She would be living in his home, with his ring on her finger, for four long months until the child was born if he got his way, which he would. The chances of them both being able to keep their hands off each other for that length of time were minimal, at best.
He could not let Cara out of his sight again, until he had her promise that she would let him do what was best for her.
And that meant getting her to agree to marry him.
CHAPTER TEN
CARA’S EYELIDS FLUTTERED open and she found herself in an enormous room. The gold drapes of the four-poster bed in which she’d slept were illuminated by a strip of sunlight shining through the gap in the curtains drawn across a large picture window opposite the bed.
Was she dreaming? she wondered as her eyes adjusted to the half-light.
This was not the cramped, chilly room in the house she shared in Leyton, where the traffic noise from outside rattled the windows and woke her up at dawn each morning. Her limbs felt light, her mind refreshed, despite the familiar ache in her toes from the high heels she wore for work. When was the last time she’d woken up feeling this well rested?
She sat up and the sheet dropped into her lap, making her aware she was wearing nothing but her bra and panties. Where were her fluffy PJs?
The ripple of sensation became a flood as the sleep cleared from her brain, and the events of the previous evening rushed in to fill the gap.
Maxim. Maxim had found her last night and brought her here.
The memories assailed her. His dark eyes—shocked, aroused, accusing. His voice—rough with tightly leashed outrage, then deep with reproach. The scent of him—sandalwood soap and man—invading her senses as she sat in the cab on the ride to his hotel, struggling to stay awake and focused. The strength of his arms—powerful, unyielding, supportive—as he scooped her up when her knees turned to water in the lift. His hands—gentle yet brusque in the shadows of the ornate room as he undressed her and tucked the quilt around her after the doctor’s visit, and she lost her battle with exhaustion.
She shivered, even though the room was the perfect ambient temperature, and the familiar heat at the memory of his touch glowed in her belly.
This is my flesh and blood. Do you really believe I would choose to abandon it?
What had she done? She had assumed he would be furious if he ever found out about the child, and her decision to have it, but all she could remember from his expression was the flash of hurt.
I am not my father.
The heat in her stomach became sharp and jagged.
She’d judged him and condemned him. And while her decision to run away had been sound, he was right: everything had changed once she had discovered her pregnancy. She placed her palm on the firm bulge of her stomach, felt the flutter of movement which had scared her a week ago but now reassured her.
‘Good morning, pipsqueak,’ she murmured, as she did every morning. She let a tear trail down her cheek—because there was no one to see it. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered, swiping the tear away with the back of her hand.
Running had become a default after she’d left care, because it had always been easier to start afresh than to face her fears. She should have realised as soon as the doctor had told her she was expecting Maxim Durand’s child that now was the time to stop running, but it was pointless beating herself up about that panicked decision now.
He’d found her, and last night, despite his shock, he had seemed mu
ch more furious about the fact she hadn’t told him about the baby...his baby...than he was about the pregnancy itself.
The choice would always have been yours.
She’d made a mistake not contacting Maxim. Maybe she’d made it for the right reasons. He was still rich and ruthless and as overwhelming as he’d always been. But recognising her mistake now was the only way to move forward.
She slipped out of the bed. Her bare feet sunk into the thick luxurious carpet as she padded over to an armchair upholstered in embroidered silk, where someone had draped a thick bathrobe.
She shrugged it on, and then opened the curtains on the room’s huge picture window to find a balcony overlooking a striking view of the River Thames.
She shoved her hands into the pockets of the robe, then glanced back at the bed. The pillow next to hers lay untouched. He hadn’t joined her during the night.
She recalled his touch the evening before. Not urgent and intense, but gentle and impersonal. The weight in her stomach twisted and plunged.
For goodness’ sake, Cara, what did you expect? Of course he isn’t interested in you any more. And why would you want him to be? You’re a pregnant woman, and it was your inability to resist him that got you into this fix in the first place.
She pressed her fists towards her belly, sending a silent apology to the life growing inside her.
You’re not a problem, pipsqueak. Or a fix. And you never will be, okay?