The Blackmail Pregnancy (4 page)

They were seated with drinks and menus in front of them when Byron asked, ‘Have you come to a decision?’

She looked up at him in alarm. Couldn’t he at least wait until their food had been ordered?

‘I meant about the food,’ he added with a small tilt of his mouth as he noticed her troubled expression. ‘You don’t need to panic just yet.’

‘I’m not panicking.’

‘Yes, you are. I can feel your tension from here.’

‘I’m not tense, I’m…I’m concentrating.’

‘On what?’

‘The menu.’

‘What do you feel like?’ he asked.

‘What?’

He gave her another frustrated look.

‘I’m still talking about the food.’

‘I haven’t had time to look,’ she replied coolly. ‘You keep badgering me with questions.’

‘Sorry.’ His apology was gruff as he returned to his own menu. ‘I realise this isn’t easy for you.’

‘Are we still talking about food?’ she asked.

His mouth twisted as he met her eyes across the table.

‘No, not this time.’

The waiter appeared and asked for their order. Cara rattled off the first thing she’d seen under main courses and sat back and waited for Byron to relay his own preference. Once the waiter had bustled away she felt the full heat of Byron’s gaze.

‘So, what have you decided, Cara?’

‘I’d hardly call it a decision,’ she said with some resentment. ‘You’ve made it very difficult for me to do anything else.’

‘I made it difficult?’ he asked with heavy irony. ‘I wasn’t the one who didn’t take a decent look at the business end of things until it was too late to do anything. What world are you living in, Cara? You can’t blame other people for your own mistakes—even if they were innocently made.’

She gave him a tight-lipped cold stare.

‘Trevor is not an ideal business partner,’ he continued.

‘Why?’ She threw the question at him crossly. ‘Just because he’s gay?’

‘No,’ he answered evenly. ‘It has nothing to do with that. He hasn’t got what it takes to run a business.’

‘And neither do I?’

He reached for his glass of red wine and twirled it in his hand before responding.

‘No. Your heart’s not in the books—it’s in the design end of things. I could see it in your eyes when you saw my house.’

He was right, but she wasn’t going to let him enjoy that little victory.

‘We can’t all be highfliers like you, Byron,’ she said. ‘Trevor and I weren’t educated in one of Victoria’s most prestigious fee-paying schools. We don’t have family money to back us.’

‘You had my money. The divorce money.’

‘It’s expensive setting up an office,’ she said. ‘The computers and so on.’

He seemed to accept her answer and she inwardly sighed with relief.

‘How soon can you get the house ready to live in?’ he asked, unsettling her again.

‘I…I’ve got a few ideas about furniture, but it could be weeks.’

‘I told you a month—that’s all.’

‘It’s not long enough.’

‘Surely we can live in the house with the bare essentials?’ he said. ‘All we need is a bed and—’

‘You expect me to live with you?’ she asked in alarm.

‘Of course. I thought you understood that.’

‘But what about my apartment?’

‘You call that shoebox an apartment?’

She gave him another cold, resentful glare.

‘I would’ve thought you’d have the most sensational home after all those years in the business. Or is this yet another case of the plumber with a leaky tap?’ he added when she didn’t respond.

‘I had other priorities. I’m hardly home, so it didn’t seem important,’ she said.

‘Well, you can sell it, or rent it out for the time being. I want you to live with me at the Cremorne house and I want you to start tomorrow—furniture or no furniture.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Her eyes widened in panic.

‘I’m signing on the dotted line tomorrow with your financial people. I expect you to fulfil your part of the contract.’

‘I hardly call it a contract,’ she ground out bitterly. ‘More like a dictatorship.’

‘Call it what you like. It’s immaterial to me. I’m putting a lot of money in your business and I want some immediate returns on my investment.’

‘You’re sick,’ she fired at him. ‘How can you sit there and discuss this…this farce, so clinically?’

‘Quite frankly, Cara, I don’t really care what you think about me personally. I have a goal in mind, and this time not even you are going to stand in my way.’

‘You definitely need help,’ she muttered as she savaged her bread roll. ‘I’ve never met anyone with such a big ego.’

‘And I’ve never met anyone with a lesser one,’ he countered neatly.

Cara’s butter knife clattered against her plate as she looked away from his penetrating gaze. Fortunately the waiter appeared just then, with their food, and she was spared the right of reply. Not that she could think of one; he was right—she had no self-esteem, never had. Her mother had seen to that, right up to the very day she died.

She forced herself to eat at least some of the food set before her, even though her appetite had completely disappeared.

‘You don’t seem to be enjoying that,’ Byron observed some minutes later. ‘Would you like something else instead?’

She shook her head and forced another mouthful down.

‘You look as if you’re going to face a firing squad at dawn,’ he said after another minute or two had elapsed. ‘Relax, Cara. You might even enjoy it.’

A vision of their passion-locked bodies flitted unbidden into her mind and she lowered her head to her plate to disguise the heat she could feel coursing across her cheeks.

After a few painful minutes she pushed her plate away in defeat. She wiped her mouth on her napkin and caught the hard glint in his eyes.

‘You’d do anything but talk to me, wouldn’t you, Cara? Even force-feed yourself a meal you don’t want so you don’t have to speak to me.’

‘I have nothing to say to you.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What about, How was it for you that day I left? Were you upset? That would be a good place to start.’

Her hands tightened in her lap but she didn’t answer him.

‘Or what about, Did you know I was pregnant when I left? That would make for a very interesting conversation, now, don’t you think?’

Cara stared at him in abject horror, all the colour draining away from her face. His expression was clouded by anger, his dark eyes glittering dangerously with it, showing her that this was no time for denial. Without warning the moment of truth she’d quietly dreaded for seven years had finally caught up with her.

S
HE
couldn’t speak. Anguish tied her tongue and sent tremors of reaction to her very fingertips. They were already fizzing, as if her blood couldn’t quite make the distance to them. She felt as if she would faint—hoped for it, in fact. How could she avoid the subject she dreaded the most?

‘Let’s get out of here.’ Byron suddenly broke the heavy silence by getting to his feet and signalling to the waiter for the bill.

Cara got to her feet with considerably less agility. Her legs were shaking, her palms moist, and the rest of her body felt as if it had been clubbed.

Byron fixed the bill and led the way back to his car in silence. He unlocked the doors with a snap of the remote that sounded like a gunshot and she had to stop herself from flinching.

‘Get in.’

His words were just as sharp, hitting her like bullets. She got in the car, glad that her legs didn’t have to hold her upright any more. He started the car with a roar that indicated the depth of his anger. Although he’d hidden it well, he’d waited until she was lulled into a false sense of security and then struck her where she was most vulnerable.

He drove towards her apartment with a grim determination that did little to settle Cara’s nerves. She had so much to say, but most of it could never be for his ears. He’d never understand the sort of decisions she’d had to make. The secrets she’d kept; the pain she’d hidden in order to survive.

He walked her to her apartment, all the while maintaining cold silence. She didn’t know what was worse. Hearing him castigate her, bearing his stony silence or torturing herself with what she imagined he was thinking.

At the door of the apartment she turned to him, forcing herself to meet his diamond-hard gaze.

‘Thank you for dinner.’

He seemed about to say something, but then changed his mind. He raked a hand through his dark hair and the lines around his mouth appeared to relax a little.

‘Will you need some help packing?’ he asked.

‘No, I’ll be fine. I don’t have all that much to pack,’ she answered in a subdued tone.

Byron watched as she unlocked the door and stepped through, hesitating, as if she wasn’t sure if she wanted him to come in or not. He guessed not. He hadn’t really intended to ask her that question tonight, but he’d been increasingly annoyed by her attitude towards him. She barely tolerated his presence and it irritated him. He had felt like shaking her out of her skin.

Her eyes, when they met his again, looked wounded, which instantly made him feel like the bad guy. How did she do that? He had every right to be furious with her. She had no right to play the injured innocent. No right at all.

‘What time would you like me to be at Cremorne?’ she asked.

Byron hunted her face for any sign of her composure cracking, but apart from that hurt look in her eyes there was none. She’d effectively shut him out once more, and apart from flaying her with his tongue right here and now there was little he could do but accept it for now. He’d bide his time and get the answers he was after—even if it took him months.

‘In the evening’s fine,’ he answered, giving her a key.

He noticed she took it from him without touching his hand. That too made him angry. She’d have to get used to him touching her, because that was all he wanted to do—from the moment he woke until he fell asleep at night. His body craved her. Being so close to her had stirred his desire to a persistent dull ache, and he wondered if she sensed it.

He turned to leave before he was tempted to do something about it then and there. He muttered a curt goodnight as he closed the door on her expressionless face.

Cara sagged against the wall once he’d gone, burying her face in her hands, slipping down until she found the floor.

She stayed up most of the night packing. She knew sleep was impossible, so continued on until her vision blurred. The last bag was packed and she stood up and looked around her tiny apartment. Three bags and a box wasn’t much to show for her almost twenty-nine years, but then, she reflected ruefully, she had enough internal baggage to sink a container ship.

She sat and sipped a glass of water as she watched the moon make its way across the early morning sky until the brightness of the rising sun took over.

This was the first day of the rest of her life. She knew from this day on nothing could ever be the same. Seeing Byron again had torn her seeping wounds apart, and no matter how hard she tried she’d never be able to tie the ragged edges together again. She almost hated him for his cruelty. Almost, but not quite.

Cara spent some time at the office—more to fill in the day than because of any pressing work commitments. Trevor took one look at her shadowed eyes and whistled through his teeth.

‘You’re looking a bit the-morning-after-the-fight-before.’

She gave him a you-can-say-that-again look and flopped into her chair.

‘I’m not even going to correct your misquote of that adage, because your version’s far more accurate.’

He perched on the edge of her desk, his expression empathetic. ‘Lord Byron giving you a hard time?’

‘You could say that.’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘I’m moving in with him this evening.’

Trevor’s eyes widened, his brows disappearing under his floppy fringe.

‘Is that wise?’

She gave him an ironic look.

‘No, but wisdom doesn’t come into it, I’m afraid. It’s a matter of do or be damned.’

‘Is he forcing your hand?’

‘Oh, I had a choice,’ she said. ‘Sort of.’

‘I’m sorry, Cara,’ he said. ‘This is all my fault. It’s not fair that you’re being forced to pay the price.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she reassured him. ‘I’ll be fine. Byron will soon tire of me. I’m what is commonly referred to by most men as “hard work”.’

‘You’re not hard work,’ he said. ‘You’re wounded. That’s totally different.’

She gave him a small wry smile.

‘Only you would see the difference.’

‘I’m sure he will too, in time. Maybe you should be totally honest with him. He might understand more than you think,’ he offered hopefully.

‘Byron’s not the understanding type. He’s had life too good. What would he know about how the other half live? He’s had everything handed to him on a plate—including me.’

‘Do you still care for him?’

‘I don’t know what I feel,’ she answered honestly. ‘I’ve taught myself not to feel anything for so long I can’t quite find the on switch any more.’

‘It will come back if you give yourself some time. You need to let the dust of the past settle for a little longer, get some more perspective.’

‘You should’ve been a counsellor, Trev,’ she said. ‘You’ve got all the answers.’

‘No, I haven’t.’ He kissed the top of her head as he jumped down from her desk. ‘I just know what the questions are.’

Cara drove towards Cremorne, her heart still heavy in her chest at what she was about to commit to. Byron was little more than a stranger to her now. How was she to simply slot back into his life as if nothing had happened? It would take all the acting ability she had to survive.

His car was in the large garage, and she parked in the space alongside it. Her run-down Mazda looked very out of place next to his Mercedes—but then, nearly everything about them was just as disparate.

He came to help her with her things and she felt a wave of self-consciousness wash over her as his eyes took in her tired-looking bags and the single cardboard box.

‘Is that all?’ he asked, tucking the third case under his arm.

‘Yes.’

‘What about your furniture?’

‘I don’t have any.’

He shouldered the front door open as he looked at her questioningly.

‘You were renting?’

She nodded, brushing past him with her box against her chest like a shield. He followed her in and, still frowning, took her things up to the master bedroom.

Cara looked at the king-sized bed and put her box on the end of it, her heart beating an erratic tattoo in her chest. It was made up with caramel-coloured linen and white pillows with a matching caramel trim. Several plump cushions were propped up against the pillows. She wondered if he’d had it delivered that day. It unnerved her to think of him so eager to resume a physical relationship with her when her emotions were in such tatters. How could she keep herself under control with him storming her defences in such a way?

‘There’s a walk-in wardrobe through that door.’ He pointed in its direction. ‘The
en suite
is over there. I’ll leave you to sort things out. I’ll get a start on dinner.’

Cara sat on the huge bed and looked around the room. As master bedrooms went it was one of the biggest she’d seen. The soft cream of the walls toned perfectly with the bedlinen, and although the marble floor was bare she could already imagine the rugs she’d lay down.

She got off the bed to look out of the large windows. The view was spectacular: the night lights of the city twinkling in the distance, and just below a harbour cruiser sailed past the marina with its arc of decorative golden bulbs.

She unpacked her few things into the spacious walk-in wardrobe and wondered if she’d ever be in a position to have enough clothes to fill it completely. She tried to ignore the neat row of Byron’s clothes hanging on the other side. She could pick up the faint smell of his aftershave clinging to his things and a host of memories assailed her. Almost without her volition she reached for one of his sweaters and buried her face in its folds, breathing in the scent of him lingering there.

She turned back to the task at hand and shut the door behind her once she’d finished. She wished she could close off the memories just as effectively.

She made her way downstairs with weary steps, her stomach tightening at the thought of the rest of the evening.

Byron was in the kitchen preparing some pre-cooked food. He looked up as she came in, his eyes sweeping over her assessingly.

‘You look tired. Are you hungry?’

‘Not really,’ she answered truthfully.

‘Didn’t you sleep?’

She shook her head.

‘Is the thought of being with me so torturous?’ he asked with a flint-like edge to his tone.

She didn’t answer. His mouth tightened as he placed a container in the microwave and she wondered if he were feeling the tiniest bit remorseful over the machinations that had led her here tonight.

‘I’m going to engage a housekeeper,’ he informed her coolly.

‘But there’s no furniture to dust,’ she pointed out.

‘There will be soon,’ he said. ‘We both work full time, this is a big house, and I don’t want you to waste your energy on tasks that can be better outsourced.’

‘When do you want me to start on your little project?’ she asked with a hardened look in her eyes. ‘I take it you’d like to get to the task at hand as soon as possible?’

His eyes met her challengingly.

‘You fight me at every corner, don’t you? Even though both of us really want the same thing.’

‘You know nothing of my wants.’

‘Don’t I?’ he asked. ‘I wouldn’t bet on that, if I were you.’

She spun away in anger, unable to look him in the eyes. The microwave pinged and she heard him rattle plates and cutlery behind her as he set their meal on the bench.

They ate in silence. Cara picked at the food and eventually pushed it aside, concentrating on her glass of water.

‘You don’t eat properly,’ he said, flicking a glance towards her plate before returning his eyes to hers.

‘Is there anything else you’d like to criticise while you’re at it?’ she asked. ‘Is my hair not to your liking? Or perhaps you think my clothes are outdated and my thighs full of cellulite?’

He frowned and pushed his own plate away.

‘I’m not criticising you, merely making an observation.’

‘I don’t like being observed.’

‘I know that.’

‘Then don’t do it.’

‘How am I supposed to get to know you if I don’t observe you?’ he asked.

‘You don’t need to get to know me,’ she answered coldly. ‘Your goal is to get me pregnant, remember? You don’t need to know me at all to do that.’

He didn’t offer a reply. Her face was stormy enough as it was; he didn’t want to make things any worse than they were already.

She got to her feet, scooped up her plate, took it across the kitchen and thrust the barely touched contents into the garbage bin. She heard Byron come up behind her and turned away to give him room.

‘Cara?’

She stopped, her back still rigid towards him.

‘Don’t do the Joan of Arc routine, OK?’

She turned to look at him, her expression bright with barely repressed anger.

‘No one likes a martyr, and it won’t help things between us if you persist in casting me in the role of the big bad guy,’ he said.

‘You put yourself in that role,’ she said heatedly. ‘I’m just the one dancing to your tune.’

‘You haven’t got the steps right so far.’

‘What do you want me to do?’ she flared at him. ‘Do you want me to grovel at your feet in gratefulness at your magnanimous financial gesture?’

‘No, of course not. I—’

‘You have a nerve, Byron Rockcliffe.’ She thrust a pointed finger at his chest before he could finish his sentence. ‘You think you’re so smart, calling all the shots now. You feel so powerful, with me stuck under your thumb like a moth on a toothpick. But I will never bend to your will, no matter how much you try to manipulate me. You can force me to do anything you like, but deep down you will always have to face the fact that I didn’t come to you willingly. Can you live with that?’

His eyes burned into hers with an answering heat.

‘Yes. I can live with that.’

It wasn’t the answer she had been expecting. She stood stiffly before him, her eyes darting anywhere but in his direction.

‘I’ve resigned myself to the fact that you are determined to cross me at every point, but I’m equally determined to break through your defences. You’ve been hiding for far too long; it’s time you faced life head-on.’

‘What would you know about life?’ she retorted with cold sarcasm. ‘You with your perfect family and a silver spoon stuck halfway down your throat since the moment you were born. What would you know?’ Unexpected tears brightened her eyes and she turned away from his all-seeing gaze.