Reclaiming His Pregnant Widow. Tessa Radley
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consulting her, he’d gone to a country he knew she would deem too dangerous. According to the investigators, both times Anita had been with him. In Athens they’d been photographed together and witnesses that the investigators had spoken with had seen them together in Baghdad. They’d appeared inseparable.
At the time Clea had refused to believe him capable of that kind of treachery. Brand loved her.
The last words he’d spoken to her had been that he loved her—but she hadn’t reciprocated. She’d been annoyed with him for turning down the opportunity for a romantic idyll in Greece. Okay, so perhaps it was her own guilt that had prevented her from facing the truth earlier, Clea decided wearily.
Had his avowal of love been motivated by guilt? Had she blamed herself on some unconscious level for his disappearance because she’d been sulking the last time they’d talked?
Finally, she said, “I want to know if you ever lived with her.” She already suspected what his answer would be: Brand had lied in the past.
His mouth slashed down in displeasure.
He wasn’t even bothering to deny it. The last bit of hope she hadn’t even realized she was clinging to deserted Clea.
“Who told you I once lived with Anita?” Brand broke into her despair.
“Does it matter? By your reaction I take it that it must be true. Why lead me to believe it was nothing more than a couple of casual dates? You lied to me by omission.”
“So in retaliation you went and cheated on me and got yourself pregnant?”
Clea’s mouth fell open. “You have the gall to walk in here after an absence of four years and accuse me of cheating on you.”
“You’re pregnant,” Brand snarled. “And I sure as hell haven’t been around to give you a good time.”
The force of his harsh words caused tears to prick. Clea bit her cheeks until it hurt and the tears dried up. She half wished she’d never started down this track. But, after years of stubborn denial, admitting her stupidity and acknowledging that Brand had been with someone else was hard.
Whatever we once had is gone.
For now that was all she needed to know. Brand had made his choice.
Choking back tears, Clea slipped her feet back into her shoes then headed blindly for the door. As she drew level with Brand, she braced herself and said with the last shred of dignity she could muster, “Maybe you’ll be prepared to tell me more once you’ve had a chance to think. Close my office door when you leave … it will latch behind you. This is an important night for me, and I’m going to celebrate my success.”
Clea edged past him, taking care not to brush against him.
And Brand didn’t try to stop her.
Three
“Bourbon, double on ice. Your order?”
Brand gave a curt nod in acknowledgment of the barman’s question and reached for the heavy-bottomed glass, while keeping a wary eye on the gaggle of journalists who’d shown a great deal of interest since he’d reentered the gallery.
The first slug hit the back of his throat. Brand grimaced. In four years he’d forgotten the punch that whiskey packed. Picking up the pitcher on the bar counter, Brand added two fingers of water to the bourbon.
Glass in hand, he retreated to a deserted spot behind a column topped with a woman’s head carved from marble to sip his drink. Out of sight of the media contingent, Brand searched for his errant wife. He located her in a group that included a senator, the senator’s wife and a well-known art auctioneer. As he studied Clea, he tried to fathom why he hadn’t already departed.
With the media about to erupt into full bay at his mysterious reappearance any moment, it made no sense to still be hanging around. Not unless he wished to make front-page news … and that had never been Brand’s style.
Clea’s laugh rang out and Brand stilled, his eyebrows jerking together. She looked vivacious and happy—not as if she’d just had a rip-roaring argument with the husband she hadn’t seen for four years. Clearly at ease in the company of power, she’d developed a poise and sophistication she hadn’t possessed four years ago.
His wife had grown up. He’d left a young bride and come back to find a woman. Brand’s gaze dropped to her stomach.
Make that a pregnant woman.
Her father joined the group. Brand’s frown deepened as the senator welcomed Donald Tomlinson with a wide smile. When they’d first met, Clea had told him her father would love him—after all, they had much in common. Donald Tomlinson imported rugs, ceramics, wooden furniture and selected antiquities from Afghanistan, Iraq and Turkey for a string of up-market stores he owned. Clea considered it a miracle they hadn’t already encountered each other.
Brand had known from their first handshake that Donald Tomlinson didn’t care for him. Meeting Clea’s childhood friend had explained why—Harry Hall-Lewis was the man Donald had singled out for his daughter to marry. Ivy League-educated, a successful import-exporter with whom her father had a close business relationship, Harry was affable and easygoing. That Harry’s family could trace their genealogy back to the Mayflower also helped.
An ex-special forces soldier from a rural New Zealand family of no repute could hardly compete, regardless of the reputation for integrity he’d built—or his rapidly growing fortune based on the ever-escalating value of the ancient artifacts he dealt in. Millions meant little to Donald—he had enough of his own. When Clea had chosen a hasty marriage in Las Vegas’s Chapel of Love to her soldier-turned-antiquities-dealer, Donald’s displeasure had become outright enmity.
“Brand … it is you. How wonderful. Where have you been?”
Brand turned his head. Clea’s mother stood beside him, her dark hair swept into a chignon, her black dress timelessly elegant. Diamonds glittered at her throat. He’d only encountered Caroline a handful of times during his marriage to Clea. The only child of a wealthy industrialist, Caroline had walked out on her marriage to Donald when Clea had been ten years old and remarried soon after her divorce had come through. A successful businessman, her new husband was a widower with a daughter—the same age as Clea—and a younger son.
“It’s been a while.” Brand gave her a careful hug. After so long without close human contact it felt strange. “You look beautiful.”
“Flatterer.” Caroline Fraser Tomlinson Gordon hugged him back, before stepping away with a small smile. “You look surprised to see me here. Of course, you should be—I wasn’t invited. I had the sense not to bring my husband, but I wanted to see Cleopatra’s exhibition so I slipped in—the doorman told me I had the same eyes as Cleopatra and never considered refusing me entrance. I’ve been admiring the exhibits. She’s done a magnificent job. I’m so proud of her.” Caroline’s emerald eyes shimmered with emotion.
Omitting to mention that he was also a gate-crasher, Brand said gently, “You ought to have been invited.”
Brand suspected that the estrangement between Clea and her mother hurt Clea more than she’d ever admit. She had always craved family and she needed her mother—even though she was too stubborn to admit it.
“My daughter will never forgive me for leaving them.”
Brand shifted uncomfortably. There was no tactful response to that. Finally, he settled for saying, “She needs you, she just doesn’t know it yet. Give her time.”
At a scuffling sound behind him, he turned his head a fraction. His peripheral vision caught sight of a newsman changing the lens of his camera.
He turned away. Afghanistan, Iraq and other hot spots during his days of active duty had taught him the game. There was no glory in a back-of-the-head view: Cameramen wanted to see the torment in the eyes of their prey.
Caroline