said.
She stilled. He was watching the toast. She was watching the breadth of his back. To all intents and purposes they were a couple talking cosy domestic things—like termination.
‘Why?’ she managed, and he abandoned the toast and turned to face her.
‘It’s been a shock,’ he said softly. ‘All afternoon...all tonight. Heaven knows how you slept but I couldn’t. I wouldn’t have wished for it but now it’s happened...I do want this child.’
And he said it so fiercely that it was lucky she’d put the jam down.
There was a lot to think about in that statement. A lot to make her heart falter.
‘One part of me’s pleased to hear you say that,’ she admitted at last. ‘I was never going to terminate, not for a moment, but in a way I think that’s why I came here so early in the pregnancy. I needed to know your reaction. I wanted my choice to be your choice.’
‘But the other part?’
Say it like it is, she decided. Just say it. ‘Another part of me almost had a heart attack, just this minute,’ she admitted. ‘Do you want this child like you want another Logan? And how much do you want it? Enough to sue me for custody? I hadn’t even thought about that.’
‘I would never do that to you. And she’s your baby.’
‘She?’
‘I thought tonight...’ He looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, but when he spoke, it was all tenderness. ‘I thought, what if she’s a girl, just like her mother?’
What was there in that statement to take her breath away? What was there in that statement to make her forget toast and jam, to forget where she was, to forget everything except those words?
What if she’s a girl, just like her mother?
She’d been terrific when she’d found out she was pregnant, she’d decided. She’d surprised herself by how calm she’d been. She’d set about making plans, figuring how she could manage.
She’d decided to tell Ben, rationally and coolly. She’d prided herself on her efficiency, getting a passport, deciding on flights, choosing the hotel Ben had so rudely rejected.
She’d told him calmly. Everything was going as planned.
But one little statement...
What if she’s a girl, just like her mother?
She sat on the bench and stared, and suddenly the cool control she’d kept herself under for the last couple of months snapped.
She couldn’t help it. Tears were rolling down her cheeks and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. She couldn’t speak. She just sat there and cried like a baby.
Ben looked like he didn’t have a clue how to handle it. That made two of them.
‘Mary, I didn’t mean...’ He sounded appalled. ‘Mary, stop.’
That’d be like asking the tide to turn. She gave her tears an angry swipe but nothing could stop these suckers.
She didn’t have a tissue. She didn’t have thirty tissues. Where were tissues in this über-rich mausoleum of a marble apartment?
* * *
One minute he was standing by the kitchen bench, talking to a woman he’d decided he hardly knew. The next moment the woman had turned into Mary. His Mary.
He knew this woman like he knew himself.
Tears were rolling down her cheeks and she was making no effort to check them. It was as if she didn’t know what to do with them.
This was a woman who seldom cried. He knew that. What was happening now was shocking her—as well as shocking him.
She needed tissues, but his shoulder was closer. He stepped forward, gathered a sodden Mary into his arms and held her.
He should wear a towelling robe, he thought ruefully. Silk didn’t cut it with tears.
Silk didn’t cut it when the feel of her body was soaking through. But he held her and held her, until the shuddering eased, until she’d cried herself out, until he felt the imperceptible stiffening that told him she’d realised what she’d done, where she was.
He still held. He was cradling her like a child but this was no child. She’d slumped against him but the slump had turned to something more. Her face was buried in his shoulder but the rest of her... She was moulded to him. Her breasts were pressed to his chest. His face was in her hair.
‘I can’t...’ It was a ragged whisper.
‘I have it in hand,’ he told her, and before she could make any objections he swung her into his arms and strode with her into his bedroom.
The woman needed tissues. There were tissues in his bedroom and that’s where he was headed.
* * *
One minute she was cradled against Ben Logan, sobbing her heart out, releasing months of pent-up emotion and who knew what else besides. The next she was in his arms, being carried into his bedroom.
She should make some sort of protest, but who was protesting? She was making no protest at all.
They’d made love before as complete strangers. They weren’t strangers now. Or maybe they were, she thought, dazed. How did she know this man?
She did.
He lived in a different world from her, a world he pretty much owned.
She felt she knew him inside out.
To the world this man was a hero, a rich, smart, controlling wheeler and dealer in the world’s finances. But she’d seen what lay beneath. She’d seen the core that was pure need.
Who was she kidding? The need was entirely hers and she couldn’t resist it for a minute.
She was catching her breath, finding control of a sort. The dumb weeping had stopped so when Ben set her on the bathroom bench and handed her a wad of tissues she could do something about it.
She blew her nose, hard, and Ben blinked.
‘There’s my romantic girl.’
She choked on something between a chuckle and a sob, but it was erring more towards the chuckle.
Something was happening inside her. She was in this man’s bathroom. He was looking at her with such concern...
‘Your face is puffy.’
‘And there’s a truly romantic statement,’ she managed. ‘I bet you say that to all the women in your life.’
‘There are no women in my life.’ He picked up a facecloth, wet it and gently wiped her eyes. Then her whole face. ‘Just the mother of my child.’
What
