In his study, he poured himself a drink, gulped it down and paced some more.
His desire for her was almost unbearable. The last thing he wanted to do was enter her bedroom.
How would he manage to live in the same house as her; how could he see her every day? How would he raise his child with her, knowing he could never touch her, knowing she could never be his?
Because Rosalie Brown wanted love, which he could never give her. He had no heart to share. If he had the capacity, wouldn’t it have revealed itself by now?
He paced another three steps, his whole body tense. But how could he endure his desire for her without satiating it? How?
His friends would tell him to take a lover, he thought suddenly. Yes. A lover. A very good idea. That would be the obvious medicine for this disease. He knew dozens of women he could easily invite to his bed, if he wished. Women he could seduce with little effort.
Unfortunately, he didn’t want any of them.
Exhaling, Alex stopped, clawing back his hair.
He only wanted Rosalie. But he couldn’t have her. Not without destroying what chance they might have at a peaceful partnership, raising their child together.
I want to find my place in the world. My permanent home.
He had to put it from his mind. He would take care of her for the next two months until the baby was born. And then he’d take care of both her and his newborn son.
But sometime after that, he would have to let Rosalie go.
He’d always be their baby’s father. But he could never be Rosalie’s man. He’d have no choice but to allow her to find a husband who could love her, and love their child.
Alex’s hand tightened on the glass.
He wished love had never been invented. He desired Rosalie, but more than that—he liked her. They were having a child together. They could have gotten on well together as partners. As lovers. Perhaps even as spouses.
How much better would it be for their child to be raised in a secure home, with married parents who were stable, reasonable friends, who’d never been in love so could never be in hate? Who would never scream or threaten divorce?
If Rosalie weren’t so fixated on love—
The grandfather clock in his study gave a ponderous chime. It was time to leave. He set down his empty glass.
“Alex.”
Hearing Rosalie’s voice, he went out to the foyer.
She stood on the sweeping staircase, illuminated by the twilight, warm rose and gold, from the large window behind her. Her long dark hair tumbled down her bare shoulders. The pink satin cocktail dress showed off the curves of her pregnant body, showcasing her overflowing breasts. Her tanned legs led down to high-heeled sandals.
He was transfixed by her beauty. To his hungry gaze, she looked like a pregnant goddess, symbolizing everything sexual and feminine.
Men have gone mad trying to possess what they cannot have.
As she came down the stairs, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. All he wanted to do was take her in his arms. To lift her up against his chest and carry her straight back up the stairs.
“Why are you dressed like this?” he said.
Rosalie smiled, her brown eyes glowing beneath her dramatic sweep of dark lashes.
“I couldn’t let you face them alone,” she said simply.
He stared at her, overwhelmed. She felt protective—of him?
The noble thing would be to refuse, to tell her to stay here. But that seemed a churlish response to such a gesture.
Besides, Alex was forced to admit, he wanted her near him. Even though her sensual beauty tortured him, just seeing her, having her next to him, somehow made his world a better place. Selfish or not—he could not refuse her.