over to the window and looking down at a green corner of what must have been Central Park. ‘Why, even the bathroom is bigger than the hostel Stella and I stayed in last Christmas!’
‘I’m not really interested in hearing how you saw New York on a budget,’ he drawled. ‘Just sit down and eat some breakfast, will you?’
As she turned around Tara was about to suggest it might do him good to stay in the kind of cramped accommodation which most people had to contend with, but then she saw a big trolley covered with silver domes which she hadn’t noticed before. On it was a crystal jug of juice, a basket covered by a thick linen napkin, and on a gilded plate were little pats of butter—as yellow as the buttercups which used to grow in the fields around Ballykenna. She’d thought she wasn’t hungry but her growling stomach told her otherwise and she realised how long it had been since she’d had a square meal. And she’d been sick last night, she reminded herself.
She walked towards the trolley to help herself but Lucas stayed her with an imperious wave of his hand.
‘No. I don’t want you collapsing on me again,’ he instructed tersely. ‘Sit down and I’ll serve you.’
Tara opened her mouth to tell him she was perfectly capable of serving herself, but then a perverse sense of enjoyment crept over her as he offered cereal and eggs, fruit and yoghurt, and she sat there helping herself with solid silver spoons. Because if she allowed herself to forget her awful dilemma for a moment, this really was role reversal at its most satisfying! The food was delicious but she ate modestly, a fact which didn’t escape Lucas’s notice.
‘No wonder you always look as if a puff of wind could blow you away,’ he observed caustically. ‘You don’t eat enough.’
She buttered a slice of toast. ‘My book on pregnancy says little and often if you want to try to avoid nausea.’
‘Just how many books on pregnancy are you reading just now?’
‘As many as I need. I know nothing about motherhood and I want to be as well prepared as possible.’
Wincing deeply, he sucked in a lungful of air. ‘You say you want this baby—’
‘I don’t just say it. Lucas—I mean it,’ she declared fiercely. ‘And if for one moment you’re daring to suggest—’
‘I wasn’t suggesting anything,’ he cut across her, his expression darkening. ‘And before you fly off the handle, let me make my views plain, just so there can be no misunderstanding. Which is that I’m glad you’ve chosen to carry this child and not...’
‘Not what?’ Tara questioned in bewilderment as his mouth twisted.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he snarled.
‘Oh, I think it does.’ She drew in a deep breath, putting her napkin down and realising almost impartially that her fingers were trembling. ‘Look, we’re not the same as we used to be, are we? We’re no longer boss and employee.’ She looked at him earnestly. ‘I’m not sure how you’d define our relationship now—the only thing I’m sure about is that we’re going to be parents and that means we need to be honest with each other. I’m not expecting you to say things you don’t mean, Lucas, but I am expecting you to tell me the truth.’
The truth. The words sounded curiously threatening as they washed over him and Lucas stared at her. For a man who had spent his life denying and concealing his feelings, her heartfelt appeal seemed like a step too far and his instinct was to stonewall her. Yet he recognised that this was like no other situation he’d ever found himself in. He couldn’t just buy himself out of this, not unless he was prepared to throw a whole lot of money her way and tell her that he wanted to cut all ties with her and his unborn child for ever.
He would have been a liar if he’d said he wasn’t tempted...
But how could he do that, given the bitter reality of his own history which had been revealed to him by that damned lawyer? Wouldn’t that mean, in effect, that he was as culpable as his own mother had been?
And look how that had turned out.
‘Have you given any thought to how you see your future?’ he demanded.
Tara shook her head. ‘Not really. Have you?’
‘Finish your breakfast first.’
But Tara’s mouth felt dry with nerves and it was difficult to force anything else down, especially under that seeking green gaze—and she noticed he hadn’t touched anything himself except two cups of inky coffee. ‘I’ve finished,’ she said, dabbing at her lips with a heavy-duty linen napkin.
He placed the palms of his hands on the table in front of him, looking like a man who meant business. ‘So,’ he said, his emotionless gaze still fixed on her. ‘It seems there are several options available to us. We just have to work out which is the most acceptable, to both of us.’
Tara nodded. ‘Go ahead,’ she said cautiously. ‘I’m all ears.’
He nodded. ‘Obviously I will provide for you and the baby, financially.’
‘Do you want me to do a dance of joy around the room just because you’re accepting responsibility?’
His frown deepened. ‘It’s not like you to be quite so...irascible, Tara.’
Tara didn’t know what irascible meant but she could guess. Should she tell him her crankiness stemmed from fear about the future, despite his offer of financial support? Surely even Lucas could work that out for himself. She studied the obdurate set of his jaw. Maybe that was hoping for too much. He was probably thinking about his own needs, not hers. And suddenly she realised that she couldn’t afford to be vulnerable and neither could she keep second-guessing him. She was responsible for the life she carried and she needed to be strong.
‘Why don’t we just stick to the matter in hand?’ she questioned coolly. ‘Tell me what you have in mind.’
Was he surprised by her sudden air of composure? Was that why he subjected her to a look of rapid assessment? It was a look Tara recognised all too well. It was his negotiating look.
‘You have no family and...neither do I,’ he said slowly. ‘And since I’d already made plans to stay in New York for the next few months, I see no reason to change those plans, despite the fact that you’re pregnant.’
She thought how cleverly he had defined the situation, making it sound as if the baby had nothing to do with him. But perhaps that was exactly how he saw it, and Tara certainly wasn’t going to push him for answers. She was never going to beg him, not for anything. Nor push him into a corner. ‘Go on,’ she said calmly.
‘You could stay here and return to Ireland in time for the birth,’ he continued. ‘That would free you from unwanted scrutiny—or the questions which would undoubtedly spring up if you went back home.’
And now the surreal sense of calm she’d been experiencing suddenly deserted her. Tara could feel colour flooding into her cheeks as she pushed back her chair and sprang to her feet, her hair falling untidily around her face. ‘I see!’ she said, her voice shaking with emotion as she pushed a thick wave over her shoulder. ‘You’re trying to hide me away in a country where nobody knows me! You’re ashamed of me—is that it?’
‘If there’s any shame to be doled out, then it’s me who should bear it,’ he retorted, though he seemed mesmerised by her impatient attentions as she brushed away her unruly hair with a fisted hand. ‘I was the one who took your virginity!’
Was it her pregnancy which made Tara feel so volatile? Which made her determined to redefine his view of what had happened that fateful night, because didn’t his jaundiced summary of events downgrade it? Or was it simply that she had carried the burden of shame around for a whole lifetime and suddenly the weight was just too much to bear? ‘I wasn’t some innocent victim who just fell into the arms of an experienced philanderer,’ she declared.
‘Thanks