The Blackmail Pregnancy. Melanie MilburneЧитать онлайн книгу.
conviction.
‘No wonder you’re balking at the suggestion of sharing my bed,’ he ground out. ‘Let alone bearing my child.’
Cara stared at her tightly clenched hands in her lap, and before replying waited until she had her emotions under some sort of control.
‘Lunch will be fine,’ she said at last. ‘I don’t have any other engagements.’
He drove to a café in Neutral Bay in stony silence. Cara looked at him once or twice, but his attention was on the traffic ahead. His normally smooth brow was deeply furrowed, the lines around his mouth tightly etched, as if he were only just managing to keep control of his anger. She knew he was angry with her. Seven years of anger separated them just as much as the issues that had caused the first rift.
She’d been adamant from their very first date that she had no intention of ever having children. She hadn’t told him the real reason, but instead had grasped for the generally held assumption that young career-driven women had better things to do with their time than haunt some man’s kitchen barefoot with a protruding belly. The fact that she hadn’t at that point in her life had a career hadn’t taken away the strength of her argument. But at twenty-two years old what truths of the world had she really known? She’d flitted from job to job, searching for something she had known was out there somewhere for her to devote herself to. But back then it hadn’t yet appeared on the horizon.
It had taken the bitter divorce to propel her into the field of interior design. She’d immersed herself in her studies, trying to dull the throb of pain that just wouldn’t go away. And yet for all her efforts the pain was still there, waiting for a chance to break free of its bounds.
Byron parked the car and she joined him on the pavement outside the café. A waitress led them to a table shaded by a huge leafy tree and Cara sat down and stared at the menu sightlessly.
‘Cara?’
She looked up and his eyes clashed with hers.
‘What sort of coffee would you like?’ he asked, indicating the hovering waitress.
‘I’ll just have a mineral water, please,’ she told the waitress, who then moved to the next table.
She could feel Byron’s speculative gaze on her and fidgeted with the hem of the tablecloth to distract her.
‘What happened to the latte lady?’ he asked.
She gave a shrug and examined the menu once more.
‘She couldn’t sleep.’
As she looked up and caught the tail-end of a small smile she wished she’d looked up earlier.
‘Do you drink?’
‘Alcohol, you mean?’
He nodded.
‘Not any more.’ She lowered her gaze once more and stared at a tiny crinkle in the tablecloth in front of her.
‘Tell me about your mother, Cara.’
Cara stiffened. Schooling her features back into indifference was hard with him sitting so close. So close and yet so far.
‘I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead,’ she countered, and was relieved when the waitress arrived with their drinks.
She drank thirstily and hoped he’d move onto another subject.
Once the waitress had left Byron spooned sugar into his cappuccino and stirred it thoughtfully. He’d been a little unprepared for seeing Cara again. He’d thought it would be easy. He’d breeze in and call the shots. But somehow something wasn’t quite right. He’d been too young and inexperienced to see it before. He’d fallen in lust and then in love with an ideal—an ideal that had turned out to be a real woman with issues that just wouldn’t go away. He could see that now. Hurt shone from her hazel eyes, hurt that he’d certainly contributed to—but not just him; he felt sure about that.
She’d never let him meet her mother. He wondered now why he hadn’t insisted. Somehow Cara had always found an excuse: her mother was away visiting relatives, couldn’t make it to the wedding, had the flu and wasn’t seeing anyone. He hadn’t pressed her about it. Anyway, her mother had lived in another state, so visiting had mostly been out of the question. He had spoken to Edna Gillem once on the telephone, and it still pained him to recall their conversation. It had well and truly driven the last nail into the coffin that had contained his short marriage.
With the wisdom of hindsight he could see the mistakes he’d made almost from the first moment he’d met Cara. She had been out with a group of friends whom he’d later referred to as ‘the pack’. They had been like baying hounds, crying out for male flesh, and from the first moment he had seen Cara was in the wrong company. She’d looked scared, vulnerable in a way that had dug deeply at the masculine protective devices his father and grandfather before him had entrenched in his soul.
He’d taken her to one side to buy her a drink and one drink had led to another. He’d taken her to his apartment and she’d fallen asleep on his sofa. In three weeks she had been sleeping in his bed, and eight weeks later wearing his ring. He’d never slept with a virgin before, and it had taken him completely by surprise.
He often felt guilty when he recalled his actions of all those years ago. If only he’d taken his time, got to know her—the real Cara, not the shell she presented to the world. Maybe he wouldn’t be sitting opposite her now, in a crowded café, with the pain of seven years dividing them. They could have had kids in school by now—kids with hazel eyes and light brown hair that wouldn’t always do as it was told.
He stirred his coffee and took a deep draught, his eyes catching hers as she reached for her mineral water. What was she thinking? She looked so cool, so composed, but still he wondered…
‘How are your parents?’ she asked.
He gave his coffee another absent stir and Cara saw the hint of a small smile of affection briefly lift the corners of his mouth.
‘They’re fine. Fighting fit. Dad has taken up golf and Mum is part of a bridge club.’
‘And your twin brothers and sister?’
He pushed his half-finished coffee aside and met her interested gaze.
‘Patrick eventually married Sally, and they have five-year-old twins—Katie and Kirstie. Leon and Olivia now have three kids—Ben, seven, Bethany, five, and Clare is three. Fliss has two-year-old Thomas, and is apparently expecting a girl this time.’
Cara drained her glass and set it aside.
‘And your business?’ she added. ‘It finally took off?’
‘Like you would never believe,’ he said, and then added with a rueful twist to his mouth, ‘You should’ve hung around.’
She didn’t respond. The waitress appeared with the sandwiches he’d ordered earlier, and she stared at the food set down before her and wondered how she’d ever force it down her restricted throat.
She’d never doubted he’d be successful as a property developer; he came from a long line of very successful moneyed men. What surprised her was how little that success had fulfilled him. She’d imagined him married, with the brood of kids he’d always wanted, but he was still single—and asking her to resume their relationship temporarily. She didn’t understand him. Perhaps she never had.
Some endless minutes passed before either of them spoke.
‘My parents send their regards,’ Byron said. ‘I was speaking to them last night.’
Cara met his eyes across the table and looked away again.
‘Please send on my own. I’ve thought of them over the years.’
‘What about me?’ he asked after a tiny pause. ‘Have you thought about me?’
She fidgeted with her napkin, ignoring the untouched food in