Her Pregnancy Surprise. Barbara McMahon
was no invitation—it was an order.
Megan’s chin went up the same way it had been doing, if her mother was to be believed, for twenty-nine years whenever she had been told what to do. ‘I came to see Mr Patrick.’
The grey eyes narrowed but stayed like lasers on her focused face. The dark rings surrounding his irises highlighted the pale metallic colour of his eyes.
Did he ever blink…?
He gave another graceful shrug. ‘Well, as you can see, I’m the only one here.’ He placed the towel he had been holding on a dust-cloth covered table and picked up a bottle of mineral water. He unscrewed the top and raised it to his lips.
So she’d been dismissed…? Did he actually think she was going to leave just because he told her to…? The angry glow in her eyes became distracted as she watched the contraction of muscles in his brown neck as he swallowed, there was a faint sheen of moisture on his skin. She looked away.
‘Is Mr Patrick likely to be home soon?’
‘Are you a friend of his or just a groupie?’
Her outraged attention swung back to his mocking, handsome face. His insulting cynicism brought an angry flush to her face, or did that rise in temperature have something to do with the beads of moisture he brushed off his sensual lips…?
‘I hardly think that’s any of your business,’ she retorted haughtily. ‘Perhaps you’d like to carry on with whatever Mr Patrick is paying you to do, other than eat pizzas.’
He looked amused. ‘Even a humble painter is allowed a lunch break, Doctor. Would you like me to give the boss a message?’ he offered, casually looping the towel around his neck. The action revealed another inch of smooth, hard flesh.
Megan swallowed and lowered her gaze. ‘It’s personal.’
‘You wish.’
Pale grey eyes clashed with turbulent blue.
‘I’ll wait,’ she announced frigidly. Other than physically remove her, he couldn’t do much about it, and if he did come over heavy handed she’d stick him with a lawsuit for assault before he could blink!
‘Suit yourself,’ he drawled. ‘But then I’m sure you generally do.’ This woman had spoilt and privileged written all over her, from her smooth voice to her assured manner.
Just as Megan’s bottom made contact with the dust-sheet-covered chair there was a sudden upheaval beneath her that sent her with a startled shriek to her feet.
A bundle of spitting fury struck out at her with sharp claws as it hurtled across the room like a ginger flash of lightning.
‘Ouch!’ she yelled. ‘That thing scratched me.’ Rolling up the right leg of her jeans revealed a long, though admittedly shallow, scratch along her calf.
‘That thing is called Sybil and you did sit on her. Poor cat,’ he crooned to the cat from the flat downstairs.
Megan wasn’t surprised to see the animal respond to his velvety croon, and in lightning transformation. That voice…! She could imagine any number of women who were old enough to know better purring if he used that voice on them.
‘Is the skin broken?’
‘I’ll live,’ she replied, rolling down her trouser leg. Superficial or not, the scratch stung. ‘Do you have any idea when he’ll be back?’
‘Who?’
Megan gave an impatient grimace. ‘Mr Patrick.’
‘Oh, him…he’ll be back in the country some time next month, I understand.’
Megan, her high hopes dashed by the casual revelation, felt her face fall. ‘But he has to be back before then,’ she protested.
‘Really…?’
‘He’s spending next weekend in the country with us.’
‘Maybe it slipped his mind…?’
Megan, who had flopped disconsolately into the cat-free chair, cast him a look of scorn. ‘Or maybe Uncle Malcolm lied through his teeth,’ she muttered half to herself.
Look on the bright side, she told herself, no eligible suitor equalled not being paired off with anyone, and it always had been a long shot.
The bad news was there would be other weekends!
‘Malcolm Hall is your uncle?’
Megan shot him a startled glance and began to sneeze. ‘You know him?’ She felt another sneeze building and began to ransack her bag for tissues, she found the packet just in time.
‘We’re not members of the same club,’ she heard him drawling scornfully when her sneezes subsided. ‘And I don’t play golf…but they let us unskilled labourers into quite a few places these days.’
Megan gave her pink nose a last angry scrub, her china-blue eyes snapping with anger. Where did this man get off automatically assuming she was some sort of snob? There was only one person here guilty of judging by appearances and it wasn’t Megan!
‘In my book decorators aren’t unskilled, although…’ she allowed her gaze to travel significantly over his paint-stained person ‘…in your case…’
‘I’m helping out a friend.’
‘So what is your actual day job?’
‘I do a bit of this, a bit of that,’ he revealed casually.’
‘You don’t have a regular job?’ Megan’s voice lifted in amazement—like most of her friends, her life revolved around the demands of work.
Luc found the fact she was looking at him as though he were a rare specimen amusing. ‘I don’t starve and I don’t sponge.’
Megan was immediately embarrassed. ‘I never imagined that you…it really isn’t any of my business how you live your life, Mr…’
‘Not being tied down to a nine-to-five routine gives me time to write. Some of my work is even now sitting on your uncle’s desk.’
‘You want to be a writer?’ That would explain his instant recognition of her uncle’s name. Though he had to be incredibly naive if he thought the work of every unknown who sent in an unsolicited manuscript ended up on her uncle’s desk. You had to produce something very special indeed to get that far.
Much more likely his work was languishing at the bottom of a pile on some junior’s desk. Being a naturally kind person, Megan didn’t have the heart to explain the brutal facts of the publishing business to him.
‘Is there any reason why I shouldn’t be a writer?’
Her eyes swept over his tall, impressive figure. The truth was he exuded so much vitality and energy Megan couldn’t imagine him doing anything that required long periods of physical immobility.
Megan smiled sunnily and had the satisfaction of hearing his teeth grate. ‘Listen, I don’t know the first thing about publishing and I have no influence with my uncle but if you’re serious about writing I think it would probably be a good idea to find yourself an agent.’
‘Anybody you could recommend…?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Maybe you should see a doctor,’ he observed with a grimace as she began to sneeze loudly again.
‘Look, I’m not in publishing, but good luck and don’t worry—’ Megan sniffed ‘—I’m not ill. I’m allergic to cats,’ she explained as she got to her feet.
‘Now, if you’ll excuse me…?’ She nodded, and slung the soft leather satchel she carried over her shoulder and smoothed down her jacket.
The long, lean, intensely aggravating stranger didn’t step aside to let her pass. Instead he