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But he’d been meticulous about using condoms.
Did that mean the baby, if there was one, wasn’t his? His gut spasmed with nausea at the idea of her going from his bed to another man’s.
No, he refused to believe it.
His breathing eased and the tang of bile at the back of his throat abated as sense reasserted itself. Elisabeth was discriminating. He’d been her only lover and he couldn’t believe she’d have gone from him straight to someone else.
So any pregnancy meant it was his child.
His mouth dried as shock blasted him like impact waves from an explosion. His brain almost atrophied at the idea of a baby,hisbaby. The notion was too big, too foreign to absorb straightaway.
For a long moment he found himself staring at the ugly antique desk, just trying to catch his breath.
Then he made himself read on.
What followed was a sickening ramble of conjecture. The reporter explained how long Jack and Elisabeth had been separated, noting that ‘Mrs Reilly had been travelling internationally since and it was unknown if she’d travelled alone.’ They hinted she’d had an affair.
Jack growled through gritted teeth, his hackles rising.
Then came speculation about the ‘secret sex romp in the Caribbean’ and more shots of Elisabeth in London, clearly unaware that she was the target of paparazzi lenses. There were close-ups of her trim figure and breathless discussion of whether she might be pregnant to him or someone else, or perhaps investigating fertility treatment and whether she intended to be a single mother.
Jack closed the piece and clicked another link. This article claimed she was definitely pregnant with his baby. There were more photos of Elisabeth, this time looking startled and afraid, one hand raised as if to ward off the photographer.
Swearing, Jack put the phone down. His hand was rock steady but his breath was laboured and his chest cramped as if his lungs were caught in a vice.
Elisabeth pregnant.
Pregnant with his child.
His gut churned. He’d known all his life that he didn’t want to pass his genes to another generation. Given the disaster his own parents had been he didn’t want to take that chance. No child deserved such criminal negligence. As role models they’d been perfect examples of what parents shouldn’t be, utterly self-absorbed, unreliable and irresponsible to the point of being dangerous. Not that they’d intended to hurt him—he simply hadn’t figured in their thinking.
He’d done his best to be as different from them as he could be. Yet, despite the satisfaction of knowing he shared few character traits with them, his secret fear was that, in the wrong circumstances, he’d reveal an unruly, passionate, irrational side.
No wonder the feelings Elisabeth evoked made him wary. For there was nothing considered or rational about what she made him feel. The sheer depth of his need for her, the way his hunger grew and grew instead of easing, hinted at appetites he couldn’t manage.
His parents’ example was one of the reasons he’d been attracted to a convenient marriage that melded business goals and sexual satisfaction rather than fall into the trap of so-called love.
Maybe you don’t have a choice about becoming a father. Maybe it’s out of your control.
He shuddered. He’d spent his life working to make his world fit his needs. To manage every contingency. It was the way he’d learned to survive. But now...
Was Elisabeth really pregnant? He tried and failed to think of another reason she’d visit a Harley Street obstetrician.
He looked again at his phone, pain and fury scouring his belly at her expression in that last photo. She looked dismayed and fragile as she faced the photographer invading her personal space.
Jack shot to his feet, his thumb punching speed dial.
‘I need my wife’s address in London,’ he said when Leanne picked up. ‘And cancel all my appointments.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘I’MSORRY, BESS, I really am. But I’ve got no choice in the circumstances.’
She looked into Janusz’s earnest brown eyes and nodded. Her heart sank because he was right, this couldn’t continue. ‘Of course. I understand.’
Her boss, no, make that her now ex-boss, paced to the window, shot an indignant look down into the street, then returned to his desk and sat down opposite her.
‘Those vultures. They don’t give a damn what damage they’re causing to you or anyone else.’ He shook his head. ‘All this time we’ve been wanting publicity to get more donations. But not this sort of publicity.’
