Trina went out with Frew that night. When they came back, Frew was unusually quiet, his responses terse when Jemma attempted to speak to him. She took herself off to bed in the end, presuming they’d had some kind of a row and deciding to leave them to it.
The next day Trina had left for work before Jemma had surfaced, and was still out when she trudged back home from the hospital late that afternoon. Trina had left a message on the answersphone, warning Jemma that she was going out with Frew directly from work and not to expect her back again tonight. It wasn’t unusual. It was Friday, and Trina often stayed over at Frew’s flat on the weekend—much the same as she had done with Leon, she recalled bleakly.
It was warm outside, and unusually humid for September, with a distinct threat of a storm in the air. She wasn’t hungry, but she made herself a jug of freshly squeezed though heavily diluted orange juice and drank thirstily at a glass of it before taking herself off for a long soak in the tub in the vague hope it might ease some of the tension out of her body. The hospital was pleased with her progress, but not with the continuing sickness that dogged her still. They had booked her in for another scan next week—just to check a few things out: nothing to worry about, they had assured her.
But she was worried. Anything out of the ordinary where her baby was concerned was a worry. All right, so her weight was still too low, but they were all pleasantly surprised by the size of the baby! And, despite the sickness, she made sure she ate good nourishing food. So, what else could go wrong?
Sighing, she pulled out the plug to let the bath-water escape, then levered herself into a standing position and turned on the shower, allowing the clean cool water to wash over her for long minutes before loading her palm with shampoo and washing her hair.
Six-thirty, she noted as she walked into her bedroom wrapped in a fluffy white towel. She had managed to waste a whole hour and a half in the bath w
ithout thinking of Leon once! All she had to do now was think of something which would fill her mind for the rest of the long empty evening.
She would go out! she decided impulsively. Take in a movie. Jack Bridgeman’s latest was playing at the local. It was supposed to be good. And really, anything was better than sitting here mooning over a man who was even further beyond her scope than a great big movie star.
Hastily, she pulled on fresh underwear then hunted out a pair of white stretch leggings and a navy blue baggy T-shirt that adequately covered her lump. Clipping her hair into a tortoiseshell slide at her nape, she applied a bit of blue eyeshadow to her eyes and a pink gloss to her lips, then snatched up her bag. If she hurried, she would just make the first film, she decided, opening the flat door.
Then she froze.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘GOING somewhere?’ a deep, soft, beautifully accented voice questioned. ‘How fortunate I managed to catch you, then.’
Jemma couldn’t move. One hand had a white-knuckled grip on the door while the other had stalled in the process of throwing the strap of her bag over her shoulder. She was shocked—horrified. Yet, despite it all, her wide, staring eyes drank him up, her senses stinging into bright startling life as they recognised their master. He was wearing white, a white summer shirt and white cotton trousers, the complete lack of colour in the outfit only helping to enhance the rich dark brown of his skin. He looked big and lean, essentially sexual and innately dangerous.
Dangerous. She picked up the word and tasted it warily. Dangerous he certainly was. Pulsing with danger, throbbing with it, standing there smiling at her while his eyes burned with it.
She blinked and swallowed, trying to pull herself together. ‘W-what are you doing here?’ she heard herself asking foolishly. ‘D-didn’t you get my note?’
‘Note? Yes, I got your—note,’ he confirmed, then, while she still stood there staring at him, she watched as the danger metamorphosed itself into blinding anger. ‘Inside,’ he snapped, taking hold of her wrist to twist her fingers off the door so that he could push her back into the flat in front of him.
The door slammed shut. Jemma stood there trembling while he maintained his grip on her wrist, then he was pulling her into the sitting-room, before spinning her to face him and grasping her by the shoulders. ‘Were you ever going to tell me?’ he demanded harshly.
She sucked in a short, fast, shaky breath then let it out again, her heartbeat beginning to race out of control. ‘I d-don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she stammered constrictedly.
‘No?’ It was so quietly spoken, so silkily produced that he made her shiver in real fear of him for the first time. He moved, lifting his hands from her shoulders to spread them over her swollen stomach. She gasped at the blatant intimacy of the action, and his eyes burned darker. ‘Then to whom does this belong?’ he demanded.
‘I...’ She tried to move away but he stopped her simply by snaking one hand around her back and sandwiching her between the two. ‘M-mine,’ she whispered threadily. ‘This baby is mine.’
‘No father?’ he mocked. ‘An immaculate conception, maybe?’
She flushed at his sarcasm, but stubbornly clamped her lips together and lowered her eyes from the burning threat in his. But he waited. Oh, how he waited, drawing out the silence between them until she thought she could actually hear their child’s heartbeat throbbing beneath his resting hand. Perhaps he thought the same thing, because his hand moved, stroking in a light caressing gesture as if to soothe the agitated child. And in answer the baby kicked and with a sharp intake of breath Leon went still.
‘You feel that?’ he enquired huskily. She nodded, swallowing. ‘He speaks to his papa, agape mou. Are we to waste any more time on your lies, or are you going to be honest with me for once?’
‘Honesty!’ she flashed, her chin coming up aggressively. ‘You want honesty, Leon?’ Angrily she pushed his hands away. ‘Well, I honestly don’t want you touching me!’
‘I was not touching you, I was touching our child!’
‘My child—mine!’ she flashed. ‘This child is my mistake. My responsibility. I didn’t ask you to come here. And I don’t know why you have! But if it is to tell me how wrong it is for me to have this baby, then you’re too late!’ The blue eyes were spitting challenge, the fierce, threatening challenge of a woman protecting her unborn child. ‘They won’t abort this baby without a damned good medical excuse!’
‘Abortion?’ he choked, his black brows drawing downwards over his eyes. ‘What the hell are you talking about? I never mentioned the word!’
‘No,’ she agreed, feeling the monster nausea begin to claw at her insides. ‘Because I never gave you the chance! I’m not Cassie,’ she stated thickly. ‘And no man is going to dance with joy at the loss of my child!’
‘Cassie?’ he said bewilderedly. ‘What does she have to do with any of this?’
‘N-nothing,’ Jemma stammered, running a shaky hand through her hair. In all honesty she was so staggered at him turning up like this that she barely knew what she was saying. ‘Sh-she let Josh off the hook in the most unequivocal way she could, that’s all,’ she told him bitterly. ‘But I didn’t put you on the hook, Leon!’ she cried. ‘So you have no right to come here throwing your weight about, telling me what I should—’