I’ll kill you with my bare hands.’
He felt a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. ‘I’m terrified.’
‘You should be.’
Their eyes locked, and then he gave a little shrug and sighed. ‘OK, I won’t say anything, for now—but only on condition you’re sensible. And that means lying down now and waiting for me to get back, at the very least. Is that clear?’
He could see the struggle in her eyes, but finally she nodded. ‘All right, I’ll wait. But here. I don’t need to go to bed.’
He hesitated, but then his mouth firmed and with a curt nod he turned on his heel and walked back into the hall. She turned back to the window and watched him walking down the street until he disappeared into the night. It was raining now, fat drops hitting the window and streaming down it like rivers of tears, and resting her head against the cool glass, she closed her eyes again and pressed her lips together.
Pregnant. Just like her mother, pregnant, single and alone.
Self-pity washed over her, and she firmed her spine and told herself not to be melodramatic and ridiculous. Her mother had been much younger and she’d had no training, but Isabelle had a good career, in a field where working part time was perfectly possible, her maternity leave would be assured and there was a crèche available to solve her childcare needs.
OK, it wasn’t the future she’d hoped for, but it would be a good future, and at least she had the house. She’d told her mother it wasn’t necessary to put it in her name, but now she was grateful, because in the end it would be the thing that above all else gave her security.
She— they —would be all right. And that was all that mattered.
Pushing herself away from the window, she lay down on the sofa under a lovely snuggly throw and tried to sleep, but her mind was whirling. She sat up again and noticed a newspaper on the coffee table, opened at the puzzle page. He’d started the crossword, filled in a few numbers on the Sudoku, but she could finish them off. It would keep her mind occupied till he got back…
She was asleep, her eyes shadowed, the long, thick lashes dark crescents against her pale cheeks. Her mouth was closed but her jaw was relaxed, and her lips looked soft and full and kissable.
Resisting the urge, he put the bowls down and sat beside her, his hip brushing against her abdomen as the cushion sank under his weight and she rolled towards him. His child was in there, he thought, feeling the warmth of her body against his hip, cradled in the bowl of her pelvis, a tiny baby, slowly growing in the shelter of her body, and it was suddenly real to him. Please, God, let everything be all right. He couldn’t bear it if it wasn’t.
He rested his hand on her hip and stared at her, the woman who was carrying his child, and a fierce wave of protective tenderness washed over him, catching him by surprise, because this was for her, not for the child. His feelings for the child were a given. His feelings for the mother were much less ordered and would take time to sort out. But for now, he had to feed her.
‘Isabella?’ he murmured. ‘Wake up. I’ve cooked for you.’
‘No,’ she moaned, and buried her face in a little cushion.
He took it away from her. ‘Yes. Come on, you need to eat. Sit up—here, it’s just boiled rice and vegetables. Nothing too flavoured, but you must eat. You’ve had nothing all day.’
She struggled upright. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she grumbled, but she shoved the hair out of her eyes and took the bowl and ate, reluctantly at first and then more eagerly as it became obvious it wasn’t going to be instantly rejected by her body.
‘Better?’ he asked, searching her face for clues, and she smiled a little wanly and nodded.
‘Yes. Thank you. I was getting a bit shaky.’
‘You mustn’t let yourself get hungry. That’s the worst thing. Low blood sugar’s a killer. And don’t have coffee, or cola, or strong tea or even dark chocolate.
He felt a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. ‘I’m terrified.’
‘You should be.’
Their eyes locked, and then he gave a little shrug and sighed. ‘OK, I won’t say anything, for now—but only on condition you’re sensible. And that means lying down now and waiting for me to get back, at the very least. Is that clear?’
He could see the struggle in her eyes, but finally she nodded. ‘All right, I’ll wait. But here. I don’t need to go to bed.’
He hesitated, but then his mouth firmed and with a curt nod he turned on his heel and walked back into the hall. She turned back to the window and watched him walking down the street until he disappeared into the night. It was raining now, fat drops hitting the window and streaming down it like rivers of tears, and resting her head against the cool glass, she closed her eyes again and pressed her lips together.
Pregnant. Just like her mother, pregnant, single and alone.
Self-pity washed over her, and she firmed her spine and told herself not to be melodramatic and ridiculous. Her mother had been much younger and she’d had no training, but Isabelle had a good career, in a field where working part time was perfectly possible, her maternity leave would be assured and there was a crèche available to solve her childcare needs.
OK, it wasn’t the future she’d hoped for, but it would be a good future, and at least she had the house. She’d told her mother it wasn’t necessary to put it in her name, but now she was grateful, because in the end it would be the thing that above all else gave her security.
She— they —would be all right. And that was all that mattered.
Pushing herself away from the window, she lay down on the sofa under a lovely snuggly throw and tried to sleep, but her mind was whirling. She sat up again and noticed a newspaper on the coffee table, opened at the puzzle page. He’d started the crossword, filled in a few numbers on the Sudoku, but she could finish them off. It would keep her mind occupied till he got back…
She was asleep, her eyes shadowed, the long, thick lashes dark crescents against her pale cheeks. Her mouth was closed but her jaw was relaxed, and her lips looked soft and full and kissable.
Resisting the urge, he put the bowls down and sat beside her, his hip brushing against her abdomen as the cushion sank under his weight and she rolled towards him. His child was in there, he thought, feeling the warmth of her body against his hip, cradled in the bowl of her pelvis, a tiny baby, slowly growing in the shelter of her body, and it was suddenly real to him. Please, God, let everything be all right. He couldn’t bear it if it wasn’t.
He rested his hand on her hip and stared at her, the woman who was carrying his child, and a fierce wave of protective tenderness washed over him, catching him by surprise, because this was for her, not for the child. His feelings for the child were a given. His feelings for the mother were much less ordered and would take time to sort out. But for now, he had to feed her.
‘Isabella?’ he murmured. ‘Wake up. I’ve cooked for you.’
‘No,’ she moaned, and buried her face in a little cushion.
He took it away from her. ‘Yes. Come on, you need to eat. Sit up—here, it’s just boiled rice and vegetables. Nothing too flavoured, but you must eat. You’ve had nothing all day.’
She struggled upright. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she grumbled, but she shoved the hair out of her eyes and took the bowl and ate, reluctantly at first and then more eagerly as it became obvious it wasn’t going to be instantly rejected by her body.
‘Better?’ he asked, searching her face for clues, and she smiled a little wanly and nodded.
‘Yes. Thank you. I was getting a bit shaky.’
‘You mustn’t let yourself get hungry. That’s the worst thing. Low blood sugar’s a killer. And don’t have coffee, or cola, or strong tea or even dark chocolate.
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