Emma had stirred, her glorious naked body doing things to his, and he’d had to hold on to his self-control, wanting only to lose himself in her once more instead of facing the truth. That truth was not only the fact that she’d lured him to tell her things he’d wanted to keep well hidden.
His phone bleeped, alerting him to a text, and he ignored it, wanting to focus on what to do next. Call her? Go to London and demand to see her? He’d have to find out where she lived.
Insistently the alert sounded again and he swore in Russian, something he hadn’t done for a long time before he’d returned to Vladimir. When he picked up the phone and read the text, he almost dropped it as if it were red-hot.
We need to meet. I’m in New York. E
He inhaled deeply. This could only mean one thing—the very worst thing. There was no way she’d come here, all the way to New York, to tell him the article had been accepted, or show him a copy. An email would be sufficient for that. She needed to talk. His suspicions about their night together must be right—she was pregnant with his child—and that changed everything.
He pressed his thumb and finger against his eyelids in an effort to think, but there was only one answer. The same answer that had come up each and every time he’d thought of Emma and that night together. The very thing he’d never wanted to happen. He just knew it: he’d fathered a child. Now he had to face his fears from childhood and prove to himself he wasn’t his father’s son...that he could bring up his child with love and kindness. The very idea terrified him.
* * *
Emma was late. She’d arrived at Central Park early and wandered around taking photographs until midday, the time specified by Nikolai in his reply to her text. She’d tried to put her reason for being in New York to the back of her mind and had almost succeeded when she had become engrossed in taking shots of the park. Now the impending meeting with him loomed large but she couldn’t recall which way she’d come. She looked around at the tall buildings surrounding the park and wondered if she’d be able to find her way back out. She was tired from travelling and early pregnancy was not being so kind to her. Panic rose up. She’d have to ask someone for directions.
‘Excuse me, is it this way to The Boathouse?’ she asked a mother pushing a pram, trying hard not to look down at the child. It would be too much like looking into her future and she wondered how she was ever going to cope on her own. Nikolai had made it more than clear that what they’d shared was just one night. He’d been so adamant about it she began to question her reasons for telling him personally. It would have been much easier just to call him, tell him he was going to be a father. It was her conscience and knowing what it felt like to be rejected by her father that had made her come.
All through the flight one question kept going round in her head: would her own father have wanted to be part of her life if he’d been given the choice like this? The day she’d first met him, after she’d begged her mother to tell her who he was, rushed back at her, as did his icy words. It’s too late. I don’t need or want you in my life.
‘Keep walking and you’ll see it.’ The mother’s voice dragged her back to the present. She smiled at Emma before heading on in the other direction. With unease in her heart Emma watched her walk out of sight. That would be her by the end of the year, but she was certain she wouldn’t be here in New York, looking happy with life.
She shook the thought away and looked at her watch again. She was fifteen minutes late. Would Nikolai still be there? With the pain of her father’s rejection stinging her heart, the need to see Nikolai, to tell him and give him the chance to be part of his child’s life, deepened. She quickened her step but within a few strides they faltered. He was standing where the path turned through the trees and, despite the distance, she knew it was him, as if her body had registered his, known he was close.
She could also tell from his stance that he was not happy about being kept waiting. She breathed in deeply, then let the breath out in a bid to calm her nerves and quell the nausea which threatened to rear its head yet again. Within days of returning to London she had woken each morning feeling ill and had at first put it down to all that had happened between her and Nikolai. After all, losing your virginity to a man, only to have him walk out in anger, was not the best experience in the world. Not once had she considered there was a lasting legacy of that night.
As days had turned into a week, she’d known she couldn’t ignore the encroaching doubt any longer and had purchased a pregnancy test. The fact that it had taken several more days before she’d been brave enough to use it only served to increase the weight of dread which filled her from the moment she woke each day. When she’d finally had enough courage to use the test, her worry had increased as the ominous blue lines appeared, confirming that the hours spent with Nikolai had most definitely had consequences—for her, at least.
She walked towards him now and with purpose pushed those long, lonely weeks aside in her mind, focusing instead on what had to be done. She kept her chin lifted and her eyes on him all the time. Anything else would be to show uncertainty or, at worst, fear. She wasn’t scared of her future any more and, although it was going to be a struggle, she was looking forward to giving her child all she’d never had. What she did fear was telling Nikolai and, from the rigid set of his shoulders, she’d been right to fear this moment.
He made no move towards her, not even one step, and she hated him for doing that. He could have made the moment easier for her. Was he punishing her for contacting him? For making their one night something more? Each step she took must have shown her anxiety a little bit more. She should have called him as soon as she’d taken the pregnancy test, but shock had set in. She hadn’t even been ready to accept it herself, let alone blithely call him up and tell him their one night had created a child which would join them for ever.
How did you tell a man who’d made it blatantly clear he didn’t want any kind of commitment that he was a father? Her mother obviously hadn’t done it right, but could she? She was about to find out.
As she drew level with him, the inky black of his eyes held accusation, just as they had done in the hotel room the morning after they’d spent the night together, the night she’d lost her virginity to him. The firm line of his lips looked harder than they had that morning but she refused to be intimidated, just as she refused to acknowledge the hum of attraction rushing through her just from seeing him, being near him again.
She couldn’t still want him; she just couldn’t.
‘You are late.’ He snapped the words out and stood his ground. Six foot plus of brooding male towered over her, sending her heartbeat racing in a way that had nothing to do with nerves at what she had to say. She hated the way she still wanted him, her body in complete denial of the numbness in her mind. How could she still want a man who’d rejected her so coldly after she’d given him her most precious gift?
‘I couldn’t find my way through the park...’ she began, trying to instil firmness into her voice, but he cruelly cut her off.
‘Why are you here, Emma?’ The hard glint in his eye sparked with anger but she wouldn’t allow him to make her feel like a guilty child. What right did he have to stand there and dictate to her what she should have done and when? He was the one who’d strode from the hotel room in Vladimir without a word to her after tossing her his card. He was the one who hadn’t handled this right.
‘Did you think throwing a business card onto the bed was a nice way to end our night together?’ Her words spiked the spring air around them, but he didn’t flinch. His handsome face didn’t show a single trace of any other emotion beyond controlled annoyance. This just prodded at her anger, firing her up.
