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CHAPTER SIX
‘DO YOU WANT to go over these papers before the meeting?’
Polly sat back in her chair and frowned as Gabe folded his long, lean frame into the chair opposite her desk. ‘Now you have your own office it would be polite if you knocked.’
‘Of course.’ Not that he looked in the slightest bit put out, more amused. ‘Do you?’
‘Do I what?’
His eyebrows shot up. ‘Want to go over the papers, of course. The board meeting is this afternoon.’
Oh, yes. That. In just a couple of hours her grandfather, Raff and the rest of the board would be sitting in Rafferty’s renowned tearooms being suitably feasted before the meeting began.
She was expected to attend. Polly repressed a sigh. Normally she looked forward to these occasions, the buttering-up of contacts, starting to get her case across to the more swayable board members before the official business began, working out whose vote she could count on.
But today the usual thrill was missing; there was so much at stake; her return, Raff on the Board. Consolidating her position before she announced her news.
‘We could have gone over the papers last night,’ she pointed out, trying to prevent a waspish note from creeping into her voice.
Of course Gabe was free to do whatever he liked; she wasn’t his landlady or wife. But surely it was plain good manners to let her know that he wasn’t going to be back that night—or even that week.
Not that it was any of her business where he slept. As long as he looked refreshed, smart and in control for the meeting and was well prepared that was all that mattered. Whatever else he got up to—and who he got up to it with—was of no interest to Polly.
It wasn’t jealousy that twisted her stomach as she watched him lean in that inch too close to Cordelia from Lingerie or to Amy from Accounts, those liquid brown eyes fixed soulfully on his unwitting victim, the way he murmured low and sweet. No, it was worry about an HR nightmare begging to happen. It was morning sickness.
‘I was working late last night,’ he said mildly. ‘Some of my best contacts are in the U.S. West Coast so it was long past closing by the time I finished getting the information I needed. It was easier to stay here—sleeping in my own office, you’ll be glad to hear.’ His smile was fleeting but intimate and Polly’s breath hitched in her throat.
Unbidden, a memory of her first sight of him flashed through her mind, the strength in that lean body, the tattoo whose lines and curves haunted her dreams.
‘I don’t think our insurance covers overnight stays. You should stay in a hotel or get the town car home.’ She knew she sounded prim. That was fine; prim was good.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Another amused look, as if they were sharing a joke only known to the two of them.
Polly inhaled, long and painful. Her heart wasn’t picking up speed. For goodness’ sake, one night of being held, of having her back rubbed and her hair stroked and she was a mushy wreck. It must be the hormones; the same ones that had her tearing up at life insurance adverts.
‘So, are you ready now?’ Gabe pulled out his smartphone and a USB stick.
‘Ready?’
‘To go over the papers,’ he said patiently.
‘Oh, yes. The papers.’
Yep. Hormones. Mush. And apparently turning her into Echo, which, she thought, looking over at the nonchalant man lounging opposite, made him Narcissus. Her eyes flickered over long legs outstretched, shirt collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up and day-old stubble; he looked more like an aftershave model than a Vice CEO.
Well, if the Greek allegory fitted...
Regardless, she was no sappy nymph, wafting around in hope of a smile.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Fine.’ She summoned up as much poise as she could. ‘Let’s get on with this. We don’t have much time.’
He looked at her critically, concern etched onto his face. ‘Is it the baby? Do you need to lie down?’
‘I’m pregnant, Gabe.’ No, the ground didn’t open up as she said the words out loud, nor did her grandfather appear in an accusatory puff of smoke. ‘I’m not ill.’
If he heard the stiffness in her voice he didn’t react, firing more questions at her like tiny, yet intensely irritating arrows pricking away at her conscience. ‘Are you eating properly? Have you made a doctor’s appointment yet?’
Oh, my goodness. It was like being stuck at a baby shower with no easy way of escape—only this time she hadn’t primed Rachel to call her with a prefabricated crisis after twenty minutes as she did every time she couldn’t get out of the sickly sweet events. If he even mentioned stretch marks or yoga or stitches then one of them would be headed straight out of the window. And she didn’t much care which one it was.
