The Innocent's Shock Pregnancy. Carol Marinelli
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calendar for as long as Ethan could recall. Amongst the many pictures on the walls of his father’s home was one of his parents standing on the red carpet there.
The ball was more than two weeks away. For his father to be pulling out now sent a shiver of dread down Ethan’s spine. Not that he showed it. Instead, he agreed to attend in his father’s place.
‘You’ll need a date to take with you,’ Jobe huffed.
‘I’m sure that can be arranged.’ There was nothing left to say. ‘I’ll come and see you in the morning.’
‘No, don’t,’ Jobe warned. ‘The damn press is on to me. I’m sure of it.’
‘On to what?’ Ethan challenged.
For a moment near identical black eyes met, but Jobe wasn’t about to open up to anyone.
‘Just carry on as normal. The professor will let one of you boys know when I’m back from the OR.’
Boys.
His father still referred to him and Abe as boys, when they were thirty and thirty-four respectively, but there was no affection in the term. If anything, it was said dismissively.
With the duty visit done, Ethan walked through the private wing and towards the elevator, turning right with little thought even though he’d never been there before.
Then he halted.
Ethan had been there before.
Shards of memory felt as if they were working their way to the surface of his brain as he stood waiting for the elevator. He looked down the corridor and could almost see himself—five years old and dressed in his new school uniform, accompanied by his new nanny and walking beside Abe as they headed out from a waiting room to go and visit their mother.
To say goodbye.
He took the elevator, trying to banish the memory, yet as he stepped out into the brightly lit foyer he recalled it again. The press had been waiting outside, but their instructions that day had been different from usual—Don’t wave or smile. Look sad.
Who had told a couple of kids that? Ethan thought as he walked quickly to the waiting car. Who the hell had told them how to act, how to react, on the day their mother died?
His long stride halted as the answer came to him—the new nanny had.
His driver was waiting, but Ethan dismissed him. He wanted to walk—to get rid of the hospital scent which still filled his nostrils.
Suddenly, twenty-five years on, he was back to that day and the utter bewilderment he’d felt.
The grief.
And the guilt—oh, yes, the guilt.
Because he hadn’t missed his mother as everyone had assumed he must.
Meghan.
It was his nanny, Meghan, he had missed at that time.
* * *
The gallery website was a constant thorn in Merida’s side.
Clint had been supposed to update it before he’d headed off to an art fair, though of course he hadn’t.
And with Reece being away Merida needed to change the opening times advertised there. Especially as she wouldn’t be here tomorrow morning because of her audition.
It was for a prime-time television show and, while excited, Merida was incredibly nervous about it. She had to get the part. Although theatre was her passion, Merida desperately needed credits to her name—and as well as that she loved the show. It would be a huge boost for her résumé as well, and who knew what doors it might open?
So she updated the opening and closing times on the website, and a few other things, and then, instead of clicking off and closing down the computer, Merida couldn’t resist looking Ethan up.
God, he was beautiful.
His dark, slightly hooded eyes were so brooding, and in every photo she saw, that mouth utterly refused to smile.
Just as it had refused to smile with her.
For a moment she let herself wonder how it might feel to be in the path of his gentler gaze.
Merida drank the glass of champagne that Ethan hadn’t wanted and nibbled on the caviar blinis he’d declined as she gazed upon his image.
Then she ate dark-chocolate-covered blueberries and read about the man who quite simply intrigued her.
Reece had been right. His life was a quagmire indeed—and Ethan Devereux’s playboy status was well-documented. His older brother Abe’s was too, although he seemed to have settled down a touch of late. As for his father...
Goodness!
It would seem that all the Devereux men dated and discarded with ease. It was Ethan she wanted to find out more about. Yet they all seemed inextricably linked.
Merida clicked on a recent news article: Twenty-Five Years On.
There was a photo of the Devereux men in dark suits and ties at what appeared to be a memorial service. Merida read that a quarter-century ago his mother had been involved in an accident in the Caribbean. She had been flown back to New York, but had died two days later.
The country had mourned—particularly here in New York City—and there had been accusations against her husband.
Merida topped up her glass as she read about the rumours that Jobe Devereux had been embroiled in a salacious affair, rumoured to be with the nanny, and that that was the reason poor Elizabeth had fled.
Merida raised her eyebrows.
Certainly if she found out her husband was sleeping with the nanny she’d be kicking him out, rather than running off.
Still, it made good reading.
There were photos of the two Devereux children, accompanied by nannies, arriving at the hospital to say goodbye.
How awful, Merida thought, but how riveting!
So engrossed was she that she barely looked up when the gallery door opened.
‘We’re actually closed,’ Merida said—and then promptly wanted to die when she turned. Because there were few things more embarrassing than looking up to see the object of your desire at the very same time you were looking him up online.
He now had on a long dark coat, worn open over his suit. There was an emergency button under the desk and Merida was rather tempted to push it. Not because she felt threatened—not in the least. Just because every cell in her body had moved to high alert.
‘Hi,’ Merida said, and probably undid all the changes she had made to the website as she frantically clicked the mouse in an attempt to delete him from the screen. ‘Did you forget something?’
‘You know I did.’
Merida swallowed, and though she could have cast her eyes around for his keys, or a forgotten tablet, or anything else that might have forced his return, deep down she knew what he was about to ask.
And he didn’t disappoint. ‘How about dinner?’
There were many reasons that she should say no to his offer. Merida had been warned about his reputation—not just by his terrible press, but also by Reece. And possibly the hairs that stood up on her bare arms should have served as another reason to decline.
Yet that shiver was borne of awareness rather than nervousness, Merida was certain.
He made her aware of her own body.
Ethan Devereux reminded her, without a word or even a gaze in that direction, that she was not wearing a bra, because suddenly her small breasts felt tight and heavy, and her legs, even though she was sitting, felt weak.
He