The Bachelor's Baby

‘No problem.’

No. No problem. Not now.

‘Any problems, Vicki?’ Amy dropped her bag on her desk, along with her shopping.

‘Nothing I couldn’t handle. How did it go? Could you see the baby?’ Vicki grinned. ‘And have you bought up the entire stock of that baby boutique in the shopping mall?’ she asked, taking the bags, putting them on the desk and riffling through them.

Amy laughed. ‘Everything’s perfect. The baby is this big,’ she said, holding her thumb and finger half an inch apart. Vicki, still deep in the bags, picked out the tiniest pair of powderpuff-pink baby bootees.

‘Oh, bless!’

‘I know. I just went in to look but you know how it is.’ Vicki emptied the bags, cooing over the precious little things until Amy made an effort to come back down to earth and called a halt, packing them away. That’s when she saw the courier envelope. ‘Vicki, what’s this?’

‘Oh, gosh. I’m sorry. That arrived just before you got back.’

Amy picked up the big square card envelope, looked at the name of the sender and with fingers that were suddenly shaking she tore it open, took out the thick white envelope inside.

She knew what it contained even before she opened it, but it was still a shock. Her joyful mood, the sweet pleasure of buying tiny clothes for the baby growing inside her evaporated like a dawn mist in August and she said a word that made Vicki blink.

‘Bad news?’ she asked. ‘What is it? The VAT man on the warpath? Death-watch beetle in the attic?’

‘Worse. It’s from my baby’s father.’ And she ripped the contents of the envelope in two. It felt so good that she kept on doing it until the cheque was reduced to confetti. Then she picked up a fresh envelope, and after copying the sender’s address from the courier slip, she scooped the shredded cheque into it. She sealed it and stamped it and tossed it in her out tray.

‘Tea,’ Vicki said, slowly. ‘Camomile tea.’ And she handed Amy a small phial of mandarin oil. ‘And, in the meantime, I suggest you should rub a little of this on your pulse points. It’ll make you feel better.’

She didn’t want to feel better. She wanted to scream. She wanted to smash something. How dared he send her a cheque? She wanted it out of her sight. Out of her shop.

‘I’ll be fine, Vicki,’ she said, with controlled venom.

‘Just as soon as that—’ she pointed to the envelope ‘—that thing…is out of my sight. Forget the tea. Take it to the post office now and send it by recorded delivery. I want to be absolutely certain that he got it.’

‘Um, maybe you should wait ten minutes. Think about it. It’s what you always tell me—’

‘No.’ She was trusting her instincts on this one. Calm thought was not the appropriate reaction. The feeling was too strong to bottle up, keep a lid on. She needed Jake to know exactly how she felt. ‘Just do as I ask, Vicki. Please. Straight away.’

‘Look, if you feel that strongly about it I could ask the courier to take it back with him. He was due for his lunchbreak, so I suggested the café across the courtyard.’ And she blushed. ‘I was going to join him if you got back in time.’

‘Oh, Vicki!’

‘We all have our weaknesses,’ she said. ‘Yours is for pink bootees. Mine is for black leather.’

‘I’m not in the mood to encourage young love,’ Amy warned. Then she shook her head. ‘All right. Use the courier. But don’t blame me if he breaks your heart. And it has to be signed for by Jacob Hallam. No one else. If I’m going to spend a fortune making a statement, I want to be sure I’m getting my money’s worth.’

‘You will,’ she said. And grinned. ‘Just you leave it to me.’

Jake frowned at the note his secretary passed to him. ‘Can’t you deal with it?’

‘Sorry. It has to be signed for by the addressee.’

‘Okay. Let’s take five, gentlemen.’ He got up and followed Maggie into Reception, where the courier was waiting. ‘You’ve got something for me?’

‘If you’re Mr Jacob Hallam?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I’ve got this, if you could sign for it.’ He offered a pen.

Jake took it, signed for an envelope with ‘Amaryllis Jones’ picked out in elegant black and gold lettering on the top left-hand corner. So, she’d got the cheque. He hadn’t expected such a swift response and he held the envelope for a moment; it was thick and soft and contained more than a polite ‘thank you’ note. As he pushed his thumb beneath the flap and ripped it open, he had a very bad feeling about it.

Jake frowned at the contents. Pink and soft. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Nothing pink and soft, that was for sure. As he pulled it out, a handful of tiny scraps of paper fluttered about him, settling at his feet. The cheque had been shredded so thoroughly that only when Maggie began to gather up the pieces and he saw part of his signature did he realise what it was.

‘What the devil…?’

Maggie handed him the pieces. ‘One of two things, Jake. It wasn’t enough. Or she doesn’t want your money. Take your pick. But if it’s the latter, I’d say you’re in big trouble.’

‘The question was rhetorical,’ he said coldly.

Maggie had been his secretary for too long to be choked off by a chilly put-down. ‘Sorry, Jake,’ she said, almost kindly. ‘I’m afraid trouble doesn’t come in “rhetorical”. Not this kind.’

‘And what kind is that?’ He was just digging a bigger hole for himself, he knew, but he couldn’t stop himself.

‘The kind involving a woman and a cheque. Especially if she’s pregnant.’

‘Pregnant?’ His face remained impassive, even while his gut was churning. ‘What makes you think she’s pregnant?’

‘Well, the pink bootees are a bit of a giveaway,’ Maggie said. ‘It would seem she’s—you’re—expecting a girl. Congratulations.’

‘Bootees…’ He realised what he was holding. Bootees. Blossom-pink, thistledown-soft. ‘Oh…’ he said. Then, ‘Sugar.’

‘I think, under the circumstances, a little more enthusiasm is called for.’

‘Sorry, Maggie. I can’t do enthusiasm. Not for this.’ He continued to stare at the bootees. They were so…so…small. He tried to imagine feet tiny enough to fit them. Toes… He snapped his mind back from the brink. ‘She knows that. I thought the cheque would help.’

‘Did you?’ Maggie shook her head. ‘And I thought you were quite bright, for a man. Never mind, keep trying. I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually.’

‘You think that I’m heading for wedding bells and happy ever after?’ He could read her like a book. ‘Give me a break.’ She said nothing, but she was thinking for England, he could see. ‘Okay, what would you do? If you were me? Forgetting the white lace and promises bit,’ he added quickly.

‘That would depend on what I—as you—wanted.’ Maggie waited a moment. Then asked, ‘What do you want, Jake?’

‘Me? I’ve got everything I ever wanted.’ He was successful, rich. His father would have been proud… ‘I don’t want this.’

Maggie gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘It appears that you don’t have a choice. It is yours?’ She quirked an eyebrow. ‘There’s no doubt?’ He shook his head. It was his. The only thing he could imagine worse than this situation was knowing that Amy was expecting someone else’s baby. It didn’t make sense, he knew, but then emotional stuff never did. ‘You know, Jake, having a baby is a bit like a bacon and egg breakfast.’

He dragged his thoughts back from the golden moment when they’d made the baby. ‘This should be good.’

‘It takes two to make it happen,’ she said, ignoring his muttered interjection. ‘But while the chicken makes a contribution, the pig is totally committed. The mother of your baby can’t walk away, Jake. Or pretend it isn’t happening. Or pay someone else to feel the pain.’ About to say more, she apparently changed her mind.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. At least… Well, maybe you shouldn’t take the way she handled your cheque too seriously. Her hormones are probably acting up. Leave it a few weeks. Try again when everything’s settled down.’ Then she shrugged. ‘Or you might get lucky. It might just take an extra nought.’

What did he want?

That was easy. He wanted Amy. He wanted to stop the world, rewind the tape, replay those hours they’d spent together. He wanted to breathe in the sweet scent of her skin, he wanted to wake with her in his arms, wanted to hear her whimpering softly as he took her over the edge, followed her there, briefly, to a place beyond pain. For now. He knew it was a fleeting thing. An ache that would soon pass.

Unlike fatherhood.

He didn’t want to be a father. He didn’t know how to be a father. Not the kind of father any baby would want. What he wanted, what he needed, was for Amy to take the money so that he could walk away with a clear conscience. Money to pay for help. Money to pay for everything.

Maggie was being over-sentimental about that. Money would do it every time. One way or the other. And Amy would take it. Eventually. She’d have no choice. But maybe sending it like that had been a mistake. It had been cold and impersonal, and she was a warm and caring woman. In her place, he realised, he would have been angry, too.

That she was angry he didn’t doubt for a moment. It would take a really angry woman to reduce his cheque to such tiny shreds of paper. What the bootees meant, why she had enclosed them with the cheque, was a mystery he refused to confront. He suspected he already knew the answer. She wanted him. On his knees.

He crumpled the bootees in his hand, stuffed them out of sight in his pocket. No way.

But Maggie was right, he acknowledged belatedly. The cheque had been crass. His father would have sent a cheque. He should have thought of something less direct, something that she could have accepted without losing her dignity. A trust fund for the baby, maybe. She wouldn’t, couldn’t refuse that, not once she accepted that he wasn’t to be turned to marshmallow by a pair of pink bootees.

He’d go down there tonight. Apologise. Check that she was keeping well. Not overdoing it. She shouldn’t be on her feet all day…

Dammit, he was doing it again. Thinking about her. Worrying about her. He spat out an expletive that had once earned him a beating from…

No!

He dragged his fingers through his hair. Dear God, where had that thought come from? He’d blanked it out. Walled it up in the attic of his mind with all the other ghosts.

This was her doing. Amy, with her green eyes and gentle touch. His wall was defenceless against her. He knew, just knew, that if he wasn’t very careful she would dismantle it, take it down, brick by brick, and let out all the pain. It had already begun.

Emotion was a loose cannon. Uncontrollable. And the one thing he’d always promised himself was that he would never be out of control of his life. Never again. He would get this over with. Deal with it. Finish it.

For a moment, Amy thought the courier was back. She was behind the cottage, working off her bad mood on the weeds. They would never let her down. They were predictable. They’d always be there.

She was carefully easing out a dandelion with the trowel when she heard the motorbike roaring up the lane, then slowing. Then stopping at her gate. The dandelion root snapped, leaving half still embedded in the soil.

‘Damn!’

Damn, damn, damn. The day had begun so well, so joyfully; then Jake’s conscience had given him a jab in the ribs and after that it had been downhill all the way.

She straightened as the leather-clad figure rounded the side of the cottage, wondering what he’d sent her this time. A bigger cheque? Did he really believe that was what she wanted? Was he that stupid?

That scared?

The man pulled at the strap beneath the black helmet. Removed it. And her heart did a crazy flip-flop that made her feel just a little dizzy, so that she grabbed for the post of the compost bin. Not a courier this time; this time Jake had come himself. Which could be better—or much worse.

He looked tired, she thought. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and his cheeks had a sucked-in, hollow look emphasised by the stubble of a day’s dark growth of beard. He looked like a man to whom sleep was a stranger.

And the flip-flop happened again. Not just her heart this time, but her entire body responding, reaching out to him. It was a good thing that her feet were weighed down by her gardening boots, keeping her pinned to the spot long enough for her to drag her protesting heart—and hormones—back into line.

‘You’re the last person I expected to see,’ she said.

‘We need to talk, Amy. There are things we have to settle.’

Talk. Settle. Worse, then, because his voice, flat and expressionless, left her in no doubt what he wanted to discuss. He wasn’t bringing his heart, but his wallet. Maybe she’d got it right when she’d suggested to Willow that money was all Jake had to offer. Not a problem when you were a millionaire more times over than you could count.

But if money was all he had to offer, he was in the wrong place. This wasn’t the kind of conversation she wanted to have with the father of her child. She’d thought she’d made her feelings quite clear on that point.

Most men would have taken the hint, probably thanked their lucky stars and left it at that. Jacob Hallam wasn’t most men. He didn’t want to get involved but he couldn’t walk away. His conscience wouldn’t let him.

He was in for a bad time, she thought. And felt an unexpected twinge of pity for him.

‘Have you eaten?’ she asked.

‘We need to talk,’ he repeated. As if he’d learned the words and nothing would deflect him from his purpose.

‘You can eat and talk at the same time, can’t you?’

‘Please don’t—’

‘Don’t what? Make it difficult for you?’ She wasn’t doing that. ‘I’m making it as easy as I know how, Jake. You’re the one making things difficult.’ She stripped off her gardening gloves. ‘Have you eaten?’ she repeated.

‘No.’

‘Then come inside and I’ll get something.’

‘If you insist.’ His voice was firm, cold. It was the gesture that betrayed him. The tiniest lift of a hand in supplication.

He was already having a bad time.

She steeled her heart. ‘No, Jake. I don’t do ultimatums. You want to talk; I want to eat. Stay or go. You choose.’ And she walked towards the back door, kicked off her boots and headed for the sink, forcing herself not to look back and check that he was following.

‘How are you?’

How could he make the words sound so impersonal? After the way they’d been together? After such passion, such tenderness? Amy took a deep breath and made an effort to match him.

‘I’m fine. I had my first scan today.’

‘Scan?’

‘An ultrasound scan. Just to confirm dates, check the embryo has implanted properly.’ He’d like that word, she thought, scrubbing her hands at the old butler’s sink. Embryo. You couldn’t get much more impersonal than that when you were talking about a baby. She half turned, looked back to where he was silhouetted in the doorway, unwilling to step over the threshold. Vicki might be right about black leather, she thought. It gave a man a dangerous edge. Not that Jake needed any kind of edge to hold her attention. ‘And confirm the number of embryos present,’ she added, a little wickedly, just to make certain she had his.

The muscle tightening in his jaw was her only reward. ‘And how many are there?’

‘Does it matter?’ she asked, reaching for a towel. ‘It’s not your problem.’ Then, turning to face him as she dried her hands, ‘Do multiple births run in your family?’

‘How many?’ he demanded, with just a hint of panic.

‘Just one, Jake,’ she said, her voice softening, an antidote to his sharpness. ‘I was going to make an omelette. The eggs are very good. Free range…organic. One of my neighbours keeps a few chickens.’

Jake didn’t want to eat. He didn’t want to cosy up over supper. Didn’t want to know about scans, or anything else to do with her pregnancy. He wanted to get this over with and get back to London as quickly as possible. If eating with her would speed up the process… ‘An omelette will be fine.’

‘Then you’d better come in.’

He propped his helmet on an old scrubbed table, unbuckled his boots, stripped off his jacket and padded into the kitchen in his socks, feeling at a disadvantage. He hadn’t thought about that when he’d decided that the Ducatti’s two wheels would be a lot faster through the rush hour traffic than using a car. Right now he’d have welcomed the formality of a suit. Maybe he should have sent a lawyer.

The idea made him feel queasy. The cheque had been bad enough. He’d seen what she’d done to the cheque. His father, he realised with a sickening sense of his own inadequacy, would have followed up the cheque with a lawyer. At least he hadn’t made that mistake.

She waved in the direction of a saggy old armchair. ‘Shift Harry and make yourself comfortable.’ It wasn’t the glare from the cat in residence that kept him on his feet. Once he was sitting down he would have lost even the height advantage. Instead, he leaned against the doorjamb and watched her as she set about making their supper. The silence lengthened.

‘Have you seen Willow and Mike since—’ he began, then broke off awkwardly.

Amy broke an egg into a basin, stared at it for a moment, then looked up. ‘Since?’ she prompted. Then, ‘Oh, I see. Since. Yes, Willow came over as soon as you’d gone. The poor girl was in a bit of a state. I told her not to…’ She rubbed the back of her hand over her upper lip. Had it got warmer, all of a sudden? ‘I told her not to worry.’ She cracked another egg and watched as it oozed thickly from the shell to join the first in the basin. She hadn’t noticed before that eggs had any particular smell. Not beautiful fresh, free range eggs. She picked up a third egg, cracked it on the side of the basin. Sort of oily…

‘Amy?’ She looked up and registered briefly that Jake was frowning. Then she was assailed by a wave of nausea and egg number three hit the floor as she turned and ran for the scullery sink.

The heaving, the throwing up, seemed to go on for ever. She hung onto the edge of the sink, vaguely aware of Jake at her back, holding her, supporting her so that she wouldn’t just slither to the floor as her legs buckled beneath her.

Eventually, though, the spasms eased for long enough for her to apologise. ‘It’s not the cooking, I promise you,’ she said, smiling weakly as she leaned shakily back against him.

He said nothing, just damped the edge of a towel, wiped it over her face, around the back of her neck, over her throat.

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