SIX WEEKS.
That was how long it was before Ramon finally returned to London, although it had taken considerably less time for him to conclude that his morning-after behaviour in Paris had been reprehensible.
Abominable.
He hadn’t reacted well to rejection. Yes, Emily could have handled the situation with more grace than she had, but his own behaviour had lacked any degree of decorum. He wasn’t unfamiliar with self-contempt and regret, but until that weekend those particular demons had not sat so heavily on his soul in a long time.
So he’d respected Emily’s wishes and stayed away, keeping their communication to a minimum.
But six weeks was long enough. He was done with the polite, impersonal emails. The short, stilted phone calls. She still hadn’t hired a replacement accountant and he wanted to know why. If she was keeping the position open in the hope that he would grant Turner a pardon and allow her to invite the man back, she was courting disappointment.
He walked down the carpeted corridor on the executive level of The Royce and saw Marsha sitting at her desk. At his approach, her eyes widened and she jumped up as if she’d been stuck with a cattle prod. ‘Mr de la Vega! I didn’t know we were expecting you.’
‘You weren’t.’ He unleashed a good-humoured smile and gestured to the closed door of Emily’s office. ‘Is she in?’
‘Er...no.’
‘When will she be back?’
She blinked then stared at him.
‘Marsha?’ he prompted.
‘I... I don’t know.’
He frowned. ‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’
‘I mean...she’s not in today. She’s sick...’ Marsha bit her lip. ‘At least, I think she’s sick... She rang yesterday morning and said she was taking the day off—which is very unusual. And then today...she left a message on my phone early this morning, saying she’d be in before noon, but I haven’t seen her yet.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s after two p.m.’
Marsha wrung her hands. ‘I know.’
‘Have you tried calling her?’ he demanded.
‘Twice. I left her two messages. She hasn’t called back.’
An icy sensation hollowed out his gut. That didn’t sound like the dedicated, conscientious Emily Royce he knew.
‘Call me if you hear from her,’ he commanded and turned on his heel.
* * *
Emily opened her eyes.
Someone was pounding on her door. Or was it the pounding in her head that she hadn’t been able to shake for two days that she could hear?
Her doorbell chimed, the sound piercing in the silence of her flat, and Emily groaned. It was a week day and her neighbours should all be at work, except for Mr Johnson, who was retired. But he had never climbed the stairs to visit her. Of course, he could have forgotten to lock the main entrance again, in which case the person banging on her door could be a stranger.
She groaned again, closed her eyes and snuggled deeper into the softness of the sofa.
‘Emily!’
She froze, the sound of her name being barked on the other side of the door forcing its way into her stress-addled mind. She knew that voice. Deep, masculine...
‘Emily!’
She sat up—too fast, apparently, because her stomach performed a sharp lurch and roll.
Ramon was at her door.
The knowledge sent a rush of heat over her skin followed closely by a cold wave of dread.
He knows.
She swallowed hard and fought down the flare of irrational panic with a forced dose of sanity.
Of course he doesn’t know.
She’d only found out for herself a little over a day ago, though she’d had her suspicions for almost three weeks before visiting her doctor.
The doorbell pealed again, repeatedly, as if he were leaning on it, and she threw off the light cotton throw she’d curled under and urged her legs to move. When she opened the door a moment later, the thought came to her, much too late, that she looked a mess.
The fact that Ramon looked both powerful and sexy in his immaculate three-piece suit made her feel hot and unaccountably irritable at the same time.
She dragged her attention from his body, blotting out images in her head that she’d tried hard for the last six weeks to forget, and focused on his face. A deep frown marred his brow.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘I knocked for ages.’
‘I was asleep.’
His gaze tracked over her grey tee shirt and black yoga pants then returned to her face. Her very pale, make-up-less face. ‘Are you unwell?’
‘Yes—no...’ She shook her head. Tried to bring some semblance of order to her thoughts. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I went to the club,’ he said. ‘Marsha thought you might be sick. You haven’t returned her calls.’
Confusion descended. She glanced at her watch and her heart lurched. It couldn’t be almost three o’clock! It’d been only ten a.m. when she had decided to take some painkillers and lie down for half an hour before heading into work. She’d slept for almost five hours which, now that she thought about it, wasn’t all that surprising given she hadn’t slept a wink during the night.
She put her hand to her forehead, guilt surging. ‘Oh, no. Poor Marsha.’ She turned towards the hall table where she’d left her phone. ‘I need to call her.’
Not waiting for an invitation, Ramon stepped inside and closed the door. ‘That can wait,’ he said, taking hold of her shoulders and turning her to face him.
Emily tensed. His touch had been seared into her memory ever since Paris, but memory was no match for the reality of having his hands on her body, even in a non-sexual way. Her heart raced and she felt warm, a little lightheaded.
His gaze scoured her face. ‘Something’s wrong,’ he stated, his voice firm with certainty. ‘What is it, Emily?’
Fear gripped her throat and for a moment she couldn’t speak. Revealing her condition was something she had planned to do in her own time, when she had managed to come to terms with it herself. She’d wanted to put careful thought into how she would tell him, but now he was here and she no longer had that luxury. She had to tell him now, because the alternative was to lie, and she couldn’t do that. Not about something so important, so potentially life-changing.
She swallowed, her throat painfully dry. ‘I think you’d better come in.’
His hands dropped from her shoulders, and she knew a moment’s regret, because their weight and warmth had felt oddly steadying in the midst of the tumult occurring in her body and mind.
But soon, very soon, he would share the tumult. And then he might not feel so inclined to offer support.
Her stomach churning, she led him through to her lounge. Like the rest of her flat, it was light and spacious, and decorated by her own hand, the palette of soft creams, pale lemons and blues intended to create an elegant, soothing space that invited one to relax. She loved this room, but she was conscious now that in less than nine months’ time the cream carpet and pale colour scheme would be terribly impractical.
She stood by the sofa, thought about offering him tea or coffee—or something stronger—then decided against it. She doubted he would stay for long.
‘I’m pregnant.’ Saying the words out loud made her knees do a little wobble, but she stayed standing, even as a renewed bout of nausea rolled through her.
In the middle of the room, Ramon went as still as a statue, and his face... A small, detached part of her mind was fascinated by the way the colour slid right out from under his skin, leaving a pallor that made it look as if someone had tipped a bucket of whitewash over him.
Emily wrapped her arms around her middle. Waited for him to say the words she imagined most men came out with in this situation.
Is it mine?
The seconds ticked by in heavy silence, and she felt as if she were a character in some tacky scene from an over-dramatic soap opera. The final line of dialogue had been delivered and the actors had paused for dramatic effect before the show cut to a commercial break. The random thought nearly tore a hysterical giggle from her before she caught herself. She closed her eyes. What was wrong with her? Nothing about this was funny.
‘Have you confirmed it with a doctor?’
It took her a moment to realise it wasn’t the question she’d expected. That he wasn’t doubting that he was the father. Wasn’t insulting her by suggesting there were other men to whom she could point the finger. ‘Yesterday,’ she said, her throat growing thick with something awfully like gratitude.
A glazed look entered his eyes and she knew he was processing. ‘We used protection.’
Emily had said those same words to herself, over and over. It hadn’t changed the outcome. She shrugged. ‘Condoms aren’t foolproof,’ she offered. ‘And maybe...the shower...?’ Their gazes locked, the sudden, scalding intensity of his transmitting loud and clear that he hadn’t forgotten the things they’d done to each other under the steaming water.
Ramon looked away, dragged his hand over his mouth and breathed in hard, his nostrils flaring. ‘Give me a minute,’ he said abruptly, and walked out of the room.
Emily stared after him, her breath locking in her chest as realisation struck and her stomach curled into a hard, familiar knot of resignation. Ramon was walking away, doing exactly what she’d expected him to do, exactly what she had known he would—so why was a silly sob pushing its way up her throat?
She slapped her hand over her mouth but she was too slow and the sob escaped, making a loud, choked, hiccupping sound. A humiliating sound.
Ramon appeared in the doorway, his brows clamped together. ‘Emily?’
She jerked her hand down. ‘Just go.’ Somehow she managed to inject some backbone into her voice. ‘I’m fine. I don’t need you to stay. This is my problem to deal with.’
He stood looking at her for a long moment, then he stalked across the room and her heart surged into her throat. He looked angry but, as he drew closer, the hard lines bracketing his mouth resembled determination more than fury. He stopped in front of her, lifted his hands and framed her face. The warm pressure of his palms against her cheeks made her pulse skitter. ‘I am not leaving,’ he said. ‘I am going downstairs to dismiss my driver and then I’m coming back here so we can talk.’
She stared at him in stunned silence.
‘Do you understand me, Emily?’
Her brain told her a simple ‘yes’ would suffice, but her throat suddenly felt too tight to speak. So she simply nodded. And then she sank onto the sofa, watched him leave and waited for him to return.
* * *
Ramon braced his palms on the wall outside Emily’s flat and sucked in one lungful of air after another.
He didn’t need to go downstairs. A simple text message to his driver had done the job. But he’d needed an excuse to grab a moment alone, to get a handle on himself—on the turbulent emotions storming through him.
Dios.
He wanted to run. To somewhere. To anywhere. As fast and as far away as his legs would carry him.
How the hell had this happened?
Stupid question. He knew how it had happened. He’d been reckless. Unthinking. And now he was the father of an unborn child.
Another unborn child.
Another innocent life to destroy.
His breath shuddered out of him. He wasn’t meant to be a father, or a husband. Husbands and fathers were supposed to protect the people close to them and Ramon had already failed that test on a spectacular scale. He kept people, his family included, at arm’s length for a good reason: to protect them from himself.
He swallowed hard and straightened, a grim sense of determination rising in him, pushing through the turmoil, calming both his thoughts and his breathing. It was the same determination that had seen him do his family and friends a favour by walking away from them twelve years ago, except this time Ramon wouldn’t be walking away. How could he? He’d been presented with an opportunity to protect his unborn child—an opportunity he’d been denied all those years ago. He’d barely processed Emily’s revelation, but he had enough clarity of mind to recognise that he was being given a rare second chance. A chance to do something right...this time.
He pulled out his phone, called Marsha and told her Emily had the flu and wouldn’t be back for at least two days.
When he re-entered the flat she was sitting on one end of the cream sofa where he’d left her. Her hands were clasped on her knees, her grey eyes big and unblinking. They grew even larger when she saw him as though, in spite of his assurances, she hadn’t truly believed until that moment that he’d return. That she’d assumed he would desert her filled him with too many emotions to examine. He removed his suit jacket and draped it over the back of an armchair.
‘It’s yours,’ she said.
He turned to her. ‘Pardon?’
‘The baby.’ Her fingers fiddled with the pearl around her neck. ‘It’s yours.’
He sat beside her, clasped her chin and forced her gaze up when she tried to look away. ‘I know.’
Her tongue came out to moisten her lips in a nervous gesture that he shouldn’t have found arousing in the circumstances—but he had lain in bed and thought about those lips on many nights during the past six weeks of self-imposed celibacy, and they were just as lush and pretty as he remembered.
He dropped his hand. ‘I’m sorry, Emily.’
‘What for?’
‘For the way I behaved in Paris. I wanted another night with you. When you refused, I didn’t like it,’ he confessed. ‘I was out of order.’
She shrugged. ‘I’m not proud of my behaviour, either. And, since we’re making apologies...’ colour seeped into her pale face ‘...I didn’t sleep with you because I was drunk.’
He knew that, but the part of his male ego she’d wounded six weeks ago appreciated hearing it all the same. He lifted his hand again and traced the elegant arch of one cheekbone with his thumb. ‘You look tired,’ he remarked. ‘And pale. Have you eaten today?’
She shook her head, her long, untethered curls tumbling about her shoulders. ‘I’ve been a bit ill.’
‘Are you drinking plenty of water?’
‘Some...not as much as I should.’ She stood up, her plain tee shirt and stretchy black leggings emphasising that she’d lost weight.
He frowned. Just how ill had she been?
‘Actually, I could kill a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘I’ll make us a pot.’
‘Sit.’ He rose to his feet. ‘I’ll do it.’ Her eyes widened and he adopted an affronted air. ‘You don’t think I can make tea?’ he challenged.
A faint smile crossed her features. ‘I’m sure you’re very capable. But it’s my kitchen and I know where everything is. And I’ve done nothing all day... I need to move.’
He let her go without further protest, then sauntered to the window, thrust his hands in his pockets and studied the street below. He let his thoughts run to practical matters. The building wasn’t wired with a security system and that bothered him. The neighbourhood seemed respectable but good neighbourhoods weren’t immune to crime. The building’s current security measures were flimsy and not helped by her downstairs neighbour who repeatedly left the main entry unlocked. Ramon had walked straight in today, just as he had six weeks ago.
And the stairs...three flights of them. Should pregnant women climb stairs every day?
He heard movement behind him and turned. Emily carried a wooden tray bearing a blue china teapot and matching cups. He waited for her to place the tray on the coffee table before he spoke. ‘You can’t stay here.’
She looked up, one hand gripping the handle of the teapot. She frowned as if he’d spouted something unintelligible. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Come and stay with me at Citrine.’
‘Your West End club?’
‘Yes. I’m using the penthouse. I can make it available for us long-term.’
Slowly, she put the teapot down and straightened. ‘Why?’
‘Because it’s safer. And closer to work for you.’ He paused. ‘Not that you’ll want to do that for much longer, of course.’
She stared at him. ‘What are you talking about?’
He pulled his hands from his pockets and reminded himself that she was tired and stressed. Most likely not thinking straight. ‘Emily,’ he said patiently, walking towards her. ‘Your life is about to change. Permanently. We need to consider what’s best for you and the baby.’
‘What’s best for me,’ she said, her voice rising a notch, ‘is to stay in my own home.’
‘It’s not secure here.’
‘This is a decent neighbourhood!’
He put his hands on her shoulders to calm her, but she shrugged him off and took a step back.
‘Bad things happen in good neighbourhoods all the time,’ he said. ‘And what about the stairs? How do you think you’ll cope with those in six months’ time?’
She put her palms to her cheeks. ‘Ramon—just slow down for a minute. Please.’
‘Emily. We need to talk about these things.’
She shook her head.
‘Make some decisions,’ he pressed. ‘Think about the future.’
‘Oh, my God.’ She scrunched her eyes closed. ‘Next you’ll be suggesting we get married.’
Her tone was incredulous and Ramon clenched his jaw, jamming his hands back into his pockets. Marriage ranked right alongside fatherhood on his list of undesirable scenarios, but he’d be lying if he said the idea hadn’t crossed his mind in the last twenty minutes.
When he remained silent, she opened her eyes and gave him a blunt look. ‘I’m not marrying you.’ She picked up the teapot and started pouring as if she hadn’t just plunged a knife into the heart of his male pride. ‘And besides...’ She set the pot down and straightened again. ‘Don’t you think all these suggestions are a little premature? I’m only six weeks along and—’ She hesitated, biting her lip for a moment, her gaze lowering. ‘Miscarriages aren’t uncommon in the first twelve weeks of pregnancy,’ she finished quietly.
This time her words cut deeper than his pride and he felt their impact like a cold blade under his ribs. The sharp reminder of history only strengthened his resolve. ‘I know,’ he said, deciding then and there on a more ruthless approach. ‘I’ve lost a child before.’
The look of shock on Emily’s face was swift and complete. Her hand flew to her stomach. ‘Oh, Ramon... I’m so sorry. That must’ve been awful.’
He picked up a cup and took a mouthful of black tea, welcoming the hit of warmth in his stomach. ‘It’s ancient history,’ he said, replacing the cup. ‘But, yes, the experience was difficult. My girlfriend miscarried and I was helpless to prevent it.’ It wasn’t the full story but hopefully enough to elicit Emily’s sympathy. With a hand on her slender waist, he guided her to the sofa, handed her her tea as she sat and pressed home his advantage. ‘You’re clearly not well,’ he observed. ‘And you could have some challenging months ahead. Why stay here alone when there’s an alternative?’
She shook her head, her jaw taking on a stubborn tilt. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re pale and weak.’
‘I’m in shock,’ she defended. ‘I haven’t known about this for much longer than you have. And I have a bit of morning sickness, that’s all.’
He sat down beside her. ‘Your mother died in childbirth.’ He delivered the words as gently as he could, but still her face drained of what little colour it possessed. Ramon himself wasn’t unaffected by the statement. The thought of Emily dying evoked a dark, volatile emotion that tore through his chest.
Her hand rose to her throat and he saw her fingers tremble as they closed around the pearl. When her gaze met his, the naked appeal in her eyes reached into his gut like a fist and squeezed. ‘Can we just slow this down?’ she implored him. ‘Take one day at a time? Please?’
He inhaled a deep breath. ‘Slow’ wasn’t how he preferred to do things but he knew that pushing Emily too hard in her current state would be counterproductive. Which meant a change of tack was required. He expelled his breath, making a swift decision. ‘Of course,’ he said, then got to his feet and pulled out his phone.
She frowned. ‘Who are you calling?’
‘Someone who’ll arrange to have my things packed and brought over.’
Her eyes rounded. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘If you stay,’ he said, ‘then so do I.’
She stared at him and then she flopped against the sofa and slapped her hand over her forehead. ‘Oh, my God.’ Her laugh held a touch of hysteria. ‘You’re really not leaving.’
Calmly, he hit the number for the concierge at Citrine and put the phone to his ear.
Emily glowered at him.
He glowered back. ‘Drink your tea, Emily.’
* * *
Emily awoke with a violent shiver. She felt cold. She lifted her head and saw she’d thrown the duvet and sheets off some time during the night. She’d had a hot flush, she suddenly remembered. Was that a symptom of early pregnancy? Or was it more to do with the man who was sleeping in the spare room across the hall?
She squinted at her clock. Four a.m.
Sighing, she dragged the duvet over her and stared at the ceiling. None of this felt real. The pregnancy. Ramon being in her home. A future looming that was nothing like the one she’d envisaged.
Not that she’d ever devoted much time to pondering her future beyond running The Royce. Marriage and children weren’t things she’d allowed herself to dwell upon. Doing so had filled her with an unsettling yearning. A feeling of emptiness she could only banish by burying herself in work.
And there was nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with being a career woman. Not every girl got to marry the perfect man and have the perfect family, the perfect life. Look at her mother—she’d married a charming, handsome man who’d turned out to be a philandering pleasure-seeker and then died having his child.
A metallic taste surged in her mouth.
Oh, no. Was she going to be sick?
She tossed the covers off, sat up and waited for a moment to see if the nausea would pass. She should grab her robe or a sweatshirt, she thought. She and Ramon were sharing her only bathroom and she was wearing only knickers and a cotton...
She clapped her hand over her mouth, ran from her room and reached the toilet just in time.
Ugh. She hated this. Hated it.
She retched again and, as she tried to scrape her hair away from her face, felt a warm, firm hand touch her back.
Ramon didn’t say a word. He just knelt behind her, relieved her hands of her hair and waited for her to finish.
‘I’m done,’ she croaked a long, humiliating minute later, and he helped her to her feet and gave her space to clean herself up at the basin.
When he scooped her up she acquiesced with a shameful lack of protest and, despite her mental exhaustion, she was acutely conscious of everything as he carried her back to her room. His strong, muscular arms. His clean, soapy scent. His hard, tee-shirt-covered chest under one of her hands.
She shouldn’t have liked any of it.
She liked all of it.
He sat her on the edge of her bed and pressed a glass of water into her hand. ‘Drink.’
‘You’re very bossy,’ she muttered.
He crossed his arms over his chest. ‘And you’re very mouthy for someone who’s just been hugging the toilet bowl.’
It was difficult to find a dignified response to that, so she sipped her water instead. Her throat hurt. And so did her head. Although she figured that wasn’t from throwing up so much as it was a side-effect of the relentless racing of her mind over the past forty-eight hours.
She put the glass on the nightstand. Her hand trembled, but it was nothing compared to the uncontrollable shaking inside her. ‘I’m not sure I can do this,’ she said, fear and uncertainty crashing in like a fast-moving tidal wave she couldn’t outrun.
He dropped to his haunches. ‘Do what?’
‘Have a baby,’ she whispered.
His shoulders tensed, a stark expression descending over his features, and her heart clenched as she realised he’d misinterpreted her words. ‘No,’ she said hurriedly, cursing herself silently. ‘I don’t mean that. I don’t want to get rid of this baby, Ramon.’
How could she have forgotten what he’d told her? That he had lost a child? The revelation not only shocked her but cast him in a different light. It was easy to look at Ramon and see only the confidence and charm. But he had suffered something devastating. That kind of loss had to leave a scar. She inhaled a deep breath. ‘I mean... I don’t know how I’m going to do this. I feel...’
‘What?’
She shrugged, reluctant to articulate such a weak emotion. ‘Scared,’ she admitted, and glanced away.
Slipping a finger under her chin, he returned her gaze to his. ‘I think you can do anything you set your mind to, Emily Royce.’
His tone was firm, his vote of confidence unexpected, and a burst of warmth blossomed in her chest.
But was he right?
She knew nothing about motherhood. Nothing about the bond between mother and child. She’d never had her own mother to bond with. No aunts or grandmothers or female role models. Just her strict teachers at boarding school and her grandfather’s housekeeper, the humourless Mrs Thorne. Emily didn’t doubt she would love her child—and she would do so fiercely—but would her child love her?
As a daughter she was hardly worth loving; her father had demonstrated that time and again through his rejection of any close bond with her. Who was to say she’d prove any more lovable as a parent?
And then, as if her insecurities weren’t enough to unsettle her, there was her mother’s death to consider. The frightening reminder of life’s utter fragility.
What if childbirth put Emily at a similar risk?
She felt the prick of tears and mentally rolled her eyes. Great. Another symptom of pregnancy. She wondered if she could also blame her newly discovered condition for the heavy, achy sensation in her breasts or, like the hot flush, did that have more to do with the man hunkered beside the bed and the desire that flooded her body every time she looked at him?
‘I’m tired,’ she said, lowering her gaze before her eyes betrayed her. The man had just held her hair as she hurled up the last contents of her stomach. He was unlikely to find her attractive right now. ‘Thanks for checking on me.’ She curled onto her side and pulled the duvet up to her chin. ‘I’m going to try to get some more sleep.’
Ramon stood up and she closed her eyes, listening for the tell-tale sounds of him leaving her room and going back to his. But the absolute silence told her he hadn’t moved. Her heart thudded in her ears, and then she felt his hand brush gently over her hair. Felt his lips press a soft, feather-light kiss on her temple. ‘We’ll do this together, Emily,’ he said, his breath fanning warmth across her cheek. ‘You’re not alone now.’ And then he padded out of the room.
As the door closed Emily’s chin wobbled dangerously and she tucked her face into the pillow. Yesterday, walking into her empty flat after visiting her doctor, she’d felt very alone but had told herself it didn’t matter.
She was used to being alone.
You’re not alone now.
She drifted off to sleep, that last conscious thought wrapping around her like a warm, comforting cocoon.