body past ready for sleep. So she let it go. A voice in the back of her head was saying, Look what happened last time you didn’t ask the questions. Not that she’d have got the right answers from Peter. Worry fired up. She bit down on it. Not tonight. ‘You want a hot drink before you go home?’

He shook his head, the tightness in his shoulders easing again. ‘You’re right. I need to head away, give you some space. I’ve seen you’re okay.’ But he made no effort to move. ‘It’ll be time to get up and go to work soon enough.’

‘Do you have to remind me?’ Tamara hauled herself upright. ‘I’m having some camomile tea.’

Conor’s eyes locked on hers, causing her to hesitate.

Here we go. He’s going to say something about the baby, and what we’re going to do about it.

Her defences were rising and she made ready to protect herself.

‘Thanks for this interlude.’

Thanks in full Irish lilt was not like thanks in Kiwi-speak. It came with warmth and intrigue and passion. It sent funny tingly sensations down her legs, along her arms. It said things she was certain Conor did not intend. And she had not expected. ‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘Exactly. You could’ve started in on me about the baby, but instead you’ve been quiet and thoughtful.’

‘I’m tired too.’ Her breath stopped in her throat as she waited for the other shoe to fall.

‘Exhaustion’s puffing off you in clouds. It already was earlier in ED, which is why I had to make sure you’d got home safely and were looking after yourself.’ Those lips twitched. ‘After bad days at work I usually pace back and forth across my tiny apartment for hours on end. Tonight I don’t feel wired, just shattered, yet okay with knowing I did everything I could for those kids, that I couldn’t have done any more.’

‘You’re an amazing emergency specialist, always going the extra distance for your patients.’

Surprise lifted his thick eyebrows. ‘But I never stop questioning myself, wondering what else I could’ve done. It’s why I became an ED specialist in the first place. To save people.’ Conor’s hands tensed, his whole body winding tight. His mouth was flat as he dragged in air, then expelled it immediately. Those sunny summer eyes turned darker than an Auckland overcast day.

There was something else going on in his head that she had no line to.

Conor needed a hug.

Like that would solve anything. More likely he’d push her away. Wise man. Shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her robe, she turned for the kitchen and that tea, trying to ignore the painful squeeze her heart was giving.

They’d once shared a great night together that she’d enjoyed more than she’d have thought possible. Probably because she’d wanted nothing else from him than some fun. But that was it. End of. Except there was now a baby lying between them. There was no room for her heart to have its say.

Listening to her inner voice would undo all the effort she’d made over the last two years to get back on track. It’d also take more courage than she possessed, and would mean a breakdown of all the strictures she’d placed on herself to keep safe.

‘Tamara.’ Conor leaned against the doorjamb, watching her watch the kettle. He inhaled, sighed out the breath. ‘Thanks. Again.’

‘No problem.’ Please go. Before she said something she regretted.

In a low, rolling version of that bone-melting accent Conor said, ‘Don’t be afraid to show me your true feelings or thoughts.’

Slowly turning, she stared at him, her heart now clunking heavily against her ribs. ‘I’m not,’ she muttered, and had to suffer the disbelief in his eyes. Fair cop. ‘Okay, I’ve learned that showing my feelings about anything usually has severe repercussions.’ When his mouth opened to spill words—a question?—she rushed in to cut him off. ‘Not tonight.’ Probably never. ‘We’re both in need of sleep, not long, convoluted conversations.’

Damn, but her head hurt. A steady throb pounded behind her eyes, matching her heart. There was only one cure. Bed. Alone. So she needed to drink her tea to help obtain that oblivion, and see Conor out the front door before hitting the sack. Not necessarily in that order either.

Why was the water taking for ever to boil?

* * *

Conor’s eyelids were weighed down as he tried to open his eyes. ‘Where the hell am I?’

He scoped the room, semi-lit from the hallway light, saw the cream leather armchairs and sighed. Tamara’s place. Now he could feel that leather beneath his backside where he was sprawled along the matching couch. With a blanket covering him. When had Tamara put that there? Had to be her. There’d been no thought of him staying when they’d finished their meal and dumped the plates in the sink. No, he hadn’t even done that much tidying up. She’d gone to make herself tea and he couldn’t remember another thing after that. Except the ease with which he’d shifted from the chair to the couch and laid his head on a cushion.

The ease that had settled over him almost the moment he’d walked through Tamara’s front door, despite his misgivings about coming here when they had a massive problem to deal with.

Careful. He’d be taking risks soon. Risks he’d spent the last fourteen years fighting. Risks that had had him finally fleeing Ireland and family and heart-aching despair. He couldn’t imagine falling in love and getting married, having children. Children who might inherit his cardiac problem. A wife who could find herself bringing up their children alone because the big one had got him.

Conor sat up. Threw the blanket aside. Falling in love would mean breaking the rules that ran his life, kept everyone safe. So it wasn’t happening.

A vision of Tamara looking gorgeous in her thick, faded navy-coloured robe with her dark blonde hair gone wild from her shower. Part of his brain had been functioning correctly when it had kept him from following through on the desire that had kicked up at the sight of her. It would’ve been the worst move possible, and there’d have been no thanks from Tam.

Don’t call her that. The shortened version of Tamara disturbed her, for reasons he knew nothing about. And wanted to know. No, he mustn’t. Knowing meant caring, meant sharing. But to him she was Tam. He just had to keep that to himself.

Time he was out of there. He needed to go home to his randomly put-together collection of furniture that was more practical than inviting; a home that spoke of moving on, not settling down.

Nothing like this warm and welcoming nest created with what he suspected were top-of-the-range furnishings. Not that he knew a lot about these things but this home seemed classy. That sideboard made of polished wood that he didn’t recognise was stunning in its simplicity. In fact, everything was understated in a grand way. Was this why she didn’t have a lot of spare money to go to university with? A shopaholic gone wild? If so, only when it came to her home. No money was wasted on clothes.