The Baby Secret Page 7

  She didn't look round when the door finally swung open, stepping into the house and shutting it behind her as the tears rained down her face. And then she heard the roar of his car as it left.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  July passed in a round of hot summer days and agonisingly lonely, long nights, but by the time August made an appearance—bringing a welcome change in the weather of cooler, more bearable temperatures as the heatwave ended—Victoria found she was feeling much better, at least physically. Her emotions were another story.

  She was now four and a half months pregnant, and if circumstances had been different would have been relishing the fact that for the first time in her life she had a voluptuous bust, although her waistline was fast disappearing. Morning sickness had been a thing of the past for the last two weeks, and despite the misery that gripped her every waking moment she was finding she was eating like a horse. Like ten horses.

  She glanced at herself now in the mirror as she slipped off her bathrobe and paused before reaching for her bra and pants. She didn't look too bad yet, all things considered, she thought reflectively. If anyone didn't know how small her waist was normally they would just think she hadn't got much shape, and the increased bra size was a definite improvement. Not that this happy state of affairs would last long, she reminded herself wryly. Her last visit to the baby clinic, when she had seen women of all varying shapes and sizes but all resembling slowly expanding balloons, had convinced her of that She had no illusions.

  But she didn't mind. She stared at her reflection for a moment more before reaching for her clothes and dressing slowly, her mind continuing to amble on. No, she didn't mind how fat she got—she could resemble a hippopotamus and it wouldn't worry her—as long as the baby was all right Oh, how she wanted this baby. She hugged herself tight for a moment, her head drooping and her hair falling across her face in a silken shower before she straightened resolutely. And she would have it. Nothing would go wrong; she was young and healthy and very fit; her baby was perfectly safe. Zac's son or daughter…

  She looked at the girl in the mirror, her blue eyes narrowing. She had done a lot of serious thinking in the weeks since she knew she was pregnant, a lot of growing up, and some time during that process the realisation of her own massive insecurities had dawned. But she wasn't going to let them swamp her—she was going to deal with all the dark legacies from her childhood one by one, until she had the victory over them all. She owed the child that.

  And she would be a good mother. No, she'd be a terrific mother—she had seen the other side of the coin after all, and with Coral's example ever at the back of her mind she knew exactly how not to behave. This child would have love—buckets, cartloads, aeons of it—more than enough to cover its lack of loving grandparents…and a father.

  Zac was suddenly there in her mind's eye and the hurt was as piercing as ever, causing Victoria to turn sharply from the mirror and walk quickly through to the small, compact kitchen, where she fixed herself a wicked breakfast of fried bread, eggs and bacon with a blithe disregard for calories.

  It was just gone eight o'clock when she left the flat and the morning was a cool one for the beginning of August, the break in the hot spell causing turbulent thunderstorms that had suited Victoria just fine. There had been something incredibly galling in watching the whole of London bathing blissfully in the best July for years when she had been feeling so wretched inside.

  She'd told herself she was nasty and crabby, and that just because she was so miserable it didn't mean everyone else had to be, but, nevertheless, the disappearance of all those slender, lithe girls in their gay thin summer dresses, and with attentive suitors often in tow, was a relief. Now everyone was scurrying from A to B with one eye on the weather for the next torrential downpour, herself included. It was cloudburst weather.

  'Victoria?'

  She had been so busy in her scurrying that she walked slam-bang into Zac before she saw him, and but for him grabbing at her arms as she ricocheted away off the pavement she would have been straight under the wheels of a number ten bus.

  'Good grief, woman, what's the matter with you?' he snapped furiously, not letting go of her until she was safely on the other side of the pavement next to a solid shop front and away from the churning morning traffic. 'You're supposed to look where you're going; hasn't anyone told you? You'll get yourself killed.'

  'I'll get myself killed?' she echoed breathlessly, glaring back at him as her anger rose in line with her colour. 'It was you who bumped into me, actually,' she challenged militantly.

  Oh, he looked good—if a tame word like 'good' could be used to describe such… Her fragile equilibrium balked at continuing down such a dangerous path and she wrenched her arms from his hands, turning away from his big male bulk as she did so.

  'I see. So potential wife-murderer is to be added to my list of crimes?' His tone was cool now, and carried an air of resigned contempt that suggested he held her in utter disdain.

  'I didn't say that.' It had begun to rain again as it had every morning for the last week, and Victoria was belatedly aware she had forgotten her umbrella, 'Look, why are you here?' she asked tightly, aware her fine, silky hair was going to be hanging about her face in rat's tails before too much longer. He hadn't tried to see her—he hadn't even phoned—in the last four weeks since her disastrous visit to their house, and now here he was waiting outside the fiat and them blaming her when he had all but hurled her into the road. And still she loved this man…

  'I need to talk to you.'

  It was said with such a lack of warmth that it was all Victoria could do not to cry. This was Zac, her Zac; how had they come to such a pass? But then he wasn't her Zac, was he? He was Gina's, and therein lay the root of all her misery. Gina's warm, olive-tinted face and vibrant velvet-brown eyes were on the screen on her mind, their beauty mocking her, and she dealt with her anguish by drawing herself up and making her voice as icy as his as she said, 'We have nothing to talk about. I thought I'd made that perfectly clear.'

  'You returned my cheque,' Zac began irritably, and then, as the rain turned into a fierce squall that threatened to soak them, he said, his tone imperious, 'We can't talk here; this is ridiculous. My car's over there; come and get in.'

  'No,' One simple little word but from the expression on his face she could have said something obscene, Victoria thought with black humour. But then people didn't say no to Zac Harding, not ever. In spite of her misery she found she was enjoying the moment.

  'Victoria.' He eyed her frostily, Zac at his most dignified.

  It was a clear warning, but she raised her head a fraction higher, aware the water was now dripping off the end of her nose and quite spoiling the imposing effect she had aimed for as she said, 'You are making me late for work, Zac. Goodbye.'

  'There is no need for you to work in that scruffy little shop, for crying out loud!' The cool composure was gone, his face one big scowl as he took her arm to prevent her moving away.

  'I happen to like that 'scruffy little shop',' Victoria returned curtly. It was true—she did.

  When she had first applied for the job as temporary shop assistant the day after her final showdown with Zac four weeks ago, she hadn't known what to expect, and she certainly hadn't imagined she would be offered the post that very morning when she had been invited to go along and see the proprietor.

  But Mrs Bretton was small and round and friendly, and the interview had digressed into a cosy chat over a big pot of tea, with Mrs Bretton lamenting the capaciousness of her daughter—the co-owner of the flower shop—who had suddenly decided to accompany her high-flier husband to the States for three months.

  'He's always nipping here, there and everywhere on business,' the middle-aged woman had confided conspiratorially towards the end of their talk, 'and frankly I think my Megan suspects he might be up to a bit of hanky panky now and again, you know? I think she wants to keep an eye on him this time with him being away for quite a while. But still, you could have
knocked me down with a feather when she phoned the other night and told me I'd have to get someone to stand in for a few weeks.' She'd sighed resignedly.

  Victoria had nodded sympathetically but said nothing.

  'And so here I am, needing some help for a while. You do understand it would just be for the next three months until she's back?' Mrs Bretton had asked anxiously. 'Would that suit you, m'dear? I know it's not everyone's cup of tea.'

  'That would be fine, really.' Victoria had tried not to sound too eager, but the job sounded tailor-made for her present circumstances. The money wasn't bad, and Mrs Bretton had already said they would work out the hours to suit them both, added to which the thought of working in the fragrant environment—which was just a stone's throw from the picturesque mews where her flat was situated—was very appealing. And when she'd explained about the baby—with Mrs Bretton cluck-clucking like an old hen and plying her with home-made fruit cake—Victoria had known she had found a friend. And so it had proved. Mrs Bretton had been heaven-sent.

  'Why did you send my cheque back this morning?' Zac left the matter of her job and returned to his main grievance, but again Victoria jerked herself free, glancing at her dainty gold wrist-watch as she did so with a pointed frown.

  'I really do have to go.' She looked into his angry face, the rain forming tiny sparkling crystals in the gleaming blackness of his hair, and added in a softer tone, 'I'll ring you later tonight. Will that do?' He had no right to look so good.

  'How are you feeling?' It was flat and expressionless.

  It wasn't what she'd expected him to say next, and Victoria found herself staring at him for a long moment, her mouth slightly agape, before she managed to stutter, 'I…I'm fine, thank you.'

  'Are you eating enough?' he asked gruffly.

  Eating enough? She couldn't stop. 'Yes, yes, I am,' she said quickly, knowing that if she didn't make a quick exit this show of concern—lukewarm though it was—was going to have her howling like a baby any moment. 'Goodbye, then…' She was backing slowly away as she spoke and he let her go without another word, his eyes dark and unfathomable as he watched her, and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his suit trousers.

  The flower shop was only round the next corner, but by the time Victoria pushed open the door—a jangling bell proclaiming her entrance—she found her heart was beating as furiously as if she had just run a marathon. Which was pathetic—utterly pathetic, she told herself angrily. It didn't make any difference.

  Why hadn't he phoned her if he wanted to object to her return of his very handsome cheque? Victoria asked herself, once the morning niceties had been done away with and she was sitting at a table putting together a small basket of fragrant freesias and deep red carnations. He could have—he had her number both at home and here, and it was unlikely she'd be anywhere else. Unless he thought she was still a regular visitor to William's place? she thought suddenly, her brow wrinkling.

  But no, knowing Zac, he was fully aware of both her movements and William's, and therefore he'd known William had been out of the country for the last three weeks. Perhaps he'd thought she'd slam the telephone down on him? It could be that. Or was he mellowing in his feelings towards her; was this some sort of overture? A wish to put their relationship on a more civil level?

  She pulled herself up sharp, stabbing an innocent carnation so hard into the green oasis in the pretty wicker basket that it broke midway down the stem.

  It didn't matter if he was mellowing, she told herself angrily—not that he was of course. A proud, intensely virile man like Zac didn't appreciate his wife getting pregnant by someone else—as he saw it. He loathed her now; she had seen it in his eyes that evening four weeks ago and nothing had changed. And his situation was no different of course; Gina was still very much a part of his life and no doubt would continue to be so for a good few years yet.

  She had returned his cheque because she was determined to make it on her own—now and in the years ahead—but his pride didn't like that. That was all it was. He had more money than he knew what to do with, and if it appeased his conscience a little—if he had one, that was—by giving her a handout it was an easy get-out.

  But she didn't want his money. Victoria stared at the somewhat bedraggled basket and knew she would have to start all over again. Mrs Bretton had been delighted when she, Victoria, had shown a very real aptitude for flower arranging. It was normally the older woman's daughter who took care of that side of the business—Mrs Bretton had confided to Victoria that she was all fingers and thumbs—but her employer wouldn't think much of the higgedly piggedly mess in front of her at this moment, Victoria thought ruefully.

  She picked each of the flowers out of the oasis, cleared her mind of everything but the job in hand, and banned the image of a tall, dark, handsome man with midnight-black hair and ebony eyes from entering her consciousness again that morning.

  Victoria left the shop at just after five, after an unusually hectic day that had her feeling drained and tired. The rain and wind of the morning had given way to a quiet, mellow summer evening that carried the scents of a newly washed city in its soft gentle breeze, and she stood for a moment looking up into the blue sky as the sun warmed her face, drinking in the moment.

  Depression had been hovering about like a little black cloud waiting to descend on her head all day after the unexpected confrontation with Zac—it had upset her more than she would have thought possible to see him again— but now she thrust the weakness away determinedly as she began to walk home, before turning after just one or two steps and walking in the opposite direction.

  She was going to buy herself a dress—perhaps two, she thought purposefully. She hadn't bought any maternity clothes yet, and she had noticed the dress she had on today was slightly tight round the bust and middle. She might be a betrayed and pregnant wife—she made no apology to herself for the indulgent self-pity—but she was blowed if she was going to be a dowdy one.

  Victoria spent a surprisingly contented hour or so shopping, buying herself three new sexy lace bras—the maternity ones were monstrous and seemed more built to hold outsize melons than anything else—from a little boutique close to the flower shop, and also two cleverly designed non-maternity dresses that nevertheless hid her changing shape wonderfully well and were immensely flattering into the bargain. They made her feel like herself again.

  She resisted the temptation to buy more—she couldn't really afford it and she would need warmer maternity clothes in the next two or three months anyway—but on the way home she made an appointment for the next lunchtime to have her hair trimmed in an exclusive little hairdresser's she had noticed a few days before.

  One of the unexpected benefits of her pregnant stage was the wonderful condition of her hair and skin, she thought encouragingly as she turned the corner into the mews and home. Her skin—normally inclined to dry-ness—was dewy fresh and silky smooth, and her hair had a shining softness no artificial conditioner could have improved on. Hormones weren't all bad.

  Her little pep talk to herself ended abruptly as she lifted her gaze and saw the sleek silver Jaguar parked at the far end of the mews in the tiny car park like a big cat waiting to pounce.

  Zac! Her heart stopped and then raced away like a runaway horse, the beat pounding through her blood as she watched the occupant of the Jaguar open the driver's door and stretch lazily to his feet. What now? More fighting?

  She watched him walk towards her in much the same way a mesmerised rabbit watched the predator who was about to attack, and it was only as he reached her side that she found the strength to make a conscious effort to pull herself together.

  'I thought we'd arranged I was going to phone you tonight?' Victoria said tightly as she looked up into the dark, handsome face that haunted her days and nights.

  'Wrong.' His voice was even and steady and very cool. 'You told me that was what you were going to do, that's all.'

  Power games again. Hurt and panic churned through her chest and made he
r voice brittle as she said, 'There was no need for you to come here; we could just as easily have talked on the phone, Zac. I really don't see that there's any point to this.'

  'There are things that need sorting.' His voice was clipped now. 'About the divorce and so on. We can't bury our heads in the sand. And I prefer to do our talking face to face.'

  She didn't. Victoria stared at him, the butterflies in her stomach throwing themselves into a mad St Vitus's dance that had her feeling nauseous. It was too painful, but obviously he wasn't affected in the same way she was, and why would he be? His heart wasn't involved after all. Just his pride.

  The thought tightened her mouth and put steel in her backbone, enabling her to say quite coolly, 'Very well, you'd better come in, then,' as she fetched her key out of her handbag.

  'Thank you.' It was dark and ironic, but she ignored the sarcasm, opening the white-painted front door to her downstairs flat and entering it quickly as she prayed for self-control.

  She hated him. She did, she hated him. How could he be so darn composed and imperturbable when every nerve in her body was screaming and twanging at his presence?

  'This is very nice.'

  His dark bulk filled the minute hall as she turned at the sitting-room door, and she took a deep hard breath before she could say, 'Yes, I was very lucky to find it at just the right time. My mother knows someone…'

  'I don't doubt it.' Now the sarcasm was dipped in pure venom. He clearly hadn't forgiven her mother for her part in all this.

  'Zac—' She stopped abruptly before forcing herself to continue. 'If…if you're going to be here for a while, couldn't we at least pretend to be civil?' Her voice shook.

  'Perhaps.' He eyed her broodingly without coming any further into the flat. 'There's one thing I want to ascertain first. Did you send my cheque back because William Howard is supporting you now?' he asked flatly, his face cold and closed.