The Baby Surprise. Barbara McMahon
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for her?
No big deal, she thought.
Hah.
But there was nothing for it.
He didn’t even have any pyjamas with him. Normally he slept in the buff and he hadn’t expected tonight to be any different. He would definitely have to keep boxers on, Lex realised. It was going to be difficult enough without adding naked bodies into the equation, and he didn’t care what Romy said about being twelve years older. Some things didn’t change that much.
Remembering how cool Romy had been about the whole business, Lex took his time folding his trousers and hanging them up before he crossed over to bed. To his relief Romy had snuggled down under the cover so that only her nose and eyes were showing. That was good. It meant he couldn’t see her bare shoulders, or her bare arms, or her bare legs.
But he knew they were there. Oh, yes.
The dark eyes watched with a certain wariness as he pulled back the cover on his side of the bed, switched off the light and lay down.
They weren’t touching at all, but Lex was aware of her with every fibre of his being. His right side was tingling with her nearness. It would take so little to touch her.
Big enough for ten people? Lex didn’t think so.
He stared up at the canopy through the dark. He should be jubilant. The deal was done. Willie Grant had agreed to sell and Gibson & Grieve would have the foothold in Scotland they had wanted for so long. He could go back to his father and show him what he had been able to do. He had everything he’d wanted.
But all he could think about was Romy, lying beside him in the darkness. He’d been aware of her all evening, and it had been a struggle to concentrate on the conversation when his mind kept swooping between memories and noticing the pure line of her throat, how her hair gleamed in the candlelight. Her face had been bright as she leaned across the table to talk to Willie, and her earrings had swung whenever she threw back her head and laughed.
Lex’s throat had been so tight it was an effort to talk.
Twelve years, he had been trying to forget.
Her hair, dark and silky. The way it had swung forward as she leant over him, how soft it had felt twined around his fingers. Breathing in the scent of it as he lay with his face pressed into it, how it had made him think of long summer evenings.
Her eyes, those luminous eyes, so dark and rich and warm that brown was laughably inadequate to describe their colour. Looking into them was like falling into a different world, where nothing mattered but the feel of her, the taste of her, the need that squeezed his heart and left him dizzy and breathless.
Her mouth, too wide, too sweet. The way she turned her head and smiled sometimes.
The quicksilver feel of her, warm and vibrant and elusive. The harder he’d held onto her, the faster she’d slipped away.
The swell of his heart, the feel of it beating, when she lay quietly in his arms.
The aching emptiness when she had gone.
And now she was lying only inches away. It was a wide bed, as she had said, but it wouldn’t take much to slide across the gap between them. If he rolled over, if she did, they could meet.
But Romy wasn’t moving. Lex was fairly sure that she wasn’t sleeping either. She was too still, her breathing too shallow.
She wasn’t going to roll over, and neither was he. It was the last thing he should do, Lex knew. It had taken him a long time to gather up the wild emotions that had been flailing around inside him, but at last he had managed to press them together into a tight lump that had been settled, cold and hard, in the pit of his belly ever since. He couldn’t risk dislodging it and letting all that feeling loose again.
Besides, Romy had made it very clear that she wasn’t interested in resuming a relationship—look at the fuss she had made about even pretending to be engaged!—and, even if she had been, he didn’t have room in his life for a lover, let alone a baby. It was too late for that now.
Twelve years too late.
There was a muffled quality to the atmosphere when Romy woke the next morning, a strangeness about the light that was filtering through the heavy curtains on her right.
At first, puzzled by the musty fabric above her, she wondered if she was still dreaming, but a moment later memories from the day before came skidding and sliding in a rush through her mind.
Freya, sucking Lex’s shoelace.
The long drive through the snow.
Willie Grant’s monstrous dog.
Lex’s hand on her spine.
Lex. The sag of the bed as he climbed in beside her. Knowing that he was there, near enough for her to simply reach over and…
Romy jerked upright, realising belatedly that she was alone in the four-poster. From the cot in the corner came a cooing. Freya, it seemed, was also awake, but where was Lex?
The thought had barely crossed her mind before the door was shouldered open and Lex came in carrying two mugs. He was looking positively relaxed in his suit trousers with a shirt open at the collar and the sleeves rolled above his wrists, but he still managed to exude a forcefulness that seemed to suck some of the oxygen out of the room, and Romy found herself sucking in a breath.
‘Good morning,’ she said, feeling ridiculously shy.
‘Good morning.’ Lex offered her one of the mugs. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone around, so I helped myself to some tea. I thought you might like some.’
‘Thank you.’ Romy pulled herself further up the pillows and took a sip of the tea. It was black and sweet, just as she liked it. She lifted her eyes to Lex. ‘You remember how I take my tea!’
His gaze slid away from hers. ‘I’ve got a good memory.’
Romy wished her own memory weren’t quite so good. It might have made it easier to lie next to him all night.
But now it was morning, and Freya was singing happily to herself. Romy threw off the cover, only just remembering to secure her sarong in time, and went over to the cot.
‘Hello, my gorgeous girl. How are you this morning?’
It was impossible to feel awkward or cross or anything but joyful when Freya smiled like that. Romy picked her up and cuddled her, loving her warm, sweet smell and compact body, and Freya bumped her head into her mother’s neck and grabbed fistfuls of her hair as she babbled with pleasure.
Lex looked away from their glowing faces. ‘How did you sleep?’ he asked after a moment.
‘Fine,’ said Romy, and then wondered why she was lying. ‘Actually, if I hadn’t just woken up, I could have sworn I didn’t sleep a wink,’ she confessed.
She had been too conscious of Lex, of the lean, muscled length of his body on the other side of the bed.
After so long, it had been hard to believe that he was actually there, close enough to touch, but utterly untouchable. How many times over those years had she found herself remembering that week? Remembering the feel of his body, how solid and safe he had felt, remembering how sure his hands had been, how warm his mouth, marvelling at the passion he kept bottled up beneath the austere surface.
‘I didn’t sleep much either,’ Lex admitted.
‘Looks like we’ll both have to catch up tonight,’ said Romy lightly.
‘I’ve got a nasty feeling we’ll be spending another night here.’ He pulled back the curtains. ‘It’s stopped snowing, but I doubt we’ll be going anywhere today.’
She looked at him in dismay. ‘We’re snowed in?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Carrying Freya, Romy went to join him by the