The Bachelor's Baby. Liz Fielding
things difficult.’ She stripped off her gardening gloves. ‘Have you eaten?’ she repeated.
‘No.’
‘Then come inside and I’ll get something.’
‘If you insist.’ His voice was firm, cold. It was the gesture that betrayed him. The tiniest lift of a hand in supplication.
He was already having a bad time.
She steeled her heart. ‘No, Jake. I don’t do ultimatums. You want to talk; I want to eat. Stay or go. You choose.’ And she walked towards the back door, kicked off her boots and headed for the sink, forcing herself not to look back and check that he was following.
‘How are you?’
How could he make the words sound so impersonal? After the way they’d been together? After such passion, such tenderness? Amy took a deep breath and made an effort to match him.
‘I’m fine. I had my first scan today.’
‘Scan?’
‘An ultrasound scan. Just to confirm dates, check the embryo has implanted properly.’ He’d like that word, she thought, scrubbing her hands at the old butler’s sink. Embryo. You couldn’t get much more impersonal than that when you were talking about a baby. She half turned, looked back to where he was silhouetted in the doorway, unwilling to step over the threshold. Vicki might be right about black leather, she thought. It gave a man a dangerous edge. Not that Jake needed any kind of edge to hold her attention. ‘And confirm the number of embryos present,’ she added, a little wickedly, just to make certain she had his.
The muscle tightening in his jaw was her only reward. ‘And how many are there?’
‘Does it matter?’ she asked, reaching for a towel. ‘It’s not your problem.’ Then, turning to face him as she dried her hands, ‘Do multiple births run in your family?’
‘How many?’ he demanded, with just a hint of panic.
‘Just one, Jake,’ she said, her voice softening, an antidote to his sharpness. ‘I was going to make an omelette. The eggs are very good. Free range…organic. One of my neighbours keeps a few chickens.’
Jake didn’t want to eat. He didn’t want to cosy up over supper. Didn’t want to know about scans, or anything else to do with her pregnancy. He wanted to get this over with and get back to London as quickly as possible. If eating with her would speed up the process… ‘An omelette will be fine.’
‘Then you’d better come in.’
He propped his helmet on an old scrubbed table, unbuckled his boots, stripped off his jacket and padded into the kitchen in his socks, feeling at a disadvantage. He hadn’t thought about that when he’d decided that the Ducatti’s two wheels would be a lot faster through the rush hour traffic than using a car. Right now he’d have welcomed the formality of a suit. Maybe he should have sent a lawyer.
The idea made him feel queasy. The cheque had been bad enough. He’d seen what she’d done to the cheque. His father, he realised with a sickening sense of his own inadequacy, would have followed up the cheque with a lawyer. At least he hadn’t made that mistake.
She waved in the direction of a saggy old armchair. ‘Shift Harry and make yourself comfortable.’ It wasn’t the glare from the cat in residence that kept him on his feet. Once he was sitting down he would have lost even the height advantage. Instead, he leaned against the doorjamb and watched her as she set about making their supper. The silence lengthened.
‘Have you seen Willow and Mike since—’ he began, then broke off awkwardly.
Amy broke an egg into a basin, stared at it for a moment, then looked up. ‘Since?’ she prompted. Then, ‘Oh, I see. Since. Yes, Willow came over as soon as you’d gone. The poor girl was in a bit of a state. I told her not to…’ She rubbed the back of her hand over her upper lip. Had it got warmer, all of a sudden? ‘I told her not to worry.’ She cracked another egg and watched as it oozed thickly from the shell to join the first in the basin. She hadn’t noticed before that eggs had any particular smell. Not beautiful fresh, free range eggs. She picked up a third egg, cracked it on the side of the basin. Sort of oily…
‘Amy?’ She looked up and registered briefly that Jake was frowning. Then she was assailed by a wave of nausea and egg number three hit the floor as she turned and ran for the scullery sink.
The heaving, the throwing up, seemed to go on for ever. She hung onto the edge of the sink, vaguely aware of Jake at her back, holding her, supporting her so that she wouldn’t just slither to the floor as her legs buckled beneath her.
Eventually, though, the spasms eased for long enough for her to apologise. ‘It’s not the cooking, I promise you,’ she said, smiling weakly as she leaned shakily back against him.
He said nothing, just damped the edge of a towel, wiped it over her face, around the back of her neck, over her throat.
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