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The abrupt change in the conversation baffled her. ‘What?’
‘You heard me, Hannah. I was thinking about other ways of having children.’
She stared at him. ‘Adoption?’
‘No,’ he said impatiently, ‘not adoption.’
‘Test-tube babies, then? Is that what——?’
He stalked away from her, slapped his hands on the railing, then turned and stuffed his hands into his pockets, and Hannah thought, incongruously, that it was the first time she’d ever seen Grant MacLean anything less than fully in command.
‘I don’t understand,’ she began, but his voice, harsh as steel, sliced across hers.
‘There’s no easy way to put this,’ he said, ‘so I’ll just get to it.’ He took a breath. ‘What I’m trying to say, Hannah, is that I want you to bear my child.’
CHAPTER SIX
HANNAH had lived in San Francisco all her life, which meant that she paid little attention to fog-shrouded, chilly mornings. Everyone knew the sun would soon burn
the mist away and reveal the city in all its shining brilliance.
But on the morning after Grant’s incredible proposition the mist curling outside the windows of her bedroom seemed greyer and more determined than usual, as if it was planning to settle in and stay.
Not that she gave a damn, Hannah thought as she shoved back the blankets and got out of bed. It was a Saturday, and she had nothing more urgent to do than wait for the janitor to show up to fix a leaky bathroom tap—and draft her letter of resignation from Longworth, Hart, Holtz and MacLean.
Shivering, she pulled on a black cotton turtle-neck shirt and beige corduroy trousers, then stomped to the kitchen and switched on the light. The room was not cheerful in the best of circumstance. Ageing appliances, white tiled walls and a grey linoleum floor lent it a dilapidated look, one Hannah’s landlord was unwilling to change and would not permit her to change on her own. Now, in the cold glare of the overhead fluorescent, with tendrils of mist pulling at the window, the place looked positively grim.
Almost as grim as she felt, Hannah thought as she opened the cupboard and plucked a canister of coffee from the shelf. But then, who wouldn’t feel that way after what she’d endured last night?
Last night, she’d described her ex-husband as a man not ready to settle down. That was true enough—as far as it went. In fact, he’d been self-centred to the point of not giving a damn for anyone but himself. Still, compared to Grant, he’d been a saint.
Hannah dumped coffee into the filter, slapped the pot on the stove, and switched on the burner. She leaned back against the sink, arms folded across her chest, her lips a narrow line. What was it about her that drew such selfish men? Although there was one major difference between her ex and Grant MacLean. Her husband had done little more than drift towards what he wanted. Grant—Grant went after it with the determination and subtlety of a ballistic missile.
What MacLean wanted, MacLean got. And what he wanted just now was an heir.
Hannah snatched up the pot as the water hissed and boiled over the top. She filled her mug with a thick, oily liquid, then marched out of the kitchen and into the living-room.
The nerve of the man! The unmitigated gall of him!
‘I want you to bear my child,’ she said aloud, her voice mimicking his nastily with deep tones and arrogant self-confidence.
She took a mouthful of the coffee, shuddered, then took another.
‘And I want you to go straight to hell, Grant,’ she said, but after a moment her shoulders slumped.
It was, of course, the only proper rejoinder. Hannah sighed and sank down into the sofa, the mug of bitter coffee clutched in her hands. The only trouble was, she hadn’t had the presence of mind to make it. All she’d been able to manage was an open-mouthed stare, a snort of laughter, and an incredulous, ‘You what?’
‘I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought,’ he’d said, and then he’d opened his jacket so he could tuck his hands into his pockets, and he’d begun pacing the terrace, not nervously but quite leisurely, the way he did at work when he was laying out ideas for a case. He’d droned on and on, his voice calm, his tone reasoned, but Hannah hadn’t heard a word beyond the first ones. She’d been thinking, instead, that Grant had gone crazy.
After a moment, she’d decided that she had to be as insane as he for listening to such nonsense.
‘Goodnight, Grant,’ she said, interrupting what must have been a brilliant presentation, because he gave her a look that would have killed if it could.
‘Have you heard one thing I said?’ he growled and, while she wondered if it would be better to placate this madman or try to restore his sanity, he marched to where she stood and clasped her tightly by the shoulders. ‘You haven’t, have you?’
Was it a joke? Who knew what passed for humour these days?
‘I said, I want a child.’ He gave her the sort of expectant look she’d seen him give opponents after he’d put an offer on the table that he thought just and fair. ‘I’m quite serious, Hannah,’ he added, and when she looked into his cool eyes all hope of an explanation fled.
He was serious, she thought with a start.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ He smiled tightly as he read her face. ‘I want a son.’ He paused in that familiar posture that she knew meant he was marshalling his thoughts. ‘A daughter will do too, of course. I suppose it makes more sense to say that I simply want a child.’
‘A child,’ she repeated inanely.
‘Yes,’ he said impatiently. ‘A child. Surely that’s not an unusual desire.’
A child, requested from a woman he held in sufferance, requested as coolly and calmly as if he were asking her to put in an extra hour at the office? No, she thought dizzily, no, that wasn’t an unusual desire at all.
‘I’m not getting any younger,’ he said. ‘I’ll be forty soon, and if I’m going to be a father—a real one, not the armchair version—I should do it now.’
He went on talking, about how she wasn’t to think this was a spur-of-the-moment idea, about how he’d done considerable research into the new, non-traditional family, while her mouth dropped further and further open, until finally the reality of his words penetrated— really penetrated—and a white-hot rage swept through her.
He wanted a baby. Surely she’d agree? It was simply a business deal, all very legal and cold-blooded, involving his overblown ego and requiring only a battalion of laboratory flasks—and her womb. They would conceive a child in a test-tube, she would deliver it—and turn it over to him.
The bastard! The rat! The——
‘Hannah?’ he said sharply. ‘Are you listening?’
‘Yes,’ she snapped, twisting out of his grasp, ‘I certainly am listening—to the most insulting, the most egotistical, the most hideously outrageous——’
‘Dammit, you’re not listening!’ A pair of vertical lines appeared between his eyebrows. ‘I’m not suggesting marriage or any of that nonsense. I’m suggesting—’
‘I know what you’re suggesting,’ she said as she elbowed past him. ‘Where’s the telephone?’
‘Hannah, dammit, wait!’
But she hadn’t waited, she’d called for a taxi, and when it arrived she’d been waiting on the pavement, and her flat-out refusal to let Grant see her home while both the cabbie and the doorman pretended uninterest had finally brought a flush of anger to his face.
‘Take the lady to her door,’ he’d snarled, shoving a fistful of bills at the driver, and then he’d turned and marched back into the building—and that, Hannah thought now, as she rose from the sofa and made her way to the kitchen, was the last she would ever see of Grant MacLean. She would be as crazy as he was if she showed up for work on Monday morning.
Her jaw tightened as she refilled her mug. Forget the letter of resignation. What she’d send was a telegram, terse and to the point, demanding that he write her a proper reference and have it hand-delivered at once.
And he’d damned
well better. If he didn’t—if he didn’t, she’d go straight to Longworth, Hart and Holtz and tell them exactly what kind of slimy creature their esteemed partner was, and to hell with all his threats.
The doorbell shrilled. Terrific. Just what she needed right now. The janitor, with his cheery smile and propensity for small talk. He was a nice old man, and ordinarily she enjoyed the chat that invariably accompanied each visit.
But not today, she thought as she hurried to the door and threw it open, not…
Grant, his dark hair wind-ruffled and fog-damp, wearing faded denims, a leather jacket, and a grim expression, stood in the doorway.
‘I’m coming in,’ he said, not ‘may I come in’, or even I’d like to come in’—but then, he wasn’t the kind of man who ever asked those questions. It was all moot anyway, Hannah thought furiously as he used her stunned moment of surprise to shoulder past her into her small living-room, where he stood facing her, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, his legs slightly apart, every inch of him taut with determination and tightly contained anger.
Hannah drew a deep breath, leaned back against the open door, and folded her arms over her breasts.
‘You wasted your time coming here. I’ve nothing to say to you.’
‘All you have to do is listen.’
She shook her head. ‘There’s nothing to listen to.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ he snapped. ‘I made you an absolutely legitimate offer, and——’
‘Legitimate?’ She gave a forced laugh. ‘Is that what you call an offer to—to——?’
‘To bear a child. What’s the matter, Hannah, can’t you say the words?’
‘What do you think I am? A—a machine that’s just been waiting for someone to come along and—and drop in a coin?’
He made a sound that might have been a laugh. ‘What a charming analogy.’
