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‘All right, two,’ Gina conceded. Trust Cassie to be pedantic about the maths. ‘But now it’s over.’ Of that much she was certain.
‘Did you tell him about the baby?’
The blood drained out of Gina’s face and slammed into her heart. ‘No, of course not. Why would I?’
‘I just thought...’ Cassie began. ‘He’s not married any more—so why would you need to keep it a secret still?’
‘Because it’s ancient history. Because there would be no point in telling him all these years after the fact.’ She coughed, trying to lower her voice, which had become a little shrill in the face of Cassie’s passive-aggressive interrogation techniques. ‘And anyway it was never a baby. It was a miscarriage.’ And she’d spent a great deal of time, not to mention money, making herself believe that.
It had taken her years to repair the damage she’d done to her sense of self-worth and self-esteem. And even longer to become a more stable, sorted person—a person who could actually look at herself in the mirror every morning and like what she saw. She’d had to get over the insecurities of her childhood, the recklessness of her adolescence and the horror of what had happened when she’d returned to England with Carter’s child growing inside her womb, harbouring some idiotic notion that she’d fallen in love with a man who was totally unattainable.
But none of that had really had anything to do with Carter. She’d latched onto him, because he’d listened to her that night, he’d been sensitive and sweet and the few things he’d told her about his father had made her think they might be kindred spirits. But the truth was, he’d just been the catalyst.
Unfortunately, last night proved that she still had a ways to go before she could rely on herself to resist all temptations. But last night had no real bearing on her past. It had been nothing more than a biological urge. An irresistible biological urge. Which meant the decision not to see Carter again, and stir up any more irresistible biological urges, was the mature choice. And if Cassie would just back off, and stop making ridiculous suggestions, she might actually be able to embrace it.
‘Okay, if you say so,’ Cassie interrupted her panicked revelry, her calm grey eyes fixed on Gina’s face.
‘I do say so, because it’s the truth.’
Cassie looked doubtful—what she wasn’t saying hanging in the air between them, like a huge pulsing neon sign. And Gina knew exactly what the sign said.
You’re in denial.
She could see Cassie believed it wasn’t panic over screwing up her relationship with her friends that had Gina steering clear of Carter now. It was all the messy, unfinished business between the two of them that she didn’t want to confront.
And it was hardly surprising Cassie had that misconception.
Because during those months after Gina had left Hillbrook—when she’d discovered the pregnancy and a few crucial months later lost the baby—Reese and Cassie had been there to help her pick up the pieces, at the end of a transatlantic phone line. They’d let Gina rant and rave, and cry and carry on and finally come to terms with her loss and her grief, but there had been one thing her two best friends had disagreed with her about. They both felt Gina should have contacted Carter. That he should have been forced to share some of the emotional burden, because he had been as responsible as Gina for that short, helpless little life.
Gina placed her fingers on Cassie’s arm and squeezed. ‘It’s not what you think, Cass. Honestly. I’m not a basketcase any more. I’m all grown up. I got over it. I couldn’t be more different from that girl. And Carter’s a completely different guy too. Give or take the odd super power in the sack,’ she added wryly.
Cassie sent her a tentative smile. ‘Maybe you’re right.’
‘I know I am.’
‘But if that’s the case, it does pose another question.’
‘Which is?’
‘If all the variables have changed, and Reese and Marnie never need to know about this—what’s preventing you from availing yourself of Carter’s super powers again?’
EIGHT
Cassiopeia Barclay, I want to throttle you.
Gina took her eyes off the phone, punched her computer’s start-up button and lobbed Carter Price’s card into the waste-paper basket—for the fiftieth time in the last seven days.
The big digital clock above
her kitchen counter clicked from 10:59 to 11:00 as she struggled to focus on the screen and ignore the residual hum of heat pulsing in her abdomen.
Ignore it. He’s probably already on his plane to Savannah. You did it.
Why she didn’t feel particularly thrilled with her powers of resistance was neither here nor there.
She dragged her gaze back to the blog she was designing for an organic farmer’s community up in Westchester. It was a new commission and she’d been toying with different basic designs for two days. She punched keys, finally picking a beautiful leaf green for the background to complement the community’s logo.
At last, progress.
