The Pregnancy Discovery

CHAPTER THREE

AS SHE ate her simple supper of cheese on toast, Meg tried not to think about what it would have been like to be dining with Sam. She kept reminding herself that he and the bottle would soon be going home to the United States and she was wise to stay well out of the way. How silly she’d been to imagine that somehow her own destiny was linked to that bottle.

The only connection she had was stumbling across it on the beach and giving way to natural curiosity.

Finishing her meal, she carried her plate through to the kitchen and decided she’d seen too much significance in finding the bottle. Perhaps she’d been grasping at straws. There was a good chance she’d been looking for anything that would help her out of the depressing loneliness she felt these days. Ever since her father had died just three months ago.

It had been bad enough giving up her postgraduate studies in marine biology to nurse her dad through the last horrible months of his illness. But nothing had prepared her for the bereft emptiness of her life after he’d died. He was all the family she’d had. Her mother had died when she was only little and her father had meant everything to her. Since his death, Meg thought she had discovered the utter depths of loneliness.

But tonight she felt more desolate than ever.

The sand crunched beneath Sam’s shoes as he walked towards the water. By the light of a glowing white moon, Florence Bay looked beautiful. On either side of the bay, dark rocky headlands curved out to protect the deserted beach. Hoop pines, rising majestically from between granite boulders, were silhouetted in inky black strokes against the gun metal sky.

The dark water lapped gently.

Somewhere out there in the wider ocean beyond the reefs, Tom Kirby lay at rest. Thinking about his grandfather and the bottle, he hunkered down on the sand and stared ahead. These past few years, he’d been working so hard he hadn’t stopped to contemplate anything deep or meaningful—like death and the hereafter. Or life for that matter.

Lately, he’d been sensing an uneasy awareness that his own life was hurtling forward like a runaway train and he wasn’t at all sure he was heading in the right direction. He was doing the right thing by his family—carrying on the Kirby tradition—and working damn hard to keep it successful—and playing hard, too, when time permitted. But he knew deep down that neither his work nor his play was really making him happy.

Lost in thought, he didn’t hear footsteps so, when a voice suddenly sounded close behind him, he jumped to his feet.

‘Sam, what are you doing here?’

‘Meg!’

She was standing a metre or so away from him, her face pale and her eyes wide with surprise. She was wearing a soft blue sweater and white jeans and, in the moonlight, her hair had a silvery sheen and she looked breathtakingly lovely.

He turned and extended an arm towards the sea. ‘It may sound a little weird, but I’m paying my respects.’

‘To your grandfather?’

‘Yeah.’ Sam shoved his hands in his pockets to prevent himself from reaching for her. ‘I rang my lawyers this afternoon. They’ve been doing some research for me and I couldn’t believe what they told me.’ He kicked at a knob of bleached coral lying on the sand. ‘Tom Kirby died on this day—this very day—in 1942. In the Battle of the Coral Sea.’

‘Oh.’ She sounded suitably shocked.

‘Weird coincidence, isn’t it?’ He swallowed the constriction in his throat. Then he smiled at Meg. ‘But maybe an even better coincidence is that I am seeing you this evening after all,’ he murmured huskily. ‘You never know, maybe we’re destined for each other, Meg.’

Meg was sure Sam was teasing and she felt more than a little miffed that he might be making fun of her. Lifting her chin defiantly high, she shifted her concentration from his strong, handsome face to their surroundings—the little bay and the moon and the rocky headlands.

Time to leave, or to come up with a quick change of subject. Reluctant to hurry back to her lonely cottage, she changed the subject. ‘For some reason, those rocks always remind me of shelled Brazil nuts.’

Sam’s eyebrows rose. ‘That’s an interesting association of ideas. I wonder where it comes from?’

She smiled. ‘I know exactly where it comes from. I’m crazy about Brazil nuts.’ And for a moment she was absorbed by memory. She was sitting once more at a dining table, laden with Christmas fare, and she could see her father’s strong hands wielding the silver nutcracker, breaking open the hard shell and handing her a pure smooth Brazil nut.

‘My father always used to crack them for me and, when he gave me one, he would joke… “Would you like a nut, Meg?” Of course, his nickname for me was Nutmeg.’

‘Nutmeg,’ Sam repeated. ‘I like that.’ He turned to look at her. ‘Does your father live here on the island?’

‘My father’s dead,’ she told him in a shaky whisper.

‘I’m sorry.’ His hand reached out and rubbed her shoulder gently.

‘You know he used to warn me that there are no guarantees in life. He reckoned the only thing you can be sure of is that the angles of a triangle will always add up to one hundred and eighty degrees.’

‘Sounds like he got one or two nasty shocks along the way.’

‘Well, yes. He worked as a draftsman for the same company for thirty-five years and then suddenly they made him redundant.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Just like that. Downsizing they called it. Profits were more important than loyal and talented employees.’

Sam’s jaw clenched and he swung away so that he no longer looked at her. ‘Sometimes the guys running big companies have to make difficult choices.’

‘And their answers are always about money,’ she responded bitterly.

‘Money,’ he repeated grimly. His hand was still resting on her and suddenly he smiled at her again and obviously decided to have his own stab at changing the subject. ‘As you accepted my apology so nicely this afternoon, we can start afresh, can’t we?’

Meg was sure she should have clarified exactly what Sam thought they were starting. But perhaps it was the setting, or her loneliness, or even moonlight madness, but she suddenly didn’t want to be wary or cautious any more. ‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘I guess we can.’

‘You know,’ Sam told her. ‘We actually have more in common than you might be prepared to admit. I used to haunt the Seattle Aquarium when I was a boy. Tell me some more about the reef.’

Realising that he’d cleverly selected a topic she loved to talk about, she was happy to cooperate. ‘Something I find very interesting is the coral-spawning that takes place every year. Have you heard about it?’

‘I do remember reading something.’

‘Marine scientists made the discovery here on this island. Every piece of coral on the Great Barrier Reef, even pieces in buckets and aquariums, becomes fertile and spawns in mass at a certain full moon in spring.’ Her eyes danced. ‘It’s been described as the world’s biggest sexual encounter.’

‘World’s biggest sexual encounter?’ Sam repeated with a lazy smile and his gaze speared hers so intently she felt breathless and more than a little warm. ‘That’s exceptionally interesting.’

She couldn’t help chuckling. ‘Well, I don’t know who actually judges these things.’

He turned towards her so that both his hands could grasp her shoulders. ‘I warned you earlier, Meg, I can’t resist a challenge.’

His face was in shadow but, as she heard the unmistakable rumble of desire in his voice, flames of unexpected heat darted through Meg. She wondered what she could do about her growing interest in getting close to this man. ‘Surely you’re not suggesting you want to compete with the entire Great Barrier Reef?’ she asked in a strained, tight voice.

‘I’m going to make a start.’ His gaze centred on her mouth. ‘I’m not planning to be upstaged by coral polyps.’

She knew then what was going to happen and she let it.

For the second time, Meg offered absolutely no resistance when he drew her closer. She had a desperate feeling that she had as much chance of resisting Sam Kirby as the tides had of resisting the pull of the moon. Fleetingly, she wondered if this was what destiny felt like.

In spite of her rules about guests, she had never felt so willing, so wanting to be enclosed in a man’s arms.

Her heart jolted unsteadily as Sam’s lips roamed her mouth and her own lips parted, as open and needy as a desert flower welcoming rain. His kiss deepened and, with a whimper of pleasure, she surrendered to his invasion. Sam tasted wonderful. His hard, strong body felt divine. Wanting more, she crushed herself shamelessly against him, as if she was afraid the world might end any minute and she would miss out on this vital experience.

Yesterday, Sam’s kiss had been friendly and gentle. Tonight it quickly became wicked, wild and threatening. And Meg loved it! She loved the heat of his tongue as it plundered her mouth. Loved the hard, intimate force of his body driving and moulding against her.

She heard his desperately ragged breathing and suspected she was rushing headlong into danger. But it was a dark and alluring danger. A danger she suddenly longed for and welcomed.

Flash!

The blinding light startled them both, shattering their embrace.

Meg felt Sam swing angrily out of her arms. ‘Get lost!’ he cried and began to prowl towards someone in the darkness.

Shaking, Meg followed the direction of his gaze and saw what he’d seen—a man skulking behind a casuarina on the edge of the sand and clutching a camera.

‘Let’s just get out of here,’ Meg called, running after him and grabbing his hand.

For a moment, Sam hesitated, but he shook her hand away and continued to stride towards the darkness in the direction the photographer had taken. There was the sound of a car taking off at speed. ‘Who was he?’ he demanded, turning back to her. ‘I have enough trouble at home with the press.’

‘Do you really think it was someone from a newspaper?’

‘That’s my guess.’

Meg cringed as she thought of all her workmates seeing evidence in tomorrow’s paper of her lapse. So much for her personal code of ethics regarding tourists! ‘I can’t believe I let this happen again,’ she whispered to herself.

She supposed she should be grateful to the photographer. He’d broken the spell that had been dragging her towards making a foolish mistake. Heaven knew what might have happened if they hadn’t been rudely interrupted.

‘Are you worried about your golden rule about kissing guests?’ Sam’s knuckle grazed her cheek. ‘For my part, I’m very glad you broke it. I wouldn’t object at all if you wanted to break a few more rules.’

Embarrassed, Meg drew back. ‘You know I wasn’t going to let you do anything but kiss me.’

‘But you did let me kiss you,’ he challenged. ‘And I had the distinct impression that you were kissing me back.’

‘I just got carried away with—with the atmosphere and the moonlight.’

‘Is that what happened?’ His voice suggested that he didn’t believe her in the slightest.

‘That’s all,’ she said as convincingly as she could manage. ‘And I must go home now.’ She had to get out of there before the moonlight or whatever it was started making her reckless again. Turning to head back to her car, she asked, ‘Do you need a lift?’

‘No. Don’t worry about me.’ Sam shoved his hands into his pockets and he turned to stare back out to sea.

When she reached her car, Meg looked back at him, but he hadn’t moved. And that was good. Maybe it was sinking into Sam’s thick skull that they must never take the risk of kissing a third time.

When Sam opened his door the next morning and found Meg standing there, he was mildly surprised. She was wearing a soft, floaty kind of dress that dipped in a low curve from shoulder to shoulder. In her hand was a folded newspaper.

‘Good morning,’ she greeted him primly, without smiling.

He returned her greeting carefully. ‘Morning.’

There was no beating around the bush. Looking somewhere around the centre of his chest, she said, ‘Have you seen this morning’s paper?’

‘Fred phoned and told me about it.’

With an impatient shake of her head, she thrust the paper at him. ‘The publicity shot of us with the bottle on the front page is OK, I guess. But take a look at page three. The close-up shot of you and me—’

‘On the beach?’ Sam supplied as he took the paper and flicked to page three. He looked at the photo and felt his throat tighten. ‘That’s—er—some clinch, isn’t it?’

Meg was blushing. ‘What are we going to do about it? Fred wants to make more publicity mileage out of it. He wants us to go to a big function tonight for the handover of the letter—as a couple.’

‘Yeah. He explained that when he rang.’

‘Don’t tell me you agreed?’ she asked sharply.

‘Sure. Why not?’ Sam hoped Meg didn’t quiz him too hard about why he’d agreed. He wasn’t too sure himself that his motives would stand up to close scrutiny. ‘But I take it you’re not happy?’

‘Of course not!’ Meg exclaimed with a haughty lift of her chin that made her look especially stubborn. And gorgeous.

He looked again at the photo. Seeing that image of Meg’s arms wrapped around him and her mouth meshed with his was interfering with his search for a rational argument. He tapped the page with a finger and replied in his most nonchalant manner, ‘There’s not much point in trying to pretend there’s nothing between us. Why don’t we attend this event together and brazen it out just for this one night?’

Meg stared at him. She looked ready to argue. Her arms were crossed belligerently across her chest and her eyes glistened as she tapped a tattoo with her foot.

Sam waited patiently in silence, unwilling to take the lid off this particular volcano.

Eventually she sighed. ‘I’ll go to this function on one condition.’

‘Yes?’

‘We only have the minimum contact necessary to keep the press happy.’

He had been leaning against the door frame, trying to look more casual than he felt. This situation was becoming more ridiculous by the minute, but sharing that opinion with Meg wasn’t going to help matters.

Stepping back, he gestured towards the small sitting area in his resort bungalow. ‘Why don’t you come in? I find this a little difficult to discuss on a doorstep.’

She followed him in silence and assumed a stiff-backed, prudish pose at one end of his couch. Under other circumstances, he might have found it comic.

Selecting a single cane chair, Sam lounged back into the deep cushions. In a deliberately casual movement, he stretched his long legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. ‘Now, tell me about these conditions of yours.’

She sat straight with her knees together, just as she might have been taught at deportment school, and made a little throat clearing sound. ‘What I mean is, there’ll be no flirting—no unnecessary touching. We’ll just pretend we’re—a couple who are—um—interested in romance.’

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