The Unexpected Child

Pierce rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes, but not before she had glimpsed, and worried over, the unnatural, almost feverish glitter that burned in their sapphire depths.

‘The motorway was hellish—the world and his wife seemed to be on their way to somewhere from somewhere tonight.’

‘Everyone would be trying to get home at the last minute after the holiday, I suppose.’ Taking her cue from his casual dismissal of her concern, Natalie tried to make her words sound light and more relaxed than she actually felt. ‘They’d want to be back in time for school tomorrow.’

‘Yeah, that’d be it—I’d forgotten it was half-term.’

The blue eyes went to the desk in the corner, the clutter of papers highlighted by the glow of the lamp, and he frowned swiftly.

‘Oh, hell—I’m sorry—you were working and I’ve interrupted you.’

‘Not at all! I’d just finished.’

Mentally Natalie crossed her fingers against the white lie. Every instinct she possessed told her something was wrong—because she didn’t believe that ‘old friends’ routine for one moment.

‘So—can I get you something to drink? Coffee?’

‘I’d rather have something stronger if you’ve got it.’

‘There’s only sherry.’

‘Sherry will be fine.’

It was as she handed him the drink that another thought occurred to her, making her wonder if in fact alcohol was the best thing for him.

‘Have you eaten?’ It was the question she should have asked before she had poured him the sherry, she told herself reprovingly.

‘Not since lunch. I didn’t want to waste time by stopping for food—I wanted to get away from London as quickly as possible.’

‘Was it as bad as that?’

‘You’d better believe it.’ Pierce took a swallow of his drink and she was glad to see that a trace of colour returned to his cheeks. ‘I broke the speed limit almost all the way here.’

Which seemed to imply much more than just a casual visit home—and Pierce’s beloved Porsche was capable of some very high speeds indeed. That thought had Natalie moving hastily to the window, twitching aside the curtain and looking down into the street, concerned for the safety of the expensive vehicle. This area of town suffered particularly from the problem of joyriders. As he watched her, Pierce’s mouth twisted sharply.

‘You needn’t worry.’ The dark irony of his tone stung bitterly. ‘I parked the car a couple of streets away. No one will know that I’m here.’

‘That wasn’t what was bothering me.’

‘Oh, wasn’t it?’

His voice was harsher now, dangerously reminiscent of the anger that had been in it on the night of her eighteenth birthday, the night that had finally destroyed any chance that she and Pierce could ever regard each other as anything remotely resembling friends.

‘According to you, you’re the one with the reputation to lose.’

If his earlier comment had distressed her, this one actually had her mouth opening on a shocked gasp, a rush of anger driving away any pain it might have brought.

‘And what about you?’ Natalie retorted. ‘Don’t you think it might damage your reputation to be seen calling on—?’

‘On one of the lowly peasants on the family estate?’

The coldly drawled question had Natalie taking an instinctive step or two backwards away from him. She had only ever seen Pierce in this sort of mood once before and it had frightened her then as it did now.

‘On the contrary, my dear Natalie, I would have thought that it would very much enhance my reputation if people knew I was here.’

His intonation had changed again. This time the words were smokily sensuous, seeming to coil round her thoughts, clouding them, mesmerising her.

‘What about the droit du seigneur that I’m supposed to lay claim to—the one thing I want from innocents like you?’

Inwardly, Natalie winced in response to his deliberate reminder of the words she had flung at him long ago, in a haze of hurt and anger. Then, as now, he had smiled as he spoke, but without any real warmth, his mood seeming light-years away from anything even vaguely resembling amusement, except of the darkest, harshest kind.

‘After all, Ellerby is positively medieval in so many of its attitudes—don’t you think that as Lord of the Manor I should be able to take my pick of the local village maidens?’

‘Pierce—’ Natalie tried huskily but he ignored her and, with that smile that made her think fearfully of a lazy tiger indolently surveying its prey, moved smoothly and silently to her side, lifting one hand to brush the backs of his fingers slowly down her cheek, making her shiver in involuntary response.

‘If I can find any—maidens, that is,’ he went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “They’re something of a rarity these days. Most modern girls are so knowing—sure of themselves—so—’

He broke off abruptly, staring down into her heart-shaped face with an intensity that had her drawing in a quick, sharp breath and holding on to it, afraid to let it go.

‘But not you, Nat—with those big doe’s eyes and that innocent face...’ A soft thumb brushed the fullness of her mouth. ‘You’re so very different.’

Suddenly he frowned, making her heart lurch in apprehension. In spite of the fact that he wasn’t even touching her now, she felt trapped, held transfixed, like a rabbit petrified by the headlights of an oncoming car.

And like that terrified rabbit she knew instinctively that her situation was filled with danger, that by staying still she was risking pain and destruction for herself. She had to do something to stop this.

But even as her mind recognised that fact and screamed frantic instructions to her limbs to run to safety it was as if the fear itself had paralysed her and she couldn’t move an inch.

‘But I don’t like the way you’ve started to do your hair,’ Pierce murmured, gesturing towards the neat coil with undisguised scorn. ‘It’s too tight—too controlled. You look like a schoolmistress.’

‘I am a schoolmistress.’

‘Not now—not at this time of night. Now you’re off duty, and so—’

Before she could realise what he had in mind, he had moved swiftly, his hands going unerringly to the pins that held the long, dark swathe of her hair confined at the back of her head. With two confident tugs he freed them, smiling with disturbingly sensual satisfaction as the ebony mane tumbled round her neck in waving disarray.

‘Much better,’ he declared, and then, to her complete consternation, he combed his fingers gently through the tumbled strands, smoothing them onto her shoulders with a touch so soft and gentle that it was all she could do not to close her eyes in languorous response, her lips parting to shape a murmur of delight that she only just choked back in time, realising it had been in the form of his name.

‘Now you look positively kissable—in fact—’

‘No!’ Natalie cut in swiftly, suddenly afraid to hear more. The bitter irony of the situation struck home like a poisoned knife with the thought that years ago, even just a month or two before, she would actually have welcomed the sort of things he was saying—or, at least, the things she thought he was saying. Because the way he spoke was so darkly sardonic, those brilliant blue eyes holding no degree of warmth, that she couldn’t be absolutely sure. But now, even if he did mean them, it was far too late. He was committed to another woman, and all his compliments should go to her.

‘Pierce.’ She tried hard to make it sound firmly determined but didn’t succeed very well. ‘You can’t say things like that when you don’t mean them.’

‘And how do you know what I mean and what I don’t? Have you suddenly become telepathic, so that you can see into my mind?’

The faint downward movement of his dark head was positively the last straw, bringing with it a bitter memory of the one and only time he had ever kissed her. The image sliced into the trance that held her still, shattering it with the realisation of the way she was tempting fate by not resisting.

‘And what would your fiancée think about that?’