The Blackmail Pregnancy

‘I am paying someone to do it,’ he said.

‘Not me, you’re not.’ She shook her head. ‘No way.’

She brushed past him to pick up her bag, but his hand snaked out and caught her, bringing her up short. She was suddenly much too close to him—too close to breathe, too close to think, too close to escape.

‘Think about it, Cara.’ His voice was gravelly. ‘You can have it all. You can still have your career—my money will re-establish it.’

She tested his hold but it was firm. She met his eyes but they were implacable, determined. She felt cornered, like a small animal in a carefully constructed snare, all the tiny wires pulling against her resisting flesh.

‘Don’t do this to me, Byron,’ she choked. ‘Surely you don’t hate me this much?’

He took his time answering and Cara felt the warmth of his breath on her face as he stood so close to her. Her traitorous body was already leaning towards him, looking for him, as if searching for her missing link.

‘I don’t hate you any more,’ he said in a flat tone. ‘I don’t feel anything where you’re concerned. I know what I want and I want you to be the one to give it to me.’

‘But why?’ she asked again. ‘Is this some sort of sick seven-year plan for revenge?’

He shook his head, his hand still hard on her wrist.

‘Not at all. As I told you, I’ve come to a certain point in my life where I want to achieve certain things. I don’t want to be too old to enjoy my children. Nor do I want to wake up on the morning I turn forty and think—Oh, my God, I forgot to have kids! Don’t you think about that sometimes, Cara?’

‘Never,’ she lied. ‘I never think about it.’

‘Well, I do,’ he said. ‘I think about it constantly. My three siblings are all younger than me and they all have children. Felicity is having her second in five weeks or so.’

Cara thought of Byron’s younger sister in the last stages of pregnancy and swallowed deeply.

‘Please don’t ask this of me,’ she pleaded with him. ‘I’m not the right person. I don’t have what it takes.’

‘You do, but you just won’t admit it. Deep down inside, where the real Cara is buried, you want the same thing I want. God knows I tried to get you to see it seven years ago, but failed. I’m not letting this opportunity pass without another attempt.’

‘This is so cold-blooded!’ she railed. ‘How can you even think of bringing such a scheme about? It’s inhuman. It’s despicable, it’s—’

‘Nevertheless, it’s what I want.’

‘And what you want you automatically get?’

‘Sometimes. Not always. But this time I’m counting on it.’

‘Well, Byron, you’ve counted all wrong, because I’m not playing the game. Go find yourself another incubator—this one’s not for sale.’

She wrenched herself out of his grasp and threw herself towards the door. She got to the lift and stabbed at the button, almost falling over in shock when immediately the doors pinged open. The lift whooshed down to the ground floor before the colour had returned to her face. She stepped out onto the busy city street and lost herself amongst the milling crowds, all the while trying to make some sense of the last hour.

Byron was a stranger to her now. Gone was the easygoing young man who’d swept her off her feet with one quick smile. In his place was a man determined to bring about his own agenda, no matter what it cost. She could only see it as a plan for revenge—but why had he waited so long to activate it? Had he been biding his time, waiting until she was truly vulnerable to swoop down and capture her?

‘Trevor.’ Her voice was ragged as she clutched the mobile to her ear. ‘Tell me what the hell’s going on.’

‘Sweetie.’ Her partner’s tone was placating. ‘You sound distracted. Didn’t the meeting with Lord Byron go so well?’

‘Lord is right,’ she answered wryly. ‘If anyone has a god complex it’s Byron Rockcliffe.’

‘I take it he’s calling the shots?’

‘More than you realise.’ She stalled for breath before she asked, ‘Trevor, why didn’t you tell me how bad things really were?’

‘I didn’t want to worry you,’ he said. ‘You’ve been down the last couple of months, and—’

‘Trevor! I’ve been “down” for years, let’s be honest. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I feel it’s my fault,’ he confessed awkwardly. ‘I’ve pushed you along with my “creative genius”, as you so fondly call it, but I haven’t stopped to consider the risks. Now, I’m afraid, you’re paying the price for that oversight.’

‘I’m not paying any price,’ she reassured him. ‘Byron is over the top. I’m not doing what he wants.’

There was an ominous silence at the end of the line.

‘Trevor?’

‘Listen, Cara,’ his tone was resigned. ‘We have no choice. We’re going belly-up without his help, and I can’t call in any more favours to see us through. Just do what he says and let’s get on with it. Surely it can’t be that hard to decorate his castle and move on?’

‘Harder than you know,’ she said hollowly.

‘If you need any advice, you know where I am,’ he offered.

In spite of her troubles she had to laugh.

‘Somehow, Trev, I don’t think I’ll be calling on you for help,’ she said.

‘Well, if you do, you know the number. Did I tell you I’ve got a hot date tonight?’

‘No—with whom?’

‘Antonio.’

‘I thought he was on the back boiler?’

‘I’ve been rethinking the whole issue. Better to have loved and left than never to have loved at all.’

‘That’s not quite how that saying goes,’ she said with a wry twist to her mouth. ‘But have a good time. I’ll see you in the morning.’

Cara spent the next three days going through the books to see for herself how bad things really were. She met with the accountant and the bank manager, but the writing was well and truly on the wall—in neat and very precise figures. The bank manager was apologetic but realistic. He referred to the recent recession and advised her to accept the very generous financial help being offered; it was either that or declare herself bankrupt.

She left the bank in turmoil, blaming herself for not keeping a closer watch on things. Trevor was right; she had been down for the last couple of months—more than usual. Her twenty-ninth birthday was rapidly approaching and she hated her birthday. It reminded her of all she’d missed out on as a child.

She’d not long returned to the office when Trevor announced Byron’s arrival. Cara glanced at her watch, her stomach freefalling in alarm. She hadn’t heard from him since Tuesday afternoon, when she’d thrown his offer with its conditions in his face. She’d been pretending to herself that all of this was going to simply disappear. However, each morning she’d woken despairingly to the sickening realisation that this wasn’t just a bad dream.

‘Cara.’

She looked up to see him standing in the door of her office, his tall frame taking up much of the space. Any thoughts she’d had about making a timely escape were lost in the maelstrom of feeling that assailed her at seeing him once more.

He was dressed in a charcoal-grey business suit, which she assumed would be worth more than the contents of her entire current wardrobe. His shirt was white and his tie patterned in black, with tiny flecks of carmine. He looked fabulous.

She got up on unsteady legs and greeted him formally.

‘Mr Rockcliffe, I—’

‘Cara.’ His deep voice cut her off. ‘Let’s drop the formalities, shall we? This is you and me, remember?’

She tore her eyes away from the chocolatey depths of his and instead concentrated on the knot of his tie.

‘Byron, I don’t wish to be rude, but I think we should stop this right here and now. Your…your offer to help is a very generous one, but I’m afraid I can’t meet the terms.’

She saw his throat move up and down in a swallow and lifted her eyes slightly. He was frowning at her darkly, the line of his mouth hard.

‘So you’d rather lose everything you own in the world rather than resume a temporary relationship with me?’

‘Temporary?’ Cara blinked at him uncomprehendingly.

‘Of course temporary,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t want it any other way, would you?’

‘I…No, of course not,’ she said, looking away.

‘Well, then,’ he continued. ‘Let’s look at your options. You can come with me now, or you can ask me to leave. It’s as simple as that.’

Cara couldn’t speak. Thoughts were tumbling about her brain like clothes in a dryer. One thought kept tangling around the others until her head started to pound with the effort of keeping control of it.

‘What’s it to be, Cara?’ he asked. ‘Bankruptcy is no picnic. It’s like a scar that has to be worn for the rest of your financial life.’

She knew all about scars. How intuitive of him to use that analogy! She so wanted to resist his offer, but a vision of the balance sheets swam before her eyes. She imagined herself trying to approach a bank for a loan in the future. It would be hopeless; she’d be considered a risk through no fault of her own other than naïvety.

In an attempt to escape the past she’d thrown everything into her career. She’d clawed her way through her course with high distinctions, finding solace in restoring older houses to their former glory. She’d decorated new houses to offset the wonderful designs that came across her desk, using to advantage every colour, every fabric and drape to make a lasting impression. Now all her hard work was going to go to waste unless she agreed to one small condition. Not so small, she reminded herself. Not small at all.

‘Cara?’

She looked up at him once more, her throat tight with emotion.

‘Could…could I see the house first?’

His brow furrowed into an even deeper frown.

‘Why?’

She swallowed the restriction in her throat before answering.

‘I’d like to see the house, that’s all.’

‘So you can weigh up the benefits?’ His voice was hard with cynicism.

She turned away from the dark glitter of his eyes.

‘I no longer make hasty, emotionally driven decisions,’ she said in a cold, detached tone. ‘I like to see things from several angles first.’

‘Wise of you,’ he commented, watching her closely.

She schooled her features into impassivity and reached for her handbag.

‘Shall we go?’

The house was huge. Cara took a deep breath as Byron opened the front door and she stepped into the large foyer before him. A magnificent wrought-iron balustrade staircase swept the path of her eye upwards to the landing above where bright sunlight shafted through tall windows. The creamy marble floors in the living areas were interspersed with a toning plush crème carpet, creating added warmth.

She so wanted to do this house! It had an atmosphere like no other she’d ever been in.

‘What do you think?’ Byron spoke from behind her right shoulder.

She turned to face him, her eyes wide and expressive.

‘It’s…breathtaking.’

‘Come and look at the view,’ he said, leading her to the nearest window overlooking Neutral Bay.

She looked down on to the marina, beyond that to Kirribilli, and watched as the sunlight caught the mast of a passing yacht.

‘From the master bedroom you can see Shell Cove,’ he said into the silence.

‘It’s lovely, Byron.’ She turned to him once more. ‘It’s the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen.’

‘Praise indeed.’

She couldn’t distinguish his tone. His expression was masked, as if he didn’t want her to see what he was really thinking. She looked into his eyes, looking for reassurance. She found none. His eyes were like cold, deep pools—unfathomable, unreachable.

She moved away from the window and stepped down into the sunken lounge, her footsteps echoing along the floor. A large open fireplace took up almost one wall, and she imagined cosy evenings curled up on comfortable leather sofas, watching the flickering flames.

She was startled out of her reverie by the sound of Byron’s approach. She swung away from the fireplace and headed for the kitchen, uncomfortable with being in the same room as him for too long.

‘The kitchen, as you can see, has already been decorated.’ Byron spoke from his leaning position against the doorframe.

‘It’s very nice,’ she offered, running a hand across the black gleam of the granite countertop.

Stainless steel appliances added to the modern effect, and she knew she would have chosen exactly the same. She wondered if he’d chosen the design himself, or if perhaps his sister Felicity had helped him.

‘I thought it would be best to get a head start on this. You can choose the colours for the rest of the house—the carpets and furniture and drapes and so on. Do whatever you think. I won’t balk at the price.’

Cara’s hand fell away from the smooth countertop as he stepped towards her.

‘Byron, I—’

He cut off her speech with a long lean finger pressed gently but firmly against the soft swell of her lips.

‘No, Cara,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t want to hear your final decision yet.’

Her eyes communicated her distress.

‘You haven’t made up your mind, I can tell,’ he continued, his dark eyes never once leaving her face. ‘But you’re sorely tempted—aren’t you, Cara?’

She tried to shake her head, but couldn’t move under the caress of his finger, tracing the line of her bottom lip on a path of rediscovery that sent tremors of feeling to her curling toes and back.

‘You want the house but you haven’t quite made up your mind about all that comes with it, have you?’

She opened her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out.

‘I’ll give you until the end of the weekend to decide,’ he said, stepping away from her. ‘But that’s all. On Sunday night I want your final answer.’

She felt cold without his warm body so close to hers. Her mouth felt dry and overly sensitive, and she ran her tongue over her lips and tasted where his finger had been.

‘All right,’ she said in a voice she hardly recognised.

He lifted his dark brows slightly, as if surprised by her acquiescence.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Come and I’ll show you the garden. I think you’ll like it.’

What was not to like? Cara thought as she followed him around the grounds. The crinkling surface of the lap pool glistened in the dancing sunlight and the fragrance of jasmine was heady in the air. Potted azaleas cascaded their bright blooms and the verdant expanse of lawn led down to a tennis court built on the lower terrace. The harbour sparkled in the distance and Cara breathed in the salty air and wished with every fibre of her being that she could turn back the clock.

As he came closer all the fine hairs on the back of her neck rose like antennae.

‘Do you still play?’ he asked, indicating the lush green of the tennis court as he stood beside her, his broad shoulder brushing against her.

She turned to look up at him, her throat suddenly dry.

‘I haven’t played in years.’

‘Shame.’ He looked down at her. ‘You should take it up again. You were good. Damn good.’

Time seemed to stand still. Cara was almost certain she could hear the sound of children’s laughter somewhere in the distance, but wondered if she’d just imagined it. The chirruping sparrows and the cooing doves on the lawn faded into the background as she lost herself in the deep, dark and mesmerising gaze of her ex-husband.

His head lowered towards hers, hesitated for an inestimable pause, then finished the distance with a soft press of his lips to hers. Her lips swelled in response. She could feel the tingle of their heightened sensitivity from that merest touch. His warm breath caressed her face before he pressed his mouth to hers once more—firmer this time, but only just.

A part of Cara demanded she step away from that tempting mouth. But an even bigger part of her overruled it. It was just a kiss, she reassured herself. Almost a kiss between strangers.

But there was nothing strange about Byron’s mouth when he swooped a third time. Her mouth flowered open beneath his, just like one of the spilling azalea blooms at their feet. His tongue grazed her bottom lip and her fight was over before it had even truly begun. His tongue tangled with hers and she would have fallen if it hadn’t been for the steel band of his arm coming around her to draw her into the hard wall of his body. She jolted against him in a combination of shock at his ready arousal and shame at her instant response to it. She wanted him. After seven long years she was his for the asking, and his mouth was responding to hers as if he knew it as well.

Cara felt the brush of his hand underneath her breast and ached for the cradle of his palm on her engorged flesh. He pulled her further into his body and her pelvis loosened at the feel of his hips grinding into hers. He was rock-hard, and even through the barrier of their clothes she could feel his scorching heat. Her secret place remembered and responded, moistening in preparation for the intimate invasion she’d spent seven years trying to expunge from her mind.

He lifted his mouth from hers and stepped away. Cara steadied herself by grasping the wrought-iron railing that divided the lap pool from the lawn. She brushed back her loosened hair with a hand that threatened to betray her outward composure.

‘I’ll be waiting in the car,’ he said in a flat, emotionless tone. ‘Take your time looking around. I have some phone calls to make.’

As he strode towards the side gate Cara stared after him until he disappeared from view. She ran her tongue over her swollen mouth and tasted him. Familiar, yet strange. Known but now unknowable.

She looked up at the big empty house and agonised over what her decision would be on Sunday evening. She wasn’t sure she had much say in the matter; the way her body was feeling had already decided for her. Did she have the strength to walk away from him a second time?

She went back through the house via the bathroom, to tidy herself before rejoining Byron at the car. She stared at her reflection in the mirror and was a little shocked by the wild, abandoned look in her hazel-flecked eyes. Passion burned in her gaze—a dormant passion now stirred into blistering life by just one kiss from a mouth that still hadn’t once smiled at her.

CHAPTER THREE

BYRON was leaning against the car, listening to someone on the other end of his mobile phone, his eyes squinting slightly against the bright sunshine. Cara approached the car and he turned as if he sensed her behind him. He carefully avoided her eyes as he came around and opened the door for her. He finished the call and slid into the driver’s seat, all without addressing a single word to her.

Cara wanted to break the silence but couldn’t think of anything to say. What did one say to an ex-husband in these situations? I still love you after all these years? I made a mistake, the biggest mistake of my life, when I left you? Can we try again?

‘No.’

‘Did you say something?’ His eyes flicked her way as he turned the wheel.

She hadn’t realised she’d spoken out loud, so deep was her concentration on the past.

‘No, nothing…’

He turned the car into the traffic before speaking again.

‘I thought we could have lunch.’ He glanced at the car clock. ‘I have a client at two, but if we’re quick we can grab a sandwich and a coffee somewhere.’

Cara didn’t want to appear too desperate for his company, and wished she could invent two or three clients of her own, but the rest of her afternoon was unfortunately very free.

‘I should get back to the office—’

‘And do what?’ He glanced at her again. ‘Your business has ground to a halt. Is my company so distasteful to you that you can’t even stomach the thought of sharing a simple meal with me?’

She flinched at the bitterness in his voice.

‘No, of course not.’ But even to her own ears her tone lacked conviction.

‘No wonder you’re balking at the suggestion of sharing my bed,’ he ground out. ‘Let alone bearing my child.’

Cara stared at her tightly clenched hands in her lap, and before replying waited until she had her emotions under some sort of control.

‘Lunch will be fine,’ she said at last. ‘I don’t have any other engagements.’

He drove to a café in Neutral Bay in stony silence. Cara looked at him once or twice, but his attention was on the traffic ahead. His normally smooth brow was deeply furrowed, the lines around his mouth tightly etched, as if he were only just managing to keep control of his anger. She knew he was angry with her. Seven years of anger separated them just as much as the issues that had caused the first rift.

She’d been adamant from their very first date that she had no intention of ever having children. She hadn’t told him the real reason, but instead had grasped for the generally held assumption that young career-driven women had better things to do with their time than haunt some man’s kitchen barefoot with a protruding belly. The fact that she hadn’t at that point in her life had a career hadn’t taken away the strength of her argument. But at twenty-two years old what truths of the world had she really known? She’d flitted from job to job, searching for something she had known was out there somewhere for her to devote herself to. But back then it hadn’t yet appeared on the horizon.

It had taken the bitter divorce to propel her into the field of interior design. She’d immersed herself in her studies, trying to dull the throb of pain that just wouldn’t go away. And yet for all her efforts the pain was still there, waiting for a chance to break free of its bounds.

Byron parked the car and she joined him on the pavement outside the café. A waitress led them to a table shaded by a huge leafy tree and Cara sat down and stared at the menu sightlessly.

‘Cara?’

She looked up and his eyes clashed with hers.

‘What sort of coffee would you like?’ he asked, indicating the hovering waitress.

‘I’ll just have a mineral water, please,’ she told the waitress, who then moved to the next table.

She could feel Byron’s speculative gaze on her and fidgeted with the hem of the tablecloth to distract her.

‘What happened to the latte lady?’ he asked.

She gave a shrug and examined the menu once more.

‘She couldn’t sleep.’

As she looked up and caught the tail-end of a small smile she wished she’d looked up earlier.

‘Do you drink?’

‘Alcohol, you mean?’

He nodded.

‘Not any more.’ She lowered her gaze once more and stared at a tiny crinkle in the tablecloth in front of her.

‘Tell me about your mother, Cara.’

Cara stiffened. Schooling her features back into indifference was hard with him sitting so close. So close and yet so far.

‘I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead,’ she countered, and was relieved when the waitress arrived with their drinks.

She drank thirstily and hoped he’d move onto another subject.

Once the waitress had left Byron spooned sugar into his cappuccino and stirred it thoughtfully. He’d been a little unprepared for seeing Cara again. He’d thought it would be easy. He’d breeze in and call the shots. But somehow something wasn’t quite right. He’d been too young and inexperienced to see it before. He’d fallen in lust and then in love with an ideal—an ideal that had turned out to be a real woman with issues that just wouldn’t go away. He could see that now. Hurt shone from her hazel eyes, hurt that he’d certainly contributed to—but not just him; he felt sure about that.

She’d never let him meet her mother. He wondered now why he hadn’t insisted. Somehow Cara had always found an excuse: her mother was away visiting relatives, couldn’t make it to the wedding, had the flu and wasn’t seeing anyone. He hadn’t pressed her about it. Anyway, her mother had lived in another state, so visiting had mostly been out of the question. He had spoken to Edna Gillem once on the telephone, and it still pained him to recall their conversation. It had well and truly driven the last nail into the coffin that had contained his short marriage.