Her Pregnancy Surprise: His Pregnancy Bargain / The Pregnancy Secret / Their Pregnancy Bombshell

‘I hardly think that’s any of your business,’ she retorted haughtily. ‘Perhaps you’d like to carry on with whatever Mr Patrick is paying you to do, other than eat pizzas.’

He looked amused. ‘Even a humble painter is allowed a lunch break, Doctor. Would you like me to give the boss a message?’ he offered, casually looping the towel around his neck. The action revealed another inch of smooth, hard flesh.

Megan swallowed and lowered her gaze. ‘It’s personal.’

‘You wish.’

Pale grey eyes clashed with turbulent blue.

‘I’ll wait,’ she announced frigidly. Other than physically remove her, he couldn’t do much about it, and if he did come over heavy handed she’d stick him with a lawsuit for assault before he could blink!

‘Suit yourself,’ he drawled. ‘But then I’m sure you generally do.’ This woman had spoilt and privileged written all over her, from her smooth voice to her assured manner.

Just as Megan’s bottom made contact with the dust-sheet-covered chair there was a sudden upheaval beneath her that sent her with a startled shriek to her feet.

A bundle of spitting fury struck out at her with sharp claws as it hurtled across the room like a ginger flash of lightning.

‘Ouch!’ she yelled. ‘That thing scratched me.’ Rolling up the right leg of her jeans revealed a long, though admittedly shallow, scratch along her calf.

‘That thing is called Sybil and you did sit on her. Poor cat,’ he crooned to the cat from the flat downstairs.

Megan wasn’t surprised to see the animal respond to his velvety croon, and in lightning transformation. That voice…! She could imagine any number of women who were old enough to know better purring if he used that voice on them.

‘Is the skin broken?’

‘I’ll live,’ she replied, rolling down her trouser leg. Superficial or not, the scratch stung. ‘Do you have any idea when he’ll be back?’

‘Who?’

Megan gave an impatient grimace. ‘Mr Patrick.’

‘Oh, him…he’ll be back in the country some time next month, I understand.’

Megan, her high hopes dashed by the casual revelation, felt her face fall. ‘But he has to be back before then,’ she protested.

‘Really…?’

‘He’s spending next weekend in the country with us.’

‘Maybe it slipped his mind…?’

Megan, who had flopped disconsolately into the cat-free chair, cast him a look of scorn. ‘Or maybe Uncle Malcolm lied through his teeth,’ she muttered half to herself.

Look on the bright side, she told herself, no eligible suitor equalled not being paired off with anyone, and it always had been a long shot.

The bad news was there would be other weekends!

‘Malcolm Hall is your uncle?’

Megan shot him a startled glance and began to sneeze. ‘You know him?’ She felt another sneeze building and began to ransack her bag for tissues, she found the packet just in time.

‘We’re not members of the same club,’ she heard him drawling scornfully when her sneezes subsided. ‘And I don’t play golf…but they let us unskilled labourers into quite a few places these days.’

Megan gave her pink nose a last angry scrub, her china-blue eyes snapping with anger. Where did this man get off automatically assuming she was some sort of snob? There was only one person here guilty of judging by appearances and it wasn’t Megan!

‘In my book decorators aren’t unskilled, although…’ she allowed her gaze to travel significantly over his paint-stained person ‘…in your case…’

‘I’m helping out a friend.’

‘So what is your actual day job?’

‘I do a bit of this, a bit of that,’ he revealed casually.’

‘You don’t have a regular job?’ Megan’s voice lifted in amazement—like most of her friends, her life revolved around the demands of work.

Luc found the fact she was looking at him as though he were a rare specimen amusing. ‘I don’t starve and I don’t sponge.’

Megan was immediately embarrassed. ‘I never imagined that you…it really isn’t any of my business how you live your life, Mr…’

‘Not being tied down to a nine-to-five routine gives me time to write. Some of my work is even now sitting on your uncle’s desk.’

‘You want to be a writer?’ That would explain his instant recognition of her uncle’s name. Though he had to be incredibly naive if he thought the work of every unknown who sent in an unsolicited manuscript ended up on her uncle’s desk. You had to produce something very special indeed to get that far.

Much more likely his work was languishing at the bottom of a pile on some junior’s desk. Being a naturally kind person, Megan didn’t have the heart to explain the brutal facts of the publishing business to him.

‘Is there any reason why I shouldn’t be a writer?’

Her eyes swept over his tall, impressive figure. The truth was he exuded so much vitality and energy Megan couldn’t imagine him doing anything that required long periods of physical immobility.

Megan smiled sunnily and had the satisfaction of hearing his teeth grate. ‘Listen, I don’t know the first thing about publishing and I have no influence with my uncle but if you’re serious about writing I think it would probably be a good idea to find yourself an agent.’

‘Anybody you could recommend…?’

‘Afraid not.’

‘Maybe you should see a doctor,’ he observed with a grimace as she began to sneeze loudly again.

‘Look, I’m not in publishing, but good luck and don’t worry—’ Megan sniffed ‘—I’m not ill. I’m allergic to cats,’ she explained as she got to her feet.

‘Now, if you’ll excuse me…?’ She nodded, and slung the soft leather satchel she carried over her shoulder and smoothed down her jacket.

The long, lean, intensely aggravating stranger didn’t step aside to let her pass. Instead he tilted his head back slightly to look curiously down at her and asked, ‘What kind of doctor are you?’

‘I’m a research chemist.’

‘Interesting,’ he said, looking and sounding as though he meant it.

‘It has its moments.’ Her bag hit her thigh as she hitched it on her shoulder and she winced as the fabric of her jeans rubbed against the fresh scratches on her leg.

‘You should put some antiseptic on that; cat scratches can get infected. If you like I’ve got some…’

An image of those long brown fingers moving over her skin flashed into Megan’s head. The reaction to the image was immediate and intense; the surface of her skin broke out in a rash of goose-bumps; her skin tingled; her sensitive stomach muscles contracted violently.

Her wide eyes lifted and collided with a steel-grey interrogative stare. There was a silence. The electric tension in the air had to be a product of her imagination, but it felt disturbingly real.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ she replied huskily. ‘But thanks for the offer.’

Adopting a brisk, decisive air, she stepped forward. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and hesitated when he didn’t move. There was room to edge past, but that would mean touching him. The desire to get away from this man’s disturbing presence was strong, but her reluctance to make physical contact was stronger. ‘I’m sorry to have held you up…’

‘So Lucas Patrick is a friend of yours…?’

‘Actually I’ve never met the man in my life,’ she admitted. ‘Now if—’

‘You’re a fan, then?’ he theorised, talking across her. ‘If you leave your address, perhaps he’ll send you an autograph.’

‘Do I look stupid enough to give a total stranger my address?’ she demanded.’

The dark, satanically slanted brows lifted, but Megan had no more intention of responding to the gesture than she did the quivery demands of her oversensitive tummy muscles.

‘And I don’t want his damned autograph,’ she grunted, blushing darkly.

‘Then you don’t like his books?’

‘I’ve read some of his earlier ones, I can see why he’s popular,’ she observed diplomatically.

‘But not with you?’ he suggested shrewdly.

‘I think he’s slightly overrated.’ Unfairly she vented her antagonism towards this man on the absent and talented author.

She expelled a silent breath of relief as he finally moved aside to let her pass. As she did so she lifted her head as a thought occurred to her. ‘Have you actually met Lucas Patrick?’

‘In passing.’

Megan’s eyes widened. He didn’t seem to appreciate this put him in a pretty unique category. ‘Really—! And how did he seem?’

‘Seem?’

‘What was he like?’

‘He seemed a pretty ordinary sort of guy to me,’ he divulged disappointingly.

‘Then is he…what does he look like?’ She shook her head. ‘No, on second thoughts, don’t tell me, leave me with my illusions—though if you happened to nod when I said balding, or paunchy, that wouldn’t be totally out of order, would it?’

‘I thought your uncle was his editor?’

‘He is, but Uncle Malcolm’s lips are sealed when it comes to Lucas Patrick,’ she admitted regretfully.

‘And you’re curious…?’

A grin of pure mischief spread across Megan’s face. ‘A girl always likes to know ahead of time what her future husband looks like.’

‘Future husband…?’

The look of horror etched on his dark, dramatically perfect face could not have been more heartfelt had she just announced her intention to marry him. Megan loosed a gurgle of laughter. ‘A joke,’ she placated.

‘He might not think so,’ the tall stranger observed as he scanned her amused face.

‘Then he has no sense of humour,’ Megan proclaimed.

‘You still haven’t said what brought you here…’

Halfway to the door, Megan turned back at the sound of his voice. Why not? the reckless voice in her head suggested. You’re never going to see the man again. Maybe there was something in that old maxim that it was easier to discuss things with a stranger.

‘My mother wants me to be happy.’ She began to experience a familiar tightness in her chest and she sat down cautiously on the arm of a chair.

‘And that’s a problem?’ Luc watched her fumble in her bag.

‘She believes no woman is complete without a man.’

‘And you don’t have one.’

Megan’s chin went up. ‘I don’t want one,’ she rebutted firmly. Her fingers closed over the inhaler she never went out without and she gave a sigh of relief. ‘At regular intervals she tries to set me up with someone she imagines…’

‘Is good breeding stock…’ came the straight-faced suggestion.

Megan’s eyes narrowed. ‘Will make me happy,’ she corrected and raised the inhaler to her mouth. The relief was almost immediate. ‘This is why I avoid cats,’ she said, anticipating his question.

‘You have asthma?’ he queried, watching the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

‘A little,’ she admitted. She went to rise but a large hand fell on her shoulder, anchoring her to the spot. Her eyes slid from his brown fingers to his face.

‘Take a minute to get your breath,’ he suggested, actually it was more than a suggestion, it was a quiet command.

Normally Megan didn’t respond well to commands but on this occasion she found herself strangely willing to let it pass. His concern, even though unnecessary was oddly comforting.

‘Can I get you anything? A glass of water?’

She nodded; her throat felt oddly achy and constricted.

Without a further comment he left and returned with a glass of water. He stood there, arms folded across his chest while she drank. Megan was very conscious of his silent presence. He wasn’t the sort of man you could forget was there.

‘Thank you,’ she said politely, handing back the empty glass. Their fingers touched briefly during the exchange; the contact did uncomfortable things to Megan’s pulse.

‘Can I call anyone for you?’

‘Gracious, no!’ Very conscious of her warm cheeks, she forced a smile but didn’t meet his eyes. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Despite a matchmaking mother.’

The comment brought her head up. ‘I’ve tried everything to put her off,’ she admitted ruefully. ‘Nothing works.’

Head tilted a little to one side, a frown deepening the line between his flyaway brows, he scanned her face. ‘What are you…thirty…?’

The almost-spot-on estimate disconcerted her; she had enough female vanity to feel peeved.

‘Sorry, have I touched a nerve?’

Megan glared at him. ‘No, you haven’t,’ she denied angrily. ‘I have no problem with being thirty…actually, almost thirty.’

‘Good for you,’ he interposed with silken gravity. ‘Don’t you think at almost thirty it’s time you told your mother to mind her own business?’

Megan coloured angrily. He made it sound so simple, but then it probably was, if you had no problem trampling all over the feelings of people you loved. ‘Oh, why didn’t I think of that? Of course, it might be because I don’t want to hurt my mother.’

His shoulders lifted in a disdainful shrug. ‘Well, if you don’t mind people running your life…?’

‘My mother doesn’t run my life!’ she flared.

‘No?’

Megan clenched her teeth. ‘No, she doesn’t. She has had a tough time the last few years,’ she informed him, swallowing past the emotional lump in her throat. ‘She isn’t some cold control freak, she is just a caring mum who wants to see her daughter happy and settled.’ She dragged a frustrated hand through her hair and gave a dejected sigh. ‘Unfortunately happy and settled for her equates with a man and marriage, which is why I had this idea…a sort of line-of-least-resistance thing.’

Luc watched as she gazed abstractedly into the distance, her smooth brow furrowed.

‘Least resistance…?’ he probed softly.

She nodded. ‘If I could get one of the prospective grooms to pretend to be smitten, Mum would be happy and leave me to get on with more important things.’

Luc’s deep-set eyes widened slightly as comprehension struck home. ‘And what do you consider important?’

‘My job.’

‘You can’t live and breathe your job.’

‘My work is very demanding; it leaves no time for relationships. ’

‘So you’re married to your career.’

She frowned; he made her sound freaky. ‘I’ve nothing against marriage, but I don’t think I’ll ever find a man who is willing to take what little I would have to give.’

‘You don’t have a very high opinion of men.’

‘I’m a pragmatist.’

‘You think you were being pragmatic when you came here to ask Lucas Patrick to…pretend to be smitten…?’

A mortified flush mounted Megan’s cheeks—when he said it, it sounded even more off the wall. ‘I didn’t say that.’

‘But that’s what you came here for?’

‘It’s not as crazy as it sounds.’

‘Did I say it was crazy? I’m just wondering…what was going to be in it for him?’

CHAPTER THREE

MEGAN frowned. ‘In it…?’

‘As in what would he get out of it?’ Luc looked into her bewildered face and laughed. ‘You thought he’d do it out of the goodness of his heart.’ His mobile lips lifted cynically at the corners. ‘You really never have met Lucas Patrick, have you?’

‘And unlike you I’d prefer not to bad-mouth him in his absence.’

For some reason her angry reproach caused him to laugh. It was a deep, warm, uninhibited sound that made Megan’s pulse rate quicken. ‘Just bad-mouth his books…?’

She wrenched her appreciative stare from the mesh of fine lines around his smiling grey eyes and frowned. ‘Don’t put words in my mouth,’ she warned him.

The stern warning brought Luc’s attention to her lips; she was attempting to compress them into a thin, disapproving line. As he contemplated the soft, cushiony contours it took considerable self-discipline to prevent his thoughts diverting into a carnal direction.

‘And I’m sure Mr Patrick has survived worse than anything I might say about him. And actually,’ she added, ‘I happen to think that he’s quite a talented writer.’

‘But you were willing to overlook his dubious literary talent in the interests of a quiet life?’ he questioned.

The soft charge brought a guilty flush to her cheeks. She squared her shoulders and sighed. ‘All right, I admit it was a pretty daft idea, but as the man isn’t here it’s fairly academic, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe…’

‘There’s no maybe about it,’ she rebutted morosely.

‘Would I be right in assuming that nobody at this house party, including your mother, has ever met Lucas Patrick…?’

‘Well, no, since Uncle Mal won’t be coming I don’t suppose…but I don’t see what that has to do with anything, Mr…what is your name anyhow?’ The weirdness of discussing such personal things with a total stranger whose name she didn’t even know suddenly struck Megan forcibly.

A slow, wolfish grin split the nameless stranger’s lean, dark face, revealing a set of white even teeth and causing her stomach to flip. Not only had she lost all control over what came out of her mouth, she had lost control of her nervous system as well!

‘To cut down on confusion, perhaps it’s better if you just call me Lucas…?’ he suggested smoothly.

‘What…? Megan’s impatient expression vanished as her eyes snapped open to their fullest extent. God, he couldn’t be saying what she thought he was…could he…?

She scanned his face with suspicion. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘I’m suggesting that you need a face to fit your fantasy lover.’ He adopted an expression of enquiry. ‘Is there anything wrong with this one?’ His fluid gesture indicated his own lean face.

Megan looked at the golden toned skin stretched across the perfect arrangement of strong angles and intriguing hollows and went perfectly pale.

‘You’re insane.’ Despite her attitude of total conviction, there was a small voice in her head that said it could just work…

‘I’m assuming you weren’t expecting Lucas Patrick to actually marry you…?’

‘Don’t be absurd,’ she breathed faintly. Like a hypnotised rabbit, she couldn’t take her eyes off his face. That voice in her head was getting louder.

‘Did you have a time factor in mind…?’ When she looked back at him blankly he spelt it out. ‘How long did you imagine this fake romance had to last? Six months or so?’

‘I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.’

His disturbing eyes glittering from beneath the sweep of long, curling ebony lashes, he slanted her a sardonic look.

‘Oh, I guess so,’ she conceded crossly. ‘If you’re suggesting anyone is going to believe you’re a famous author…’ She gave a forced laugh.

‘Nobody has the faintest idea what Lucas Patrick looks like.’

‘They may not know what he looks like—’ she deliberately trailed her eyes along the long, lean lines of his athletic frame; about midway she lost her scornful air ‘—but I think they might know what he doesn’t look like,’ she finished hoarsely.

His self-satisfied air intensified as he surveyed her heated cheeks. ‘If I had claimed to be him when you walked in you’d have been none the wiser.’

‘Nonsense! Of course I would,’ she instantly rebutted indignantly. ‘What do you take me for?’

A look she couldn’t quite decipher flickered at the back of his steely, dark-lashed eyes. ‘Someone who thinks they can tell, just by looking at a person, who he is…or should I say what he does? The two seem to be the same thing as far as you’re concerned.’

‘Of course I can’t.’

‘And neither can anyone else. The fact is you assumed I was the hired help because of the way I’m dressed. If I came out of the bedroom with a stethoscope around my neck you’d have assumed I was a doctor. It’s all about props.’

‘This is all academic…I’m not going to invite a total stranger into my home.’

‘Afraid I’ll steal the silver?’

She shook her head and refused to respond to this taunt. ‘This isn’t going to happen. Even if you did carry it off…’

‘I will,’ he promised.

His smug smile made her frown. ‘Even if you did my mother is never going to believe I’m attracted to you.’ Then she would be wrong wouldn’t she?

‘What’s wrong with me?’

‘You’re simply not my type.’

‘What is your type?’

‘Shall we drop this subject?’

‘Because you find it uncomfortable?’ The idea seemed to amuse him.

‘I find you uncomfortable.’ Too much information, Megan, she told herself not liking the thoughtful expression on his face. Recalling his earlier cynical comments, she asked, ‘What do you get out of it?’

He smiled. ‘Your uncle Malcolm looks at my manuscript.’

So that was it. ‘If you’ve written a load of rubbish, nothing I say is going to make Uncle Malcolm publish you.’

‘It isn’t rubbish; it’s good.’

‘You’re very confident.’

He didn’t deny her accusation. ‘I just need a break and you need a lover.’

‘A fake lover.’

‘I’m applying for the job…?’

Megan clutched her head and groaned. ‘I must be mad!’

‘You won’t regret this,’ he promised, extending his hand.

Megan, who was pretty sure she would regret it, allowed her fingers to be enclosed in his firm grip. A shot of heat zapped through her body.

She was regretting it already. She carried on regretting it and questioning her sanity during the next twenty-four hours. In the end it didn’t matter.

Her fake lover was a no-show.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE day was grey and drizzly, there had been no buyers for a brisk walk, so Megan hadn’t had company when she’d walked the dogs. She was still in her muddy shoes and outdoor clothes when a noisy Land Rover drew up onto the gravelled forecourt right beside a Porsche and a Mercedes. She stopped towelling the muddy terrier and got to her feet, her heart pounding—please let it not be him…!

‘I wonder who that is?’ her mother asked with a frown. ‘I do wish you’d fetch the dogs in through the kitchen when we’ve got guests,’ she remonstrated gently. ‘Hilary will have hysterics if they go within ten yards of her…tiresome woman,’ she added to herself. ‘Down, Fred,’ she added sternly to the large dog who had planted his damp paws on her stomach.

‘I can’t imagine who it is,’ Megan replied, her heart thumping madly in her chest.

Her mother looked at her sharply. ‘Are you feeling all right, Megan?’ She considered her daughter’s face with a frown. ‘You look a little flushed.’

‘Me? I’m fine, absolutely fine!’ The cheerful smile she pinned on her face felt as though it was about to crack…or was that her face? ‘I’ll go and see who it is, shall I?’ she added brightly.

‘Would you, dear?’

Megan was already running across towards the vehicle, her boots crunching on the gravel. Seconds later she arrived breathless and quivering with tension.

‘You’re late!’ she fired as the tall figure stepped with lithe, fluid ease from the disreputable-looking four-wheel drive. ‘I thought you weren’t coming.’ If she was honest she had been relieved when she had thought he wasn’t honouring their bargain.

‘Something came up,’ he revealed casually.

‘And it didn’t occur to you to let me know,’ she quivered accusingly.

One dark brow angled sardonically. ‘Don’t you think you should wait until we are irresistibly attracted before you get possessive…?’ he suggested mildly.

The sarcasm brought an angry sparkle to her eyes. ‘This might be a joke to you, but—’

‘Not a joke,’ he interposed. ‘But I don’t see any reason we can’t make the best of it. We might even enjoy ourselves…’

‘Enjoy? Are you insane?’ Then, transferring her attention to the off-roader, she continued without missing a beat. ‘Is that yours?’

If I had an ounce of foresight, she thought, I would have considered the question of transport and hired him the sort of car people would expect a best-selling author to drive around in. If I had any foresight I wouldn’t have done this at all.

‘No, I stole it on the way here,’ he returned, straight-faced. His dark eyes moved from the tendrils of hair that curled damply around her fair skinned face to her wide, anxious eyes. ‘Is that a problem?’