know one way or the other whether you actually are pregnant,’ he added grimly, picking up what appeared to be his car keys.
Hebe gave a firm shake of her head. ‘I won’t be here when you get back.’
Nick halted in the doorway, his face set into grimly determined lines as he turned back to her. ‘You had damn well better be,’ he warned angrily.
Hebe’s chin rose challengingly. ‘Aren’t you afraid of what else I might “pry” into while you’re gone?’ she taunted.
Nick gave a humourless smile. ‘Touch anything and I promise you you’ll regret it,’ he warned softly.
She believed him!
She believed his threat about her leaving too. But that didn’t stop her, as soon as she knew he had definitely gone, from quietly letting herself out of the apartment and making her way back downstairs, pausing only long enough to pick up her jacket and bag from the staffroom before leaving the gallery.
Nick really could just go ahead and sack her if he liked!
He might be used to issuing orders and expecting them to be obeyed, but after his insults she had no intention of obeying anyone who spoke to her in that autocratic tone.
And she refused even to think about his assertion that she was pregnant. Of course she wasn’t. The whole idea was ridiculous.
Besides, she had some telephone calls she needed to make before the close of business for the day—telephone calls she couldn’t make from Nick’s apartment.
She had a lot of friends from university working in the art world who, like her, had decided to work in galleries or agencies instead of painting professionally themselves. One of them, she was sure, would give her some sort of lead on Andrew Southern’s agent.
She was determined to track the artist down, no matter how impossible Nick seemed to think it was. Nothing was impossible if you had the right motivation. And she most certainly had that!
Where was her mother now?
Living in England somewhere? With a husband and possibly other children?
Maybe. Hebe had no intention of disrupting her life, but now that she had seen that portrait she just needed to know.
Was Andrew Southern her father?
Why, if he had loved her mother, hadn’t he married her when he knew she was expecting his child? If Hebe was his child…!
Why had she, Hebe, been given up for adoption?
None of those things had been of interest to her before she saw that portrait—and, whether he realised it or not, she had Nick Cavendish to thank for that!
It took half a dozen telephone calls once she got home to even track down Andrew Southern’s agent, and then a call to the agency only resulted in the receptionist telling her that she could make an appointment to speak to Mr Gillespie, and he would be happy to pass along any commission she might care to make, but she very much doubted he would be able to help Hebe in regard to meeting or talking to Andrew Southern personally.
Hebe made an appointment for the following day, anyway. If nothing else she could give the agent a letter, possibly a photograph of herself, to forward on to the reclusive artist. If her mother had meant anything to Andrew Southern at all—and that portrait seemed to say that she had—then the photograph of Hebe alone would surely be enough to pique his interest!
It was what she was hoping for, at least…
Nick banged forcefully on the apartment door, his anger not having diminished in the least on the drive over here after discovering that Hebe had indeed gone from his own apartment before he’d returned.
What did she think she was playing at?
He had told her to stay put.
She hadn’t.
He had told her they would talk further when he got back.
She hadn’t been there to talk to.
And he was furious. With her. With himself. With the fact that he had become more and more convinced since leaving her earlier that she was pregnant.
If Hebe was to be believed about having had no other relationships in her life—and her anger at the suggestion had seemed fairly convincing—then he was going to have baby…
A little girl who would look like Hebe. Or a little boy who looked like him. And Luke…
He banged on the door again, his fist raised a third time when the it suddenly opened. Hebe eyed him coldly from just inside her apartment.
‘There’s no need to break the door down, Nick,’ she snapped. ‘I was just eating a sandwich when I heard your—knock,’ she drawled pointedly.
He drew in an impatient breath. ‘What sort of sandwich?’ he demanded to know. ‘You do realise that there are certain things you can’t eat when you’re pregnant?’ he added impatiently as he walked past her into the apartment, to look around him curiously.
The apartment took up the second floor of one of the old Victorian buildings London was so famous for, with huge bay windows that looked out on a tree-lined avenue.
The sitting room was bright and sunny, the walls painted yellow, multicoloured scatter rugs on the polished wood floor, the brown sofa and chairs festooned with an assortment of cushions in autumn colours.
He turned to look at Hebe. She certainly looked a lot better than she had when he’d left her earlier. The colour was back in her cheeks, the sparkle—anger—was back in those gold-coloured eyes. She was looking very slim too, in the faded denims and fitted black tee shirt she had changed into since returning home.
Well, the slimness was soon going to change, if his assumption proved correct!
Although he had a feeling Hebe was going to be one of those women who put hardly any weight on while pregnant, and that despite the growing baby she would retain that air of delicacy that so appealed to him.
He took a crushed paper bag out of his jacket pocket. ‘For you,’ he told her dryly.
Hebe made no effort to take the bag from him, and in fact put both her hands behind her back instead. She knew exactly what was in the bag, and had no intention of satisfying his curiosity. ‘I don’t remember inviting you inside,’ she said irritably.
‘You didn’t,’ he confirmed, strolling over to where her plate, with its half-eaten sandwich, still sat on the table. He lifted one corner of the bread to look at the filling. ‘Cheese.’ He nodded approvingly. ‘You’ll need to keep up your calcium intake.’
‘Nick—’
‘Hebe?’ he came back challengingly.
‘Don’t you think you’ve taken this far enough?’ She sighed wearily, sitting down on the chair at the table. ‘Insulted me enough? I told you—I was faint and dizzy from hunger earlier, and for no other reason,’she said firmly.
He
