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Bronte supposed she ought to be at least a little indignant at his high-handed attitude, but all she could hear was his concern. And all she could think about was him as a child, torn from everything he knew for three horrifying days.
‘I never go out with Nico without protection,’ she managed in her defence, as guilt blossomed under her breastbone like a rash. She hadn’t taken James with her this time because she hadn’t wanted him to report back to Lukas where she was going.
When exactly had her altruistic reasons for keeping the baby a secret begun to feel dishonest and selfish?
She should have told him much sooner. She’d never intended to keep it a secret this long. But being with him had been so seductive. Not just the sex, but all those moments too when she would lie in his arms and he would ask her about Nico or they would chat about the new resort. It had seemed so normal, so different and new to have someone else to chat to about things that had once been her responsibility alone. To share details of her day—and the burden of bringing up a rambunctious little boy with someone else who had a connection to him. And to have him share details of his day with her—which appeared to involve endless meetings and high pressure decisions.
The wonder of having that companionship with a man as dynamic and charismatic as Lukas had made it that much easier for her to come up with excuses not to tell him about the baby, and risk jeopardising that closeness, that connection.
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. ‘Nico’s safety isn’t the only thing that matters to me,’ he said, his voice so gruff it was as if the comment had been wrenched from him.
It was hardly an admission of undying love, but still Bronte’s heart expanded, all the hopes and dreams she’d tried not to give free rein to galloping out of hiding.
‘Okay,’ she murmured, her throat closing.
She heard his strained chuckle.
‘Seriously?’ he said, his surprise evident. ‘No arguments about your independence?’
A smile edged her lips at the husky tone. ‘Not today.’
‘Good,’ he said, his voice becoming huskier. ‘But just so you know, next time you pull a stunt like this, I’m prepared to tie you to the bed to make you behave yourself.’ She could hear the smile in his voice and knew he was joking... Mostly. But still the tug of heat in her abdomen became a definite yank and the swell of emotion in her throat surged.
‘I’d like to see you try,’ she said, teasing him back in an attempt to slow her galloping heartbeat.
‘Don’t tempt me,’ he said. Then added, ‘I want to see you this afternoon.’
‘I’m coming over tonight,’ she reminded him, her anxiety resurfacing in a rush. They’d arranged their ‘playdate’ yesterday, after he’d spent the afternoon with Nico. But once she told him about the baby, would it be their last?
‘I don’t want to wait that long,’ he said.
She glanced at the clock on her phone, the tangle of emotions—desire, anxiety, tenderness and, worst of all, that unbridled hope—starting to crucify her.
‘It’s only four hours,’ she said. ‘I can’t come any sooner. I have to get Nico settled for the night before I can leave.’ It wasn’t entirely true. Nico was more than happy to have Maureen put him to bed, but Bronte had maintained the night-time ritual ever since she’d started her affair with Lukas. Partly because she had always loved those moments before bedtime with Nico—the feel of his sturdy young body, so healthy now, snuggled under her arm. But as she heard Lukas’s heartfelt groan she admitted that wasn’t the only reason why she’d refused to go to Lukas’s penthouse before Nico went to bed each night.
As the effects of her pregnancy had started to show—the swelling in her breasts, the tiredness, especially after they made love—she’d been that much more aware of how much she wanted to make them a family. Her, Lukas, Nico and the new baby. And it had been harder and harder for her not to give in to the hope.
‘So I’m being thrown over for a four-year-old,’ he murmured. ‘Way to shoot down a guy’s ego.’
‘I’m sure your ego will survive,’ she said as she knocked on the back door.
He barked out a strained laugh as Maureen opened the door and greeted her.
‘Is that Maureen? Are you inside?’ he asked, the urgency back in his voice, and it occurred to her he had been keeping her on the phone to make sure she got indoors safely. The balloon of hope—and tenderness—pressed against her larynx, cutting off her air supply.
‘Yes, I’m in the kitchen with Maureen,’ she said, taking off her coat one-handed while still clinging to her phone with the other.
‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a meeting. I’ll send the car at seven—make sure you’r
e in it,’ he added. ‘And no more unaccompanied walks, understand?’
‘Nico’s barely in bed by seven,’ she countered. ‘Seven-thirty would be better.’
‘Seven-fifteen, and no stalling—or I’m coming over there now to get you.’
‘You can’t—you’ve got a meeting.’
‘Bronte, I own the company,’ he said, the warning in his voice unequivocal.
