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Had he leaned in closer? The dark eyes were even more intent than usual, black pools she was drawn to, the kind of bottomless depths girls could drown in. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’
‘Tell what?’ But her tone lacked conviction even to herself. ‘Gabe, I...’ Polly wasn’t entirely sure what she had been planning to say, whether she was going to lean in, close the distance between them and pull him in close—or turn away and tell him to grow up and stop with the innuendoes. She knew the sensible choice, the logical choice and yet she hesitated.
But the kitchen seemed to have shrunk, the space suddenly, suffocatingly small, the air so stuffy she could hardly breathe, the tumult in her stomach churning. She gasped for a breath, realising her mistake too late, pushing her stool back and running for the downstairs cloakroom horrifyingly aware that she wasn’t going to make it.
* * *
‘I am so humiliated.’ Polly leant forward until her forehead touched the kitchen counter, grateful for the coolness of the granite. ‘Thank you for taking care of me.’
That wasn’t quite enough but she didn’t want to articulate all the reasons for her gratitude. The gentle way he had rubbed her back, held her hair back from her face, waited with her until the last spasm had passed. ‘You’re good with sick people.’ She looked up and smiled but he didn’t return her admittedly pathetic attempt, his eyes filled with an unexpected pain.
‘I have some experience.’ His face was unreadable but his voice was gentle.
‘I wasn’t drunk.’ Bad enough that it had happened; it would be far worse if he thought she was some kind of lush.
‘You hadn’t eaten. Even one glass could have that effect.’ He looked at the glass she had poured earlier.
‘I didn’t even have one sip,’ she protested. ‘Just the smell made me feel ill. I must have picked up some kind of bug.’
He put a hand on her shoulder, just that one light touch sending shivers down her spine. ‘You should eat something now, some crackers maybe.’
‘No.’ Not crackers. Her body was very insistent. ‘I need...’ She paused, thought. She was a little hungry, now the churning had stopped. ‘Hang on.’ She pushed herself to her feet and walked over to the stone pantry.
Polly opened the door that led to the old-fashioned, walk-in cold room and looked at the shelves that lined the walls, at the marble meat shelf at the far end.
‘I know they’re here somewhere. I saw them just the other day. I would never buy them. They must be Raff’s, vile things. Aha!’ Her hand closed triumphantly on a cardboard box. ‘Got you.’
She hauled her prize triumphantly out, grabbing a bowl off the oak dresser and setting them both onto the counter. ‘Cornflakes! Now I need sugar, lots of sugar. And milk, cold, rich milk. I never usually crave milk.’ She pushed the thought away. ‘Must be the bug. Maybe I need calcium?’
Raff hadn’t said a word, just watched, eyes narrowed, as Polly poured a gigantic bowl of cornflakes, sprinkled them liberally with sugar and added almost a pint of milk to the already brimming bowl. ‘This looks amazing,’ she told him, almost purring with contentment.
‘That looks disgusting. Like something my sister would eat when she’s pregnant.’
The word hung there, echoing around the room. Polly put her spoon down and stared at him.
‘It’s just a bug.’ But her voice was wobbling.
‘Of course.’ He sounded unsure, almost embarrassed, the accent thickening.
‘Mixed with jet lag.’
‘I know.’
‘I’m not...’
‘I didn’t mean to infer that you were. I’m sorry.’
‘But...what if I am?’
CHAPTER FOUR
WAS SHE? COULD she be? It should be impossible. It was impossible! Only technically...
Only technically it wasn’t.
‘Oh no,’ she whispered. She looked up at Gabe. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, his face inscrutable. ‘It was only once.’
His mouth twisted. ‘That’s all it takes, ma chérie.’
‘How could I have been so stupid? What was I thinking?’ She pushed the bowl of cornflakes back across the counter. They were rapidly going soggy and her nausea rose again at their mushy state. ‘Obviously I wasn’t thinking. I was trying not to, that was the point.’
But she had to think now; there was no point in giving into the rising panic swelling inside her. Her throat might be closing up in fear, her palms damp but she could override her body’s signals. If only she’d done that ten weeks ago...
Ten weeks! And she hadn’t even suspected, putting the nausea and the tiredness down to stress, jet lag, a bug.
