ON THURSDAY EMILY returned to work even though Ramon had wanted her to stay home and rest for the remainder of the week—a preference he’d expressed for the umpteenth time in her kitchen last night. She’d been preparing a simple meal for them and he’d not long been back from a meeting in the city. He’d loosened his tie and collar, rolled his shirt sleeves up his bronzed, muscular forearms and planted his palms on the kitchen island as arguments and counter-arguments had bandied back and forth.
For a brief time Emily had felt as if they were an ordinary couple in the midst of a minor domestic dispute. The thought had left her feeling slightly breathless and flustered, not because it was outlandish or repellent, but rather because it’d sent a flare of unfamiliar warmth through her chest.
No one had ever cared about her enough to argue with her over her choices before.
He cares about the baby. Not you.
The insidious thought elbowed its way into her head and she frowned at her computer screen.
Of course he cared about the baby. And that was all that mattered, she assured herself. He was accepting responsibility for the child they’d conceived and Emily wasn’t hoping for anything more. Certainly not marriage or any long-term commitment beyond his being a loving, supportive father to their child. If her grandfather had been alive he would have demanded that she wed, but the eccentric, formidable Gordon Royce was no longer here, and not even the outrageous financial incentive laid out in his will could persuade Emily to consider a hasty, loveless marriage. No. She and Ramon would take a sensible, modern-day approach and work out some kind of shared custody arrangement. Ultimately they would lead separate lives while keeping things amicable for the sake of their child.
She clicked her mouse and opened a file on her computer. Work. That, if nothing else, would give her a sense of normality, of being in control. And, given that her home and her independence were being seriously encroached upon, she needed to feel in control. Right now she was humouring Ramon, allowing him to assert his dominance because she suspected that underneath all that machismo he, too, was afraid. Who wouldn’t be after experiencing the devastating loss of an unborn child? It was why she was willing to tolerate his over-the-top concerns for her safety and wellbeing—for now.
But he couldn’t camp in her spare room for the next seven and a half months. It wasn’t practical for either of them. He had an office and a home in New York. Clubs and resorts around the world. A jet-setting lifestyle she couldn’t imagine him curtailing for long. And she needed her space. Her equilibrium restored. She could barely think straight with all of that potent, simmering testosterone floating about her home.
Which was why she’d been so desperate to return to work. She needed some distance. Some perspective.
A knock sounded on her office door.
‘Come in,’ she called, glancing up with a twinge of guilt. A closed door sent a message to her staff that she was unavailable. In fact, it was only closed because she’d been making a list of gynaecologists to consider and hadn’t got round to re-opening it.
She pasted on a smile that slid off her face the moment the door opened and Ramon stepped in. Exasperated, she glared at him.
He closed the door. ‘If I didn’t know you were secretly thrilled to see me, querida, I’d take offence at that scowl on your face.’
The endearment combined with his dry wit made her heart skip a beat. She sat back in her chair. ‘I thought you had meetings all day at Citrine?’ She eyed him in his dark pinstriped suit and wondered how many female mouths he’d left watering in his wake that morning. ‘Don’t you have other places to be besides checking up on me?’
One dark eyebrow lifted. ‘Such as?’
‘I don’t know... New York? Paris? The Arctic Circle?’
He sauntered over and lowered his big frame into a chair in front of her desk. ‘You know, you’re cute when you’re not throwing up.’
She sent him a withering look. ‘That’s not funny.’
The twitch of his lips suggested he thought otherwise. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Fine. As fine as I was feeling an hour ago when you called and asked the same question.’
‘Nausea?’
‘Better.’
‘No more vomiting?’
‘Not since this morning.’ When yet again he’d knelt on the bathroom floor and held her hair as she’d wretched into the toilet, then carried her back to bed before returning to the spare room. The fact she’d almost grabbed onto him at the last second and implored him to stay in her bed with her was something she’d deliberately avoided dwelling on today. ‘Honestly,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’
He frowned. ‘“Fine” is not a term I would apply to someone who is throwing up several times a day.’
‘It’s just morning sickness. It won’t kill me.’ She thought of her mother and ruthlessly quashed the inevitable surge of fear.
‘Or it could be hyperemesis gravidarum.’
She blinked. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Severe morning sickness,’ he said. ‘Which could be harmful to both you and the baby.’
She stared at him. ‘How do you even know that term?’
‘It’s in one of the booklets on your coffee table. The ones you said your doctor gave to you.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You have read them, haven’t you?’
She shifted in her chair. ‘I’m working my way through them.’ It was close to the truth. She’d made a start and then given up when she’d felt overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information. She’d educated herself on the basics—what she should and shouldn’t eat, which supplements to take—and that was all she could cope with for now.
‘Good.’ He stood up. ‘Let’s go.’
She frowned. ‘Where?’
‘To lunch.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘You have to eat, Emily.’ His tone grew stern. ‘For you and for the baby.’
The knowledge that he was right—she couldn’t live entirely on crackers and herbal tea—grated against an instinctive urge to rail against the web of control he was slowly weaving around her. She wasn’t accustomed to having her decisions made for her...and yet she understood that he had the best interests of their baby at heart.
And that, she reminded herself once again, was all that mattered right now.
Her baby.
Their baby.
She retrieved her handbag from a drawer and stood. ‘Very well,’ she said, the prospect of trying something other than crackers for lunch not as unappealing as she’d made out. She missed food. Missed her ordinarily healthy appetite.
Before Ramon opened the door, she placed her hand on his forearm. ‘I haven’t told anyone yet,’ she said. ‘Not even Marsha. I’d prefer we keep the pregnancy a secret until I’ve passed the first trimester.’
‘Of course.’
She felt the muscles in his arm tense under her hand and quickly let go. ‘You haven’t told anyone?’
‘No.’
‘Not even your family?’
His mouth tightened fractionally. ‘No one, Emily.’
Sensing she’d ventured into sensitive territory, she left the subject alone, yet as they exited the club through a discreet side entrance she couldn’t help wondering about his family. She’d assumed he would want to tell them almost straight away about the pregnancy but clearly that wasn’t the case. For a moment she thought that was strange and then it occurred to her that she was the last person qualified to make that kind of determination.
What did she know about family?
Sadly, not a lot.
* * *
On Saturday morning Ramon flew to Paris to meet with a team of engineers at Saphir. Apparently there was some structural issue with the enormous swimming pool in the recreation centre and a dispute with the original installation company that was sufficiently serious for him to involve himself.
He’d urged Emily to go with him, but she’d refused. Returning to Paris, to the same place where they’d shared their one night of incredible, mind-blowing sex, would do neither of them any favours. Sharing her home with him, sleeping in separate rooms while every night she yearned for his touch, was challenging enough without stirring up memories safer left buried. Reluctant to leave her alone even for a single night, Ramon had argued, and their heated exchange had acted like lighter fluid on an already blazing fire, ramping up the sexual tension that’d simmered below the surface of their every interaction in the last five days.
Tired and irritable by the week’s end, Emily had told herself she was looking forward to his absence.
Now, after twenty-four hours without his overwhelming, charismatic presence in her home, she had to admit the truth.
She missed him.
Which was lunacy. How could you miss someone who’d been a fixture in your life for less than a week?
She frowned into the bowl of brownie batter she was mixing by hand with a solid wooden spoon. Allowing herself to grow dependent on Ramon would be a mistake. Whatever form their relationship eventually took, he would be there for their child, not for her. And that suited Emily just fine. She needed him to step up and be a father—a better one, hopefully, than Maxwell had been to her—but she didn’t need him to be anything else. Not in the long term.
Curbing her thoughts, she focused on her baking. This morning, for the first time in a week, her nausea had been short-lived and mild enough to avoid a sprint to the bathroom. Taking advantage of the unexpected reprieve, she’d gone for a walk in the autumn sunshine, picked up some fresh produce from a local market, indulged in an early-afternoon nap and then awoken with a fierce, irrepressible craving for chocolate.
She stopped stirring, dipped her finger into the batter for a taste test and closed her eyes as she let her taste buds reach a verdict. The balance of the dark chocolate and the vanilla was perfect. Sliding her finger out of her mouth, she hummed her approval.
‘Dios.’
Emily almost screamed with fright at the deep, gruff voice that echoed through her kitchen. She flattened her palm over her racing heart and turned.
Ramon stood in the doorway, one powerful shoulder propped against the frame, the compact leather holdall he travelled with sitting on the hardwood floor at his feet. In a casual open-necked shirt and thigh-hugging jeans, he looked rugged, gorgeous and a thousand times more mouthwatering than any brownie batter.
A rush of need tightened her belly. ‘I thought you weren’t getting back till later!’
His gaze slid over her, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. ‘Why are you cooking in your underwear?’
Her cheeks burned and she silently cringed. Her pink knickers were the old, practical cotton ones she wore for comfort, and she knew without looking that her stretchy white camisole did little to conceal the fact she was bra-less. She resisted folding her arms over her breasts. ‘I went for a nap.’
He straightened. ‘Are you unwell?’
She stopped herself from executing an exasperated eye roll. ‘No. I was just tired. When I woke up I was craving something sweet and... I was hot...’ It was her only excuse for not having thrown her clothes back on after her nap. She cast him an accusing look. ‘Why did you creep in?’
One corner of his mouth lifted. ‘I didn’t “creep”. I came in quietly in case you were resting.’ He pushed away from the door frame, his gaze trailing over her again, and there was something very deliberate about the way he looked at her. ‘So you’re feeling okay?’
She swallowed, her mouth gone dry. ‘Yes.’ Was her imagination running wild or was the gleam in his eyes almost predatory? She cleared her throat. ‘Did you get the problem with the pool sorted?’
‘Sí.’
He moved closer and her skin started to tingle. She pressed her back against the edge of the bench. ‘Will you need to return next week?’
‘No. Did you miss me, Emily?’
Struggling to keep her breathing even, she shrugged. ‘Not really.’
One dark eyebrow rose. ‘Not at all?’
He moved another inch closer and her limbs weakened. ‘Maybe a tiny bit,’ she relented.
He braced his hands on the counter either side of her. ‘I missed you.’
His voice was low and gravel-rough, and a pulse of excitement flickered in Emily’s throat. She sent her tongue out across her lower lip to alleviate its dryness and heard his breath catch. Raw desire flared in his eyes, and the look of intense arousal on his face, the palpable throb of leashed energy from his big body, was enthralling. Intoxicating. He wanted her, and his patent hunger called on some deep, primitive level to her own equally ravenous desire.
‘What are you making?’
She saw his mouth move, saw those sensuous lips form the words, but couldn’t comprehend the question. ‘What?’ she asked faintly.
He tipped her chin up, forcing her gaze to lift from his beautiful mouth. ‘What are you making?’ he repeated.
This close, she could see the tiny individual pinpricks of the dark stubble along his jaw, feel the impact of the raw heat radiating off him. It shimmered in the air, saturating her skin, slowing the blood in her veins to a sluggish, sensual beat.
She managed to articulate a response. ‘Chocolate brownies.’
‘Doesn’t chocolate contain caffeine?’
As if drawn by the pull of a powerful magnet, her gaze returned to his mouth.
‘Are you going to lecture me,’ she challenged huskily, ‘or kiss me?’
* * *
Ramon slid his mouth over Emily’s and drank in her sweet taste like a man savouring his first sip of water after days trapped in a merciless desert.
Except his deprivation and thirst had lasted for weeks, not days, and this last week had proven by far the most torturous.
Four nights of sleeping in her spare room. Four nights of doing the right thing. Four nights of struggling to dampen the hot embers of desire that constantly threatened to burst into flame and incinerate his restraint, along with his questionable attempts at chivalry.
And the mornings... The mornings were their own special brand of hell. Each time she was sick, a gut-wrenching combination of powerlessness and disgust tore at him. Self-disgust because, even as he carried her back to bed after a bout of illness, his body stirred with an untimely lust he had no ability to switch off.
Last night in Paris had offered no reprieve. And not only because of the constant, gnawing concern about her welfare that he knew in some part of his brain was irrational and extreme. He’d stayed in the same suite they’d shared seven weeks before and realised too late his mistake. Every inch of the place, from the living room, to the bed, to the shower, had teased hot, erotic images from his memory until desire had pounded through him so relentlessly he’d had to rely on his hand to achieve a degree of release.
Flying back today, he’d been as grimly and ruthlessly determined as ever to keep his lust banked and his hands to himself—and then he’d walked in and found her standing in her underwear in the kitchen, with her glorious mane of hair flowing loose over her shoulders and her finger in her mouth like some provocative magazine centrefold.
God forgive him.
He was only human.
Her hands in his hair, her soft body moulded to his, she moaned against his lips, a low, needy sound that ramped up the heat in his body and assured him that she was a willing, enthusiastic participant. Reluctantly, he dragged his mouth from hers. If he didn’t press pause he’d end up taking her right there against the kitchen bench, or on the floor. He gathered her into his arms, strode from the kitchen and halted in the hallway.
Intuiting his quandary, she whispered in his ear. ‘My room.’
Seconds later he lowered her onto her bed and ripped off her scant attire in between pressing hot, urgent kisses to her mouth and throat. When he had her completely naked, he groaned. Her creamy skin was smooth and flawless, her breasts as perfect as he remembered, perhaps even a little fuller. He drew one of her rosy nipples into his mouth and she arched up, drove her hands into his hair and encouraged him with little mewls of delight that intensified the throb of his desire.
She tugged at his shirt, her fingers fumbling with a button. ‘Not fair,’ she panted. ‘I’m the only one naked.’
To which he gave a low chuckle, reluctantly left her side and quickly dispensed with his clothing. Naked, he returned, straddling her legs so he could admire the view while tracing the curves of her body with his hands.
Her stomach was flat, no sign of the life growing inside her evident as yet. But knowing it was there—knowing they’d created it together—flooded him with a fierce sense of possessiveness far more potent than any fear he’d wrestled with in recent days.
The child inside her was his.
She was his.
He leaned over and kissed Emily’s stomach, glancing up as she lifted her head. Their gazes locked and it seemed in those few seconds, with only the sounds of their breathing and the drum of his heartbeat filling his ears, as if something unspoken and powerful passed between them. He dragged his gaze from hers before the strange pressure in his chest could intensify, then went lower, down to the sweet, feminine centre of her body. Gently, he parted her and found her wet and swollen. He slipped his finger inside her, loving the way she panted and writhed.
‘Come for me, mi belleza,’ he commanded, then licked once, and she climaxed almost immediately.
‘Ramon!’
Gasping his name, she dove her fingers into his hair, gripping his scalp as he sucked and licked, extending her orgasm until her keen cries of pleasure became soft whimpers and her whole body went limp. He rose up between her legs, his body taut with tension, his muscles trembling from the effort required to contain his need. He was afraid that, if he plunged into her now, he’d lose control and take her too hard and fast. Dios. Was it possible to hurt the baby?
He rolled onto his back and took her with him so that she sat astride him. Grasping her hips, he positioned her above his erection. This way she’d have control. She seemed to understand because she reached down, wrapped her fingers around his aching shaft and guided the tip to her entrance. For a second he tensed, automatically thinking, Condom, then realised they didn’t need one. He closed his eyes and couldn’t stop a rough cry ripping from his throat as she sank onto him, encasing him in a sheath of silken heat.
Teeth gritted, he kept his pelvis as still as possible, allowing Emily to set the pace and decide how deep to take him. She began to move, her tight, wet heat sliding up and down his shaft, and Ramon’s consciousness narrowed until there was nothing but her sitting atop him, her face contorted with pleasure as she wantonly rode him.
Nothing else filled his head.
No concerns.
No fears.
Just their stunning, mind-blowing chemistry and the shattering pinnacle of a climax more powerful than any he’d ever experienced.
* * *
‘I’ve made an appointment for us to see a gynaecologist on Tuesday.’
Emily’s head rested on Ramon’s chest. She blinked drowsily. His deep voice had registered but she had trouble processing his words. Possibly something to do with the post-coital haze shrouding her brain, she thought with a bloom of lazy satisfaction.
A smile pushed its way onto her mouth. She’d always thought the notion of multiple orgasms was a fallacy, just as she’d always believed she would never be someone who enjoyed sex very much.
Now she knew better.
On both counts.
She thought about the brownie batter, abandoned on the kitchen counter, and smiled again. Who needed chocolate when you could have...?
Suddenly her limbs went from languid to rigid. ‘What did you say?’ She tried to sit up but his arms tightened, keeping her locked against his side. ‘Let me go,’ she demanded.
‘No.’
His abrupt refusal sent a pulse of anger through her. ‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re about to get upset.’
‘I’m already upset,’ she snapped.
‘All the more reason to stay here and calm down.’
Furious, she struggled against him, but he was too strong, his arms like bands of solid steel, his big, muscular thighs trapping one of her own. ‘Fine,’ she bit out after a moment of angry panting and mental cursing. ‘At least let me look at you properly.’
He loosened his hold, just a fraction—enough for her to twist around. The movement brought her breasts into full contact with his chest, and she ignored the puckering of her nipples, the strum of heat in her belly. They were both naked still, the sheets tangled around their feet, the air heavily scented with sex. She looked at him expectantly, and he blew out a breath.
‘You were taking too long to decide on a specialist,’ he said. ‘So I made the decision for us.’
‘Us?’
‘Yes, Emily. Us.’ He propped a hand behind his head, his biceps bunching impressively, and stared down the length of his nose at her. The strong, proud quality of that particular appendage reminded her that many generations of Spanish aristocracy ran through his blood. ‘It’s my baby too.’
His tone chided, and she felt uncomfortably as if she’d been slapped on the wrist. ‘But it’s my body,’ she countered. ‘I should get to choose who looks after it.’ The fact she hadn’t done so yet was beside the point. Damn it, she was pregnant. She was allowed to be indecisive.
‘And when were you planning to make your decision?’
‘Soon,’ she prevaricated.
‘Well, now you don’t need to. I’ve done you a favour.’
‘No, you haven’t. You’ve swooped in and taken control again as if—’ She stopped and drew her bottom lip between her teeth.
‘As if I’m the child’s father?’
A tense silence descended. She couldn’t argue with that simple truth. Then again, she wasn’t in a terribly rational mood. She set her jaw. ‘I’m not going.’
He scowled. ‘You will.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Now you’re being childish.’
‘What are you going to do?’ She gave him an arch look. ‘Spank me?’
He growled and moved so fast she was spread-eagled on her stomach before she’d taken her next breath. A large, heavy palm in the centre of her back kept her playfully pinioned to the mattress with her bottom helplessly bared.
She twisted her head to glare at him. ‘Don’t you dare!’
His grin was wicked and devastatingly sexy. He didn’t spank her—she hadn’t really thought he would—but he did hold her down, run his hand up the inside of her thigh and do things with his fingers, and later his tongue, that made her whimper, plead and promise to do absolutely anything he commanded.
Afterwards, they lay together again, Emily’s cheek pressed to his chest, one arm flung over the hard, beautifully sculpted surface of his abdomen.
‘Which gynaecologist?’
He told her the name and her eyes widened. He had chosen a Harley Street specialist. One she had struck from her list of potential private ob-gyns because the cost was too prohibitive and he was bound to have a waiting list.
Clearly, there were certain benefits to be reaped when the father of one’s baby was a billionaire.
Her gaze drifted to the pearl necklace lying on the nightstand. Feeling hot and sticky earlier, she’d taken it off before her nap and forgotten to put it back on.
The pearl was the only possession she had of her mother’s. Surprisingly, her father had given it to her. He’d left it in a small velvet box on her bedroom dressing table in her grandfather’s mansion a few days before her sixteenth birthday, while she’d still been at boarding school. There’d been a handwritten note with it—nothing elaborate, just three short sentences in her father’s untidy scrawl:
This belonged to your mother.
She would have wanted you to have it.
Happy Birthday.
Maxwell
Not Love, Dad.
Just Maxwell.
Her throat tightened. She’d heard people say you couldn’t miss something you’d never had, but Emily knew that wasn’t true. She’d never known her mother, but she had missed her desperately throughout her life. When Emily was ten, Mrs Thorne, in a rare moment of compassion, had given her two photographs of her mother and she had cherished them, looking at them often and longing to know more about the woman with the wild blonde curls and the pretty smile. But Mrs Thorne, when asked, had said she hadn’t known Kathryn very well and had told Emily to ask her father.
It had taken Emily six months to work up the courage to broach the subject during one of his infrequent visits, and then Maxwell had brushed her curiosity aside.
Closing her eyes, she held her breath and listened to the sound of Ramon’s heart beating. It was strong and powerful, much like the man himself. How had she ever drawn parallels between Ramon and her father? They weren’t cut from the same cloth. She saw that now.
If her mother had had someone like Ramon by her side during her pregnancy, ensuring she received the proper care and attention, would she have lived?
Emily would never know the answer. She would never know her mother and she could do nothing to change that. But she could do everything within her power to ensure her child would grow up knowing its mother.
‘I’ll go to the appointment on Tuesday,’ she said softly, and he kissed the top of her head.
‘Gracias, mi belleza.’