And not just any child. This was his child.
And, no matter what the circumstances, wasn’t the procreation of life always a miracle? Didn’t the tiny heart of his child beat inside this woman?
This stranger.
And yet he felt he knew her body more intimately than that of any woman who had gone before.
Catherine opened her eyes to find Finn standing, staring down at her. For a moment she was muddled and confused, wondering just where she was and what had happened. And then it all came back to her in one great jolting rush.
She was in his flat, and she had told him, and his reaction had been—unexpectedly—one of immediate acceptance, not suspicion.
She sat up and yawned. ‘I fell asleep,’ she said unnecessarily.
‘You certainly did.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘For almost an hour. Looked like you needed it.’
An hour! ‘Good grief.’ She yawned again. When was the last time she’d slept so soundly in the middle of the day? Better start getting used to changes, she thought, as she ran her hand through her rumpled hair. She looked up into the imposing, impassive face. ‘What are we going to do?’
He gave an almost imperceptible nod. We, she had said, acknowledging the power in a single word. He realised that already they were a unit. If you were lovers, even married, then no matter how long you were in a relationship a certain question-mark of impermanence always hovered unspoken in the air. But not any more. He and Catherine were fact. Chained together for the rest of their lives. The mother, the father and the baby.
‘Tell me about what your life in London is like,’ he said suddenly, and seated himself on the sofa opposite hers, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
Catherine blinked. ‘Like what? You know where I live.’
‘Yes. A one-bedroomed flat in the middle of the city. Not the most ideal place for bringing up a baby,’ he observed.
She was intelligent enough not to argue with that. ‘No,’ she agreed quietly. ‘It’s not.’
‘And your job?’ he questioned. ‘On Pizazz!.’ He spat the word out as though it was a bitter pill. ‘Will they give you paid maternity leave?’
Catherine hesitated. Of course. He didn’t know—but then how would he? ‘I don’t have a job any more,’ she said slowly, and saw his head jerk upwards in surprise. ‘Or rather, I do, but it’s certainly not one which will give me paid maternity leave. I’m…I’ve gone freelance,’ she said at last.
‘Since when?’ he demanded. ‘Since before you knew you were pregnant?’
‘Of course! I’m not completely stupid!’
Guilt twisted a knife in his gut. ‘You can’t get another staff job?’
‘Not like this! Who’s going to take someone on at this stage of pregnancy? I can just see it now—Welcome, Catherine, we’d love to employ you. And, yes, we’d be delighted to give you paid leave in a few months’ time!’
He studied her, trying to be dispassionate, to block out her blinding beauty. ‘So how exactly are you planning to bring up this baby, in Clerkenwell, with no regular income?’
‘I haven’t decided.’
‘You make it sound as though you have the luxury of choice, Catherine—which it seems to me you don’t.’
‘I’ll think of something.’ Her mother had managed, hadn’t she? Well, so would she!
He looked at her closely, this beautiful woman he had been unable to resist, recognising that their lives would never be the same again.
‘Where does your mother live?’ he questioned, so uncannily that for one mad moment she wondered if he was capable of reading her thoughts.
‘Devon.’
‘Would you consider going there?’
Catherine shuddered. What, and let the village watch history repeating itself? The conquering daughter returning home vanquished, pregnant, and trying to eke out a living? Could she possibly land herself on her mother—who was happy with her independent life and her charity work? Would she want to go through the whole thing yet again?
‘It would be too much for my mother to cope with,’ she said truthfully.