‘A word.’

      Every inch of her skin prickled into goosebumps at the rich, deep sound of Malachi’s voice in her ear. As lethally silky as the hand sliding around her elbow even now.

      And something about the tone sent a warning whisper coiling its way through her body.

       He couldn’t know about the baby, could he?

      Unless he’d spoken to Babette.

      Saskia cursed inwardly. She was an idiot for letting that woman get to her enough to tell her a single thing, let alone for Babette to be the first person to find out that she was pregnant.

      She couldn’t shake the idea that Malachi knew and, worse, that he’d found out from her ex-fiancé’s new fiancée instead of straight from her. It was little wonder that the air between them positively hummed with barely restrained tension.

      Saskia wasn’t sure why she allowed him to lead her across the ballroom at the charity gala without even a word of objection.

      She’d only managed to slip away from Anouk by taking advantage of Sol’s unexpected appearance to pretend she was going to check the seating plan. Just so that she could see if she could find Malachi.

      And now he’d found her.

      If he’d come to say what she feared then she had only herself to blame. She should have told him herself. The unspoken accusations already bombarding her were her own fault for being such a coward. And the longer the silence the more forcefully they hurtled into her, leaving her edgy and agitated and full of apprehension—and something else which she didn’t care to examine too closely at all.

      As if Malachi knew that the uncertainty was unsettling her, he seemed to be prolonging it, by not speaking another word until they were near the now deserted entrance, well away from the beautiful, well-heeled crowd bustling inside the ballroom, each jostling to set themselves ahead of the pack. Too many of them would be competing with each other to write the biggest cheques just to prove who was higher up the food chain.

      It was disheartening to see just how few of them were actually there because they cared about the charity. About the kids.

       Like Malachi does?

      Abruptly Saskia pulled her head back to the present just as Malachi stopped, turning her to face him before he released her. The fierce, furious expression on his face was one she hadn’t ever seen before, but she feared she could read it in an instant.

      ‘It’s mine.’

      So that answered that question, at least.

      Malachi knew she was pregnant, and whether Babette had told him, or someone else had, it hardly seemed to matter now.

      Saskia fought to breathe. It was as though someone was sitting on her chest, squashing her lungs, stealing her air. Perhaps it was at the sight of the utterly masculine, foreboding figure in front of her. Or maybe it was because he was suddenly watching her with a cold, hostile expression in those eyes, when up until now she’d only ever known them to be kind and friendly—the colour of the richest, warmest cognac in his enviable drinks cabinet.

      Every thought fell from her head, and everything tumbled around her. Her heart accelerated so fast she could barely even feel it. Or maybe it simply stopped.

      And then suddenly a sense of calm overtook her and she knew she couldn’t deny it. There was only one thing she could say.

      ‘Yes.’

      He tilted his head sharply.

      ‘I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t make this any more complicated than it already is by lying.’

      Then, taking her elbow again, he steered her outside, neither of them speaking a word, and into the back of his waiting car. When he slid in beside her, filling up every last bit of space, Saskia was sure she was going to suffocate from the sheer pressure of the moment.

      And all the heat she remembered from their time together—the heat which had been simmering again the other day at the hospital—flooded around her, almost drowning her in its intensity.

      Lord, how was she to survive being in such proximity to him when a traitorous part of her wanted to revisit every inch of that hewn, addictive body which the tuxedo did nothing to temper?

      ‘May I ask where we are going?’ she asked primly, surprised at how even her voice sounded when she might have expected it to be shaking.

      The unexpected truth was that it was almost a relief.

      ‘My place.’

      His tone was grim but he didn’t even look at her. His gaze was trained out of the window, as if he couldn’t bear to.

      It hurt. More than it had any right to.

      ‘Why?’

      Her voice was sharper than she’d intended, but the idea of being back in his penthouse was daunting. Every room would surely trigger X-rated memories of their weekend together—and she already had enough of them in her own brain, without returning to the scene of the crime.

      His head swivelled slowly to face her and abruptly she decided she preferred him staring out of the window after all.

      ‘To discuss how we proceed from here.’

      His low, controlled voice didn’t fool Saskia for a second. And there was a carefully restrained fury in the cognac depths of his eyes—though whether that was because she was pregnant