Her Pregnancy Surprise. Barbara McMahon
suffocating white-hot excitement she had felt when she had imagined—She caught her breath sharply. Don’t go there, Megan, she told herself sternly.
‘You know I wasn’t speaking literally,’ she contended calmly, meeting his eyes. ‘I’ve simply realised I can’t go through with it. Late in the day, I know, but don’t worry—I’ll still have a word with Uncle Malcolm. He’ll look at your manuscript, I promise.’
Megan heard the crunch of gravel behind her and looked over her shoulder. Her mother was advancing towards them. When her attention flickered back to her co-conspirator he was shaking his head.
‘I don’t want charity. I’m perfectly prepared to fulfil my side of the bargain.’
Megan looked at him with frustrated incomprehension.
His body curved towards her. ‘Smile, sweetheart, and try and remember you’ve just found the man of your dreams.’
‘Nightmares, more like.’
He laughed and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. It was so light it barely constituted a brush but Megan experienced an electrical thrill that travelled all the way to her toes. She stepped backwards, her nostrils flared as she tried not to breathe in the warm male fragrance that made her stomach flip. ‘Well, I suppose we’ll just have to make the best of it.’
‘Is this a friend of yours, Megan?’
Megan, her hands held up in front of her, backed farther away from the tall, handsome figure who was the object of her mother’s obvious appreciation.
‘No—whatever gave you that idea?’ The sharpness of her tone brought her mother’s frowning attention to her own face. ‘I’ve never seen him before in my life.’
He spared her a sideways look of amusement as he advanced towards her mother with his hand outstretched. ‘You can know some people for years and never really know them, others you can know seconds and there’s a rapport—’ He broke off and gave a self-conscious laugh. ‘Does that sound crazy?’
Megan was staggered to see her mother looking as though he’d just said something profound instead of something profoundly silly.
‘Not at all, I know exactly what you mean!’ Laura exclaimed.
‘I think it’s dangerous to go on first impressions,’ Megan inserted drily.
‘You’re not a romantic?’
‘My daughter is a cynic, Mr…’
‘I’m Lucas Patrick.’
Megan drew a deep breath and squared her slender shoulders. Well, that was it! With those words he had committed them both for better or worse…she suspected the latter.
Laura took an audible deep breath and pressed her hand to her mouth. Megan felt a fresh spasm of guilt to see her mother’s childlike delight.
‘Of course you are.’ She laughed. ‘Why, this is marvellous.’ A faint furrow appeared between her delicately arched brows. ‘My brother told me you had flu…’
‘Mal’s prone to exaggeration, but then you’d know that.’ Laura nodded happily. ‘I had a head cold, that was all.’ He looked around expectantly. ‘Where is Mal?’
‘Didn’t he mention he couldn’t make it?’
‘No, that’s a pity.’
Megan, who was amazed at how he had immersed himself in the part he was playing, watched with unwilling fascination as a troubled expression of suspicion spread across his handsome features.
‘He did…you were expecting me…?’ he pressed.
‘Of course we were,’ Laura the perfect hostess responded without skipping a beat. ‘We just weren’t sure when you’d be here, were we, darling?’
‘No, we weren’t.’ Megan glanced at her watch, how many hours of this did she have to endure? The irony was this was a situation of her own making.
‘So long as I’m not imposing.’
‘Gracious, not at all. Actually we’ve been thrilled at the prospect of having you stay. Haven’t we, darling?’
‘Thrilled,’ said Megan obediently.
‘Megan has read all your books, haven’t you?’
In full charm mode, his eyes crinkled delightfully at the corners, he turned his attention briefly to a squirming Megan. ‘I think you’ve embarrassed…’ he gave a quizzical look of apology ‘…Meg…?’
‘Megan.’
The lack of animation in her response earned her a reproachful glare from her mother. God, he seemed to be enjoying himself…! If he wasn’t a con man he’d missed his calling, she decided grimly. A man like that could convince a girl of almost anything, especially if she wanted to believe it! This was something worth keeping in mind the next time her hormones went haywire, she told herself.
‘Megan will show you to your room, won’t you, darling?’
‘Thank you, Megan.’
‘My pleasure,’ she replied with equal insincerity.
‘Please call me Luc,’ he invited them.
‘I have a French friend called, Luc,’ Laura commented.
‘My grandfather on my mother’s side was French.’
‘I knew there was something Gallic about you the moment I saw you…French men have such style,’ Laura observed. ‘Is your mother alive, Luc?’
‘No, she died when I was nine. She named me after her own father, my grandfather.’
Behind her mother Megan shook her head and telegraphed a warning with her eyes. Her fake lover smiled back enigmatically.
‘Do you speak French, Luc? I’ll get someone to bring your luggage in…’
‘No need, I travel light,’ he said, extracting a rucksack from the back seat of the Land Rover.
‘How refreshing,’ Laura said, as though she were used to guests turning up carrying a rucksack that looked as if it was about to disintegrate. ‘Show Luc up to the red room, Megan, then bring him down for tea…Then you can meet the other guests. Megan shot Lucas a questioning look.
‘A quick shower and I’m all yours,’ he promised.
Ignoring her mother’s hissed instruction to, for God’s sake, smile, he’s gorgeous, she stalked towards the house with a face like thunder. She kept a tight-lipped silence until they reached the kitchen. Reaching the door that led to the back staircase, she turned and found that he was no longer at her shoulder but standing some yards away looking around the vast room.
‘There really are an amazing number of original features intact,’ he observed, opening the door of an original bread oven set in an alcove of the cavernous inglenook.
‘Save it for my mother,’ Megan, in no mood to discuss the architectural merits of her home, snapped. ‘Did you have to lay it on with a trowel?’ she demanded. ‘Why on earth did you say you spoke French?’
‘I didn’t say I did.’
‘You implied.’
‘I do speak French.’
‘Oh! And what was all that stuff about a French grandfather…?’
‘My grandfather was French.’
Which was probably where he had inherited his dark Mediterranean colouring. ‘You’re not meant to be you, you’re meant to be Lucas Patrick.’
‘I am Lucas Patrick,’ he contradicted.
Megan sighed. ‘There’s such a thing as overconfidence. Let’s