She shrugged. ‘I’m not proud of my behaviour, either. And, since we’re making apologies...’ colour seeped into her pale face ‘...I didn’t sleep with you because I was drunk.’
He knew that, but the part of his male ego she’d wounded six weeks ago appreciated hearing it all the same. He lifted his hand again and traced the elegant arch of one cheekbone with his thumb. ‘You look tired,’ he remarked. ‘And pale. Have you eaten today?’
She shook her head, her long, untethered curls tumbling about her shoulders. ‘I’ve been a bit ill.’
‘Are you drinking plenty of water?’
‘Some...not as much as I should.’ She stood up, her plain tee shirt and stretchy black leggings emphasising that she’d lost weight.
He frowned. Just how ill had she been?
‘Actually, I could kill a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘I’ll make us a pot.’
‘Sit.’ He rose to his feet. ‘I’ll do it.’ Her eyes widened and he adopted an affronted air. ‘You don’t think I can make tea?’ he challenged.
A faint smile crossed her features. ‘I’m sure you’re very capable. But it’s my kitchen and I know where everything is. And I’ve done nothing all day... I need to move.’
He let her go without further protest, then sauntered to the window, thrust his hands in his pockets and studied the street below. He let his thoughts run to practical matters. The building wasn’t wired with a security system and that bothered him. The neighbourhood seemed respectable but good neighbourhoods weren’t immune to crime. The building’s current security measures were flimsy and not helped by her downstairs neighbour who repeatedly left the main entry unlocked. Ramon had walked straight in today, just as he had six weeks ago.
And the stairs...three flights of them. Should pregnant women climb stairs every day?
He heard movement behind him and turned. Emily carried a wooden tray bearing a blue china teapot and matching cups. He waited for her to place the tray on the coffee table before he spoke. ‘You can’t stay here.’
She looked up, one hand gripping the handle of the teapot. She frowned as if he’d spouted something unintelligible. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Come and stay with me at Citrine.’
‘Your West End club?’
‘Yes. I’m using the penthouse. I can make it available for us long-term.’
Slowly, she put the teapot down and straightened. ‘Why?’
‘Because it’s safer. And closer to work for you.’ He paused. ‘Not that you’ll want to do that for much longer, of course.’
She stared at him. ‘What are you talking about?’
He pulled his hands from his pockets and reminded himself that she was tired and stressed. Most likely not thinking straight. ‘Emily,’ he said patiently, walking towards her. ‘Your life is about to change. Permanently. We need to consider what’s best for you and the baby.’
/> ‘What’s best for me,’ she said, her voice rising a notch, ‘is to stay in my own home.’
‘It’s not secure here.’
‘This is a decent neighbourhood!’
He put his hands on her shoulders to calm her, but she shrugged him off and took a step back.
‘Bad things happen in good neighbourhoods all the time,’ he said. ‘And what about the stairs? How do you think you’ll cope with those in six months’ time?’
She put her palms to her cheeks. ‘Ramon—just slow down for a minute. Please.’
‘Emily. We need to talk about these things.’
She shook her head.
‘Make some decisions,’ he pressed. ‘Think about the future.’
‘Oh, my God.’ She scrunched her eyes closed. ‘Next you’ll be suggesting we get married.’