MR LINDSAY, THE Harley Street specialist, was a mild-mannered, softly spoken man to whom Emily warmed at once despite the nerves jangling in her belly in the hours leading up to the appointment. As an expectant mother she felt as if she should be more excited about her first prenatal visit, but it simply made a situation she still grappled to cope with all the more stark and real.
Mr Lindsay smiled from the other side of his big desk in his big, plush medical suite. ‘Do you have a rough idea of when you conceived?’
Emily felt her face flame. Was it normal to know the exact date you’d conceived? Or did that scream one-night stand?
Just as she opened her mouth to stammer out an answer, Ramon smoothly intervened, supplying the date and then adding, ‘We think it was around then, at any rate.’ From the chair beside hers, he gave her a warm, encouraging smile. ‘It’s hard to say exactly, isn’t it, querida?’
She nodded, returned his smile and tried to transmit a ‘thank you’ with her eyes.
She was glad he was there—a turnaround from this morning, admittedly, when she’d told him she’d prefer to come alone. A waste of breath, of course. He’d been adamant about attending with her, and no argument had come close to changing his mind.
Mr Lindsay did a swift calculation and pronounced a due date, and Emily’s breath locked in her lungs for a moment. In just under thirty-one weeks her baby would be born. Suddenly, it all felt very real.
And very frightening.
She tried to focus, answering Mr Lindsay’s questions to the best of her ability. After a while her head spun. The checklist was exhaustive. Medications, supplements, health conditions...
‘Any family history of miscarriages or complications with pregnancy?’
Emily froze. She’d anticipated the question, but now the time was here the words jammed in her throat. A chill rippled over her skin—a whisper of the fear she’d tried until now to ignore—and she shivered. The seconds stretched and her silence grew awkward, embarrassing, but still she couldn’t unlock her voice. And then Ramon reached over and closed his fingers around hers, stilling their shaking. He squeezed, his touch firm. Reassuring. She looked down at their joined hands, the panic abating, then inhaled deeply. ‘My mother died in childbirth,’ she said.
Mr Lindsay looked up from his notes. ‘Your birth?’
‘Yes.’
His expression was grave. ‘I’m very sorry,’ he said. ‘Do you know the details?’
‘Not really. I think it might have been pre-eclampsia.’
He scribbled a note, then put his pen down and clasped his hands together on his desk. He stared directly into her eyes. ‘Emily, it’s perfectly natural given your history to feel some fear about your pregnancy,’ he said, ‘but I want to assure you both—’ he glanced at Ramon, then back at Emily ‘—that you’ll be receiving exceptional care throughout every stage of your journey. We’ll take extra precautions, with frequent check-ups and regular testing, and keep a close watch on your blood pressure.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘We’ll do a physical exam and an ultrasound today to check everything is fine,’ he continued. ‘There won’t be much to see, however. It will be another six weeks at least until we can determine your baby’s sex.’
‘Oh.’ She blinked. Did she want to know her baby’s sex before it was born? She glanced uncertainly at Ramon. Would it matter to him if their child was a girl or a boy? It didn’t matter to Emily. And the crazy clause in her grandfather’s will certainly didn’t sway her one way or another. Gordon Royce had been a fool to attach such an outrageous condition to a large part of his legacy. Even if she had a boy she wouldn’t accept the money. It could go to charity for all she cared. ‘I don’t think I want to know that anyway,’ she said. ‘I mean—’ she glanced again at Ramon ‘—I’d rather it was a surprise, if you don’t mind.’
He shrugged. ‘Of course.’
Half an hour later, her first prenatal check-up was over. Ramon had sat in the waiting room while she’d undergone the exam and the ultrasound. She emerged and smiled at him. His coming with her today had shifted something and their connection felt less tenuous, less fragile. It was something Emily hadn’t experienced before—a close connection with another person. It gave her hope. Hope that her bond with her baby would be strong. That she’d be a good mother. That her child would love her.
Ramon held her hand as they stepped out into the warm autumn sunshine. Outside, they paused on the pristine Mayfair pavement, waiting for his driver to arrive. Emily looked up at him, at those gorgeous, perfectly landscaped features, and her heart performed a slow somersault in her chest. She opened her mouth, wanting to thank him, to tell him how much his support meant to her today, but a bright pop of light stopped her in her tracks.
‘Mr de la Vega! Who’s the lady? Is she knocked up? Is it yours?’
The lone paparazzo fired off another round of shutter clicks. Scowling, Ramon turned Emily into him, cupping the back of her head and pressing her face protectively into his shoulder.
‘When’s the kid due?’
Ramon swore under his breath, and then their car pulled up and he was bundling her into the back of the sleek black sedan. The second they were safely ensconced, the driver sped off. Heart pounding, Emily sucked in a shaky breath and cast a stricken look at Ramon.
His face was thunderous.
* * *
‘You’ll marry her, I assume.’
The statement carried a faint air of command. Ramon gritted his teeth. If he could have reached down the phone line and strangled his brother with his bare hands, he would have. There were never any grey areas with Xavier. Life was comprised of black and white.
Right and wrong.
Do or don’t.
Right now Xav was urging him towards the ‘do’. More specifically, the words ‘I do’.
‘I’ll make that decision when I’m ready.’
A short silence. ‘You are taking responsibility for the child?’
Ramon ground his teeth a little harder. Xav’s opinion of him really did scrape the bottom of the barrel. ‘Of course,’ he bit out.
He curled his hand into a fist on the desk top and absently cast his gaze over the office that had belonged to Maxwell Royce. In recent days Ramon had staked a more permanent claim on the space, using it as his main base from which to work while in London. He leaned back in the chair, his mind working overtime as it had for the past twenty-four hours. Perhaps he should stake a more permanent claim on the man’s daughter as well. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t already entertained the idea many times over.
‘Mamá and Papá are upset they had to find out this way.’
Ramon couldn’t help but hear the implicit criticism in his brother’s voice. The unspoken words.
You’ve hurt them. Again.
‘Why did you not tell us?’ Xav demanded.
‘We haven’t told anyone. It’s too soon. The pregnancy was only confirmed last week.’
‘Did you not think the photos would surface?’
He’d thought, hoped, they would make a small, scarcely visible splash. Certainly here in England that had been the case, thanks to a minor royal and her very public skirmish with law enforcement dominating the tabloids. Spain was a different story, however. Every gossip site had picked up the photograph of him and Emily standing outside a Harley Street gynaecologist’s clinic. In addition, the shot taken of them outside Saphir in Paris over seven weeks ago had surfaced.
‘The photos are unfortunate,’ he said tightly.
A heavy sigh came down the line. ‘Hector’s been on the phone. He’s on his high horse again. He says the board will have some natural concerns about the potential for negative reaction from our more conservative shareholders.’
‘Tell Hector he can go scr—’
‘I did.’
Ramon leaned back in his chair. His cool, diplomatic brother had told Hector where to go? That was a conversation he would have liked to witness.
‘But he has a point.’ Xav’s voice was weary. ‘This kind of publicity could have a negative impact on both the business and the family.’ He was silent. ‘Marry the Royce woman and make this right, Ramon. It’s what Mamá and Papá will expect. Make them happy. Don’t bring disgrace on the family.’
He didn’t add the word ‘again’, but he didn’t need to.
The inference was loud and clear.
* * *
‘I made you some tea.’ Marsha walked across the office and placed a mug of steaming liquid on Emily’s desk. ‘It’s ginger,’ she said. ‘For the nausea.’
Emily managed a grateful smile. ‘Thanks.’
‘Can I do anything else?’
‘No. Thank you. You’re doing plenty. Have there been many more calls?’
A scowl formed on Marsha’s pretty face. ‘Those tabloid journalists are scum,’ she declared. ‘Honestly, the things they have the nerve to ask—’ She broke off, perhaps seeing Emily’s silent wince. Quickly, she added, ‘But they’re not worth fretting over. And they’re not getting anything from me but a “no comment”.’
Emily nodded, gratitude surging again. From the moment her pregnancy had become fodder for the tabloids, her assistant had been a godsend. Seventy-two hours of online speculation and gossip had taken its toll, however, and it seemed even Marsha’s sweet, patient disposition was being tested.
Emily waited until the younger woman had left before dropping her head in her hands. Humiliation swamped her. This was not how she’d wanted her pregnancy revealed to the world. It was embarrassing and intrusive, and she didn’t want even to think about the impact it could have on The Royce. So often she’d swept her father’s scandalous behaviour under the carpet, condemning him for his irresponsibility and lack of discretion. Not once had she ever imagined that she would cause a scandal.
At least they hadn’t made the front page of the papers, although the online gossip sites were having a field day. Emily had fought her curiosity until a moment of weakness had struck. She’d regretted the impulse as soon as she’d clicked on the photo of her and Ramon standing outside the clinic. It made her want to crawl into a very deep hole and never come out. The paparazzo had snapped them just as she had looked up at Ramon, and the expression on her face...
Oh, God.
A fresh wave of humiliation struck. The photo made her look besotted. Infatuated. In love. Which was ridiculous. Yes, they were sleeping together—something she knew they’d have to stop doing eventually—but she wasn’t in love with him. How could she be? She didn’t know the first thing about love.
‘Emily.’
She jerked her head up, an immediate shiver running down her spine. She mightn’t love Ramon, but his deep voice nevertheless held the power to elicit a swift, visceral response. He moved from the doorway, a mouthwatering mix of raw masculinity and sharp, sophisticated style. He didn’t own a single suit that didn’t fit his broad frame to utter perfection. The casual look he sported in the evenings in her home was the one she’d come to prefer of late, however. Faded jeans, tee shirt and bare feet. Until recently, she hadn’t realised how sexy a man’s feet could be.
‘Emily?’
She started. ‘Sorry?’
‘I asked if you’re all right.’
‘Of course.’ A lie. She was a mass of tension and nerves.
‘Do you have much more work to do?’
Bereft of her usual focus and energy, she looked at the report on her desk. The one she’d stared blankly at for the last hour. She glanced at her watch. It was only four o’clock. ‘A bit,’ she said.
‘Finish up and come with me.’
She frowned at his commanding tone. ‘Where?’
‘It’s a surprise.’
‘You know I don’t like surprises.’
His smile was gentle enough to melt her insides. And her resistance.
‘Humour me,’ he said.
* * *
An hour later Emily stood in the centre of an enormous living room on the lower floor of a beautiful late nineteenth-century mansion in Chelsea.
‘What do you think?’
Slowly, she turned and looked at Ramon. He stood in front of the big window that overlooked the large fenced-in front garden, rays of late-afternoon sunshine highlighting the rich, glossy mahogany of his hair. His jacket was undone, his tie was loosened and his hands were thrust casually into his trouser pockets.
Emily wasn’t fooled, however.
Every hard inch of him radiated tension.
She gazed up at the moulded ceiling and the beautiful, intricate glass chandelier above her head. ‘It’s stunning.’ More than stunning, she thought. Even unfurnished, the three-storey, seven-bedroom residence was breathtaking.
Having grown up in her grandfather’s mansion north of London, she wasn’t unaccustomed to large houses. But, while the interior of her grandfather’s home had been characterised by dark wood and heavy, oppressive furnishings, this house was light and airy, its preserved period features interspersed with touches of contemporary luxury that gave it an elegant, timeless appeal.
And the kitchen!
Emily had salivated over the walk-in pantry, the giant stove, the hand-crafted cabinetry with oodles of storage space and the massive custom-designed granite countertops offering plenty of room for culinary experimentation.
Her heart had soared with excitement, and then just as quickly had dropped.
This was a ‘for ever’ home. The kind where kids grew up and couples grew old. Where families laughed and argued and loved and cried. Where children and grandchildren came back for Christmases and birthdays and boisterous reunions—the kind you saw in movies or read about in books that guaranteed you a happy ending.
It wasn’t the sort of home a billionaire playboy considered buying.
Sadness weighted her down. ‘Ramon,’ she whispered, a wealth of feeling and helplessness pouring into that single utterance of his name.
His gaze held hers and she thought maybe he understood. Thought he might be experiencing some of the same turmoil she was. He crossed to where she stood and curled his hands over her shoulders. She wanted to press a finger against his lips so he couldn’t say the words, but her limbs were frozen, her breath locked in her chest.
‘Marry me.’
She closed her eyes. ‘I can’t.’
He was silent a moment. ‘You’re saying that because you’re scared.’
She lifted her lids. ‘Aren’t you?’
A muscle worked in his jaw. ‘Yes,’ he confessed, the word seeming to drag from the depths of his throat. ‘But fear isn’t a reason to avoid doing the right thing.’
She drew a deep breath. ‘Is that what we’d be doing? The right thing?’
His brows lowered. ‘Of course.’
‘How do you know it’s the right thing?’ she challenged softly.
His eyes hardened a fraction. ‘Providing our child with a stable home with both parents isn’t the right thing?’
She swallowed. He painted a nice picture. And, if she let herself, she could easily indulge the fantasy. Imagine them living here as husband and wife, raising their child in this beautiful home. ‘Is this what you want, Ramon? A life of domesticity? Tied down with a wife and child?’
His jaw flexed. He dropped his hands from her shoulders. ‘I’m thirty years old. Most men settle down eventually.’
Her chest grew heavier. ‘I’m not asking what other men do. I’m asking if it’s what you want. If Paris hadn’t happened,’ she pressed. ‘If I wasn’t pregnant, would you be thinking about giving up your bachelor lifestyle?’
‘But you are pregnant, Emily.’ His voice turned a shade cooler. ‘With my child.’ He paced away, turned back. ‘Would you relegate me to the role of part-time father? Someone who breezes in and out of our child’s life whenever the custody arrangement tells me I can?’
Emily felt her face blanch. That was exactly the kind of arrangement she’d assumed they would agree upon. But Ramon’s description made her blood run cold. Made her think of all the times she’d curled up on her bed as a little girl and cried, believing her daddy didn’t care enough to visit her.
A fluttery, panicky feeling worked its way up her throat. ‘But what about us?’
He moved closer, eyes narrowing. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean...’ she hesitated, colour seeping back into her face ‘...us—our relationship. You’re talking about a long-term commitment. Or at least until our child has grown and left home. That could be twenty years, Ramon. Twenty years of commitment to our child...and me. Twenty years with no other...’ She hesitated, her chest suddenly constricting.
‘Women?’ he supplied.
She lifted her chin. ‘I won’t tolerate that kind of relationship.’
‘Marriage,’ he corrected. ‘We’re talking about marriage, Emily. And, yes, I understand the full implications of such a commitment. For the record—’ he grasped her chin and locked his gaze on hers ‘—I won’t tolerate that kind of marriage either.’
She blinked. A part of her wanted to believe him. Another part of her said it didn’t matter if she believed him or not, because all of this was hypothetical.
Besides, pledging his faithfulness now, when they were still burning up the sheets, was easy. How would his vows hold up when she was heavy and listless with his child, or exhausted from juggling the demands of motherhood and a job?
He clasped her shoulders again. ‘We’re good together, querida. Are you denying that?’
‘Lust is hardly a foundation for marriage.’
The hard line of his mouth softened. ‘But it’s a good starting point, sí?’
Love was supposed to be the starting point for marriage, she thought. But then what did she know?
She stepped back, forcing his hands to drop. ‘It’s a beautiful house,’ she said, casting a final look around the room. ‘But I... I just need some time to think.’
* * *
Emily didn’t stop thinking. Not for a single waking minute. For the next forty-eight hours, her mind spun and her stomach churned and Ramon waited on her answer with barely leashed impatience.
At two a.m. on Sunday morning she sat on the cushioned window seat in her lounge, staring out at the moonlit night, her mother’s pearl tucked in her hand. She laid her other hand over her stomach and knew instinctively the bond she had feared mightn’t grow between her and her child was already there. She could feel it with each beat of her heart. A strong, deep connection unlike anything else she’d ever known. It filled her with a fierce resolve to nurture and protect. To do whatever was best for her child. To give it the best life possible and shield him or her from the same bitter hurts and disappointments she’d suffered as a child.
Breathing deeply, she rose and went back to bed. Ramon lay on his back, the white cotton sheet bunched around his waist, his bare chest rising and falling. The sound of his deep, steady breathing was familiar and somehow comforting. She slipped off her robe and climbed between the sheets.
Ramon stirred, his arm lifting so she could curl into his side. ‘Emily?’ His voice was a sexy, sleep-roughened rumble.
‘I’m fine.’ She snuggled close and leaned on her elbow. ‘Ramon?’
He caressed her hip. ‘Sí?’
‘Yes,’ she said softly.
He went still. And then he deftly turned her onto her back. He didn’t say anything. He just stroked his fingers over her hair. Her cheek. Her mouth. And then he kissed her. Long, deep and hard.