Pregnant by the Playboy Tycoon. Anne Oliver
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his mouth. ‘I do.’
‘Yes. Well.’ She swallowed. ‘I can’t go past a second-hand or antique shop without checking if there’s one lying in a box somewhere wondering why they were abandoned…’
Her voice broke and she gazed at the windswept vista beyond the windows. Not something Steve Anderson needed to know about. With a deliberate throat-clearing, she brightened her voice, attempted a smile and turned to him. ‘I have sixty-seven at the last count.’
His brows rose. ‘Shoes or teddies?’
‘Teddies. You don’t count your shoes—that’d take all the enjoyment out of shopping for more.’
‘Shopping,’ he murmured, with something like contempt and the heat she’d seen in his eyes moments ago cooled. She could read his expression, could almost hear the words forming in his mind. Spoiled rich chick.
‘It’s a girl thing,’ she said in her defence. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Here’s something I don’t understand,’ he said slowly with that same remote detachment. ‘Tell me why Dr Marcus Duffield’s only daughter is so set on leaving her father when he needs her most and driving to Surfers Paradise.’
Anneliese swallowed over the ball of pain that lodged in her chest, expanded and crept up her throat. She curled her fingernails into her palms till she was sure they’d draw blood to stop herself from the urge to slice into him the way he’d so neatly and precisely sliced into her. ‘That’s none of your business.’
‘I called on your dad last week. Apart from the grieving process, he’s worried about you, and I don’t think his own health’s a hundred per cent.’
‘I’m—’
‘He doesn’t need the added stress and it concerns me.’ He steamrolled ahead. ‘He gave Dad a new life. He’d still be alive if not for the accident.’ His voice remained low-pitched and reasonable. ‘Marcus doesn’t deserve what you’re doing.’
Steve the expert, laying the guilt at her feet with exasperating calm. ‘So you’re an authority on other people’s family business now?’ She shook her head, the tears she’d been fighting blurring her vision. ‘You know nothing about it.’
‘Then tell me. Explain why you’re so obsessed about inanimate objects like stuffed toys and shoes when you should be directing your concern towards your father at this time.’
‘Because my mother left me, that’s why!’ The anguished words left her lips before she could call them back.
‘Your mother passed away, Anneliese, she didn’t—’
‘Stop!’ Slamming a fist on her knee, she bit down hard on her lip, furious with herself for the momentary lapse. But the truth was out there: Patricia Duffield wasn’t her mother. For twenty-four years Anneliese had been lied to. Kept in the dark. Cheated. Pain hammered through her veins with every beat of her heart.
Suddenly the air inside the car was thick, confining. She wrenched open the door.
She wasn’t Anneliese Duffield.
Her birth name was Hayley Green and she was adopted.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘ANNELIESE…’ Steve reached for her but she was already out of the car, yanking off his vest. She left it where it dropped and began running.
He cursed himself as he watched her. But as he reached for the door, he held back, fingers tightening on the handle. Give her a moment.
His eyes narrowed but remained glued to her receding figure. Perhaps he shouldn’t have gone so hard on her; she was obviously distressed. His fault, damn it. The instinctive urge to offer support overrode other concerns—such as her anticipated resistance to him.
He climbed out, retrieved his vest from the road and started after her. ‘Anneliese, wait!’
She picked up pace at the sound of his voice; he saw her ankle crumple in those damn impractical shoes. ‘Leave me alone,’ he heard her snap. He couldn’t see her face so he couldn’t read her expression, but he heard the struggle, the dismay behind the steel in her voice.
‘No.’ He reached her in less than thirty seconds, felt the tension tremble through her as he turned her around. Her eyes, wide moist pools, looked up at him, vulnerable yet defiant, momentarily stirring emotions he reserved only for his sister. The chill night breeze lifted her hair, bringing her fragrance to his nose.
‘Here.’ He laid his vest around her shoulders. Again. She shrugged at it, at him. ‘I told you to leave me al—’
‘And I said no.’ He held the vest firm but not too firm, his hands easily gripping her slim shoulders. ‘Not until I know you’re all right.’
‘Of course I’m not all right. You!’ She pushed at him, self-disgust colouring her voice. ‘You make me say things I’d never say in my right mind.’
He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips as he said, ‘There’s your answer, then.’ He tugged the zip on his vest up, taking care not to notice as his fingers brushed the swell of her breasts. ‘And I’m not leaving you alone till you are all right.’
He waited till the fight drained out of her, then drew her shivering body against his. Her warmth curved into him, her sigh drifted across his neck. He didn’t know what to say so he waited and said nothing while the trees whispered and something scuffled in the roadside vegetation.
Only Anneliese would see her mother’s death as some sort of betrayal. Something that hadn’t gone her way for once. But she was hurting, and bringing all the emotion to the surface was his fault.
‘Come back to the car,’ he said to the top of her head.
She leaned back a fraction and looked up at him, her face pale and shadowed with fatigue. A strand of her hair blew across her face and caught against her lips.
Catching the silky strands, robbed of their glorious colour in the night’s light, he rubbed them between thumb and forefinger before smoothing them back into place behind her ear. He left his hand there, wanting to feel her skin against his palm. Wanting to tell her everything would be all right. That he was here.
So it seemed natural to lean down and touch his lips to hers. To reassure, to soothe. But as he skimmed her mouth and tasted the tears she hadn’t allowed him to see and the sweetness that bloomed through the salt he wasn’t reassured. Or soothed.
Beyond the casual flirtations, the odd romantic weekend getaway, he didn’t get involved with women. He didn’t allow himself to be suckered into their problems or their plans. Not any more. He’d learned the hard way.
But somehow his arms were around Anneliese and hers were on his chest and she was kissing him back, and not getting involved was history. There was an urgency in the way she grabbed fistfuls of shirt and clung. A passion fuelled by anger and hurt and heaven knew what else.
His own passion flared, fuelled not by anger, but by the sensation of her body as it moved up against his, and those little buttons on her blouse… It sparked along his veins as he urged her mouth to give a little, an enticing hint to the secrets within. The taste of caramel, her own rich texture as his tongue slid briefly against hers.
She released his shirt to spread her hands over his chest, every fingertip touching. Tantalising. Then something changed. Her lips remained locked with his but she pushed at him as if she were engaged in some sort of war with herself.
His arms tightened around her a moment more before he willed them to go slack. If only other body parts would follow suit as easily. He remained perfectly still, giving her the option to pull away when she chose. Perfectly still, because any movement was likely to cause pain or embarrassment, or both, and this was about her, not him.
She pulled back, pressing her lips together as if to deny what they’d done,