but she could sense his irritation. The irritation of a rich man who didn’t have to wait for things, or people. Including herself. So now she simply slipped on a dark green sheath, one of her favourites, brushed out her hair and retouched her make-up. Then she stepped back to check her appearance.
The familiar svelte, classically beautiful image looked back at her—hair smooth, make-up restrained, cool and composed.
She was still extremely slim. Nothing showed at all. Yet she could feel a distinct tightness in the dress fabric that was noticeable only by touch, not sight. Instinctively, yet again, she slipped her hand across her abdomen. Protectively. Cherishingly. A soft look came into her eyes.
Oh, let it be all right—please, please let it be all right!
The St John’s three-Michelin-starred restaurant was as busy as ever, but for Xander Anaketos one of the best-positioned tables was always available. It was set back, in a quieter spot, although the hushed tones of the other diners made anyone else’s conversation quite inaudible.
They took their places, and Clare knew that the eyes of the women there had gone to Xander—because women’s eyes always did. And so did hers. After ten days of his absence, just drinking in his face, his features, running her eyes over the high slice of his cheekbones, lingering on the way his sable hair feathered, the way the lines around his mouth indented, was bliss.
She was glad now he had not swept her off to bed. In that sensual ecstasy she might not have been able to control her feelings for him, and in the aftermath she might have been tempted, oh, so tempted, to tell him what had happened. But it would not have been the right time, she knew. His mind, when he was in bed with her, was on sex—it was natural for a man, after all—and afterwards another hunger would take precedence, and he would suddenly want dinner. No. Better, she knew, to let him eat now, relax, chill from the irritations of the flight and let his mood mellow. And then, over brandy, she would tell him. It would be perfect.
The familiar stab of anxiety came again, but she dispelled it. There was no point in doing otherwise. She must think the best, hope the best. And in the meantime she must make it easy for him to relax. So she did what she always did—was poised and composed, chatting lightly, only in answer to him, not plaguing him, giving him time to eat, to let the fine wines slip down his throat, making no demands on him.
He was preoccupied, she could see. That was not unusual in itself. The demands of his work were immense, the convolutions of his myriad deals and negotiations, investments and financial manoeuvrings intricate and labyrinthine. In the early days she had asked him about his work, for the world of international finance was completely strange to her. She’d looked a bit up on the Internet and in newspapers, to try and be less of an ignoramus, but when she’d asked him about things he’d either looked wryly at her or told her that he had enough of it all day and wanted to relax now. So she’d accepted that and changed the subject.
Her eyes flickered to him again, as he focussed on his entrée. Yes, he was definitely preoccupied, his mind somewhere else. Quietly, she got on with her meal. She was hungry. Eating in the mornings now had little appeal, but by the evening she had worked up an appetite. However, she was very cautious about what she drank—her single glass of wine was still half full, and she was only taking tiny sips from it. She hadn’t made a big deal out of it, and Xander hadn’t remarked on it. Usually she drank a glass of white, and then red, and sometimes had a small liqueur afterwards, while he nursed a brandy. Tonight she would make do with coffee only.
Her mind, she found, was running on. She would need to buy a good comprehensive manual, she knew, and start finding out everything that was going to be in store for her now. It was such a complicated, overwhelming process, with her body and her psyche going through such profound changes. Physically, she felt wonderful—except for that distinct reluctance to eat first thing—but that might well change, she knew, over the coming months.
Another wave of unease went through her. Her figure would change totally, obviously, and what would Xander think? She’d always been so slim, so slender. How would he take the swelling of her body? Well, she would cope with it when the time came. It was only in the last trimester that the weight really piled on, and until then, if she kept fit, as she obviously must now, she should not look too bad. Her eyes softened. Xander might actually find her roundedness appealing…
Again, hope pierced her.
The meal continued, with both of them refusing dessert, and Xander ordering coffee and liqueurs.
‘Just coffee for me, please.’ Clare smiled at the waiter.
She felt Xander’s eyes flicker over her a moment. Then it was gone again.
The coffee arrived, with his customary cognac, and the waiter departed again. The restaurant was thinning out now, the hushed voices more subdued. She watched as Xander cradled his glass in his long fingers and swirled it absently, his eyes going to the slow coil of topaz liquid within.
She felt her pulse quicken and took a breath. Now she must tell him. It was the right moment. She must not put it off. Nothing would be gained by doing so. Yet for an instant she desperately did not want to say anything! Wanted to put it off, procrastinate, delay what she must tell him.
She opened her mouth, his name forming on her lips.
‘Clare.’
His voice came before hers. Her name. Clipped, pronounced.
Slowly her mouth closed, and she looked at him. Inside, emotions warred. One was dismay that he had spoken just as she was going to—but the other was sneaking and sly. She didn’t have to tell him just yet…
Her eyes rested on him expectantly, waiting for him to continue. But there was a hesitation about him—something she was not used to seeing.
‘Yes?’ she prompted. Her voice was cool, composed, the way it always was—except in the throes of passion, when she cried out his name in ecstasy. ‘What is it?’
Something shadowed in his eyes, and was gone. He swirled the brandy once more, then lifted it to his mouth and took a slow mouthful, lowering the glass. The air of preoccupation had vanished. There was a set in his shoulders, a tightening in his jaw. She looked at him, wondering what he was going to say to her. Wondering, far more anxiously, whether it would mean that telling him her news now would be delayed beyond this evening.
For a second longer he was silent. Then his eyes went to hers. There was no expression in them.
‘I’ve met someone else. In New York.’
She heard the words. They were flatly spoken, his accent hardly showing. For a strange, dissociated moment she did not understand them.
Then he was talking again.
‘There’s never a pleasant way of doing this, but I wanted you to know how very much I’ve appreciated you over these last months. But it is now…’ Did he hesitate again, just for a fraction of a fraction of a second? She could not tell, was blind and deaf to everything. ‘Over,’ he said, breathing out with a short, decisive breath.
She was sitting there. Just sitting there. Everything around her seemed to have gone into immense slow motion. As if it was not there. Was not there at all.
Her heart rate had slowed. She could feel it, slowing down like a motor running out of motion. Everything stilled inside her, around her, in the whole universe.
Her face did not move. That
