Double Trouble: Pregnancy Surprise. Caroline Anderson
the pie?’
‘Oh. I don’t know.’
She opened the oven and pulled it out; it was crisp and golden and full of the fragrance of apples. ‘It’s done.’
‘So let’s eat it, and worry about the house later.’
Hell. She wanted to stay out here, in the middle of Suffolk?
With her friends—friends he’d never met—friends he’d only heard about, because she’d hardly ever seen them, so he hadn’t been able to track her down through them because he’d had no idea how to go about finding them.
She’d met up with Jane in town a few times, spent a weekend or two with her when they’d lived in Berkshire. He dimly remembered her saying they were moving, but not where to, just that it would be further. And, since he’d had no idea what Jane’s surname was, that hadn’t been a lot of help.
And they were more important to her than him?
No. Stop it. She hadn’t said that. She’d simply said that, until they knew what was happening with them, she wanted to stay near her infrastructure.
Well, he could understand that. He felt pretty damn lost without his.
‘Is it OK?’
He frowned. What?
‘The pie—is it OK?’
The pie. He stared at his plate, almost empty, and realised he’d hardly tasted it. He blinked in surprise.
‘Yes, it’s fine. It’s lovely. Thanks.’
‘You were miles away.’
He gave her a crooked smile. ‘Actually, no, I was right here, wondering what happens next,’ he confessed.
‘Next?’
‘About the house, I mean.’
She stared at him for a second, then looked hastily away, soft colour invading her cheeks. ‘Oh. Um—right. Well, I suppose I have to start looking.’
What on earth had she thought he was talking about? Unless…
No. She wasn’t interested; she’d made that clear. She’d been giving out hands-off signals since he’d arrived, pretty much. Apart from that one stolen kiss that she’d stopped in its tracks, she hadn’t so much as brushed against him except by accident.
So why was she blushing?
‘We could look on the Internet,’ she said, and he felt his radar leap to life.
‘Internet?’
‘Mmm—in the study. It’s John’s, but he’s happy for me to use it. He emails me regularly, and I reply, telling him how things are and sending him photos of Murphy and the babies.’
The babies? She sent John Blake photos of his babies? And then he stopped thinking about John Blake and paid attention to the core business.
There was a computer in the house. A computer with Internet access. Which meant he could check his email, keep in touch with his colleagues and employees, and keep an eye on what was going on in the financial markets. Before he went completely insane from the lack of information.
‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘Let’s load the dishwasher and go and have a look.’
‘Sure.’
She went over to the sink and scraped the remains of their meal down the sink into the waste-disposal unit, then turned back to get the rest of the things just as he arrived at her elbow with another plate and a pan.
‘Whoops,’ he said with a grin, shifting the pan out of the way before she collided with it, and instead she collided with his chest, her soft, full breasts squashing against him and her eyes flying up to meet his, wide and startled.
‘Steady,’ he murmured, putting the pan down on the side and setting the plate back onto the table, and then, suddenly reluctant to lose that soft, warm contact, he let his arms drift round her and drew her closer.
‘Max?’ she whispered, her voice little more than a breath. But it was enough—just that soft word telling him all he needed to know about how much she wanted him, and, without waiting for any further invitation, he lowered his head, closed his eyes and touched his mouth to hers.
She couldn’t let him do this.
She couldn’t…
She must taste of garlic. How he could tell after the paella, she didn’t know, but she thought back to their row, to her comment that it didn’t matter because nobody was going to kiss her.
But Max was kissing her as if his life depended on it—and suddenly she didn’t care about the garlic, only about kissing him back, feeling the strength of his arms around her, the powerful thighs bracketing hers, the harsh sound of his breathing muffled against her face as he plundered her mouth with his, his lips and tongue urgent, his body hard against hers, trapping her between him and the sink so she was under no illusions about his reaction.
One hand slid round under her jumper and cradled her breast, and she whimpered softly. The sound caught in his mouth and echoed back to her in a deep, primitive groan that was dragged up from his boots.
‘Jules, I need you,’ he whispered harshly, his mouth tracking over her jaw, his teeth nipping her, not enough to hurt but just enough to drive her further over the edge. And then his tongue stroked over the tiny insult, soothing, tasting, his lips dragging softly over her skin and leaving fire in their wake.
He was driving her crazy, and he knew it, but she couldn’t stop him. There was no way she could stop him, because she needed this every bit as much as he did.
Or so she thought, until the little voice clamouring at the back of her subconscious fought its way up to the surface and she realised that one of the babies was crying. Suddenly Max was shunted off the top of her list, and she felt the passion die away, replaced by the fundamental fact of her motherhood.
‘Max,’ she said, turning her head away, and he groaned and dropped his head onto her shoulder.
‘No, Jules. Don’t stop me, for God’s sake, please.’
‘The babies,’ she said, and he went still for a second, then sighed heavily and eased away, slashes of colour on his cheekbones, his eyes dark with arousal as he stared down at her. His chest was heaving, and, after the longest moment, he closed his eyes and turned away.
‘Go and sort them out,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait for you.’
But she knew that would be the stupidest thing she could do.
‘No, Max. I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m going to go to bed.’
‘No!’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. It’s not—We aren’t ready yet.’
He gave a rude snort, and, without waiting for him to say another thing, she fled for the stairs.
‘She’s not ready, Murphy. What do you think of that?’
Murphy thumped his tail and gazed up at Max with adoring eyes, and he sighed and rubbed the dog’s ears gently. ‘Yeah, I quite agree. Rubbish, isn’t it? What am I going to do if she’s never ready, Murphs? This is driving me crazy. The whole damn situation’s driving me crazy.’
He poured the last glass of wine out of the bottle and stared morosely at it. If only there was something to do!
Something more gripping than taking his wife to bed and making love to her until she was so desperate for him that she couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything except scream and sob with need.
He swore, short and to the point, and, picking up the TV remote, he turned the set on and channel-hopped. Nothing. Even the news was dull, nothing to hold his interest, and he was on the point of