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“We need to talk.”
Those four little words lay heavy with meaning, conjuring up a multitude of awkward scenarios from Kat’s disastrous past. Ten weeks ago, they’d not only crossed that line between friends and lovers, they’d burned it to the ground, and part of her wanted to run home and hide under the bed covers.
“About?”
“We can talk on my boat.”
She sighed. “Look, Marco, it’s late and there’s a cyclone approaching. Can’t this wait another day?”
“You’ve been avoiding my calls, so no. And the storm’s not due for hours yet.”
He glanced up at the dark sky, narrowed his eyes at the barely discernible wind that had picked up.
“I’m tired.”
He stared at her, irritated. “Phone calls. Avoiding.”
She blinked slowly. “You’re not going to give up until I agree, are you?”
“No.”
“Dammit, you can be sooooo annoying!”
“Says the woman who still hasn’t told me she’s pregnant.”
Suddenly
Expecting
Paula Roe
Despite wanting to be a vet, choreographer, card shark, hairdresser and an interior designer (although not simultaneously!), British-born, Aussie-bred PAULA ROE ended up as a personal assistant, office manager, software trainer and aerobics instructor for thirteen interesting years.
Paula lives in western New South Wales, Australia, with her family, two opinionated cats and a garden full of dependent native birds. She still retains a deep love of filing systems, stationery and traveling, even though the latter doesn’t happen nearly as often as she’d like. She loves to hear from her readers—you can visit her at her website, www.paularoe.com.
This story required an extra kick in the pants and I truly appreciate kickers Shannon Curtis and Kaz Delaney for doing that. You know how much I love you girls xx Huge cuddles to Helene Young for her wonderful cyclone information, and Gabrielle Luthy for her knowledge of all things French. And a special thanks to Kaycie from the Football Federation of Australia who went over and above to provide this soccer-challenged writer with information regarding the sport.
I also need to mention some special characters in Twitter Land who for one reason or another provided either encouragement or sweet, hilarious distraction throughout this particular story and kept this writer sane: George IV, Will Shakespeare, Prince Henry, Jack Sheppard, Philippe and Charles Brandon. Love you, guys! Lastly, to the wonderful, gorgeous people behind the epic French movie Le Roi Danse. Because period dramas totally rock.
Contents
One
Ten weeks ago, Katerina Jackson had spent one night in bed with her best friend. And it had been absolutely amazing.
Now, as she drove down the Captain Cook Highway, just before she got into Cairns, she was confronted with an image of the man in question, naked and smiling seductively down at her.
Kat’s foot instinctively tamped on the brake, and she only just managed to avoid the car in front as it stopped at the red light. The burn on her cheeks went all the way down her body, ending in her thighs, where it pooled annoyingly in her groin. She looked up at the familiar massive billboard featuring Marco Corelli, the golden boy of France’s premier futball league and Marseille’s highest goal scorer in the club’s entire history.
Well, he wasn’t exactly naked. The stacked Y-fronts left little to the imagination, though, as did his splayed hands across his low-riding waistband and the caption “Come and Feel My Skins.” But it wasn’t his ridged abs, popping biceps and the seductive Adonis line of muscle that disappeared into the low-riding underwear that heated her blood. It was that familiar, tempting come-here-so-I-can-have-my-way-with-you grin, the curve of his overtly lush bottom lip and the forbidden promise in those dark, sensual eyes. The way the camera had captured his hypnotic charm as he looked up from behind artfully tousled, rakish black hair, one curl lying teasingly across his forehead and cheek.
She’d had to pass that damn billboard every morning for the past ten weeks, his perfect face staring knowingly down, as if he remembered every single thing he’d done to her that night. How he’d made her sweat, how he’d made her moan. How he’d made her pant.
She snapped her gaze back to the road, glaring at the taillights as the traffic finally began to move.
“God, I am so stupid,” she muttered in the air-conditioned silence. It was Marco, her best friend since high school. The arrogant former-soccer-star-turned-sports-commentator, the underwear-endorsing charmer, Mr. Flirt with a dozen different girlfriends. She was his best mate, secret keeper, sounding board, partner in crime. His plus one when he needed a date to some swish function. He was also her boss’s on-again, off-again boyfriend.
She cast her mind back, sifting through her and Grace’s many conversations about Marco. Yeah, they’d definitely been off for a while before that night, so there was one less moral dilemma to worry about. Which just left the main two.
Oh, she couldn’t just have sex with her best friend, noooo. She had to end up pregnant, too.
If you could see me now, Mum. All your pretty, shiny dreams of your daughter having a perfect life, a perfect career. A perfect husband surrounded by perfect, healthy children.
The sliver of pain sliced through her, drawing blood, before she effectively sealed up the wound and pulled into Channel Five’s parking lot. After flashing her ID to the guard, she parked, gathered her bag and strode into the studio. Then she tossed her bag in her office and checked her phone.
Four missed calls, one from her friend Connor, three from Marco, plus a text message. Back in town. We need to talk. Drinks on the boat? M x
She sighed then finally replied. Sorry, snowed under at work. Can’t get away. Plus there’s a cyclone warning, in case you haven’t noticed. K x
After she sent it, she scrolled back to their texts from two months ago, a painful reminder that only rekindled her inner turmoil.