Having His Babies. Lindsay Armstrong
relationship that she’d thought so suited her career? How would she feel if he ended the affair—perhaps she’d been a stopgap while he rebuilt his life after Serena?
And, of course, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, she mused as she drew a dollar sign on the blotter: what really happened with Serena to make it all go so terribly wrong?
She put her pen down and contemplated the unlikelihood, if she’d been asked to forecast it, of Clare Montrose getting herself into this situation. Because she’d never been able to visualize herself getting deeply, emotionally tangled with anyone. But then again she’d never visualized herself having this kind of relationship with a man, she reflected. Was she mad?
Because even without this complication she knew she was deeply and emotionally tangled up with Lachlan Hewitt, although she might not have cared to admit it. The crunch was, however—and she flinched as she acknowledged it—she had no idea where she stood.
She did have a week, though, she thought suddenly, to really think this through while he was in Sydney on business.
Her phone buzzed and she rubbed her face wearily, knowing her half-hour was up and she was about to be deluged.
But it was Lachlan. ‘Clare, can I come for dinner tomorrow night? I’m still in Sydney but instead of being down here for the week I’ve had a change of plan.’
‘Of course,’ she said.
‘Is something wrong?’
It shook her that he should have been able to read the sudden tension that had gripped her in her voice.
‘No, not at all. Well, I’m flat out as usual.’
‘See you about seven-thirty, then?’
‘Yes. I ... I’ll look forward to it. Bye!’ She put the phone down and closed her eyes. Because her week to prepare her—defences?—had suddenly shrunk to overnight.
And her phone rang again and would keep ringing all afternoon, she knew.
CHAPTER TWO
AT SEVEN-FIFTEEN the following evening, Clare was ready—or as ready as she’d ever be, she thought.
The table was set on the veranda of her first-floor apartment; it was a beautiful evening and the sun was setting. The beach at Lennox Head curved in a seven mile arc towards Broken Head to the north, and the setting sun bathed it in a transitory, golden pink and whitened the surf as it rolled in to a luminous radiance.
In front of her two-storey apartment block, built tastefully like a cluster of town houses with pale grey walls and shingled roofs, thick lush grass grew to the rocks that fringed the water’s edge. Immediately to the south, Lennox Head itself rose, clad in emerald-green, to its rocky lip. It was a favourite hang-gliding spot and on weekends provided a colourful, at times heart-stopping spectacle.
The bay formed by Lennox Head and Broken Head was a fisherman’s paradise—of the human variety, who fished off the rocks and launched small boats from the beach, and the dolphin variety. It was common to see them in the morning and late afternoons as they curved through the water, flashing their fins.
The village itself was within walking distance, small but colourful with pavement cafés and a holiday atmosphere.
None of this was on Clare’s mind as she stood before her bedroom mirror and studied herself anxiously.
She wore a long, cool dress in a soft watermelon-pink, gold sandals, and her dark hair was tucked behind her ears to reveal gold hoop earrings studded with tiny pearls.
The dress was loose and cut on a bias so it flowed around her as she moved, and it was perfect for a warm January evening, but she’d actually chosen it for its unrevealing nature.
Not that she could see anything to reveal, she mused. She hadn’t popped out in any direction and hadn’t put on an ounce of weight.
Then the doorbell rang.
She opened the door—to a dark-suited stranger.
‘Ms Montrose?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I come in?’
‘But I don’t think I know you,’ she said slowly.
‘I’d like to remedy that,’ he replied expressionlessly.
‘Do I have an option?’
‘Actually—no.’
‘I see.’ Clare took an unsteady little breath. ‘Then you had better come in.’
He stepped across the threshold and waited while she closed and bolted the door. Then he took her in his arms and murmured, ‘It’s almost as if you’ve been waiting for me, Ms Montrose.’
‘Not you, someone else,’ she whispered.
‘I hope I’m able to take his place.’ And he trailed his long fingers down the side of her throat.
She shivered slightly. He looked into her eyes then lowered his mouth to hers.
When they broke apart, she was breathing raggedly and he took her hand and turned to lead her into the main bedroom.
She followed after a slight hesitation. The sun had set and a blue dusk was starting to fall beyond her wide windows.
She stood unresisting although she was tense and she kept her eyes veiled as he started to undress her. The zip at the back of her dress went down to her hips and the silky watermelon-pink material slipped off her shoulders. She glanced at him briefly but he only looked narrowly intent as he watched the dress slip farther down. She stepped out of it.
Her underwear appeared to hold his interest for some moments, a beautiful, dusky pink bra with elaborate silver embroidery and a matching pair of high-cut bikini briefs with a tiny silver ribbon bow.
He looked into her eyes again. ‘I wonder if they realize, when you’re in court and being so very professional, Ms Montrose, how seductive your underwear is?’
Clare licked her lips. ‘I don’t...always wear... these.’
He smiled briefly. ‘Good old Bonds Cottontails for work? Does that mean you wore these especially for the man you were expecting tonight?’
‘Yes...’ It was the bare echo of the word.
‘So he likes you to be sexy and seductive?’ He raised an eyebrow.
She didn’t answer.
‘Or do you like to be that way for him, Ms Montrose?’
Again she didn’t answer but looked at him proudly.
‘Spoken like a true feminist,’ he drawled. ‘But, on his behalf, I don’t believe I should allow this moment to go unrequited.’ And he pulled off his jacket and loosened his tie.
But he undressed no further. He took her into his arms first and kissed her thoroughly again before he went to release her bra.
Clare resisted and said huskily, ‘Do I have the right of reply, at least?’
‘Be my guest,’ he invited.
She smiled briefly and undid the knot of his tie and threw it on the bed, and started to unbutton his shirt.
‘Ah, that kind of reply,’ he murmured.
‘Even if I have to do this, I might as well make a statement of my own.’
‘Ma’am, I can’t take exception to that.’
‘Good. How sexy does this make you feel, sir?’ Her eyes glinted as she slipped her hands beneath his open shirt and ran them up and down his chest, curling her fingertips in the springy hairs then allowing them to wander down his hard, trim torso towards the waistband of his trousers.
He looked at her wryly but replied gravely.