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

Megan tore her attention from the Land Rover and cast him a look of seething dislike…as she did so she immediately realised that nobody would notice if he rolled up riding a child’s tricycle!

‘Oh, my God…’ she groaned, grabbing agitated handfuls of damp hair. ‘Look at you!’

She followed her own instructions and allowed her glance to travel down the long, lean length of him once more. It was a cue for a heat flash to consume her all over again.

He was sheathed from head to toe in black. The leather, age-softened jacket he wore was moulded to truly fantastic shoulders. It hung open to reveal a plain white tee shirt that clung to his powerful chest and lean, washboard belly. His dark moleskins followed the muscular contours of long, powerful thighs. God, was that a hole in the knee…? She despaired that a tiny glimpse of flesh could make her break out in a sweat.

This was never going to work.

‘What’s wrong with me?’

Nothing, if you liked being hit over the head with sex appeal.

‘Everything!’ she snapped in a doom-laden drone.

His mobile mouth quirked at the corners; he didn’t appear particularly chastened by her pronouncement. ‘Harsh.’

‘You might have made an effort to look less…’ Sexy. Her eyes slid from his as she added huskily, ‘More…like a writer. And you could have shaved; you look like you haven’t been to bed.’

He lifted a hand to the strong curve of his jaw covered with a layer of dark stubble and grinned. ‘I haven’t.’ He had had an idea for his next book; when inspiration struck, he listened. He had worked through the night to get it down on paper.

‘Spare me the details of your conquests,’ she begged.

‘Relax, nobody knows what this particular writer looks like.’ Persuasive as his argument was, it didn’t stop her feeling as though she had made a terrible mistake. ‘And isn’t this the way they want your writer to look…?’

‘Want? That’s the problem—nobody actually really believes he looks like a Byronic hero. You look too good to be true—they’ll smell a rat.’ But he wasn’t true, was he? He was a fake. He was also quite simply the most impossibly good-looking male she had ever seen.

‘Why, thank you.’

‘Look, if you’re not going to take this seriously drive away now,’ she instructed. This was almost certainly going to go wrong. ‘No,’ she added urgently. ‘Drive away anyway. This was a very bad idea.’

‘Chill out,’ he drawled, looking infuriatingly laid-back.

The suggestion made her see red. ‘Chill out? Chill out!’ she repeated in a shrill squeak. ‘Easy for you to say. If this goes wrong people aren’t going to think you’re the desperate sort of woman who has to resort to hire a lover!’ she declared with a groan of self-recrimination.

He scanned her anguished face, with deep-set eyes that revealed none of his feelings. ‘Presumably they’ll just think I’m a gigolo,’ he cut back. ‘Actually I wasn’t aware that sleeping with you was part of the deal, but what the hell?’ His sensual mouth formed a wide smile that didn’t touch his eyes. ‘I’ll throw that in for free.’

There was a lengthy silence while Megan cleared her head of disturbing images and sounds: A darkened room, soft groans, intimate murmurs, two sweat-soaked bodies intimately entwined…She tugged fretfully at the neck of her sweater as she fought for breath. Inch by inch she fought her way back to control…or something that passed for it.

‘God, don’t go sensitive on me,’ she begged, still haunted by the humiliating memory of the suffocating white-hot excitement she had felt when she had imagined—She caught her breath sharply. Don’t go there, Megan, she told herself sternly.

‘You know I wasn’t speaking literally,’ she contended calmly, meeting his eyes. ‘I’ve simply realised I can’t go through with it. Late in the day, I know, but don’t worry—I’ll still have a word with Uncle Malcolm. He’ll look at your manuscript, I promise.’

Megan heard the crunch of gravel behind her and looked over her shoulder. Her mother was advancing towards them. When her attention flickered back to her co-conspirator he was shaking his head.

‘I don’t want charity. I’m perfectly prepared to fulfil my side of the bargain.’

Megan looked at him with frustrated incomprehension.

His body curved towards her. ‘Smile, sweetheart, and try and remember you’ve just found the man of your dreams.’

‘Nightmares, more like.’

He laughed and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. It was so light it barely constituted a brush but Megan experienced an electrical thrill that travelled all the way to her toes. She stepped backwards, her nostrils flared as she tried not to breathe in the warm male fragrance that made her stomach flip. ‘Well, I suppose we’ll just have to make the best of it.’

‘Is this a friend of yours, Megan?’

Megan, her hands held up in front of her, backed farther away from the tall, handsome figure who was the object of her mother’s obvious appreciation.

‘No—whatever gave you that idea?’ The sharpness of her tone brought her mother’s frowning attention to her own face. ‘I’ve never seen him before in my life.’

He spared her a sideways look of amusement as he advanced towards her mother with his hand outstretched. ‘You can know some people for years and never really know them, others you can know seconds and there’s a rapport—’ He broke off and gave a self-conscious laugh. ‘Does that sound crazy?’

Megan was staggered to see her mother looking as though he’d just said something profound instead of something profoundly silly.

‘Not at all, I know exactly what you mean!’ Laura exclaimed.

‘I think it’s dangerous to go on first impressions,’ Megan inserted drily.

‘You’re not a romantic?’

‘My daughter is a cynic, Mr…’

‘I’m Lucas Patrick.’

Megan drew a deep breath and squared her slender shoulders. Well, that was it! With those words he had committed them both for better or worse…she suspected the latter.

Laura took an audible deep breath and pressed her hand to her mouth. Megan felt a fresh spasm of guilt to see her mother’s childlike delight.

‘Of course you are.’ She laughed. ‘Why, this is marvellous.’ A faint furrow appeared between her delicately arched brows. ‘My brother told me you had flu…’

‘Mal’s prone to exaggeration, but then you’d know that.’ Laura nodded happily. ‘I had a head cold, that was all.’ He looked around expectantly. ‘Where is Mal?’

‘Didn’t he mention he couldn’t make it?’

‘No, that’s a pity.’

Megan, who was amazed at how he had immersed himself in the part he was playing, watched with unwilling fascination as a troubled expression of suspicion spread across his handsome features.

‘He did…you were expecting me…?’ he pressed.

‘Of course we were,’ Laura the perfect hostess responded without skipping a beat. ‘We just weren’t sure when you’d be here, were we, darling?’

‘No, we weren’t.’ Megan glanced at her watch, how many hours of this did she have to endure? The irony was this was a situation of her own making.

‘So long as I’m not imposing.’

‘Gracious, not at all. Actually we’ve been thrilled at the prospect of having you stay. Haven’t we, darling?’

‘Thrilled,’ said Megan obediently.

‘Megan has read all your books, haven’t you?’

In full charm mode, his eyes crinkled delightfully at the corners, he turned his attention briefly to a squirming Megan. ‘I think you’ve embarrassed…’ he gave a quizzical look of apology ‘…Meg…?’

‘Megan.’

The lack of animation in her response earned her a reproachful glare from her mother. God, he seemed to be enjoying himself…! If he wasn’t a con man he’d missed his calling, she decided grimly. A man like that could convince a girl of almost anything, especially if she wanted to believe it! This was something worth keeping in mind the next time her hormones went haywire, she told herself.

‘Megan will show you to your room, won’t you, darling?’

‘Thank you, Megan.’

‘My pleasure,’ she replied with equal insincerity.

‘Please call me Luc,’ he invited them.

‘I have a French friend called, Luc,’ Laura commented.

‘My grandfather on my mother’s side was French.’

‘I knew there was something Gallic about you the moment I saw you…French men have such style,’ Laura observed. ‘Is your mother alive, Luc?’

‘No, she died when I was nine. She named me after her own father, my grandfather.’

Behind her mother Megan shook her head and telegraphed a warning with her eyes. Her fake lover smiled back enigmatically.

‘Do you speak French, Luc? I’ll get someone to bring your luggage in…’

‘No need, I travel light,’ he said, extracting a rucksack from the back seat of the Land Rover.

‘How refreshing,’ Laura said, as though she were used to guests turning up carrying a rucksack that looked as if it was about to disintegrate. ‘Show Luc up to the red room, Megan, then bring him down for tea…Then you can meet the other guests. Megan shot Lucas a questioning look.

‘A quick shower and I’m all yours,’ he promised.

Ignoring her mother’s hissed instruction to, for God’s sake, smile, he’s gorgeous, she stalked towards the house with a face like thunder. She kept a tight-lipped silence until they reached the kitchen. Reaching the door that led to the back staircase, she turned and found that he was no longer at her shoulder but standing some yards away looking around the vast room.

‘There really are an amazing number of original features intact,’ he observed, opening the door of an original bread oven set in an alcove of the cavernous inglenook.

‘Save it for my mother,’ Megan, in no mood to discuss the architectural merits of her home, snapped. ‘Did you have to lay it on with a trowel?’ she demanded. ‘Why on earth did you say you spoke French?’

‘I didn’t say I did.’

‘You implied.’

‘I do speak French.’

‘Oh! And what was all that stuff about a French grandfather…?’

‘My grandfather was French.’

Which was probably where he had inherited his dark Mediterranean colouring. ‘You’re not meant to be you, you’re meant to be Lucas Patrick.’

‘I am Lucas Patrick,’ he contradicted.

Megan sighed. ‘There’s such a thing as overconfidence. Let’s just hope the real Lucas Patrick isn’t a litigious man.’

‘You’re an awful worrier, aren’t you? Do you always assume the worst?’

‘I only worry when there’s something to worry about.’ She scanned his dark face resentfully—he wasn’t meant to be enjoying this. ‘Aren’t you even slightly nervous?’

‘Not especially.’

‘Well, you should be. From now on say as little as possible and follow my lead. Do you understand?’ she asked him sternly. It was about time, she decided, to remind him just who was in control here. Her lips curved in a self-derisive smile; had she ever felt less in control in her life?

‘Perhaps if you could write it down for me?’

‘Very funny.’ She sniffed. ‘Come on, I suppose I’d better show you to your room. We’ll take the back stairs.’

‘Anyone would think you were ashamed of me,’ he reproached.

Megan dished up a repressive glare but wasn’t surprised when he didn’t look unduly subdued. ‘There are six other people staying other than you. There’s…’

When they reached the room her mother had allocated to him, she decided not to mention it was next to her own and that all the other guests were in a different wing entirely—she asked him to repeat the names of his fellow guests.

He ran his fingers across some carving in an ancient beam above the low doorway. ‘Is this a test?’

‘Were you actually listening to me?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘I was listening; your voice is like honey.’

Megan, her hand on the door handle, stilled. She was certain she had misheard what he had said. ‘Pardon…?’

‘You have a beautiful voice. It flows…’ His hands moved in an expressive fluid gesture before he sighed. ‘I could listen to it all day…’ Her voice was part of the reason he was here. Her voice—his eyes dropped—her legs and, yes, her mouth.

‘Will you stop that? It isn’t funny,’ she croaked crossly.

His glance moved upwards to the full soft pink contours of her lips. Yes, they had all been factors—they and the fact he thought that the sexy and stuck-up Dr Semple needed to be taught a lesson. You really shouldn’t judge by appearances.

‘Of course what you actually say isn’t always riveting,’ he conceded in an attitude of regret as he ducked to enter the bedroom. He looked around with interest.

‘Not bad!’ He walked over to the canopied half tester and patted the mattress. ‘Firm, but I like that.’

Megan responded to the fact he was looking at her body and not the bed when he said this with an irritated air. Actually she would have welcomed some irritation at that moment, if he said the things his seductive eyes managed to convey he could probably be arrested.

He fell back onto the bed and, crossing one leg over the other, tucked his hands behind his head so that he could look at her. ‘Where’s your room?’

‘Next door,’ she admitted reluctantly.

‘Handy.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘The moment you begin to believe that, you’re out of here.’

To her intense annoyance he seemed to find her threat wildly amusing. Maybe, she thought darkly, it was the idea of any woman saying no to him that struck him as funny…?

‘My mother is a firm believer in propinquity. I am not,’ she told him drily. ‘Perhaps we should lay down a few ground rules.’

‘I should tell you I’m not big on rules,’ he confided, stifling a yawn.

‘Now there’s a surprise.’

‘In fact,’ he admitted. ‘I see a rule and I feel this almost overwhelming desire to bend it a little,’ he returned, stretching with languid grace.

Megan felt her stomach muscles clench and looked at him in frustration. Without trying he could drive her crazy. What was going to happen if he took it into his head to try? It didn’t bear thinking about.

Her expression fixed she braced her hand on the back of a chair covered in faded tapestry. One day she might be able to work out why she had ever thought this was a good idea. Right now that day seemed awfully far off.

‘Why am I getting the idea you’re not taking this seriously…?’

‘I get the idea you take everything much too seriously,’ he retorted, looking at her curiously. ‘What do you do when you’re not looking down a microscope?’

‘I avoid men like you.’ Actually she had never met a man like him. Were there any other men like him…?

‘Have you seen the ghost?’

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘How do you know we have a ghost?’ she wanted to know.

‘Don’t all old places like this have a ghost…or several…?’

‘I suppose they do,’ she admitted. ‘But I’ve never seen one.’ And frankly a ghost would scare her less than this incredibly sexy man did. ‘Now, seriously, we should lay down some ground rules.’

His head went back, revealing his strong brown throat as he laughed. Oh, God, she thought, he really is just too attractive, in a dangerous what-the-hell-is-he-going-to-do-next sort of way.

‘Right, forget the rules, just keep it simple. If in doubt say nothing; better still, let me do all the talking.’

‘Won’t that make me appear as if I don’t have an opinion of my own?’

‘That’s the way I like my men.’

‘Under your thumb.’ He extended his aforementioned digit towards her.

He had nice hands, she noticed, but then he had nice everything. ‘I like the strong, silent type…’ she crisply corrected. ‘If in doubt just look enigmatic,’ she advised. Her frown deepened as she scanned his face. ‘Do you think you could do that?’

‘I could.’

‘But are you going to do?’ Or was he going to make a total fool out of her?

‘Is this suitably enigmatic…?’

‘You’re a natural,’ she assured him drily. This was all going to go terribly wrong.

‘Relax,’ he advised. ‘This is going to be fun.’

‘If you think this is fun you have a seriously warped mind. Now just try and remember,’ she pleaded, ‘you’re a famous author.’

‘I’m a famous author,’ he repeated solemnly. ‘Do you believe me?’

‘I know you’re not…I don’t count.’

‘Believe me, by the end of tonight I’ll be so good even you will believe I’m a famous author.’

‘Let’s not get too ambitious.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’ve got to get changed for dinner.’ She extended one denim-covered leg to prove the point. ‘I’ll come back for you in half an hour. Don’t,’ she added, wagging a warning finger at him, ‘move until I get here.’

Of course he did.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE French doors had been open all through dinner and the guests had drifted out onto the terrace to sip their drinks and chat. Despite the unpromising start the day had produced a perfect summer evening, warm and balmy, spoilt only by an unexpected shower, which was brief but heavy.

Luc and Megan were caught out in the open when the heavens opened. By the time they reached the shelter offered by the leafy canopy of the ancient oak tree it had stopped raining.

Luc, grinning, shook his head, sending droplets of water everywhere. ‘There’s something exhilarating about a summer shower.’

Easy for him to say, she thought.

Casting a resentful glance from under her lashes at Luc’s classically perfect profile, she pondered the unfairness that made him look incredible with his hair plastered damply to his skull. The moisture that clung to his naturally dark skin only served to emphasise the healthy glow.

She had gone for a vintage look tonight. With a sigh she looked down with distaste at her silk calf-length skirt; it clung damply to her legs. The chiffon overskirt with its beading detail might well be ruined—pity, it had been her favourite. She could feel the excess moisture from her wet hair running in a cold trickle down her neck, she didn’t even want to think about what it looked like.

Luc, his back set against the gnarled tree trunk, watched as she ran her hands down her bare arms to remove the excess moisture that clung to her pale smooth skin. She had great arms; like the rest of her body they were toned and firm.

At least the cotton halter-top wouldn’t be ruined by the rain, Megan thought, concentrating on the positive. Which was more than could be said for her hair…negative thoughts refused to be totally banished.

‘Have you ever danced?’

A line forming between her feathery brows, Megan lifted her head to look at the tall figure standing in the shadows. ‘Dance? What on earth are you talking about?’ She glared up at him, bristling with suspicion.

Luc registered the antagonistic glitter in her eyes, but didn’t comment on it. ‘You’re very graceful.’

Megan felt her cheeks grow hot. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘I was simply making an observation. You carry yourself like a dancer. I was wondering if you trained at some point…?’

‘Me, a dancer!’ She looked at him as though he had gone mad. ‘I’m a research scientist.’

‘Does being a boffin preclude you having a sense of rhythm?’

She dealt him a look of exasperation. ‘I don’t dance. I…well, I did have a few lessons when I was a kid,’ she conceded. ‘Singing lessons too. They were meant to help my asthma.’

‘Did they?’

‘Well, it got a lot better.’

‘You’re shivering,’ he observed as a fresh shudder ran visibly through her slender frame. ‘I’d offer you a jacket except…’ his grin made him appear almost impossibly attractive ‘…I’m not wearing one.’

Megan watched him place his hand flat against his chest. A shaft of agonising awareness shot through her—she was conscious of every crease and fold of the white cotton that clung like a second skin to the broad expanse of his chest. She was even more painfully conscious of the shadow of body hair sprinkled over his broad chest and the suggestion of muscular definition.

Drawing a deep breath as she struggled to regain her composure, Megan developed a deep interest in his shoes.

‘You can have my shirt if you like.’

Her stomach flipped over at the thought of wearing something that was still warm from his skin, something that still bore the scent of his body.

An awful thought occurred to her. Did he know that she had just been mentally removing it? Had she been that obvious?

‘I don’t like.’ It wasn’t just cold that made her teeth chatter violently, it was images of Luc standing there stripped to the waist, his golden skin gleaming his…Stop this, Megan! This was not the time or place to explore her darker emotions!

‘Do you want to go back to the house?’ she asked him abruptly.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ Luc enquired, scanning her rigid face.

After his performance tonight Megan couldn’t believe he had the cheek to ask. Of course she had known when she had gone back to his room and found it empty that she had made a terrible mistake. When she had come downstairs and found him surrounded by a laughing, admiring crowd who were hanging on his every word all her worst fears had been realised.

‘Nothing’s wrong with me.’ She sniffed.

‘I thought tonight went very well.’

Megan released a laugh of bitter incredulity at this self-congratulatory comment. ‘I noticed you were enjoying yourself.’

It would have been hard to miss it!

And to think she had been concerned that he might find himself a little out of his depth during dinner. The gathering had been typical of her mother’s weekends. A diplomat, a poet and his lawyer wife, an actress…least said about the voluptuous Hilary, the better! A retired headmaster, and someone who had written a number one rock ballad, then entered politics.

Far from being out of his depth, her fake lover had been totally at ease. His ability to converse on a wide range of subjects with authority and ease had astounded her and impressed the hell out of everyone else.

Of course she had already known that he was intelligent. Two seconds in his company revealed that. Now she knew that, though he might have no formal education to speak of, he was widely read and amazingly erudite with a sharp wit and deadly charm. Her lips pursed; the recollection of his deadly charm reminded her of how angry she was.

‘Come on, let’s walk in the sun. It might warm you up.’

‘I’m not cold,’ she denied, wrapping her arms around her trembling body.

‘Well, I am.’

After a short pause she followed him back out into the evening sun.

‘Are you going to tell me what I’ve done to make you mad?’

‘You need to ask?’

‘I just did.’

‘It might have slipped your memory that the reason—the only reason you are here is to establish that you find me irresistible. It might be a start if you had deigned to notice I was alive,’ she ground out grimly.

Until he had asked her to take this stroll outside he had acted as though she were invisible. If she hadn’t wanted to get him alone long enough to give him a piece of her mind, she’d have told him where he could stick his stroll!

His dark shapely brows moved towards his equally dark and at that moment damp hairline. ‘I haven’t forgotten why I’m here.’

Megan’s lips tightened. His dismissive attitude really got under her skin. ‘So ignoring me and spending the entire evening talking to someone else’s cleavage is your idea of seeming interested? Interesting technique,’ she admired with heavy sarcasm.

The memory of his humiliating fascination with the actress’s breasts increased the angry tightness in her aching throat. She’d probably hear that woman’s awful laugh in her sleep tonight, she decided, thinking of the shrill, jarring sound. Why was it that every single time men went for obvious…?

Not, of course, that she gave a damn if he fancied the redhead—after all, that hardly placed him in a unique category. Hilary was the sort of woman who demanded and got male attention. No, Megan’s legitimate grouch was the fact he wasn’t fulfilling his end of the bargain. Her acting as an introduction agent for him, a fact she had every intention of pointing out, was not part of the deal.