The Baby Question. Caroline Anderson
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his head and stomped off down the stairs, leaving him swearing under his breath and brushing ineffectually at his clothes. A smile tugged at her mouth, but she suppressed it. It was a childish thing to have done, but he’d provoked her beyond endurance, and she wasn’t going to laugh it off. God forbid he should think she wasn’t serious about this. She was done being dictated to.
He was right behind her, his temper barely under control, and she felt a tiny frisson of anticipation. She hadn’t seen him really angry for ages, but she knew she could trust him not to hurt her, and right then she was spoiling for a fight.
She marched over to the cottage, just half a stride ahead of him, and he was through the door behind her before she had time to slam it in his face.
‘It won’t work, Laurie,’ he said grimly, following her into the kitchen with the dog at his heels. ‘I’m not going without you.’
‘Well, I’m not going, and you’re not staying, so it’s going to be a bit tricky, really, isn’t it?’
‘I mean it,’ he said, his voice taut with determination, all that earlier gentle coaxing gone, banished no doubt by the coffee dregs in his hair and the cold bite of the wind and her failure to succumb to his authority. ‘I’m not just walking away from this,’ he went on. ‘You’re my wife, and if you think you can just run off like this without talking about it, you’re mistaken.’
‘I hardly ran off.’
‘No? Then why didn’t you tell me where you were going, and what you were doing? And what the hell is this business you’ve been running in the attic of my house without telling me? How long’s it been going on?’
‘Our house, I think, and don’t you mean asking your permission?’ she snapped, whirling on him, her temper finally frayed beyond endurance. ‘Don’t you mean what the hell was I doing sneaking around behind your back daring to have a life?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he retorted. ‘Of course you can have a life.’
‘Just so long as it includes playing hostess to your incredibly boring business acquaintances with monotonous regularity, and dressing up in pretty clothes to be the elegant little social butterfly I’m expected to be. God forbid I should wear jeans.’
‘You can wear jeans.’
‘Versace jeans,’ she snorted, whirling away again to dump the mugs in the sink before she hurled them at him. ‘Not ordinary jeans from the discount shop on the corner.’
‘You’ve never worn jeans like that! You don’t even like jeans,’ he protested, and she felt a pang of guilt. He was quite right, she hadn’t ever bought cheap jeans, or any cheap clothes in fact, and she wouldn’t want to. She just wanted the right to, that was all.
She turned back to the sink, washing the mugs for something to do that didn’t involve screaming with frustration.
He signed, a harsh exhalation filled with the same frustration and irritation that she was feeling. I must be getting to him, she thought in satisfaction. There’s a miracle.
She turned round, just as he hooked out a chair from the table and dropped wearily into it. His eyes were tired and red-rimmed, his face was drawn, and she remembered he’d been travelling now for over twenty-four hours.
He didn’t have to come up here after me, she reminded herself. It was his choice. Then a little dribble of stale coffee trickled off his hair and down his temple and dripped onto his coat, and she felt a twinge of guilt. It was a lovely navy cashmere coat, only a few weeks old and hideously expensive, and the splash of coffee over one shoulder and down the front did nothing to enhance it. Her guilt prompted a partial climb-down.
‘I’ll make you tea, then you can go,’ she conceded.
She waited for a second, but instead of repeating his intention to stay he merely settled back, folded his arms across his chest and smiled.
Rats. He looked so sexy when he did that, sexy enough to distract her—but only for a moment. She reminded herself of all the reasons why she was here—his autocratic behaviour, his expectations of her, the time he spent away from home when she was left holding the fort.
Holding the baby? She shuddered to think what would have happened if she’d conceived. Would he have come home at all, without the need to attempt to impregnate her at regular intervals?
No, there was no way she was going back to him. Not yet, at least, and maybe not ever.
Even if he did have the sexiest eyes she’d ever seen. She’d fallen for them years ago. She wasn’t falling for them again.
Oh, no …
She was a web designer. He was amazed, although he shouldn’t have been. If he’d given it a moment’s thought, he would have realised that sitting at home with only the dog for company while she waited to see if she was pregnant wouldn’t be enough for her. She was too bright, far too bright and full of imagination and life and restless invention.
In the past two years since she’d given up work and settled down to wait for the baby that hadn’t come, she’d redone the house from end to end, got Midas from a rescue centre and turned him from a cowering, gangly pup into a bright and confident dog who was her devoted companion, and sorted out the grounds of the house with the help of an army of skilled gardeners and landscapers.
That accomplished, he must have been crazy to imagine she would then settle down to wait for maternity to catch up with her.
Not Laurie. Of course she’d needed something to do.
But to do it in secret, without sharing it with him—that rankled. Hurt, in fact, he thought in surprise. He wondered when things had started to go wrong, and realised with shock that he hadn’t even noticed that they had until now, when he’d thought about it and remembered what it used to be like between them.
Things had gone wrong, though, or she wouldn’t be here now, hundreds of miles from home, making him tea before she threw him out on his ear. Well, tough. He wasn’t going, not till this was sorted out, and it looked like the weather was playing right into his hands.
A quick glance at the window showed that night had fallen while they’d been talking, the clouds so thick and full they’d snuffed out the last of the daylight.
He stood up and swished the little curtains shut at the single window, blocking out the view of the snowflakes that were starting to whirl against the glass. In an hour, with any luck, it would be falling too thick and fast to allow him to venture out, so he’d have to stay.
They might be snowed in for days …
He felt his body stir. He’d missed her. It had been a couple of weeks since he’d seen her last, and a little making up would be fun. Hiding a smile of satisfaction, he settled back in the chair, picked up the mug of tea she pushed towards him and prepared to wait her out.
It infuriated her when he did that.
Sat there, with his tea propped on his belt buckle, a patient look on his face, and said nothing.
She hated silence. She always had, and he knew it. Of all the things he did that got her mad, this was the worst.
She promised herself she wouldn’t rise, not this time. Picking up her own tea, she changed the subject from her to him. ‘How was New York?’ she asked, as if they were sitting in their own kitchen and she hadn’t just walked out on him and moved to the other end of the British Isles.
He didn’t twitch an eyebrow, to his credit, but then he was a very successful businessman and used to hiding his reactions.
‘Cold, dull. I missed you.’
If only that were true, she thought sadly, remembering the times he’d gone away at first and how glad she’d been to have him back—how eagerly she’d welcomed him.
But recently …
‘How’s Mike?’