‘I wasn’t asleep; the waiting is getting to me too.’
He came to stand beside her, by the enormous bay window.
April hesitated. ‘I bought a pregnancy test. One you can do early.’
‘How early?’
‘I could do it now. I’m just too chicken.’
‘I think you should do it. We need to know—one way or the other it’s always better to know.’
He was right: better to face up to the truth rather than hide away from it. She knew that. Yet cold panic cascaded in a clammy sheen over her skin as she faltered out, ‘OK...’
She took in a deep breath, needing to tell him something.
‘But first... If I am pregnant, and if you still want custody when the baby is born, you can have
it.’
She had come to realise that in this case she could trust her judgement. Marcus was not like Dean. He was a truly good man—a man with flaws, for sure, but his flaws would never permit him to hurt or demean anyone else. He could admit it when he was wrong, he could be strong, and he could be gentle. She knew with all her heart that he would keep their baby safe.
His face was pale in the light that suddenly flooded the room as the moon pulled out from behind a cloud.
‘I... Thank you, April. I swear I will be the best dad I can be.’ He tried a smile. ‘Now, why don’t you go off and then we’ll find out whether there will be any need for me to be one?’
‘Wish me luck.’
With a ghost of a smile she headed for the bathroom, her heart slamming her ribcage in panic-stricken beats.
The agonising wait seemed eternal, but once the time was up April hesitated, unable to look. The tension was so taut in her tummy that she thought she might buckle with cramp.
Come on, April.
She had to know. She couldn’t skulk in Marcus’s bathroom for ever. It wouldn’t be practical.
And so, with a near-hysterical deep breath, she looked.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MARCUS WAS STANDING by the window when she returned to the lounge. The light was still off, the room lit only by the pale moonbeams and star-glow from without. He spun round as she entered, his hands clenched into fists by his sides, the question in his eyes almost anguished.
‘I’m not pregnant.’
She said the words clearly, woodenly, her emotions numbed, but not so frozen that she didn’t see it—disappointment, zigzagging over his expression in a flash, before he stepped forward with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
‘That’s a relief.’
But he couldn’t pull it off.
‘You don’t mean that,’ she said, her voice half-question, half-statement.
Three strides took him to the drinks cabinet in the corner of the room, where he pulled out a whisky bottle.
‘You’re right. I don’t mean it.’ He gestured at the bottle. ‘Drink?’
‘No, thank you. I don’t understand. Why aren’t you relieved?’
‘I don’t know.’ He sank onto the state-of-the-art sofa, drink in hand. ‘I guess this was my shot. My one chance to be a dad.’ He shook his head as if in disbelief at his own words.