‘My earlier comments stand. You can stay here. Right now I have nothing but your word that you will contact me or keep me in the loop. You say you can’t judge me...you say you don’t know me. We can at least remedy the latter. Get to know me. The real Marcus Alrikson. I’ll prove to you that I am good father material.’
r /> ‘I can’t do that.’
The idea made her tummy swirl, caused nausea to threaten. This was all too much; she wanted to sink into a bed somewhere and wake up when it was all over.
‘Because what if I get it wrong, like I did before?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I am not a good character judge. I’ve proved that in the past.’
‘With the super-critical ex? Dean?’
‘Yes. I married him when I was twenty years old and our marriage lasted four years. In those four years he made me feel worthless. He sapped my confidence, made me feel stupid, ugly, clumsy... Name a negative and I felt it. But at the outset I thought he was wonderful—the ideal man, perfect husband and father material.’
Bitterness coated her tongue, painted her words with vinegar, and her voice broke.
‘I was wrong. So I will not—cannot—trust my judgement on this. Because if I get it wrong again the baby will suffer, and I won’t have that.’
‘OK. I understand.’
His face was inscrutable but she could sense his struggle to contain anger—though she suspected the anger was directed at Dean.
‘I am truly sorry that he put you through that. More sorry than I can say. All I can do is swear to you that I am not like that and ask you to give me a chance. Ask you to stay with me for this week. Until you can take the test. It’s going to be a difficult week. Let’s face it together.’
Weariness touched her, along with a desire to cry. Because there was compassion in his eyes, and how could she refuse a man who was merely asking for the chance to prove himself? What right had she to judge that he wasn’t a good man? He had done nothing to indicate anything but decency in his love for his country, his compassion for those teenagers...
‘OK,’ she said softly.
‘Thank you. I’ll make up the bed in the spare room.’
To her sheer disbelief her hormones—which must have been on vacation for the past twenty-four hours and had not yet caught up with the action—gave a sharp burst of protest. Cue a mental rolling of her eyes and the sudden desire to burst into tears on his broad chest.
Get real April.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
* * *
Marcus sat at his bedroom window and stared out as dawn crept over the city, turning the sky from grey to golden. Sleep had proved elusive, with his whole body preternaturally aware of April only a few doors away.
Stupid that desire still flared for a woman who planned to give up her baby so she could pursue her lifestyle. But desire wasn’t the only emotion in the mix—and when he remembered her explanation of her marriage his hands clenched into fists. An urge to comfort her, just hold her, had vied with an urge to find Dean and use him as a punch bag.
Damn it.
It did not add up. Every instinct he owned told him that April was talking through her hat, her shoes and every other accessory. For a start, he didn’t get the impression that she loved her lifestyle. Second, he knew with a bone-deep certainty that she would be a wonderful mother—that the best thing for this hypothetical baby would be April.
So why couldn’t she see that? There hadn’t been even a hint of indecision in the steel of her voice as she’d stated her intent. But her eyes had told a different story—of misery and despair.
It did not add up. Somewhere the equation was flawed. He had every intention of discovering what was going on, and if April were to be pregnant he would do his best to persuade her to keep the baby. Which, a small voice pointed out, would also be very convenient for him. That way he could be part of the baby’s life.
Selfish? Maybe.
Realistic? Absolutely.
Best for the baby? He believed so.
If it proved to be necessary in a week’s time, that was what he would fight for. But first, of course, there was a week to get through—a week with April in his home, his sanctuary, his space.