The Baby Swap Miracle (11 page)

He smiled. ‘Try the fillet steak in pepper sauce. It’s absolutely amazing. Or if that’s too heavy, the sea bream is fabulous.’

‘Whatever. Surprise me.’

He ordered both. ‘You can try them and have the one you fancy,’ he told her. ‘Just remember to save room for the pudding.’

She grinned. ‘Oh, believe me, I will.’

The waiter came and took their order, and Sam propped his elbows on the table and studied her thoughtfully.

‘Tell me about yourself.’

Emelia blinked at him, as if he’d said something really weird. ‘Me?’

‘Well—I wasn’t talking to the waiter,’ he murmured.

She coloured softly. ‘Oh. Well—what do you want to know?’

‘I don’t know. What is there to know?’

She gave a little thoughtful sigh. ‘Not a lot. I’m twenty-seven, nearly twenty-eight, I was born and brought up in Oxford until I was nine, then my father moved to Edinburgh University and we were about to relocate up there when he died, so my mother and I went to Lancashire, where her family are from, and we lived just north of Manchester for six years, then she met Gordon and we moved to Cheshire. I stayed with them until I went to university in Bristol, and I met James in my second year. He was reading maths, I was reading English, and I stayed on and did a fourth-year post-grad teaching certificate and he did a Master’s. We got married at the end of that year, when we were twenty-two, and then two years later we discovered he’d got testicular cancer. And two years after that, he was dead.’

There didn’t seem to be anything he could say that wouldn’t be trite or patronising, so he didn’t say anything. And after a moment she lifted her head and smiled gently at him.

‘So, your turn.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Whatever you want to tell me.’

Nothing. Nothing at all that would open him up to her and make him any more vulnerable than he already was, but he found himself doing it anyway.

‘I’m thirty-three, I was born in Esher, in Surrey, and by the time I was twenty-one I’d started my first company and bought another one. I was still at uni—I did an MBA, kept trading on the side and it snowballed from there. Then—’

He broke off.

‘Then?’ she prompted, her voice soft, and he sighed. The next bit wasn’t so nice, and he really didn’t want to go there, so he gave her a severely—severely!—edited version of the truth.

‘Someone cheated me,’ he said bluntly. ‘It left a bad taste in my mouth, and I threw myself into work, and then I ended up in hospital and realised I wasn’t enjoying it any more so I walked away from it. That was when I saw the house. It’s taken the last two and a half years to reach this point in the restoration, but once the local planning people and English Heritage make up their minds about what I can and can’t do with the inside, I’ll be able to finish it off.’

He ground to a halt and shrugged. ‘So, that’s me.’

‘Was it her?’

‘Pardon?’

‘The person who cheated you. Was it the woman you were going to marry? The one who wasn’t having your child?’

Hell. He thought he’d been vague just now, but Emelia was just too good at joining up the dots. He stuck to facts. ‘Yes. But there were two of them—a couple. Professionals. I’m older and wiser now.’

‘And a lot more cynical, I would imagine.’

He just smiled, a bitter smile, probably, because he still felt bitter and always would. There were some things that you couldn’t forgive, some lies that were too cruel. You just had to move on. And he had. He was.

Sort of.

‘Sea bream?’

They sat back, the plates were put in front of them and they dropped the subject and turned their attention to the food.

She couldn’t decide, so they swapped halfway, and then he had to endure watching her struggling with the dessert menu.

‘The melting middle chocolate pud is amazing,’ he told her helpfully. ‘So’s the apple crumble. Or they do a selection to share that sounds interesting.’

She nibbled her lip thoughtfully and he felt his guts clench again.

‘Let’s try that,’ she suggested.

Oh, Lord. It suddenly seemed ludicrously intimate and he wanted to kick himself for suggesting it. He did it, though, holding out a spoonful of rhubarb crumble to her, stifling a groan as she closed her lips around his spoon and sighed sensuously before dipping her spoon into the tiny chocolate pudding and reaching over to feed it to him. They squabbled over the last bit of rice pudding, and she ended up victorious, then held it out to him, her eyes teasing.

It was a wonder he didn’t choke on it.

Emelia felt crazily full, but it had been worth every bite.

Especially the bites from Sam’s spoon. And his eyes—

She wouldn’t think about his eyes, she told herself, heading upstairs. It was too dangerous. She was falling for him, she realised, and it was altogether too easy.

He was charming, funny, sexy—a lethal cocktail of masculinity mixed with a surprising sensitivity.

Very dangerous. Dangerous because she couldn’t trust it. He was trying to convince her to stay so he’d be near the baby, sweet-talking her into thinking it would be a good idea. And it probably would, but she mustn’t let herself be lured by his charm. She had to make the right decisions for herself and the baby based on common sense. The trouble was, she didn’t seem to have any left, she thought in despair. Not where Sam Hunter was concerned.

He was in the study—he had work to do, he’d said, and so she went to bed and fell asleep thinking about his eyes…

Two days later, she moved into the cottage.

Sam brought all her things down again, put them in the
car and drove them round, and she unpacked them and stood back and thought of all the things she’d left behind, all the things she hadn’t thought to bring—like vases.

She’d had some lovely vases, tall slender ones for lilies, and a lovely round tulip bowl that had been a wedding present—but she hadn’t thought of it, and now she looked around and it seemed barren. Cold and empty and soulless.

‘It’ll soon be home,’ he said, as if he’d read her mind—or more probably her face. James had always told her she’d be a lousy poker player.

She gave a soft sigh. It seemed years since she’d had a home she could really call her own. Not since she and James had bought their little house in Bristol and furnished it on a shoestring. They’d stretched themselves to the limit, but it had been home, and they’d been happy there.

It seemed so very, very long ago. She could scarcely remember it.

‘Hey, it’ll be all right,’ Sam said, rubbing her shoulder gently, and she gave a sharp sigh and nodded, and he dropped his hand, as if he’d only touched her because he’d felt he had to. And it would have been so nice to lean on him, to put her arms round him and rest her head on that broad shoulder.

‘Look, I know it’s small, and it’s probably not what you were used to with James, but it’s got lovely views, the garden could be really pretty and it’s very private, and there’s an outhouse that could possibly be turned into another bedroom if you felt it was necessary. Just—see how it goes, OK? If there’s anything you want decorated differently or changed, just say. I want you to think of it as your home.’

The short, disbelieving huff of laughter was out before
she could stop it, and he frowned and pressed his lips together.

‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve heard those words before, and when the chips are down, they mean nothing,’ she told him frankly. ‘So—thank you for the offer, but I’ll just settle in and we’ll see. I may want to move to something else, maybe something in the village.’

Something not quite so disturbingly close. He was standing just a foot or so away, and she could smell the scent of his aftershave, clean and sharp and tangy, and beneath it the subtle undertones of warm, spicy musk from his body. She could so easily have taken that one small step and laid her head against his chest, her cheek against the fine, smooth cotton of his shirt, her ear tuned to the beating of his heart.

She could almost feel the warmth, the solidity, the coiled masculine power of his body—

‘Do whatever you want. It’s not a prison, Emelia. There is no fence, imagined or otherwise. If it’s what you want, you’re free to go, but I’ll have to follow, in some degree. I can’t ignore this child, and I won’t. I take my responsibilities seriously.’

She nodded.

‘I know. I’m sorry. You probably think I’m being unreasonable and ungrateful—’

‘I don’t need your gratitude,’ he said softly. ‘I just need you to feel safe and secure and at home. If that isn’t here, then we’ll find somewhere that is.’

He tossed the key in his hand for a moment, then put it down on the windowsill. ‘I’ll leave you to it. The phone’s connected—if you need anything, just call me.’

‘Sam?’

He stopped in the doorway and turned to her, his eyes unreadable with the light behind him. ‘Yes?’

‘Thank you.’

The smile was fleeting and she couldn’t tell if it reached his eyes, but he gave a brief nod and left, closing the door softly. Seconds later she heard the car start and he drove away, and she stared at the door for a moment before turning back to look at the house.

And listen.

It was so quiet! Utterly silent, really. She walked through it, her footfalls muffled on the new carpets, and it seemed so strange. She trailed her fingers over the woodwork, up the door frame, along the edge of the wooden worktop. Her home?

A shiver ran over her, and she opened the back door and went out into the garden, just as the sun came out again.

And she stood there, basking in the warmth of the sun’s rays, drinking in the peace of the garden, and gradually her heart settled to a steady, even rhythm and she felt her body relax.

The baby stirred, stretching, and she felt a little foot sweep across the wall of her abdomen. At least she thought it was a foot. Maybe it was just her imagination, but it seemed reasonable. Whatever, it settled again, clearly content, and with a lingering smile on her face, she turned and went back inside her home.

The kitchen, she discovered to her relief, was fully equipped. It even had the luxury of a dishwasher, only a small one, but it was enough. She’d appreciate it, she thought, when her bump got so big she couldn’t reach the sink.

She opened the fridge to see if it was on, and blinked.

Food? Real food. Milk and bread and eggs, and spread-able butter and bags of salad and fresh salmon and mini chicken breasts and baby new potatoes, and in the freezer section there were peas and beans and a whole host of other
things, including a few ready meals. Simple, wholesome ones, not salt-laden greasy curries. Healthy, nutritious food for her and the baby. And there was even a box of chocolates in the fridge.

Her eyes filled, and she blinked the tears away and looked around again. There was an envelope propped up against the kettle—a card from Sam with a picture of a cottage on the front, and inside, ‘Wishing you happiness in your new home.’ Beneath it, he’d written, ‘Good luck settling in. Shout if you need anything at all. Sam X’

She stared at the X. And then the anything at all.

A hug would be nice, she thought, and fought down the stupid urge to cry.

When she’d looked around it had just seemed like a haven. Now that it had actually happened, it just seemed somehow wrong. So lonely on her own. So lonely without Sam—

No! She wasn’t going there, and she wasn’t going to wallow in self-pity. She was going to get on with it, to settle in, to make it how she wanted it, and anyway there wasn’t time to be lonely, because she had to earn her keep.

And she’d had an idea about that, an idea she still had to run past Sam, but she was hoping he’d go for it. It would be hard, but it would be worth it.

And if she still had time to feel lonely after that, she clearly hadn’t done enough!

He stood at the window at the end of the landing and stared at the cottage through the trees.

Was she all right? He hadn’t heard a word, and he’d been standing by all day for her to call to say she couldn’t find the immersion heater switch or a light bulb had blown or the dishwasher wasn’t working, but there had been nothing.
He’d been deafened by the silence, and the urge to go over there and check up on her was overwhelming.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, he was going insane! He’d go over there now and talk to her, he decided, heading down the stairs and out of the front door. She might have slipped and fallen, or had a haemorrhage or any one of a million things—

He stopped on the path and frowned. The gate of the rose garden was open. Just a touch, but enough to let a rabbit in, and he went to close it and heard the unmistakeable sound of digging.

Digging, for heaven’s sake! There was only one person who could be doing it, and she had no business doing anything so strenuous in her condition. He pushed the door open and went in, and saw her standing there with one hand on a garden fork, her cheeks rosy with effort, her eyes bright, a huge weed dangling from the other hand.

And she was grinning victoriously.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ he asked softly, and Emelia felt her colour deepen as she dropped the weed on the pile like a hot potato.

‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist it. I brought the book out here the other day, and most of the plants are still here! It’s amazing. Some of them must be over a hundred years old. I think this one’s Celestial; it’s the most exquisite old shrub rose. And there are several musk and gallica roses, and I think that one’s Old Blush China…’

She trailed to a halt. He was cross. She could see he was cross, even though his lips were pressed firmly together and he wasn’t saying anything. He walked over to her and took the fork out of her hand, hooking it out of the ground easily and leaning on it as he studied her.

‘You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?’ he said thoughtfully, trying to banish the picture of the puggling, muddy
child and the pram under the tree that was still haunting him days later, and she nodded.

‘Yes, I am, but it’s going to take a while, and I thought— I don’t want to cook for you. That’s never been my strong point, and supply teaching doesn’t seem to be a likely option, but I can garden,’ she went on, her eyes alight as she made her pitch. ‘And goodness knows this place needs it. I could earn my keep, Sam. Pay my rent, my running costs, so I don’t feel I owe you anything. And you’d get your garden.’