Pregnancy Of Convenience

Which, of course, she wasn’t.

Slowly Cal got to his feet.

CHAPTER THREE

AS JOANNA took a nervous step backward, Cal stopped dead in his tracks. He’d been going to kiss her again; that had been his intention. A repeat of a less than clever move.

He said roughly, “Will the light bother you if I read for a while?”

“No,” she stumbled, “no, of course not.”

“I’ll probably wake you up a couple of times in the night—that’s standard practice after a bump on the head.”

“Oh.” She swallowed, the muscles moving in her throat. “I don’t think that’s necessary, I feel much better.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

For a moment he thought she was going to argue with him. But then the flare of temper died from her eyes. She got into bed, pulled the covers up to her chin and turned her back to him. Within a very few minutes, Cal could hear the gentle rhythm of her breathing, and realized he’d been reading the same paragraph over and over again.

Swearing under his breath, he forced himself to read on. Before he made up a bed on the couch at eleven-thirty, and again at two in the morning, he checked her pulse and the dilation of her pupils, both times without waking her. But at five, when the beam of his flashlight fell on her face, her eyes jerked open, full of terror. Like those of a rabbit who sights the talons of an owl seconds before they strike, Cal thought, and said with swift compassion, “It’s okay, I’m just checking to see you’re all right.”

She sank back on the pillow, her pulse hammering at the base of her throat. “Is that the wind I hear?” she whispered.

“Yeah.”

“I’ve got to get out of here today!”

“It’ll die down soon,” he said without much conviction; if anything, the storm had increased in intensity in the night.

“I can’t stay here any longer.”

She’d spoken in such a low voice he had to strain to hear her. She looked at the end of her tether, as though at the slightest provocation she would start to weep and be unable to stop. “I want to leave here, too,” Cal said dryly. “But unfortunately neither one of us can influence the weather.”

“To be here,” she faltered, “don’t you see, it brings it all back, all those terrible, wasted years. And the baby…I can’t bear to think about the baby.”

The fire had died down; he and Joanna were isolated in the small circle of his flashlight, darkness and the cry of the wind pressing in on all sides. Cal had never seen such desolation on a woman’s face; it cut him to the heart. Clumsily he sat down on the bed and put his arms around her.

For a few seconds she yielded, her forehead burrowed in his shoulder, her spine a long curve of surrender. Through the thin cotton of his shirt, he felt tears dampen his skin, and realized she was weeping without a sound. “Did you really abort the baby?” he asked with sudden urgency.

“I didn’t! I swear I didn’t. It didn’t matter that I no longer loved Gustave, I’d have loved the baby…I already did love it.”

He wanted to believe her—God, how he wanted to! So what was holding him back?

Her hair smelled enticingly of hyacinths, and the soft weight of her breasts against his chest—bare where his shirt was open—filled Cal with a fierce surge of desire. He fought to subdue it. Was he about to take Gustave’s widow to bed in Gustave’s house? What kind of a man would that make him? In a harsh voice he scarcely recognized as his own, he said, “I don’t know who the hell to believe—you or your dead husband’s parents.”

She flinched as though he’d physically struck her. Then she pulled free of him, swiping at the tears on her cheeks with the back of one hand. “You can keep your sympathy,” she said stonily, “I as good as killed Gustave and I certainly killed the baby. Oh, and I was promiscuous, let’s not forget that.”

“I’m not sure sympathy’s what this is about,” said Cal, and kissed her hard on the mouth.

It was as though the flames suddenly rekindled in the hearth, lapping him in their fiery dance. He’d never felt such raw, basic hunger in his life. His arm tightened around her waist. Her ribs were a taut curve, her hair tumbling over the hand that was pressed to her back. Then her lips, warm and soft, yielded so suddenly and so ardently to his kiss that he’d have sworn she was enveloped in the same fire. He thrust with his tongue and fumbled for the buttons on her pajamas.

She struck him hard on his bare shoulder with her bunched fist and yanked her head free. “Don’t!”

His arms aching with emptiness, Cal snarled with no subtlety whatsoever, “You kissed me back.”

“All right, so I did. So what?”

“You’ve been widowed three months and you kissed me as though it’s been three years.”

“For the space of five seconds, I kissed you.”

“Franz said you were promiscuous.”

“Franz? I’d hardly call him a reliable witness.”

She had a point, Cal thought reluctantly. He knew nothing about Franz. Had never met him before that day on Mont Blanc.

“Anyway,” Joanna went on, “what about you? Why would you want to kiss me? You’ve made it all too clear you don’t believe a word I’ve said. Which means you think I’m responsible for Gustave’s death, and—” momentarily she faltered “—the loss of the baby, as well.”

Cal had no answer for her. When he was blinded by lust, how could he possibly discern the truth? But if he really did disbelieve her, he was kissing a woman he should despise.

He’d loved Suzanne when he married her, he’d never been unfaithful to her, and anyone he’d taken to his bed since her death he’d at least liked. He pushed himself up from the bed, noticing with one small part of his brain that Joanna’s cheeks were still streaked with tears and that the bruise on her forehead was now a lurid mix of purple and yellow. “Let’s just call it temporary insanity,” he said tersely. “On both our parts.”

“It’s not going to happen again!”

He could see the hard jut of her nipples beneath her jacket. “You don’t have a worry in the world,” he grated. “I’m going back to sleep. Alone. And we’d better hope the weather improves.”

“It’s got to,” she said with an edge of real desperation.

He felt exactly the same way. Although he was damned if he was going to tell her that. He’d already made enough of a fool of himself, no point in adding to it. “Are you warm enough?” he asked curtly.

“Yes. Thank you.”

He flicked off the flashlight and lowered his body onto a couch that was at least eight inches too short for him. He didn’t care what the weather was doing, he was out of here once it was daylight. And he wasn’t taking Joanna Strassen with him.

Daylight was chinking through the dark brown curtains when Joanna woke up. She lay still for a moment, totally disoriented, wondering why her head hurt and why the wind was howling so ferociously that the house creaked under its onslaught. Then it all came flooding back. Her disastrous and ill-thought-out attempt at reconciliation with Dieter and Maria. Her precipitate departure yesterday afternoon and the way the car had slid so gracefully and inevitably into the telephone pole. Her return to consciousness in this room, the waves of dizziness and pain, the gradual realization that she was back in the one place in the world she’d hoped never to see again.

And then there was her rescuer.

It wasn’t chance that she’d left him to the last. Had she ever laid eyes on a man so magnetic, so masculine, so self-assured? So guarded, so reluctant to trust her? Why couldn’t she have been rescued by a country farmer in a three-ton truck, with a plump, friendly wife and a kitchen smelling of borscht and freshly baked bread?

Cal was his name. And that was all she knew about him.

Except for the inescapable fact that his two brief kisses had melted the very bones of her body.

She had to get out of here. Soon. Sooner. Soonest.

Cautiously Joanna sat up. In the dim light, she could see Cal stretched out on the couch, his feet dangling over the edge, his neck stuck at an awkward angle. A blanket half covered his long body. He was still sound asleep.

He’d saved her life. If he hadn’t come along, she’d have frozen to death.

She shivered, knowing that in spite of all the unhappiness of her marriage, and the acute pain of the last few months, she was deeply glad to be alive. So she had much to thank him for, this dark-haired stranger with eyes as gray and depthless as a winter sea.

If only he didn’t share Dieter and Maria’s opinion of her character. Which was, to put it mildly, rock-bottom. Why that should hurt her so badly, she didn’t understand. He was a stranger, chance-met and soon to be forgotten. So why should it matter what he thought of her?

Not liking her own thoughts, Joanna got up as quietly as she could, parted the curtains and peered outside. Her heart sank. All she could see was the driven whiteness of snow; all she could hear was the howl of the wind. It was worse than yesterday, she thought numbly. But she had to leave. She had to.

From behind her Cal said with a lack of emotion that infuriated her, “Looks like we’ll be stuck here today, too.”

She whirled, frightened that she hadn’t heard him get up, let alone cross the room. He was standing altogether too close, his crumpled shirt unbuttoned from throat to navel, his cords creased from sleeping in them. The sheen on his tousled hair reminded her of mahogany; her mother had left her a beautiful little mahogany end table. Then he yawned, and the corded muscles of his belly tightened; all his muscles were truly impressive, she thought wildly.

“I’m leaving here this morning,” she spat. “You can do what you like.”

“And how are you going to leave?” he said mockingly. “Your car’s wedged to a telephone pole three miles down the road, and I’m not driving you anywhere, not in this.” He lifted one brow. “Unless you think Dieter will lend you his car?”

So angry she could barely talk, she seethed, “I will not stay one more hour in a house where everyone—including you—thinks I’m a cold-blooded, immoral bitch!”

“I’m not—”

As if he hadn’t spoken, she swept on, “I made the biggest mistake in my life—apart from marrying Gustave, that is—to fly out here with belongings of his I thought his parents should have. To believe that now he was dead, maybe we could somehow make peace. I sure go to the top of the class for naiveté.”

“Naive isn’t exactly the word I’d use for you.”

“But you know nothing about me, Mr. Cal whatever-your-name-is. Only what you’ve been told. You’re the one who’s naive. You believe Dieter and Maria, who thought the universe revolved around Gustave. And you believe Franz, who hero-worshiped him and made one heck of a lot of money out of him into the bargain. Three cheers for you.”

She was being very childish, she thought in a sudden wave of exhilaration. And it felt extremely good. She added peevishly, “What is your last name? And what are you doing here? You don’t look the type to be a friend of the Strassens.”

“Cal Freeman,” Cal said, and watched her closely.

Her brow furrowed. “The name’s familiar…but we’ve never met, I’d have remembered you.”

“I’m a mountaineer.”

She paled. “That’s where I’ve heard your name—Franz was telling us once about the team you took up Everest.”

“Franz gave me Gustave’s climbing gear to bring to the Strassens.”

She clutched the bedpost, her voice ragged. “Did you know Gustave?”

“No. But I’d heard of him, of course. I was sorry to hear he’d died.”

“Play with fire,” she said unsteadily, “and sooner or later you get burned.”

The words were out before he could prevent them. “You being the fire?”

She raised her chin. “No, Cal. The mountains. The mountains that I grew to hate because they destroyed any chance I might have had of happiness.”

“So you think all mountaineers are irresponsible dare-devils?”

“You’re darn right I do.”

He tapped himself on the chest. “Not this one.”

Her eyes seemed to have glued themselves to the taut skin over his breastbone, with its tangle of dark hair. “Then you’re the exception that proves the rule,” she said, and couldn’t have disguised the bitterness in her tone.

“Gustave was a mountaineer when you met him.”

“And I was nineteen. Young enough to find both him and the mountains romantic.”

It was an entirely plausible reply. Feeling frustrated and unsure of himself, Cal ventured, “You were jealous of the mountains?”

“I suppose I was,” she said wearily. “Are you married, Cal? Does your wife hate it when the mountains take you away from her?”

Years ago, whenever Cal used to go on an expedition, Suzanne would fly to Paris and indulge in an orgy of shopping. He’d sometimes thought it would have suited Suzanne very well to have been left a wealthy widow; she’d have had the fun of spending his money without the bother of a relationship with a real, flesh-and-blood man. “That’s none of your business,” he said tersely.

“I beg your pardon,” Joanna retorted. “So you can ask questions but I can’t?”

Cal said impatiently, “I’m not spending the entire day trading insults with you.”

“No, you’re not. You’re moving into the other part of the house, where you can spend the day with Dieter and Maria.” With a flick of malice, Joanna added, “Have a good one.”

Curiosity overcoming everything else, Cal asked, “Has this house always been so bleak and bare?”

“Ever since I’ve been coming here.” Joanna bit her lip. “I’m sure it wasn’t easy for Gustave, growing up with such strict, joyless parents. At first I tried to be understanding, but that wore thin after a while.”

Wishing with fierce intensity that he’d just once met Gustave Strassen so he could have formed his own opinion of the man, and wishing with equal intensity that he could spend the entire day in bed with Gustave’s widow, Cal said harshly, “If you’ll excuse me I’m going to have a shower, get breakfast and check the weather report. Then I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“Bread and water?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s not so ridiculous. Because I’m a prisoner in this room, aren’t I?”

She was. No question of it. And he along with her. “Pray for sunshine,” Cal said ironically, and headed for the bathroom.

It would have given Joanna enormous satisfaction to have thrown her pillow at his retreating back. Or drummed her heels on the cold hardwood and screamed out all her frustration. She did neither one. Cal Freeman already thought she was the equivalent of pond scum. A tantrum would really finish her off.

Why did she care what he thought?

So he had a great body. More than great, she thought, her mouth dry. And she’d be willing to bet he was quite unaware of the effect of his physique on a woman who, apart from that one time a few months ago, hadn’t been to bed with anyone for at least four years. Including her lawfully wedded husband, Gustave Strassen.

Not that Cal would believe that.

Cal Freeman. She’d heard about him over the years. That spectacular ascent of the northeast ridge of Everest. His climbs on the Kishtwar range and the Kongur Massif. His heroic rescue of two French climbers in the Andes. Gustave had never encouraged talk about Cal Freeman; Gustave had always wanted to be the center of attention, another facet of his character that a love-blind nineteen-year-old had totally missed.

How ironic that Cal should have effected another rescue, this time of Gustave’s widow, from a blizzard on the prairies.

Hurriedly Joanna got dressed; she was already heartily sick of her blue sweater. Then she braided her hair, made the bed, drew the curtains, and undid her briefcase. If she was to be stuck here for the morning—beyond the morning, she refused to look—she might as well get some work done.

So when Cal emerged from the bathroom, his hair still damp, she had her laptop set up and was frowning at the screen. He said, “I’ll be back in half an hour with your breakfast.”

She nodded without raising her eyes. He added, an edge of steel in his voice, “Where I come from, you look at someone when they speak to you.”

“I’m working—can’t you see?”

“According to Franz you’ve got lots of money. So what kind of work do you do that’s so important that you can’t even be civil?”

This time her head snapped up. “What I do with all the spare time I have as a stinkingly rich widow is none of your business.”

“Don’t push your luck, Joanna,” Cal said with dangerous softness.

He hadn’t yet shaved; the dark shadow on his jawline did indeed make him look dangerous. But Joanna had done a lot of growing up since she was nineteen. “And what happens if I do?”

“I wouldn’t advise you to ask that question unless you’re prepared for the answer.”

Although her pulse was beating uncomfortably fast, she said with credible calm, “He-man stuff.”

His words had an explosive force. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are? Especially when you’re in a rage.”

A blush scorched her cheeks. “Don’t change the subject!”

“Oh, I don’t think I am.” He gave her a grin she could only call predatory. “I’ll be back.”

The bedroom door closed behind him. Joanna let out her breath in a long sigh. She wasn’t normally argumentative, nor was she overly aware of the male half of the species: if Gustave had been anything to go by, she was better off alone. But Cal Freeman seemed to destroy all the self-sufficiency she’d striven to achieve over the long years of her marriage.

Her first resolution, she thought fiercely, was to work all morning. And her second, to ignore the dark-haired man who was virtually her jailer.

She turned her attention back to the screen, and by sheer stubbornness managed to immerse herself in revising the tenth chapter. Her New York agent had already found a publisher for this, her second novel; she was determined it wasn’t going to bomb, as could so often happen with second novels. Especially after all the critical attention the first one had gained.

It seemed no time before Cal opened the door, carrying a tray. Quickly she closed the file; she had no intention of him finding out about her other life as a writer. She said casually, “That smells good.”

“I cooked the eggs myself,” Cal said. “Didn’t want Maria pouring hot pepper sauce all over them.”

She steeled herself against the laughter lurking in his gray eyes. “What’s the weather forecast?”

“Like this all day. Wind dying around midnight, the plow should come through during the night, and I’ve booked a tow truck first thing tomorrow. No flights out of Winnipeg today.”

“Oh, that’s just wonderful,” said Joanna, fighting down a wave of panic that was out of all proportion.

Cal’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going out to my vehicle to bring in Gustave’s gear,” he said coldly. “I’m presuming you don’t want any of it?”

She flinched. “No,” she said in a low voice. “I don’t need a harness or a set of ropes to remind me of Gustave.”

Cal plunked the tray down on the table. The trouble was, she fascinated him with far more than her incredible beauty. Anger, sadness, frustration, terror, she’d shown them all; and now he had to add a kind of dignity that he could only respect. “Eat your breakfast,” he ordered. “Any complaints about the eggs can be directed to the chef.”

She suddenly grinned. “I’m hungry enough they could be as tough as climbing boots and I wouldn’t complain.”

Her smile was full of mischief. Turning away so he wouldn’t grab her with all the subtlety of a caveman, Cal said brusquely, “I’ll be back with your lunch.” Then he wheeled and left the room.

The next couple of hours were far from pleasant for Cal. Maria’s iron facade wasn’t equal to seeing her son’s climbing gear; Dieter openly had tears in his eyes. Against his will, Cal’s anger toward Joanna was revived; although he was honest enough to admit some of that anger should be directed toward himself for letting her get past his defences so easily. Eventually the Strassens disappeared to their own room; around noon, his eyes tiring from the fine print of War and Peace, Cal took himself to the kitchen and produced some untidy but interesting sandwiches for himself and Joanna. Picking up hers, he headed back to the bedroom.

He could be very soft-footed when he chose to be. Not stopping to analyze just why he should want to take Joanna by surprise, Cal padded into the bedroom they’d shared last night. She was scowling into her laptop computer, totally focused on what she was doing. He couldn’t help admiring her concentration, for Joanna Strassen definitely didn’t want to be here: that much he did believe. Suzanne, under similar circumstances, would have been indulging in a major sulk. But Joanna was being…stoic, he thought. Stoicism was right up there in his list of virtues.

She’d fastened her hair in an untidy mass on top of her head; skewering the shiny black coils was a yellow pencil. As he watched, she leafed through a black-covered journal to her left, read half a page intently, and began rummaging through the papers on the table, muttering something under her breath.

Cal said lightly, “What’s your problem?”

She jumped, knocking several papers to the floor. “Do you get a kick out of creeping up on people?” she demanded. “Where the hell is my pencil?”

“In your hair,” he said amiably.

Her scowl deepened. “I’ve been doing that for years—I never think to look there and don’t you dare laugh at me.” Her gaze dropped to the plate in his hands. “You expect me to eat those?”

He glanced down. The tomato slices had skidded, the lettuce was falling out, and he’d been so generous with the egg salad that each sandwich bulged bounteously. Like a pregnant woman, he thought. “I couldn’t care less if you eat them or not! After Dieter and Maria saw Gustave’s gear they were very upset, and I sure as heck wasn’t going to ask either one of them to make your lunch.”

Joanna pushed back her chair, stood up and marched over to him. Her chin high, she said, “I’m sorry they’ve lost their son. Truly I am. But Gustave was a disaster waiting to happen—far too taken up with his own ego to be half the climber they thought he was.”

“If he’d just found out you were pregnant and he wasn’t sure who’d fathered the child—that’s completely irrelevant?”

“He knew who the father was. Trust me.”

Why couldn’t he trust her? She wasn’t Suzanne: or even remotely like Suzanne. Deliberately needling her, Cal said, “How could he have known? There are a lot of men in Europe.”

“And according to Dieter and Maria I’ve slept with most of them.” She gave an unamused laugh. “I’d like to know when I’d have found the time.”

Suzanne still on his mind, Cal said with a touch of bitterness, “Some women can always find time for what they want to do.”

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