STARING at the little strip of paper, feeling frightened and alone, Paris gave an involuntary shiver. Twice she’d done the test, and twice it had come out positive. She’d hoped against hope that she’d been wrong…Putting her hand on her tummy, tears prickling her eyes, she bit her lip in worry. How in God’s name was she going to cope with a baby? The difficulties would be enormous. There would be heartache—oh, stop it, stop it! Don’t be so damned selfish! What about the little one? How would the baby cope? No father…With a frightened sob, she slumped back on the couch. She couldn’t tell him—he had his career, his reputation…And he wasn’t intending to come back, she knew he wasn’t, so he wouldn’t find out, and…
Oh, dear God. But she’d have to go and see the doctor, be sensible—everyone at the agency had private medical insurance, arranged by William, so it would be an easy matter—and once he had confirmed it…and there wasn’t anyone to share it with, to tell. She couldn’t tell Athena, didn’t want to tell Athena, and, for the first time in a very long while, she wished her parents were there. A mother to hug her, tell her it would be all right, that they would manage…Oh, Paris, you’re twenty-nine, other people manage…
A few days later, the pregnancy confirmed, an appointment made at the local clinic for the middle of January, she returned to work. If she stayed at home she would brood on it, on Oliver, and life had to go on. Yet everywhere she went, it was there, in the forefront of her mind. Pregnant. A baby. Oliver’s baby. She wouldn’t be able to work, not for a bit anyway, and, even when she could, what sort of life would it be? She couldn’t seem to even comprehend the changes that would take place. The responsibility, the worry—the love? And if she didn’t have it? The guilt…No, she couldn’t even think about that. But first there was Christmas to get through, and then a job interpreting for a Madame Duchesnay in the French Alps who was having a dinner party for some English guests. She was a bit puzzled by the request, as was William, because there were any number of French interpreters she could have used, her own countrymen and women, but apparently Paris had been recommended, and she was insistent that she come. And, as William said, it would be a break, and she definitely looked as though she needed one of those.
The ferry was booked for the day after Boxing Day, because Paris had decided that she would quite like to drive down, stay overnight somewhere—and it would probably be the last chance of a holiday for some time to come. There was no word from Oliver over the Christmas break, a Christmas she was spending alone because she didn’t want to talk, be festive, pretend. Not even a Christmas card. Her head told her it was best. Her heart felt broken.
Her mind and emotions still in turmoil, trying to be positive, in control, she drove down to Portsmouth to catch the overnight ferry, forced herself to consider the forthcoming dinner party, and the next morning, after a night spent tossing and turning, belatedly wondering whether morning sickness was a possibility, she set off into the French countryside. She stayed overnight at a motel on the outskirts of Bordeaux, and, by early afternoon the following day, finally reached Pau. Taking the small secondary road, as she’d been instructed, she drove upwards towards the mountains, and all during the long drive she thought about Oliver. Oliver in Africa; Oliver being kind, caring, loving; Oliver as a father. Days were passing at a frightening rate, while inside her, growing, was his child, and she felt wretched, guilty, because she was deceiving him.
Following the clear directions, she turned off again, and then began looking for the house. It was tucked between tall pines, a cross between Uncle Tom’s Cabin and a Swiss chalet. It looked solid, well-built, cosy. Smoke rose lazily from the chimney, a fire fed by the gigantic log pile to one side. There was ample parking for half a dozen cars on the triangular gravelled drive. A drive that this evening would no doubt be full as guests arrived for the dinner party. A dinner party that would perhaps remind her of another one. One that had been special, a delight—a farewell.
Forcing the memories aside, climbing stiffly from the car, she stretched, shivered in the chill wind, collected her case, and went to knock on the solid wood front door. It was opened instantly by a smiling woman.
‘Madame Duchesnay?’
‘Oui.’
She held the door wide, and, as Paris stepped in, Madame Duchesnay stepped out, and closed the door behind her. How very odd. Somewhat bemused, she stared at the closed front door, carefully put down her case, and wondered what on earth to do next.
‘Hello?’ she called cautiously. Nothing. She could hear the snap and crackle of flames from the room a little down on her left, see the faint glow from the fire. Feeling a bit foolish, she tippy-toed towards it and peeked inside the room. No one. Oh, this was silly, and she didn’t know why on earth she was tippy-toeing; she’d been invited, after all! Walking more normally, she entered the room, stared round her at pine-clad walls, comfortable furniture, polished wood floors with exquisite rugs scattered on them, heavy cream flecked curtains that would shut out the darkness…and then gave a little start as a hand holding a book appeared over the arm of the chair nearest her. The chair facing away from her, towards the fire. The book was placed spine up across the arm, leather-slipper-clad feet appeared, and then a tousled fair head—and her heart slid down to her stomach, then up, to block her throat.
There was joy, then anguish, as he stood, turned, gave her a long, unsmiling look.
‘Oliver?’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘Waiting.’ He didn’t look welcoming, or friendly, and he certainly didn’t look loving; he looked unbelievably grim, and her brief anticipation flickered and died. ‘Give me your coat.’ An order, not a polite request.
Shrugging out of it, her eyes still fixed widely on his face, she handed it over.
‘Sit down. I’ll get the tea.’ Taking her coat with him, he walked out.
Feeling sick and frightened, because this wasn’t a reunion, a moment for hope, she put her bag on the chair arm, moved to stand by the fire, to stare down into the leaping flames. Did he know? Had he somehow found out? No, of course he hadn’t, he couldn’t have done! But what, then, was he doing here? Invited himself to the dinner party? Hearing the soft slap of his slippered feet behind her, she flicked him a glance and swallowed nervously.
‘Yes,’ he agreed flatly, ‘you might well look frightened.’ Placing the tray he carried on the coffee-table, he straightened, faced her. ‘And don’t turn away,’ he ordered, ‘I want to see your face while you lie.’
‘What?’ Her heart beating suffocatingly fast, she searched heavy-lidded eyes, found nothing to comfort. Latching on to incidentals, she stared at the thin black roll-neck sweater that he wore, the grey trousers…He couldn’t have found out, she told herself frantically, no one knew. Yet her hand went automatically to her stomach in a protective little movement, and then she forced herself to remove it before he noticed. Her heartbeat might be erratic, her palms damp, but she must not let him see how frightened she was. How worried.
‘You’re a guest at the dinner party?’ she asked stupidly, knowing even as she said it that it couldn’t be true, that fate didn’t work that way.
‘No. There is no dinner party.’
No, of course there was no dinner party. ‘Madame Duchesnay?’
‘She lives in the village, looks after me when I’m here.’
‘Here?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is your house?’
‘Yes. Sit down.’
She sat. Not tidily, not elegantly, just collapsed downwards. His house?
‘Heard from Athena?’
‘What?’ she asked blankly as he lowered himself to the sofa and began to pour the tea. ‘Athena?’
‘No—well, I had a Christmas card…’ Oh, my God. That was it! Athena had told people, the Press, as she’d threatened. ‘Oliver, she wouldn’t mean, she doesn’t think…’
‘She didn’t write? Send you a cheque, as promised?’
‘Pardon?’ Wrenching her mind away from law-suits, publicity, she automatically took the cup he held out, stared at him in bewilderment. ‘Send a cheque? Promised? Promised who? You?’
He gave an arctic little inclination of his head. His hands were clenched on his own cup, she saw, his muscles rigid.
‘You’ve seen her? Talked to her?’ she asked nervously. ‘When? When did you see her? And why? How did you even know where she lived?’
‘I was going to the States, I told you. And while I was there, decided to look her up. I got her address from the Christmas card she sent you. As to the reason, I wanted to ask her why, if she loved you, as sisters presumably do, she left you with a mountain of debts that you made yourself ill trying to pay off—and why she lied.’
‘And what did she say?’ she whispered.
‘That she hadn’t known you couldn’t pay them off, that she was intending to reimburse you, that you should have told her. It went along the lines of “How on earth am I supposed to know things if she doesn’t tell me? She never tells people things!” And you don’t, do you?’ he asked softly, and with just the faintest hint of—menace.
‘Yes. No.’ Nervous, frightened, almost able to believe that he might be able to see that she hadn’t told him something, she burst out, ‘I don’t know, do I? And I didn’t mean what did she say about the money, but about lying! Did she?’
‘I told you she did.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed almost despairingly, because it didn’t really matter now, did it? Although, she supposed it would be nice to know her reasons. ‘Why? Why did she lie? Not to hurt me?’
‘She lied because she’s spoilt, because she likes to show off to her big sister, wants to be—important.’
‘But lying about you doesn’t make her important. That’s just silly.’
‘Silly to you. Not silly to her,’ he corrected. ‘What did she say? To stay away from me? That I ate little girls like you for breakfast?’ One eyebrow raised, he waited.
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘That she’d met you at a charity do somewhere. Said…’
‘That we’d had an affair? Brief but electric?’
Horrified, she exclaimed, ‘Athena would never have told you that!’
‘No, Henry did. He thought I’d be interested. Which, of course, I was.’ Still watching her, his face expressionless, he added softly, ‘Is that why you didn’t tell me?’
‘Tell you?’ she whispered.
‘Don’t play games!’ he shouted, making her jump. Slamming his cup down he got to his feet, edged round the coffee-table and came to stand in front of her. ‘You lied to me. I asked, specifically, and you lied. And I want to know why.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Her voice barely audible, her neck crooked at an awkward angle as she stared up at him, frightened eyes fixed widely on his face, she waited. He might not mean…What else could he mean?
‘Yes, you do. How long were you intending to keep it to yourself? A week? A month? Forever?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ she shouted.
‘The baby,’ he said flatly. ‘My baby. Or is it?’
Oh, dear God. Playing for time, trying to think of something, anything to say, she put her cup in the hearth and queried shakily, ‘Baby?’
‘Yes. As in small child, as in—pregnant. So is it? Mine?’
‘No,’ she said quickly, too quickly.
‘Not mine?’
‘No.’
‘Rupert’s?’ he asked with quiet savagery.
Shock replacing her fear, she queried blankly, ‘What?’
‘Rupert. The Rupert you walked out on without explanation, consideration.’
‘The Rupert I did what to?’ she whispered faintly. ‘And how on earth do you know about him, anyway?’
‘Athena.’
‘Athena told you?’
‘Yes,’ he said grimly, ‘and although I wouldn’t normally give credence to anything she might say, in this instance she seemed to be telling the truth. Does he know?’
‘Rupert?’
‘Of course bloody Rupert!’ Gripping her arm, hard, above the elbow, he yanked her to her feet, looked as though he wanted to shake her. ‘Does he?’
Feeling as though her life was unravelling before her eyes, she weakly shook her head. ‘No, of course he doesn’t know. I don’t even know how you know.’
He gave a mirthless smile. ‘My doctor. The doctor who came to see you. The doctor who, because he was worried about you, contacted your GP, who was happy to tell him of your pregnancy…’
‘That’s unethical!’
‘I don’t care what it is!’ he gritted, the soft tone gone. ‘All I care is that my doctor, naturally,’ he pointed out sarcastically, ‘thinking I would be ecstatic, congratulated me!’
Oh, God. Slumping in his hold, she just stared helplessly at him. He looked bitter. Implacable. And those beautiful, heavy-lidded eyes hard, accusing. Feeling drained of emotion, wavering between dream and reality, she asked faintly, ‘Why did Athena tell you about Rupert?’
‘Because, unlike you, she’s a very sharp lady.’
‘I don’t know what that means.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘No. What did she say?’ Might as well know it all, mightn’t she?
‘That he did everything for you. Adored you.’
Remembering just what sort of adoration he’d offered, she gave a humourless smile. ‘Doesn’t sound very likely, does it? Plain little Paris Colby being adored?’
‘Shut up,’ he snapped viciously. ‘I’m not in the mood for games! She also said,’ he continued, sounding extraordinarily vindictive, ‘that, having helped you in your career, the moment he had a chance to further his own, you refused to accompany him, translate with foreign producers and walked out. Broke his heart.’
‘Oh, sure, broke it so badly that he immediately jumped into bed with the producer’s daughter he’d been carrying on with, and then married her.’
‘I see.’
‘Good.’
Refusing to be sidetracked, he asked, ‘That’s why you didn’t tell me about the baby?’
Feeling almost hysterical, hovering between dishonesty and expedience, she nodded, what the hell else could she do? And he’d have had a bit of a shock if she had told him. If it had been Rupert’s baby it would have been born by now. Athena had obviously not told Oliver how long ago they’d broken up.
The silence lengthened, became even more uncomfortable. ‘Why did you sleep with me, Paris?’ he asked quietly. ‘To find a father for the child you were already having?’
‘What? No!’ Unbelievably shocked, she touched a hand to his chest, then hastily removed it as though she’d been burned. ‘No! Dear God, Oliver, what sort of person do you take me for?’
‘I don’t know, that’s why I asked.’
‘You really think…And even if I had, I’d have told you, wouldn’t I?’
‘Would you? And the bills?’
‘Bills?’ Unable to make the connection, she just stared at him.
‘Post.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Post,’ he repeated flatly. ‘I remembered, you see, how you neatly turned aside the question of Athena, angrily insisted you didn’t need my help…’
‘I didn’t!’
He gave a mirthless smile. ‘Then why tell me the post had arrived, knowing it was likely to contain bills?’
‘Because I wanted to…’
‘Distract me?’ he asked softly.
‘Yes…No!’ And he looked so hurt, so tired, and, wishing she knew if she was doing the right thing, she put out her hand as if to touch him again, then let it drop to her side. What else was there to say? Nothing that would be any use. Aching for him, for herself, wishing he didn’t look so—distant, she whispered, ‘It wasn’t anything to do with the bills. I didn’t want you to pay them.’
‘Any more than you didn’t want me to think I was the father of your baby?’
‘No. Oh, Oliver, no.’ Yet wouldn’t it be best for him to hate her? Go away, never come back? Her eyes full of tears, she swung away, the ache in her heart almost too big to cope with. And even if she did tell him the truth, what would that solve? Anyway, it wouldn’t be fair. If he’d loved her, perhaps, but he didn’t. Was fond of her maybe, had been fond. Why did things always get in such a muddle? she thought despairingly. When she’d left Rupert all those months ago, found her flat, she’d got her life in order. For the first time in her life that she could remember, she’d got things straight. A lovely place to live, a good career, friends, and she’d thought that life was beginning to be pretty damned good. Independent, solvent, happy. And then she’d done her sister a favour, then William, gone to Portugal…
So many lies, Paris. She hated to lie. Especially hated to lie to someone who had been kind to her, and she wished with all her heart that it could all be different. If only he didn’t look like someone she could have loved. Did love. If only he could have loved her. If he hadn’t been famous, so shockingly handsome, so elegantly special…Oh, stop it, Paris, stop it. You’ve made your bed, no use rumpling the sheets now. And it hurt. Dear God, how it hurt.
Wanting to make it easier for him, for herself, deciding it would be best to leave, find a hotel for the night, she went to grab her bag off the chair arm, and, because her vision was so blurred, she missed the strap, knocked it to the floor instead, and watched the contents spill all across the carpet—including the little white hospital appointment card. Staring at it in horror, she lunged—Oliver was quicker. Bending, he picked it up, held it out of her reach. Held it absently, his eyes fixed on her stricken face.
‘I have disliked a great many people in my time,’ he said with a quiet ferocity. ‘Despised them, been angry and disgusted. But, until now, I have never hated.’
Closing her eyes, wanting to die, she whispered painfully, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry? Yes. I imagine you are. The Golden Goose is—dead.’
‘No! I wanted nothing!’
‘Didn’t you? Then why are you looking so frightened? Why does it matter that I know?’
Even more frightened, she denied quickly, ‘It doesn’t. I’m not.’
‘Aren’t you? When’s the baby due?’
‘Due?’ she echoed in horror.
‘Yes, due. And just in case you are still considering lying, perhaps I should explain that Athena told me when you and—Rupert——’ he enunciated as though the name tasted impossibly vile ‘—broke up. So, how many weeks pregnant are you?’
He waited, and when she didn’t answer, he glanced at the card he held, at the heavy black wording on the front which proclaimed its use for all to see, and then returned his eyes to hers. ‘Well?’