Reclaiming His Pregnant Widow. Tessa Radley
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broad shoulders flexing under the tuxedo, causing her gaze to stray for a brief moment before returning to his face. “I served there with the SAS,” he said. “I know the territory—and the risks.”
Frustration and a feeling of letdown drove her to sarcasm. “Okay, so those risks might not worry super-humans like you … but they sure do worry me.”
“Which is exactly why I didn’t tell you—I didn’t have time to soothe you.”
Like some clingy child. But this was getting interesting. Brand was lying to her. Clea was certain of it. His face wore a set expression, and his eyes had flicked away again. “So what was so important that you simply went without consulting me? And why no contact since? Surely you can’t have been in Baghdad all this time?”
He resumed staring at her, tight-lipped.
Clea tried again. “Were you on some covert mission?”
He laughed at that, making her feel ridiculously melodramatic. Yet she couldn’t help thinking of the dark-suited men who had surfaced after his disappearance and asked her why he’d gone to Baghdad—and seemed to know all about his special forces background.
“At least tell me it’s classified, if that’s the reason.”
“I wasn’t part of a military operation.”
She deserved more than being stonewalled. Drawing a deep breath, Clea eased back against her glass-topped desk and said, “Tell me where you’ve been, and I’ll consider explaining about the baby … on condition that you don’t interrupt me until I’ve told you everything.”
“I don’t need your conditions—or your explanations,” he said. A look followed that slashed her from head to toe—with significant focus on her almost-flat stomach. “I can see exactly what you’ve been up to.”
Brand might not need explanations, but she sure as hell did.
Yet Clea wasn’t about to let him see how much she cared. Not while he treated her like a leper. Instead she gave him a reciprocal once-over, taking in every inch of tanned skin and the trim body beneath the tuxedo, and then she pursed her lips. “Let me guess where you’ve been. Sunning yourself on the Mediterranean? Socializing with the Aga Khan?”
Sleeping with another woman? Clea was too terrified of his response to voice the last suspicion. But was it possible that her father and the investigators had been correct? That Brand had been having an affair? Was it possible that Brand had been living with his lover for the four years he’d gone missing without a trace? He certainly possessed the skills to remain undetected for as long as he wanted—if he wanted.
Brand’s face had tightened. “You’ve developed a sharp tongue.”
“Now it’s my fault?”
What was she doing?
Clea shut her eyes. Why was she fighting with Brand? This wasn’t what she wanted. Remorse washed over her and she shook her head to clear it of the turmoil and confusion, searching for calm. How had it all gone so wrong so quickly? This was Brand. She loved him. She’d always believed in him. She’d waited for him to return every day. Every night. Yet now that he was here she was hurting so much she could spit … and doubts were setting in.
They had to stop this.
She fisted her hands at her sides and drew in a ragged breath. When she was certain she had herself under control—that she wouldn’t yell, or blubber like an idiot—she opened her eyes and said evenly, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like a shrew.”
His closed expression didn’t thaw. Her body strung tight, Clea wished desperately he would confess he’d been injured, hospitalized, that he’d temporarily lost his memory. Anything.
The silence wore thin.
Still she waited, her hands balled tight and her pulse pounding loudly in her ears. Waiting for an explanation of where he’d been, why he’d stayed away so long. Clea even convinced herself that she’d accept it without question, without revealing a hint of resentment for what he’d dared to put her through. Brand was back, and that would be enough. Wouldn’t it? She loved him. She’d only been half-alive without him. She couldn’t allow his return to break her, when she’d already survived his disappearance … and his death.
But as the minute hands on the wall clocks pressed forward in tandem, Clea gave up.
Brand wasn’t going to explain.
Why not?
Because he no longer cared?
Only one way to find out.
“Brand …” Clea unfurled her fists and stepped away from the safety of her desk. Standing on tiptoes, she reached up and placed her hands on his shoulders, searching for a connection. Under the black silk of his dress shirt she could feel the warmth of his skin. She flexed her fingertips. His muscles bunched in reaction.
Need—hot and unexpected—hollowed out the bottom of her stomach. God, she’d missed him. His remembered scent—a mix of musk and something sharp and tangy—filled her senses.
Shutting her eyes, she leaned into him, her body quivering as it came into contact with the taut length of his. The warmth of his big body seeped gradually into hers, reviving her after the heart-numbing chill. For a long moment she half dared to hope that their bodies might communicate even while their brains seemed estranged.
The baby moved.
And even as her lips brushed his chin, Brand tore out of her embrace.
Putting two yards between them, he came to a stop near the doorway, breathing heavily, his eyes glittering, the golden skin stretched taut across his cheekbones.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” Clea tried never to swear, but the force with which he wrenched away offended her. This time she wasn’t going to close the distance between them.
“You need to ask?”
Clea resented being treated as if she were contaminated. Her thoughts flew to the baby. She was pregnant, not contagious. Her condition was her salvation.
“Yes!” She did need to ask. And she was prepared to listen to—and accept—any explanation he cared to make for his absence. But he wasn’t prepared to extend her the same courtesy. It looked as if they’d finally reached a deadlock. Because as her ire grew, Clea was finding herself less willing to offer him any explanation until he showed her the respect and trust she deserved.
“What the hell does it matter what’s with me?” His voice was flat and cold. “Whatever we once had is gone.”
“Gone?” At that her heart bumped to a stop. Forgetting her resolve to keep away, Clea took a step closer and stared at him in horror. “Brand! You don’t—can’t—mean that.”
“Yes, gone.” He raked her with his ocean-blue gaze. But for once, rather than setting her alight with sensual, arousing heat, it froze her to the core. “It’s been a long time. Too long, I suspect, for us to have kept what we once had.”
Pain ripped through her. Clea’s world came crashing down around her as she struggled to sort the thoughts crowding her brain into some kind of order. Had Brand been unfaithful? Had he come back only to claim a divorce?
Cold emptiness settled in her stomach. Clea was starting to realize that her steadfast belief in Brand had been awfully naive.
“Did you ever live with Anita Freeman?” She blurted it out with no premeditation.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You dated her.”
He stood, unmoving. “For a time.”
“A short time?”
“Why these questions