Escape By The Sea. Trish Morey
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another time, maybe even in another part of this world, he would do exactly that, and nobody would stop him, nobody would think twice.
But there was more reason than the mores of the so-called civilised world that stilled his savage urges. For he knew what he might become if he let the animal inside him off the leash.
Never had he felt so close to that beast. Why now? What was it about her that gave rise to such thoughts? She was the means to an end, that was why he needed her. Nothing more. Great sex was just a bonus.
She turned her head to the side then, her lips moving as if she was talking to someone, but there was nobody there, nothing but a dark shape in the shadowed recess behind the sofa, a dark shape that had him wondering if he’d found the wrong woman the closer he got. Because it made no sense…
She looked around at the exact time his brain had finally come to terms with what his eyes were telling him, at the precise moment the cold wave of shock crashed over him, washing away his well-laid plans and leaving them a tangled and broken mess at his feet.
‘Hello, Leo,’ she said, closing the picture book she was holding in her hands. ‘I’ve brought those documents you asked for.’
She’d brought a hell of a lot more than documents! In the dark shape he’d worked out was a pram sat a baby—a child—holding onto the rail in front of him and staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed up at Leo like he was some kind of monster. It didn’t matter that the kid was probably right. He looked back at Evelyn. ‘What the hell is this?’
‘Leo, meet my son, Sam.’ She turned toward the pram. ‘Sam, this is Mr Zamos. If you’re very nice, he might let you call him Leo.’
‘No!’ Sam pushed back in his stroller and twisted his body away, clearly unimpressed as he pushed his face under his bear and began to grizzle.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, one hand reaching out to rub him on the back. ‘He’s just woken up. Don’t worry about coffee, it’s probably better I take him for a walk.’ She picked up a folder from the table and stood, holding it out for Leo. ‘Here’s all the documents you asked for and I’ve flagged where signatures are required. Let me know if there’s anything else you need. I promised Sam a walk along the river while we’re here, but we’ll be home in a couple of hours.’
He couldn’t say anything. He could barely move his hand far enough to accept the folder she proffered. All he could think of was that she had a child and she hadn’t told him. What else hadn’t she told him? ‘You said there wasn’t a Mr Carmichael.’
‘There’s isn’t.’
‘Then whose is it?’
‘His name is Sam, Leo.’
‘And his father’s name?’
‘Is none of your business.’
‘And is that what you told him when he asked you where you were all night?’
She shook her head, her eyes tinged with sadness. ‘Sam’s father doesn’t figure in this.’
His eyes darted between mother and child, noticing for the first time the child’s dark hair and eyes, the olive tinge to the skin, and he half wondered if she was bluffing and had borrowed someone else’s baby as some kind of human shield. He would have called her on it but for noticing the angle of the child’s wide mouth and the dark eyes stamped with one hundred per cent Evelyn, and that made him no happier.
Because someone else had slept with her.
He thought of her in his arms, her long-limbed body interwoven with his, he thought of her eyes when she came apart with him inside her, damn near shorting his brain. And now he thought of her coming apart in someone else’s arms…
‘You should have told me.’
‘Why?’
‘Damn it, Evelyn! You know why!’
‘Because we spent the night together?’ she hissed. Sam yowled, as if he’d been on the receiving end of that, and she leaned over, surprising Leo when she didn’t smack him, as he’d half expected, but instead delicately stroked the child’s cheek and calmed him with whispered words. Something twisted inside him, something shapeless and long buried, and he had to look away lest the shape take form and he worked out what it was. His gut roiled. What was happening to him? Why did she have this effect on him? She made him feel too much. She made him see too much.
She made him remember things he didn’t want to remember.
And none of it made sense. None of it he could understand.
‘I’m sorry you feel aggrieved,’ she said, and reluctantly he turned back to see her unclipping the child’s harness and lifting the child into her arms, where he snuggled close, sniffling against her shoulder as she rubbed his back. ‘But what part of our contract did I miss that said I should stipulate whether I should have children or what number of them I should have?’
‘Children? You mean there’s more?’
She huffed and turned away, rubbing the boy’s back, whispering sweet words, stroking away his hiccups, and the gentle sway of her hips setting her skirt to a gently seductive hula.
‘Ironic isn’t it?’ she threw at him over her shoulder. ‘Here you are, so desperate to prove to Eric Culshaw that you’re some kind of rock-solid family man, and you’re scared stiff of a tiny child.’
‘I’m not—’
She spun around. ‘You’re terrified! And you’re taking it like some kind of personal affront. But I wouldn’t worry. Sam’s a bit old for anyone to believe he was conceived last night, so there’s no reason to fear any kind of paternity claim.’
‘You wouldn’t dare!’
‘Oh, you do flatter yourself. A woman would have to be certifiably insane to want to shackle themselves to you!’
‘Clearly Sam’s father was of the same mind about you.’
He knew he’d hurt her. He recognised the precise moment when his words pierced the fighting sheen over her eyes and left them bewildered and wounded. He almost felt regret. Almost wanted to reach out and touch her cheek like she’d touched her child’s, and soothe away her pain.
Almost.
But that would mean he cared. And he couldn’t care about anyone. Not that way.
And just as quickly as it had gone down, the armour was resurrected and her eyes blazed fire at him. ‘I have a child, Mr Zamos. It’s never affected the quality of my work to date and it’s my intention that it never will, but if you can’t live with that then fine, maybe it’s time we terminated our agreement now and you found someone else to look after your needs.’
Bile, bitter and portentous, rose in the back of his throat. She was right. There was no point noticing her eyes or the sensual sway of her hips. There was no point reliving the evening they’d had last night. She couldn’t help him now and it was the now he had to be concerned with. As to the future, maybe it was better he found someone else. Maybe someone older this time. It wasn’t politically correct to ask for a date of birth, but he’d never been any kind of fan of political correctness. Especially not when it messed with his plans. He huffed an agreement. ‘If that’s what you want.’
She stood there, the child plastered against her from shoulder to hip, his arms wound tightly around his mother’s neck, the mother so fierce he was reminded of an animal fighting to protect its litter that he’d seen on one of those television documentaries that appeared when you were flicking through the channels on long-haul flights. The comparison surprised him. Was that how all mothers were supposed to be?
‘In that case,’ she said, ‘I’ll burn everything of yours onto disk and delete it from my computer. I’ll send it to you care of the hotel. You can let them know your forwarding address.’
His