‘Now, please, Sandra!’ he snapped.
‘Why, certainly!’ his assistant replied, in a hurt and huffy voice.
His face was stern as he looked down at Catherine, who was still sitting in the chair with her eyes closed. ‘Are you asleep?’ he asked quietly.
‘No. Just trying to block out the sight of your face!’
‘And what if the baby looks like me?’ he questioned. ‘Won’t that be a terrible problem?’
Catherine opened her eyes and steeled herself against the impact of his handsome, mocking features. ‘I hope it’s a girl,’ she said frostily. ‘Who looks as little like you as possible! And even if he or she does look like you—’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ll still love them!’ she
declared fiercely. ‘I may not have a lot to offer, but I can give this baby love, Finn Delaney! Now, are you please going to let me go? Or am I a prisoner here?’
He spoke using the soothing voice of a psychiatrist who was trying to placate an extremely mad patient. ‘You’re not going anywhere until you’ve calmed down.’
‘Then get me as far away from you as possible—that’s the only way to guarantee that!’
There was a light tap on the door. ‘Come in, Sandra,’ called Finn rather drily, noting how circumstances could change routine. Sandra never, ever knocked. But then he never, ever had women turning up at his headquarters hurling paperweights against the wall!
A frosty-looking Sandra deposited a loaded tray on the low table in one corner of the room.
‘Will there be anything else, Finn?’
He shook his head. ‘No—thanks, Sandra.’
‘You’re welcome.’
He couldn’t miss the trace of sarcasm, but then maybe it wasn’t so very surprising. Sandra had been with him for years, had seen him run his affairs with cool-headed acumen and detachment.
‘Catherine?’
‘What?’
‘Do you take sugar?’
She almost laughed aloud at the irony of it all—until she remembered that it wasn’t in the least bit funny. Her green eyes blazed with a kind of furious indignation, directed at him, but felt deeply by herself.
‘What a funny old world it is, don’t you think, Finn? Here I am carrying your baby, and you don’t even know whether I take sugar in my tea! Or milk, either, for that matter!’ she finished wildly, wondering if she could put these sudden, violent mood swings down to fluctuating hormones. Or the bizarre situation she found herself in.
‘So, do you or don’t you?’ he questioned calmly. ‘Have sugar?’
‘Usually I don’t, no! But for now I’ll have two!’ she declared, experiencing a sudden desire for hot, sweet tea. ‘And milk. Lots of it.’
He poured the tea and handed her a hefty-looking sandwich.
‘I don’t want anything to eat.’
‘Suit yourself.’
But the bread and the ham looked mouthwateringly good, and Catherine remembered that she had eaten nothing since a midnight craving had sent her to the fruit bowl last night and she had demolished the last three remaining apples. Her stomach rumbled and her hand reached out for the sandwich. She began to eat, looking at him defiantly, daring him to say something. But to his credit he simply took his own tea and sat down in front of her.
He waited until she had finished, relieved to see that the food and drink had brought a little colour into her cheeks. ‘So now what? Where do we go from here?’
‘I told you—I’m going back to London.’