often?’
‘I’ll pass your approval on to the chef. Apart from dining here, with or without guests, I find it convenient to ring in an order and have it sent to my office or apartment.’
‘They home-deliver? Like pizza?’ She stared at him in amazement. He regularly ate personally delivered gourmet meals. She occasionally ordered takeaway, saved money by picking it up.
His throaty laugh skittered across her skin. ‘Hey, we cater for twenty-four-hour room service. My meals travel a little further in a taxi, that’s all.’
‘Wow. We so live in different worlds.’
His eyes darkened and bored into hers. She couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. Her lighthearted words had shattered the mood.
Ethan pushed his empty dish aside, annoyed at her emphatic statement. She made it sound like an insurmountable division between them. Although their life in Spain might have been simpler, more casual than his ambition-driven existence, basically his core beliefs were the same as his sister’s and brother-in-law’s.
He’d enjoyed every moment of the regular visits he’d made to Barcelona, including the noisy, fun-filled meals lasting well into the night. There had always been friends around. So why hadn’t he met her? Bad timing?
He drank the last of his wine, dropped his napkin on the table. ‘Are you ready to leave? We’ll have privacy to talk upstairs.’ Where he’d be able to override any dissension to his proposition.
‘Upstairs?’
Apprehension shaded the striking colour of her eyes, and a strong urge to reassure her rocked him.
‘Company suite for family or friends. Leon and Louise stayed here twice; usually they came to my apartment.’
She didn’t answer. He came round to hold her chair while she retrieved her bag from the floor and stood, head held high. Courageous. Beautiful.
Taking her elbow respectfully, he guided her towards a door in the side wall. The ever-alert maître d’ was there before them. Ethan thanked him, adding praise for the attending staff. A moment later they sped upwards in an exclusive elevator.
* * *
They stepped out into a foyer, not the corridor Alina had envisaged. Colourful modern art complemented the light sand-coloured walls between two white doors. He used a key card to open the one on the right, gestured for her to enter.
Her remark rang true as she stared enviously at her surroundings. Different worlds nailed it. She’d cleaned rooms, never luxury suites. And for him this was the norm, his everyday existence.
Floor-to-ceiling windows afforded a spectacular view of the city on two adjoining walls. Perfectly situated to take advantage was a dark wood dining setting, with a centrepiece of bushland flora. A matching coffee table stood in front of a luxurious dark blue three-piece lounge suite, facing a wall-mounted television. Two large bright blue and red abstract paintings hung on light grey walls.
Her companion shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it onto a chair, and gestured towards a hallway. ‘The bathroom is the third door along if you need it.’
He walked across to a fancy coffee machine, reaching for two mugs from the cabinet above. She watched the play of his muscles under his navy shirt, chided herself for the sudden appreciative clench low in her belly.
‘If not take a seat. Tea? I assume your condition is the reason you didn’t drink coffee yesterday?’
He’d noticed. Totally focused on the documents, reeling from shock, he’d still been aware of what she’d drunk. Had he mentally sized her up, judged her, as well?
‘Herbal, if you have any, please.’
‘No problem. Make yourself comfortable.’
So solicitous. So hospitable. Would his attitude change if they couldn’t come to an agreement?
She moved to the settee, kicked off her shoes, and curled into a corner. ‘Could you make it fairly weak? Just in case.’
He glanced round, his brow furrowed. ‘In case of what?’ His face cleared. ‘Ah, having trouble with morning sickness?’
She appreciated the concern in his voice, even if it was more for the welfare of his niece or nephew than for her.
‘I’ve been lucky so far—occasional nausea from strong aromas, nothing too bad.’
This polite, bland conversation had no reason to irritate her—however, it did. There was no one around to hear them. Let’s get on with it.
‘What else have...? Never mind.’
Ethan tamped down his curiosity regarding her history. The current situation had priority. He put the two mugs on the coffee table and sat down beside her, inadvertently too close for detachment. Close enough to smell the fragrance he’d determined to change at the earliest opportunity. Close enough to notice the faded scar almost hidden by her hair. Close enough to inadvertently touch her. He linked his fingers to prevent impulsive movement. To keep it impersonal. Huh, she’s having Louise’s child. Can’t get much more personal.
Clearing his throat, he returned to basic facts. ‘Has the pregnancy been confirmed medically?’ A natural question to open the conversation.
She flicked a non-existent lock of hair from her forehead. A recent change of hairstyle? Cut shorter than she normally wore it?
‘No. We did an early home test on February the seventh. Although it showed positive, I repeated it before booking my flight.’ Her voice was clear, with no hesitation.
He nodded. ‘We have an appointment at eleven-thirty next Monday with Dr Patricia Conlan—reputedly one of Sydney’s leading gynaecologists. I’ve been assured she’ll give the best care to you and our baby. She’s had a cancellation, otherwise we’d have a longer wait.’
Her pupils dilated, making a stunning display of her violet irises. Her hand moved swiftly to cover her abdomen, triggering a surge of possessiveness in him, alien and disquieting. An instinctive action? Had he imagined the flicker of awareness at his deliberate use of a certain adjective?
‘You need your own proof that I’m pregnant. I’ll be ready.’
‘Not proof. Confirmation that everything is okay.’
She sampled her tea, smiled approvingly. ‘It is. Apart from mild nausea, I’m fit and healthy. What else do you want to know?’
All your secrets. She’d been in his thoughts all day, disturbing his concentration at inopportune moments. Every time he’d walked past his PA’s potted plant the flowers had conjured up a picture of stunning, sorrowful violet eyes. He’d never been drawn to any woman so fast, so powerfully. Telling himself it was because she carried Louise’s child didn’t cut it. His body had responded to her on sight, when he’d still suspected a scam.
‘I’ve made frequent trips to Barcelona in the last three years. I don’t remember your name being mentioned. How come we didn’t meet?’ There’d always been noisy gatherings at his sister’s, available women and obvious attempts at matchmaking. ‘I flew over for a week in January. They were excited and secretive, so I’m guessing it happened around then.’
‘I deliberately wasn’t part of their social group. Louise and I were casual friends who’d have a chat over coffee sometimes. Occasionally Leon would join us. I’d never been to their home until the day she confided in me. Again, my choice. The embryo was implanted on the twenty-eighth—after you’d left.’
Her gaze drifted to the window, as if she were picturing something from her past. She raised her drink and swallowed. As he watched the movement of her throat his fingers itched to caress her lightly tanned skin wherever it was exposed. Wherever it wasn’t.
Draining his mug, he set it down with a sharp clink.
Startled by the noise, she swung round to confront