The Shock Cassano Baby. Andie Brock
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therapy had helped—plus the determination that she was going to overcome her fear. Now, dragging in a deep breath, she released it slowly, the way she had been shown, and strode with great determination to meet her nemesis.
Opening the door for her, Orlando waited as she slid in. Distracted by the car’s admiring audience, he hadn’t seemed to notice Isobel’s fear, which was just the way she wanted it. She waited as he went round to the driver’s side, her nails digging into the palms of her hands.
‘What can she do?’
Outside, she could hear a conversation starting up.
‘Over two hundred, technically.’
Oh, dear God. Orlando had opened his door and was standing outside it, just the lower half of his body visible to Isobel, one foot resting on the car’s sill.
‘Cool. You ever done that?’
‘I’ve taken her up to one-fifty on the autobahn in Germany and she still seemed to have plenty left.’
‘Wow. That’s cool, man.’
The way Isobel’s anxiety levels were racing, she suspected they would give it a run for its money. Reaching across, she pressed the car horn, meaning to grab Orlando’s attention so that they could get going—get this ordeal over with before she lost her nerve completely. But the jarring sound made her shrink back into her seat, and as Orlando peered in she caught his puzzled look.
‘You okay?’
‘Fine.’ She whispered the word under her breath as she double-checked the clasp of her seat belt. ‘Can we just get out of here, please?’
Swinging himself inside with cat-like agility, Orlando turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared into life. As he pressed his foot on the accelerator it growled throatily. Through the windscreen Isobel could see the look of respect on the young men’s faces.
‘You seem very impatient.’ He glanced at her, his hands gripping the steering wheel. ‘I can’t see that it hurts for me to spend a bit of time with those guys.’
‘You won’t say that when your car is found burnt out on a piece of wasteland.’
‘And you accuse me of prejudice?’ He gave a dismissive snort.
Isobel glared at him. ‘Look, I’m not saying they are bad kids, but a flashy car like this is bound to be a target for joyriders. It’s like asking for trouble.’
‘Ah, so it’s my fault.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘It’s important not to write people off because of their backgrounds, Isobel. I was young once. I remember what it was like.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting we wrote them off.’ How had she dug herself into this hole? ‘I happen to get on fine with my neighbours. But I doubt very much that you have anything in common with them.’
Orlando raised his eyebrows, as if he were about to say something, then clearly changed his mind, turning his eyes back to the front. ‘I’m just saying there’s no harm in treating young people with respect—giving them something to aspire to rather than assuming that the trappings of success will provoke jealousy or criminality.’
Well, that was her told. His sanctimonious conceit was almost enough to goad Isobel out of her terror. Almost. But as the car took off with a sudden burst of speed, its tyres screeching on the tarmac as Orlando spun it around in the opposite direction, Isobel could only shriek.
‘For God’s sake!’
Gripping the sides of her seat, she twisted round to look out of the rear window, convinced she’d see the bodies of her neighbours scattered in their wake. Instead she could just make out grinning faces, arms raised in gestures of respect.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘It’s what they expect of a car like this.’
They had slowed right down now, edging into the traffic of the main road. Isobel stared at his handsome, composed profile.
‘If you dangle a dream in front of someone you don’t want to disappoint them.’
Sinking down into the low leather seat, she willed her racing heart to steady. This was no dream...it was a nightmare.
‘PLEASE, SIT DOWN.’
Up on his feet, Orlando was gesturing to the chair opposite him, his impatient gaze following Isobel’s every move as she joined him at their table.
Having just about survived the car journey to the restaurant, she had made straight for the restroom to repair her make-up and give her churning stomach some time to calm down. Mercifully, the clogged London traffic had given Orlando no chance to exceed the speed limit, and when his first attempts at conversation had failed he’d accepted her silence and left her to endure the journey in peace.
She’d probably been away no more than five or six minutes, but judging by the scowl on Orlando’s face it was five or six minutes too long.
‘I’ve ordered for you.’
Leaning forward with the wine bottle in his hand, Orlando went to fill Isobel’s glass but she shook her head and reached for the carafe of water.
‘I know the chef here. His recommendations are always excellent.’
‘Right. Thank you.’ It wasn’t the food Isobel was worried about. It was the way Orlando was insidiously taking control.
Taking in a breath, she looked around. They were tucked in a discreet corner of a well-known and very exclusive restaurant—the sort that took bookings for twelve months in advance...or twelve minutes if you were Orlando Cassano. She’d recognised several celebrities seated at the subtly lit, polished wood tables, and ordinarily she would have loved a discreet gawp around to see who was dining with whom. But tonight her attention was on only one person—the darkly handsome man who sat opposite her now.
‘So, obviously we have a lot to discuss.’ Picking up his glass, Orlando swirled the dark red wine around, already coldly businesslike. ‘When exactly is the baby due?’
‘The beginning of December.’
‘So that gives us—what? Seven months?’
Us? Since when had they become an us?
Isobel took a gulp of water. ‘Yes. If my calculations are right, the due date is December the second.’ Just saying it out loud made it somehow seem all the more bewilderingly real.
‘Well, obviously we will need to get that date confirmed by a doctor.’
‘This is a baby, Orlando, not a business deal.’ Isobel heard her own acerbic reply. ‘You can’t threaten it with a penalty clause if it doesn’t deliver on time.’
A warning gleam shone in Orlando’s eyes, but he chose not to challenge her. Clearing his throat, he continued. ‘I’ll make enquiries about the best obstetrician in London.’
‘There’s no need. I can make my own appointments, thank you.’
‘Very well.’ He sighed pointedly. ‘In that case, let’s move on to where we are going to live.’
‘Live?’ Isobel carefully placed her glass down on the table. ‘As in together?’
‘I’ve been thinking maybe New York would be the most practical. I have a large apartment there, and—’
‘Wait a minute, Orlando. I can’t move to New York!’ Isobel gasped with panic. ‘My home, my business—everything is here in London.’
‘Spicer Shoes is a global company now, Isobel. Isn’t that what you’ve