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‘Why would I do that when you don’t believe a word I’ve said?’ Kirsten flared back at him. ‘I am telling you the truth. I am not a thief and I certainly don’t require your advice or your money. I’ll manage fine on my own, thank you very much! Now, let me out of this car!’
She was rigid with the amount of emotion that she was holding in. She could not bring herself to touch the envelope. She did need money, but not his. To accept even a blade of grass from him would have hurt like hell.
Scrambling out of the car, she trudged back down the hill. She did not look back. She would not permit her thoughts to rest on Shahir, or on the encounter that had just taken place. That would be a severe waste of mental energy. Had she been foolish enough to believe that her handsome prince would come to her rescue, like some guy in a fairy story? Well, now she knew different. Her world had become a very scary place, and the wound he had inflicted with his mistrust was the most raw of all.
All too well aware that she dared not stay within her own home, she made herself think of practical things. She would pack a small bag, because that was all she could carry on her bike. And she would have to take up Jeanie’s offer of hospitality—for the night at least. Would Squeak be welcome as well? She knew that she dared not leave the elderly dog behind, lest he become the focus of Angus Ross’s thwarted rage.
Kirsten carted the laden tray past tables packed with lunchtime diners and deposited it in the kitchen.
‘You shouldn’t be doing that.’ Donald’s kindly face below his thinning red hair was full of concern as he served up another basket of chips. ‘You deal with the bills. Stay away from the heavy work.’
Kirsten just nodded, and waited until he was out of view before massaging the ache in her lower back. The diner was always understaffed, and with the other waitresses struggling to cope, Kirsten refused to sit idle behind the till. She was well aware that she was lucky to still have a job.
It was more than seven months since she had walked out of her home, leaving only a brief note of explanation behind. Donald was Jeanie’s brother, and he and his wife, Elspeth, had been very good to Kirsten.
The weekend after Kirsten had left the farm, Donald and Elspeth had visited Strathcraig with a trailer to pick up her personal effects. The couple had given Kirsten a lift down to London. To begin with she had rented their spare room, and she had been grateful to walk straight into a job as a waitress at the café that Donald managed. She had had to work long hours to save up sufficient to put down a rental deposit for a bedsit.
At first she had felt lost in the city. The sheer volume of the crowds and the traffic and the noise had stunned her. She often pined for the wild grandeur of the mountains and the peace and silence of the glen. But from the outset she had refused to look back with regret, and to satisfy her longing for green places she had explored the London parks with Squeak. While she’d focused on the new and bright future she was determined to carve, she had busily searched out information on further education courses.
It had not been difficult to decide that she should set her sights on training as a music teacher. As a first step in that process she had signed up for a couple of evening classes. Although she already held the required qualifications as a musician, she needed to gain exam passes in other subjects before she could hope to apply for a place on a degree course. She had been happy to face the prospect of several years of studying and living on a very low income. In fact she had felt privileged to have the opportunity, and proud that she had the courage to try and get more out of life than her father had been prepared to allow her to have.
In almost every way her future had looked full of promise, and she had worried that it was all too good to be true. Unfortunately her misgivings had proved correct, for she had soon discovered something that had wrecked all her carefully laid plans and made everything infinitely more complicated.
Another waitress began filling ketchup bottles behind the counter. When Kirsten tried to help, Patsy urged her to sit back down on a stool by the till.
‘A good gust of wind and you’d fall over,’ the older woman scolded, closing a motherly hand round Kirsten’s thin forearm for emphasis. ‘You’re too skinny to be healthy. When did you last see the doctor?’
‘I’ve always been thin.’ Kirsten sidestepped the question, because she had overslept and missed her last appointment. ‘Stop worrying about me.’
‘I can’t help it. You don’t look strong enough to lift a teaspoon, and that baby will be here in another few weeks,’ Patsy sighed ruefully.
‘I’m fine.’
Kirsten turned away to deal with a customer. The swell of her tummy bumped against the counter. The new awkwardness of her body embarrassed her, and she had yet to adjust to her changed shape. Sometimes she would catch a glimpse of her reflection in a shop window or a mirror and she just wouldn’t recognise herself.
Indeed, she had already been four months pregnant by the time she’d discovered that the queasiness she was suffering from was the result of something more than a persistent tummy bug.
Truth to tell, she had been desperately unhappy when she’d first arrived in London, and she had fought her misery every step of the way. Night and day she had waged a battle of denial against the male whose image haunted her every waking hour. She had tried to fill all her time with work or study. The strain of that crazy timetable had destroyed her appetite. It had been ages before she even noticed that her periods had stopped. Believing that stress and weight loss were the cause, she had not been unduly concerned. It had only been when the nausea refused to go away that she’d recognised the need to consult a doctor.
Even at that point it had not occurred to her that she might be carrying a baby. In retrospect her blindness seemed utterly and inexcusably stupid to her. After all, she might have been a virgin, but she was certainly old enough and wise enough to be aware that sexual relations could lead to conception. Unfortunately all such rational considerations had been hampered by the simple fact that just thinking about Shahir reduced her to a useless heap of emotional rubble and self-loathing. In an effort to protect herself from destructive thoughts she had suppressed her every recollection of him—and of the forbidden passion they had shared that day.
Only when the doctor’s diagnosis had forced Kirsten to look back to their short-lived intimacy had she realised that she could not recall Shahir having taken the precautions that would have protected her from pregnancy.
The prospect of becoming an unmarried mother had made her feel sick with shame—and very scared. And then she had been so angry with Shahir she had boiled with rage. How could he have been so careless with her? While he might seem to be the ultimate in cool control on the surface, she was aware of a wild, reckless streak underneath. She had seen that side of him on the motorbike—and in bed. An electric frisson of awareness ran through her whenever she recalled the scorching golden glitter of his eyes.
Why should Shahir worry if her life was to be wrecked by the burden of single parenthood? Once the baby was born, how was she to work or attend evening class? With a child to care for it would be a much bigger challenge for her to make ends meet and finish her education.
She had thought about phoning Shahir to inform him that he was destined to become the father of her child. But Shahir had called her a thief and, since she had denied the charge, he had to think that she was a liar into the bargain. His uninhibited regret at having slept with her, not to mention his being hopelessly in love with another woman, had not been
in his favour either. What pride she had left had revolted at the idea of announcing her pregnancy to a man who would equate her news with catastrophe.
‘How’s that little dog of yours doing?’ Patsy enquired chattily, breaking into Kirsten’s troubled thoughts.
‘He’s still sleeping a lot. I don’t take him walking out as much as I did. The vet says he’s just old…’ Strain edged Kirsten’s voice, for she adored Squeak and she was terrified of losing him: he was her last link with her late mother.
When she’d finished her shift, she walked out on to the street. It was cold, and the street lamps cast a yellow glow over the wet pavement. A few yards ahead of her a car door opened and a man climbed out. Light glinted over his cropped black hair, shadow falling over his lean bronzed profile. Then he straightened to his full imposing height and her breath tripped in her throat. Shock froze her in her tracks, wide green eyes welded to his arrestingly handsome face.
‘I seem to have frightened you…that wasn’t my intention,’ Shahir drawled, as smoothly as if they met and talked on a regular basis.
