She tensed and bit her lip. She’s sexy, successful ... and PREGNANT! Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT Copyright

She tensed and bit her lip.

“So,” he said, barely audibly. “Things have changed. You’d better tell me, Clare. Is there a new man in your life? Has someone swept you off your feet—and taken over where I left off?”

A mixture of shock and outrage poured through her. “No,” she said intensely. What do you think I am?”

“Changed,” Lachlan said deliberately. “You always were beautiful to my eyes, but now you’re like a rose that’s opening in all its glory. And you’re taking weekends off, lying on the beach—something’s happened to you, Clare. Is it true love? It surely has to be something cataclysmic, because nothing I ever did produced this.”

“In a way you did, Lachlan. I...you see... I’m pregnant.”

She’s sexy, successful ... and PREGNANT!

Relax and enjoy our fabulous series about spirited women and gorgeous men, whose passion results in pregnancies...sometimes unexpected! Of course, the birth of a baby is always a joyful event, and we can guarantee that our characters will become besotted moms and dads—but what happened in those nine months before?

Share the surprises, emotions, dramas and suspense as our parents-to-be come to terms with the prospect of bringing a new little life into the world... All will discover that the business of making babies brings with it the most special love of all....

Look out next month for:

The Boss’s Baby (#2064)

by Miranda Lee

Having His Babies

Lindsay Armstrong

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

‘I BEG your pardon?’

‘Well, we could do a blood test but I don’t think it’s necessary—from what you’ve told me and from this sample there seems to be no doubt. Congratulations, Clare!’

Clare Montrose stared at her doctor, a woman in her late thirties whose bright, cheerful expression faded somewhat as she took in her patient’s stunned eyes.

‘You ... didn’t expect or plan this?’ Valerie Martin queried.

‘No. That is to say, no.’ Clare swallowed. ‘Are you sure? I’m on the pill, as you know, and I’ve never forgotten to take it.’

‘Ah. Yes, I did prescribe a low dose, so-called mini-pill but I also explained the circumstances that can sometimes interfere with its effectiveness if you remember, Clare.’

Clare opened her mouth, closed it and said shakily, ‘But ... but nothing like that, well, not really—Oh, no,’ she said hollowly. ‘I didn’t even stop to think!’

‘Tell me,’ Valerie said gently.

‘I had a twenty-four-hour virus a while back,’ Clare said helplessly. ‘Nausea, gastric upset, but two days later I was as right as rain and I didn’t give it a second thought I was run off my feet at the time, too so—you mean that could have done it?’

‘It could. It’s not common but it could if it was a severe enough bout. Have you had no other symptoms? This—’ Valerie smiled a little ruefully ‘—seems to have come like a bolt from the blue.’

‘No. Well, I came to see you because my cycle seemed to have gone haywire but I’ve had that problem before—before I went on the pill, anyway,’ she amended, and sat back dazedly. ‘How much pregnant?’

‘We need to discuss a few dates but I would estimate six to eight weeks.’

Clare pulled her diary from her purse and did some rapid mental arithmetic. ‘Yes,’ she said hollowly at last, ‘I imagine that would be about right—eight weeks. But why haven’t I had any morning sickness or—anything?’

‘We don’t all get it and we don’t all get it at the same time; you may be one of the lucky ones but I’d be surprised if you didn’t very shortly see some changes. Like a loss of appetite or suddenly being starving all the time. Such as feeling sleepy a lot of the time...’

‘Craving jam on pickles, that kind of thing,’ Clare said gloomily. ‘How could this happen to me?’

‘Clare.’ Valerie Martin stopped and watched her intently for a moment. And marvelled inwardly because she knew Clare Montrose quite well. They had their practices in the same building in the seaside town of Lennox Head although Clare practised law. And over the past few years this tall, quietly spoken though assured and obviously very intelligent girl had expanded the sleepy practice she’d bought to keep pace with the town’s growth and turned it into a profitable one with a growing reputation that was spreading throughout the district.

And yet, Valerie mused, over the matter of getting herself pregnant, there seems to be a certain naiveté. Not quite what I would have expected from someone who can be as coolly competent as she undoubtedly can.

‘Clare ...I don’t like to pry, but...is it not Lachlan?’

Clare blinked her eyes that were the colour of the sea at certain times, a greeny blue that could best be described as aquamarine, and her face, beneath shining dark hair parted on the side and falling in a curly bob, reddened.

Valerie looked fleetingly amused. ‘You can’t keep anything a secret in this village, my dear, but particularly not Lachlan Hewitt. His family has been in the area for generations; they’ve been shire councillors and the biggest landowners around Alstonville, Ballina and Lennox Head ever since I can remember. Besides, I didn’t think you were trying to keep it a secret.’

‘We weren’t,’ Clare said, gloomily again. ‘That is to say, once his divorce came through, it didn’t seem to be anyone’s business but our own, but...we weren’t exactly trying to flaunt it.’

‘I’m sure you weren’t. These things get noticed, though. Lachlan is the kind of man who gets noticed—as you’re the kind of woman who does, my dear. So...this wasn’t on the agenda?’

‘No,’ Clare said baldly after a moment.

‘Circumstances change cases, as I’m sure I don’t have to point out to a lawyer, but...’ Dr Martin paused ‘... I’m also sure I don’t have to point out to you that there are other—options.’

Clare breathed raggedly and her eyes widened. ‘Oh. No, that’s not an option—the thought of it just—’ She shivered then shrugged. ‘I don’t think I could do it.’

‘Well, I’m glad to hear you say so but that’s only a personal preference of mine. However, you’re—’ she glanced down at the card in front of her ‘—twenty-seven, which is by no means too old to be having a baby. But we don’t get any younger and, while it may not have been on your conscious agenda, perhaps you should take into account that it may have been on your unconscious one...’

When Clare was back in her office, she grimaced because the thought of her biological clock ticking away unbeknownst to her was disturbing.

She looked around, at her framed degree on the wall, at the cool eggshell-blue walls and sapphire carpet, the vast mahogany desk she was inordinately proud of—an antique she’d unearthed and had restored—at the silver-framed paintings on the wall, and she sat down with a deep sigh.

She’d instructed her receptionist to hold all calls for half an hour and knew they’d be piling up like a tidal wave. Business was booming, and although she had an articled clerk and a legal secretary, what she really needed was a qualified solicitor to take some of the pressure off her—more than ever now, she mused, and gazed at one particular picture on the wall.

It wasn’t a painting but an aerial photo of a suburban housing estate across the Pacific Highway from Lennox Head, and it was where so much had started.

The land, originally a dairy farm, had been owned by the Hewitt family. Just before she’d bought out the practice, it had been subdivided and developed—and the unexpected plum of handling the conveyancing for the developers, the Hewitt family again, had fallen into her lap.

She’d been unable to believe her good luck then briefly disturbed when her father, with whom she’d always had a turbulent relationship, had hinted that he’d been instrumental in getting her this coup. He had, frustratingly, refused ever to elaborate.

But the fact of the matter was that she’d never looked back. Other estates had sprung up as well as strata title unit developments, some litigation work had started to come her way and she’d soon had more work than she knew what to do with.

As a direct result, she now owned her own apartment in a lovely position close to the beach, she drove a magenta-coloured flashy little sports car and, when she could take the time for a holiday, she could afford the exotic and unusual.

But it wasn’t until about six months after the plum had fallen that she’d met Lachlan Hewitt himself. She’d always dealt with his project manager although by then she’d known a lot about him and the family history: about his grandfather who had bought up so much of the country for a song. About the macadamia and avocado plantations they also owned; about the wonderful old house they lived in.

Then, one day, when she hadn’t even had time to read through her appointments for the morning, Lucy, her receptionist, had buzzed her and announced in hushed tones that Mr Lachlan Hewitt had arrived for his appointment.

Clare had gasped, gazed around at her littered desk then down at her person, and, in a voice unlike her own, had asked Lucy if she could stall him for a minute or two.

‘If you say so, Ms Montrose,’ Lucy had replied disapprovingly.

Coming back to the present, Clare smiled faintly as she recalled her receptionist’s exact tone. And recalled how she had tidied her desk frantically, smoothed the skirt of her straight taupe linen dress with its white revere collar, reached into a drawer and studied her face in the small mirror of her gilt compact. And she’d had no more time than to run her fingers through her hair, apply a dash of lipstick and smooth her eyebrows before a discreet knock had sounded on the door.

She remembered it as if it were yesterday, she thought, and closed her eyes as the images of that first meeting seeped into her mind...

‘Ms Montrose, Mr Hewitt,’ Lucy said as she ushered a tall man into the office.

‘How do you do, Mr Hewitt?’ Clare came round the desk and offered her hand.

‘How do you do, Ms Montrose?’ Lachlan Hewitt replied, with the faintest emphasis on the Ms and a slight narrowing of his eyes as he took her hand and allowed his grey gaze to inspect her from top to toe.

Clare blinked once. She was five feet ten and not used to being towered over, but Lachlan Hewitt was at least six feet four. And those penetrating, smoky grey eyes were set in a tanned, interesting face beneath thick tawny hair with a tendency to flop on his forehead. The rest of him was well-proportioned: wide shoulders, narrow waist and more than a hint of whipcord strength beneath his casual checked shirt and khaki trousers worn with short brown boots.

But what surprised her most was that he was younger than she’d expected—in his middle-thirties, she guessed.

The other thing that surprised her was the hiatus that developed as they stared at each other. So that even Lucy appeared to be rooted to the spot.

Clare decided to break it with a tinge of annoyance running through her. She did not appreciate being so thoroughly inspected even by the head of the Hewitt clan, she decided, and said smoothly as she took her hand back, ‘Do sit down, Mr Hewitt. May we offer you coffee or tea? It’s about that time.’ She smiled perfunctorily and moved back around her desk.

‘Something cool if you have it,’ he murmured.

‘By all means but I’ll have coffee, thank you, Lucy.’ Clare sat down and clasped her hands on the desk as Lucy left. ‘I presume you’ve come to discuss the housing estate with me, Mr Hewitt?’

‘No,’ Lachlan Hewitt replied idly.

Clare blinked as a pause of his making developed. And felt herself grow restive and awkward as she was once again the subject of his scrutiny. But one of the things she’d taught herself over the years was the value of not rushing in, although, she thought, with some self-directed irony, she had rushed in initially.

All the same, she managed to make herself wait with no more than a polite look of enquiry.

‘No,’ he said again, and smiled briefly. ‘From all reports you’ve been most competent and professional, Ms Montrose. As your father assured me you would be.’

Clare felt her hackles rise as so often happened in the context of her father, but all she did was smile meaninglessly.

Lucy intervened at this point with a long frosted glass of fruit-flavoured mineral water and a steaming cup of coffee. There was also a plate of biscuits and she fussed a little as she disposed of these. Then she left them alone, but her whole bearing was pregnant with curiosity.

Clare stirred her coffee with a ruefully raised eyebrow. And decided to be honest. ‘You’ve caused a bit of a stir, Mr Hewitt. Amongst my staff and myself.’

He looked fleetingly amused. ‘My apologies, Ms Montrose—’

‘The Ms is Lucy’s invention, Mr Hewitt,’ Clare broke in swiftly, annoyed again by the odd little emphasis he seemed to place on it. ‘She thinks it gives me some kind of mysterious status but I myself prefer to be known as Clare Montrose, unmarried—never married for that matter—and I don’t mind who knows it.’

‘I see,’ he said, and grimaced. ‘To be honest, Ms as a title always makes me think of women in limbo and I’d much rather call you Clare. I’m Lachlan, by the way, married but soon to become unmarried—and that’s why I’ve come to see you.’

Clare’s eyes widened incredulously.

‘Have you ever handled a divorce settlement, Clare?’ he asked.

‘Yes. A few. But—’ She couldn’t go on.

‘You’re amazed?’ he suggested. ‘Because I’m divorcing my wife or because I’ve come to see you about it?’

‘Both, to be honest,’ she said a touch feebly, and swallowed.

‘Do you know my wife, Clare?’

‘No, I’ve never met her, but...well, she—that is to say, I’ve seen photos of her in the local paper and—heard mention of her.’

She stopped abruptly as images of Serena Hewitt, stunningly beautiful even in black and white, swam through her mind, and then remembered seeing Serena in the flesh one day, in the village, and realizing that her photos hadn’t done her justice.

‘And you can’t imagine anyone wanting to divorce her, no doubt,’ he said dryly.

‘I didn’t say that but—yes, I guess I’m surprised. Sorry. Uh—why me, though? I would imagine you have a family solicitor who... might be more appropriate.’

‘I do. I’d rather have fresh blood in this case, however.’

Clare looked at him narrowly. ‘If I took this on,’ she said slowly, ‘I would act in your very best interests, Mr Hewitt, but if you’re looking for someone you could hide some of your assets from with a view to cheating your wife, then I have to tell you you’ve come to the wrong person.’

‘On the contrary, Ms Montrose,’ he returned coolly, ‘I’ve come to you because you appear to have a remarkably clear brain and excellent legal skills, whereas my family solicitor is getting old and doddery, although we hold him in great affection. He also happens to hold my wife in great affection.’

‘Oh.’ It was all Clare could think of to say.

‘Furthermore,’ Lachlan Hewitt said, ‘while I’m prepared to hand over to my wife everything she’s entitled to by law, I am not prepared to be taken to the cleaners, which is exactly what she has in mind,’ he finished gently but with unmistakable satire.

‘I see.’

‘Are you a feminist, Clare?’ he asked lazily then.

‘No more than most women,’ she replied coolly.

‘That’s not quite as your father sees you.’

She bit her lip to stop the crushing retort that rose to mind and said instead, ‘How well do you know my father, Mr Hewitt?’

When he spoke it was gravely but she couldn’t miss the lurking little glint of humour in his grey eyes. ‘Well enough to know that he holds extremely sexist views but, even so, can’t help being very proud of his brilliant, though uncomfortably feminist, daughter—although it’s something he may never have been able to convey to you, Clare: how proud he is.’

She coloured slightly and looked away. ‘I’m afraid my views of feminist and his don’t agree,’ she said. Then she asked, ‘How do you know him, Mr Hewitt?’

‘He and my father were great friends. They served together in the same regiment in Vietnam, didn’t he tell you?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t know he knew you. I believe your father died some months ago?’

‘It was at his funeral that your father mentioned you.’

‘I see. Then you mustn’t have minded the feminist tag he labelled me with.’

‘I didn’t say I was sexist,’ Lachlan Hewitt drawled. ‘And I did happen to know that your father saved my father’s life once.’

Clare breathed deeply with some frustration. ‘Thus the world turns—on the head of a pin. I have to confess I would far rather have earned your conveyancing fair and square but—’ her lips curved into a reluctant smile ‘—I know how petulant and ultra-feminist that would make me.’

Unbeknownst to her, during the short pause that ensued as they traded rather wry glances, Lachlan Hewitt was discovering himself unwittingly intrigued...

Not, on first impressions, drop-dead gorgeous, he thought, apart from those wonderful eyes. A thin, intelligent face, pale, smooth skin and a tall, very slender but elegant figure. Otherwise nothing stood out; well, he amended, there was that shining mass of dark hair and lovely hands—but no, what was intriguing was her air of composure, uncompromising ethics and intelligence even when she was annoyed.

He said, as the pause drew out, ‘You’ve more than earned it with the way you’ve handled it, Clare. No matter how many times your father may have saved my father’s life, you wouldn’t have still been acting for us if you hadn’t proved your worth.’

‘Thank you,’ she said simply.

‘And have I reassured you to the extent that you feel you could handle my divorce?’

‘I...’ Clare hesitated then drew a yellow legal pad towards her. ‘Yes. I presume you know that you have to register a separation which has to stand for twelve months before the divorce can be finalized, although financial settlement can be—’

‘Yes. We have actually been living separate lives for at least that length of time and we have also been through the required marriage counselling.’

Clare absorbed this. ‘Are there children involved, Mr Hewitt?’

‘One son. He’s six—nearly seven.’

‘Will you be contesting custody?’

‘Not unless my wife proves to be unreasonable in the matter of access.’

Clare bit her lip.

‘You have reservations about that?’ he asked coolly.

She put her pen down and clasped her hands on the desk. ‘Only to the extent that legal battles over custody can most harm the person they’re designed to protect—the child, who may become involved in a tug of war between his or her parents. And, whilst it’s no concern of mine, I always feel morally bound to point out that this is one area where both parties should act honourably and preferably between themselves.’

‘I certainly intend to,’ he said dryly.

‘Good. Then if you’re really sure about this, Lachlan, this is where we start trying to carve everything up—to be blunt.’

She said it lightly but watched him narrowly at the same time. Because, in her experience, although in these days of the cause for divorce having to be no more than the simple breakdown of a marriage, the carving-up process could be as painful and complicated as the old way of establishing guilt, and often gave people cause to pause...

But he said wryly, ‘Don’t worry, Clare, my mind is made up and here is what’s involved.’

Half an hour later she had to acknowledge that he had a razor-sharp mind and the considerable Hewitt empire at his fingertips. Also, that the soon-to-be ex-Mrs Lachlan Hewitt would be very handsomely provided for.

‘Well,’ she said at length, ‘on the basis of what you’ve told me this appears to be a generous settlement and I don’t think there should be much for her to contest.’

‘Don’t you believe it.’

She looked at him enquiringly.

‘She’ll contest every valuation down to every stick of furniture and throw in some interesting and highly fanciful claims, I have no doubt. It’ll be your job to see she doesn’t get away with them.’

‘I see.’ Clare glanced at him again and felt an odd little tremor run through her because of the glimpse of something cold and hard his words had revealed. But he said no more on the subject of his wife and they concluded the appointment shortly afterwards.

She watched him drive away from her first-floor window, in a maroon Range Rover with cream leather trim, and, although it was no business of hers, couldn’t help wondering what Serena Hewitt had done to incur the displeasure of her good-looking, clever husband.

Of course, it could be the other way around, she mused as she let the blind drop, but somehow she didn’t think so.

And nothing over the next twelve months caused her to change her mind.

Serena did indeed contest every valuation; she contested the validity of the Hewitt family company and trusts, the ownership of the homestead and all the furniture and objets d’art in it. She even contested the ownership of the two Irish wolfhounds, Paddy and Flynn, that she claimed she had bought as pups. And Clare had to fight each claim every inch of the way.

Curiously, the only thing Serena accepted with dignity and reasonableness was the access Lachlan Hewitt should have to his son, Sean, which was virtually unlimited.

But finally it was all accomplished, a divorce was finalized, and on that day Lachlan Hewitt said to Clare, ‘Well done, Slim. Can I buy you dinner?’

Her eyebrows rose because, apart from nicknaming her Slim quite early on in the piece, their relationship had been strictly professional.

He observed her raised eyebrows with a faint smile twisting his lips. ‘I am a free man now, Ms Montrose, if it’s your conscience you’re worried about—or mine. Besides, I feel you deserve the best meal and best bottle of champagne I can come up with. You’ve certainly earned it, that was quite a fight you put up.’

Her lips quivered in suppressed laughter. ‘If you must know there were days when I found myself wishing you’d at least give her the damn dogs.’

He laughed softly. ‘Paddy and Flynn are as big as small ponies. How she planned to have them in an apartment in Sydney makes the mind boggle.’

‘In that case I accept, Mr Hewitt,’ Clare said after a moment’s thought.

And, having never discussed his ex-wife, Serena, personally, that was the last mention he made of her.

They had dinner that night, then again a month later.

It was on this occasion that he said to her, ‘I’d like to see you again, Clare.’

She looked across the candle at him, her aquamarine eyes slightly wary.

‘But only if that’s what you would like. You see, whilst I thought it was inappropriate at the time to tell you this, you’ve been on my mind in a certain way for many months now.’

And he looked at her with a clear question in his eyes.

Clare found herself breathing a little raggedly as she recalled the many times over the past months when she’d had to admit to herself that she was attracted to this man, and had wished quietly that he was not a client, not a divorcee. Times when she’d lain in bed at night with the sound of the sea rhythmically bathing the shore so close by, and wondering how he saw her.

‘I,’ she said slowly, ‘have had the same problem at times.’

He looked faintly wry. ‘Then you hid it well.’

‘It would have been unprofessional to do otherwise. For that matter, so did you.’

He grimaced but didn’t answer directly. ‘Your career means a lot to you, doesn’t it, Clare?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that why you’re looking a little troubled and wary?’ he said gently, and slid his hand over to cover hers.

‘No. I suppose I’m surprised for one thing.’ Her fingers trembled beneath his. ‘I’m not terribly experienced for another.’

‘You shouldn’t be surprised. In your own quiet way you’re—captivating. And we know each other pretty well now.’

‘In some ways,’ she agreed.

‘Walk with me along the beach?’ he suggested.

The beach was only across the road and she agreed. They took their shoes off and paddled in the shallows, Clare holding the skirt of her long floral dress up. Then they sat on a bench on a grassy promontory and watched the lights of a big ship as it slid up the coast, and the flash of the Byron Bay Lighthouse.

To her surprise, they talked. He told her about his great-grandfather and how he’d come to Australia with only a few pounds in his pocket. He talked about his son, Sean, who was now seven and had a very high IQ and an equally high propensity for getting into trouble, and about how his latest crop of macadamia nuts was progressing.

And she responded, gradually relaxing and telling him about her teenage years when her fascination with law had begun to emerge, her years at university and something of her home life. She’d grown up in Armidale, a leafy, pretty town of some substance on the tablelands of New South Wales about three hundred and seventy kilometres south of Lennox Head. Armidale was home to the University of New England and home to her father’s prosperous tractor and farm machine agency.

She told Lachlan that she was an only child, and something about her gentle, retiring mother. Also, how her father dominated her mother and had tried to dominate her.

‘Which fed your ambition, I suppose,’ he commented.

‘Probably,’ she agreed with a little grimace.

‘Helped along by being as bright as a tack, no doubt.’

‘That hasn’t always been an asset,’ she said slowly.

He put an arm around her shoulders. ‘Frightened all guys away, you mean?’

Clare hesitated because she was suddenly acutely conscious of him, but she tested it in her mind, this first physical contact. And came to the conclusion that she felt comfortable against him, that she liked the subtle scent of clean cotton and his faint lemony aftershave, and even wished to draw closer to his warmth and bulk.

‘Perhaps,’ she answered eventually. ‘Not that it’s ever bothered me greatly,’ she added honestly.

‘It hasn’t frightened me away—it’s part of the attraction,’ he said quietly. And he started to kiss her for the first time.

Initially she was aware that the feel of his fingers moving gently on her cheek was pleasant. That his lips were cool and dry and she seemed not to mind parting her own for him. Then her senses took over.

The hunger that she’d battened down for twelve months asserted itself and the intimate act of being kissed by a man became a mutual pleasure.

The difference between her own soft skin and the slight graze she felt as she trailed her fingertips along his jaw, the knowledge that he could probably span her waist in his long, strong hands—all this brought a heady feel of elation and desire.

The feel of his arms around her, the feel of him against her body was rapturous and ignited a steady flame within her that made her forget the beach, the bench, the park. It was as if the only beacon in the night was this man and the mixture of excitement and quivering need he aroused in her...

When they drew apart, Clare was stunned and speechless for a few moments. Then she said, ‘I didn’t expect that...’

He grinned. ‘That we would generate those kind of fireworks? I did.’

Two weeks later they became lovers.

Coming back to the present again, Clare moved restlessly in her office chair and put her hand on her stomach.

It was six months since she’d begun a relationship with Lachlan Hewitt. Six months during which she’d been—well, almost blissfully happy, she conceded to herself. Six months during which the power of their attraction still took her by surprise.

He still called her Slim, but he used it now in moments of great intimacy, when her slender figure with its pale satiny skin fascinated him and together they experienced the kind of passion she’d thought might never exist for her.

Then there was the friendship they enjoyed, the moments of laughter, the things they did together such as climbing to the top of Lennox Head and watching the hang-gliders take off. But there were no ties—she still worked as hard as ever and if she wasn’t available he never made a fuss, and vice versa.

She visited Rosemont, the family home, often, and knew young Sean as well as Lachlan’s aunt May who ran the house, and Paddy and Flynn who were the size of small ponies but otherwise charming and gentle dogs.

By mutual, unspoken consent, she never stayed at Rosemont, however, although Lachlan stayed often at her apartment. But she didn’t feel excluded by this; she wouldn’t have felt right about it anyway.

Yet there had been times, she mused, still with her hand resting gently on her stomach, when an unidentifiable sense of unease had troubled her. How strange that an unplanned pregnancy should crystallize it all, she thought suddenly, and sat up.

She picked up her pen to doodle absently on her blotter and asked herself some things that she should have asked months ago; where had it all been leading, for example?

Had that inexplicable sense of unease grown because she, paradoxically, had wanted more than this undemanding relationship that she’d thought so suited her career? How would she feel if he ended the affair—perhaps she’d been a stopgap while he rebuilt his life after Serena?

And, of course, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, she mused as she drew a dollar sign on the blotter: what really happened with Serena to make it all go so terribly wrong?

She put her pen down and contemplated the unlikelihood, if she’d been asked to forecast it, of Clare Montrose getting herself into this situation. Because she’d never been able to visualize herself getting deeply, emotionally tangled with anyone. But then again she’d never visualized herself having this kind of relationship with a man, she reflected. Was she mad?

Because even without this complication she knew she was deeply and emotionally tangled up with Lachlan Hewitt, although she might not have cared to admit it. The crunch was, however—and she flinched as she acknowledged it—she had no idea where she stood.

She did have a week, though, she thought suddenly, to really think this through while he was in Sydney on business.

Her phone buzzed and she rubbed her face wearily, knowing her half-hour was up and she was about to be deluged.

But it was Lachlan. ‘Clare, can I come for dinner tomorrow night? I’m still in Sydney but instead of being down here for the week I’ve had a change of plan.’

‘Of course,’ she said.

‘Is something wrong?’

It shook her that he should have been able to read the sudden tension that had gripped her in her voice.

‘No, not at all. Well, I’m flat out as usual.’

‘See you about seven-thirty, then?’

‘Yes. I ... I’ll look forward to it. Bye!’ She put the phone down and closed her eyes. Because her week to prepare her—defences?—had suddenly shrunk to overnight.

And her phone rang again and would keep ringing all afternoon, she knew.

CHAPTER TWO

AT SEVEN-FIFTEEN the following evening, Clare was ready—or as ready as she’d ever be, she thought.

The table was set on the veranda of her first-floor apartment; it was a beautiful evening and the sun was setting. The beach at Lennox Head curved in a seven mile arc towards Broken Head to the north, and the setting sun bathed it in a transitory, golden pink and whitened the surf as it rolled in to a luminous radiance.

In front of her two-storey apartment block, built tastefully like a cluster of town houses with pale grey walls and shingled roofs, thick lush grass grew to the rocks that fringed the water’s edge. Immediately to the south, Lennox Head itself rose, clad in emerald-green, to its rocky lip. It was a favourite hang-gliding spot and on weekends provided a colourful, at times heart-stopping spectacle.

The bay formed by Lennox Head and Broken Head was a fisherman’s paradise—of the human variety, who fished off the rocks and launched small boats from the beach, and the dolphin variety. It was common to see them in the morning and late afternoons as they curved through the water, flashing their fins.

The village itself was within walking distance, small but colourful with pavement cafés and a holiday atmosphere.

None of this was on Clare’s mind as she stood before her bedroom mirror and studied herself anxiously.

She wore a long, cool dress in a soft watermelon-pink, gold sandals, and her dark hair was tucked behind her ears to reveal gold hoop earrings studded with tiny pearls.

The dress was loose and cut on a bias so it flowed around her as she moved, and it was perfect for a warm January evening, but she’d actually chosen it for its unrevealing nature.

Not that she could see anything to reveal, she mused. She hadn’t popped out in any direction and hadn’t put on an ounce of weight.

Then the doorbell rang.

She opened the door—to a dark-suited stranger.

‘Ms Montrose?’

‘Yes.’

‘May I come in?’

‘But I don’t think I know you,’ she said slowly.

‘I’d like to remedy that,’ he replied expressionlessly.

‘Do I have an option?’

‘Actually—no.’

‘I see.’ Clare took an unsteady little breath. ‘Then you had better come in.’

He stepped across the threshold and waited while she closed and bolted the door. Then he took her in his arms and murmured, ‘It’s almost as if you’ve been waiting for me, Ms Montrose.’

‘Not you, someone else,’ she whispered.

‘I hope I’m able to take his place.’ And he trailed his long fingers down the side of her throat.

She shivered slightly. He looked into her eyes then lowered his mouth to hers.

When they broke apart, she was breathing raggedly and he took her hand and turned to lead her into the main bedroom.

She followed after a slight hesitation. The sun had set and a blue dusk was starting to fall beyond her wide windows.

She stood unresisting although she was tense and she kept her eyes veiled as he started to undress her. The zip at the back of her dress went down to her hips and the silky watermelon-pink material slipped off her shoulders. She glanced at him briefly but he only looked narrowly intent as he watched the dress slip farther down. She stepped out of it.

Her underwear appeared to hold his interest for some moments, a beautiful, dusky pink bra with elaborate silver embroidery and a matching pair of high-cut bikini briefs with a tiny silver ribbon bow.

He looked into her eyes again. ‘I wonder if they realize, when you’re in court and being so very professional, Ms Montrose, how seductive your underwear is?’

Clare licked her lips. ‘I don’t...always wear... these.’

He smiled briefly. ‘Good old Bonds Cottontails for work? Does that mean you wore these especially for the man you were expecting tonight?’

‘Yes...’ It was the bare echo of the word.

‘So he likes you to be sexy and seductive?’ He raised an eyebrow.

She didn’t answer.

‘Or do you like to be that way for him, Ms Montrose?’

Again she didn’t answer but looked at him proudly.

‘Spoken like a true feminist,’ he drawled. ‘But, on his behalf, I don’t believe I should allow this moment to go unrequited.’ And he pulled off his jacket and loosened his tie.

But he undressed no further. He took her into his arms first and kissed her thoroughly again before he went to release her bra.

Clare resisted and said huskily, ‘Do I have the right of reply, at least?’

‘Be my guest,’ he invited.

She smiled briefly and undid the knot of his tie and threw it on the bed, and started to unbutton his shirt.

‘Ah, that kind of reply,’ he murmured.

‘Even if I have to do this, I might as well make a statement of my own.’

‘Ma’am, I can’t take exception to that.’

‘Good. How sexy does this make you feel, sir?’ Her eyes glinted as she slipped her hands beneath his open shirt and ran them up and down his chest, curling her fingertips in the springy hairs then allowing them to wander down his hard, trim torso towards the waistband of his trousers.

He looked at her wryly but replied gravely. ‘More and more so, Ms Montrose.’

Tantalizingly, she let her hands roam up to his shoulders again and eased the crisp white cotton shirt away. The skin of his wide shoulders was smooth and tanned and she bent her dark head and kissed him lingeringly on the base of his throat at the same time as she freed his shirt from his trousers and once again rested her fingers on his waistband.

‘May I?’ he said, not quite so evenly.

‘Be my guest,’ she whispered, with the faintest gleam of victory in her aquamarine eyes.

They said no more as they dispensed with the rest of their clothing, although she trembled at each touch of his hands on her body—her breasts, the smooth curve of her hips, her inner thighs—and what the contact with his body did to her—igniting her senses and turning her slim, pale figure into an instrument of growing, sheer desire.

Then she was lying beneath him on the wide bed as they came together in a breathtakingly sensual rhythm and, finally, a union that left them both gasping with delight.

‘That was a cheap shot at my underwear in court, Mr Hewitt.’ She snuggled against him and laid her cheek on his chest.

She felt a jolt of laughter run through him as he combed his fingers through her hair. ‘I gathered that—if looks could kill! But you played your part perfectly, Slim. You even managed to turn the tables on me.’

She grimaced. ‘You did look like a stranger. I’ve never seen you so formally dressed before.’

‘I went straight to the airport in Sydney from a business conference, and came straight here from Ballina airport.’

‘Did you—?’ She stopped and bit her lip.

‘Tell me,’ he prompted gently.

She lifted her head so she could see his eyes, leant her chin on her hands and said slowly, ‘Did you think that after six months we’d still have that kind of effect on each other?’

‘I ... had no way of knowing,‘ he said thoughtfully. ‘But I can’t complain. Can you?’

‘No ...’

‘You don’t sound too sure.’ He sat up and she followed suit so they were sitting side by side, and he took her hand.

Clare thought for a moment and discovered that her uppermost emotion now was a sense of disbelief. Here she was, a mother-to-be, but indulging in lovely, sensual games—well, to be honest she could no more help herself than fly to the moon, but was it right? Shouldn’t she be feeling less sexy and more—what—responsible?

‘Clare?’

‘I suppose I had no way of knowing either and no, I’m not complaining,’ she said humorously. ‘In fact, I’m also going to be very traditional and unfeminist right now. Lie back and I’ll bring you a drink which you can enjoy at your leisure whilst I have a shower and rescue dinner.’

She went to get up but his fingers tightened on her hand. ‘We could have a shower together—we usually do—and I could help you to rescue dinner, Clare. Too much unfeminism could have a detrimental effect on you.’

‘What do you mean?’ She turned to him with a slight frown.

He grinned then said simply, ‘I like your brand of independence, Clare. It makes things quite electric between us, or hadn’t you noticed? As in—what happened right here not that long ago, for example,’ he added softly.

She thought swiftly. ‘Ah, but this is just my famed independence in a different form, Lachlan. In other words, do as you’re told.’ She raised their hands and kissed his knuckles briefly, shot him an impish look, and this time escaped.

But as she showered quickly and donned a cotton housecoat her emotions were different again. This time she felt guilty and a little shoddy because the only reason she’d suggested he relax with a drink was so that he wouldn’t shower with her and get the opportunity to study her body in adequate light, just in case there was some tell-tale sign.

He’d have to know sooner or later, she reminded herself. Why put it off? She was scared, that was why, she answered herself. She didn’t know how he’d react. She don’t know if he’d ever see her as anything other than a tantalizing sexual partner... And perhaps it was the distance they kept from each other, not to mention her famed independence, that kept their affair so fresh and electric.

She’d made curry and rice, one of his favourites, and gone to some trouble with the sambals. He thanked her appreciatively as he studied the feast laid out on the veranda table. He’d showered and changed into a T-shirt and shorts, retrieved from a bag in his car.

It was quite dark by now but the night was starry and the rhythmic flash of the Byron Bay lighthouse could be seen in the sky.

A bottle of wine stood in a pottery cooler but when he started to pour her a glass she said suddenly, ‘No, thanks, Lachlan. I think I’ll have—just water.’

He looked at her for a moment then shrugged. She barely drank at the best of times but usually had one or two glasses of wine if they were having dinner together. Would he think something was amiss? she wondered apprehensively.

But all he said, as he poured his own glass, was, ‘Big day tomorrow?’

She relaxed. ‘They’re all big days these days.’

‘Ever thought of scaling down?’ he asked as they started to eat.

‘No,’ she said slowly, and then was suddenly conscious of feeling physically uncomfortable, oddly queasy and with sweating palms. ‘Uh—but I am thinking of taking on a qualified solicitor.’

‘If you did you might be able to spend some time away with me,’ he mused.

Her eyes widened. ‘Such as?’ she asked carefully.

‘Well, one of the reasons that I came back early was because I’ve decided to go to the States in a couple of days. There’s a macadamia conference I wasn’t going to attend but I’ve changed my mind. I’ve got one or two other business matters over there so I thought I’d kill all the birds with one stone. We could have gone together.’

“There’s no way, at the moment, anyway—’

‘There never is,’ he said.

She studied his expression by the light of the single fat candle between them, burning brightly in a candle glass, but it was entirely enigmatic.

‘All the same it doesn’t sound like much of a holiday,’ she murmured, and looked at her curry and rice with distaste.

‘Oh, I guess we would have found some time to—play.’

Clare blinked as she digested this, and drew no comfort from it, she discovered, as she visualized herself twiddling her thumbs whilst he attended to business matters, and visualized herself being dutifully grateful for the odd ‘times’ he found to play.

Moreover, she thought, with a tinge of bitterness, she didn’t know about this ‘playing’ any more, even if it was electric and devastatingly irresistible.

She said, with a little movement of her shoulders, ‘Unfortunately, even with a partner or an associate, I may only just get back to normal—normal hours, at least, which is not “tripping around the world” kind of time off.’

He finished his curry, pushed his plate away and joined his hands behind his head. ‘Oh, well, it was just a thought.’

‘How long will you be away?’

‘Three weeks.’

Her eyes widened again. They’d never spent that long apart without some kind of contact before. ‘A lot of birds to kill,’ she commented.

‘I’m thinking of diversifying—coffee is only a boutique crop around these parts at the moment but it has potential. I’d like to investigate it thoroughly before I go into it, though. If I go into it.’

‘Aren’t macadamias and avocados enough?’ she asked curiously.

‘Macadamias suffer fluctuations in world prices, especially since Hawaii started producing and took some of our US market. And avocados can always be tricky to grow. They all can for that matter. It’s a good idea to have a few strings to your bow.’

‘Well, I wish you luck!’ She stood up and began to clear the plates—hers only half-finished. Then she became conscious that he was watching her rather intently, although his smoky grey eyes were unreadable.

‘Is something wrong?’ she asked uncertainly.

‘No,’ he said, but after an odd little pause. ‘Talking of coffee—’

‘Just coming up, Mr Hewitt. Stay there.’

It was just as well that he did, because while she was making the coffee that insidiously unwell feeling gripped her seriously, so much so that she had to dash for the bathroom where she painfully lost what little of her dinner she had eaten.

It had to be morning sickness, she told herself incredulously as she rested her cheek against the cool of the bathroom mirror. But at night? And tonight of all nights—she couldn’t believe it.

She waited for a couple of minutes but the nausea seemed to have passed and she cautiously went back to the kitchen. But Lachlan was still on the veranda, gazing out over the sea.

‘This is Blue Mountain coffee,’ she murmured presently. ‘Who knows? I could shortly be serving you Rosemont Premium Blend.’

‘Not shortly. It would take a few years, at least.’

They sat in silence over their coffee for a few minutes, Clare sipping hers carefully in case it made her nauseous. Added to this she was in a bit of a whirl as she tried to get to grips with the suddenly tension-shot atmosphere that seemed to have developed between them.

Without stopping to think, she said abruptly, ‘Do you ever see Serena when you’re in Sydney?’

He looked at her. ‘Sometimes. Why?’

‘I just wondered.’ She shrugged. ‘How is it going for her?’

He paused. ‘What brought this up?’

‘Nothing really. If you’d rather not talk about it that’s fine with me.’

‘Serena,’ he said deliberately, ‘is enjoying to the full the jet-setting life-style she believes I denied her.’

Clare blinked at him. ‘She didn’t enjoy...Rosemont? ’

‘No. She felt buried alive. So she said.’

‘That ... No.’ She looked away.

‘Say it, Clare.’

She took a breath and sat up straighter as a little flame of annoyance licked through her at his tone. If anyone had the right to be curious, surely she did, she thought. ‘It sounds to me as if a fuller investigation of your life-style preferences might have been a good idea before you got married,’ she murmured coolly.

‘How right you are,’ he drawled.

She just looked at him.

‘But if you’d ever met her you might have understood that at the time they didn’t seem to matter—particularly if you were a man.’

‘I ... I did see her once,’ she said involuntarily.

His eyes glinted with mockery—self-directed? she wondered. He said, ‘Then I may not have to spell it out for you.’

No, she thought, and coloured for some reason as she recalled sleek blonde hair, long-lashed cornflower-blue eyes, an aristocratic little nose and lots of smooth golden skin exposed in a mini-dress that did little to hide a sensational figure. Plus, she mused, a definite air of combined hauteur and come-hitherness that would be hard for most men to resist.

‘I see,’ she said at length.

He smiled unamusedly. ‘A very lawyerly comment.’

‘Lachlan—’ She stopped, and stopped herself from simply saying, I’m pregnant, Lachlan. That’s why I’m curious although I probably always have been. It’s my own fault that this happened but—what do you suggest we do?

‘Clare?’ he said after a moment.

‘I’m tired. I have got a big day tomorrow, that’s all.’

He looked at her ironically. ‘My marching orders in other words?’

‘I didn’t say so but if that’s how you want to take it, yes,’ she said bleakly. ‘We don’t seem to be...enjoying each other’s company much at the moment, do we?’

‘There’s an old saying about too much excitement and high spirits causing tears before bedtime.’

‘Don’t patronize me, Lachlan, I’m not in the same league as your seven-year-old son,’ she warned tightly. ‘Anyway, you started it.’

‘He’s eight now and you were more than happy to play along. However—’ he rose and kissed her lightly on the forehead ‘—before this gets out of hand and becomes a sordid little “domestic”, I’ll say goodnight, Ms Montrose.’

He stood over her for a long moment, staring down at her enigmatically. But Clare only gazed back at him mutinously. And he turned on his heel and walked out.

She lay on her bed, dry-eyed but distraught.

For once in her well-ordered life she had not so much as rinsed a dish or removed anything from the table on the veranda. The mere thought of anything to do with food, particularly leftover, cold food, was anathema to her. But the thought of how disastrously the evening had ended was worse.

A sordid little ‘domestic’, she thought bleakly. But what had really started it? Things had seemed to deteriorate before she’d mentioned Serena. So it went back to his trip to the States, she supposed. Yet he’d never before even suggested they go away together and he must have known a business trip for him wouldn’t particularly appeal to her—unless he’d decided he needed a more available, amenable mistress?

The thought shook her and chilled her to the bone.

But in line with his obvious distaste for any kind of domestic dispute as well as his clear reluctance to discuss his ex-wife with her, what else was she supposed to think? she asked herself sadly.

And just how would he react if he knew that what she really longed for at this moment was not some jaunt halfway around the world, but to be able to curl up next to him, feeling warm and safe, with no thought of work, no decisions to make other than what they were going to call this baby because he had everything else under control?

She sighed and, for the first time since she’d found out she was pregnant, let her mind wander...

A girl? Well, a girl would be ideal, seeing as he already had a boy, but then again Sean might prefer a brother. If she had to do this on her own, though, perhaps a girl would be easier—how crazy was that, Clare Montrose? she chided herself. She had no choice; the baby’s gender was decided. And, whatever happened, it was hers...

Valerie Martin popped in to see her a couple of mornings later, a Saturday. She had heard nothing from Lachlan in the interim and wasn’t even sure whether he was still in the country.

‘How’s it going, Clare?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Clare said cautiously. ‘Come in and sit down for a moment. I think I may have started this morning sickness bit but—it was at night and I had had some curry so—’

Valerie laughed. ‘Millions of Indian women have curry as a staple diet and morning sickness at night is quite common. Welcome to the club!’

Clare grimaced. ‘It just came on out of the blue; it was a pretty lousy experience but once it was over I felt fine again, well—relatively fine. It was also two nights ago and I haven’t actually been sick since although...’ She gestured.

‘That sounds par for the course. By the way, I forgot to tell you that your first scan should be at about eighteen weeks—I can make all the arrangements but if you’d prefer to transfer to an obstetrician I can refer you to one.’

Clare gazed at Valerie Martin, who had four children herself, she knew, and who was assuming the proportions of a lifeline as someone she respected and liked as well as someone who knew some of the background of this pregnancy. ‘Do I have to?’ she said doubtfully. ‘I’d much rather stick with you.’

She paused and contemplated the sudden and alien thought of scans, hospitals, the sheer invasion of physical privacy that was about to descend on her, and paled slightly.

Valerie’s face softened as she watched this knowledge come to Clare Montrose, who, she had no doubt, was a very private woman.

She said, ‘Here‘s what we could do. In case, just in case of any complications, we could engage an obstetrician to be on standby. I would handle the bulk of your pregnancy—no pun intended,’ she said humorously, ‘and he would see you a couple of times as well as conducting the ultrasound scans, and be on call for the delivery. That covers all eventualities but it’s quite likely he won’t be needed.’

Clare relaxed. ‘Thanks. Most of this is such new territory for me, I, well—’

‘I know. At least, I guessed,’ Valerie said.

‘I suppose I’ve been so wrapped up in my career—but—’ Clare stopped and shrugged. ‘It’s not only that. I’m an only child, I don’t have any aunts and uncles or cousins—’

‘Both your parents were only children?’

‘Not really. My mother lost a brother at birth, but that counts as being an only child, I guess. Uh—so I’ve never been closely associated with anyone pregnant or had much to do with babies. I lost touch with most of my girlfriends before they had any. I—’ She stopped again, then said ruefully, ‘I was always a bit of a loner.’

‘Have you told him?’

They stared at each other.

Until Valerie said bluntly, ‘Forgive me, but if we’re going to be friends as well as patient and doctor—’

‘No,’ Clare said. ‘I mean, yes, I would very much appreciate your friendship, Valerie. But no, I haven’t told him. I have only seen him once, a couple of nights ago, and—I just couldn’t seem to say it.’

‘Probably best to just say it, Clare.’ Valerie shook her head and grimaced. ‘Very easy to give advice, however. What about your parents?’

‘My mother,’ Clare said slowly, ‘has always longed for me to marry and have children. So has my father, I guess, although for all the wrong reasons.’

‘Most grandparents fall in love with their grandchildren whatever the scenario,’ Valerie commented. ‘By the way—’ she smiled mischievously at Clare ‘—speaking as your doctor—and you may not like this but I genuinely recommend it—you need to have plenty of rest. I’m all in favour of some exercise but—’ she sobered ‘—the first trimester, Clare, needs some care taken of it.’

‘I...I’m going to put a full-time solicitor on.’

‘Good girl!’ Valerie rose and deposited a package on Clare’s desk. ‘All you need to know about the course of your life for the next seven-odd months—what you should do, what you shouldn’t, some information on antenatal classes in the area, et cetera, et cetera.’

‘Thanks.’ Clare grinned and rose. ‘I’ll make it my weekend project—well, one of them.’

She had intended to work through the weekend although the office closed at noon on Saturday, but as she locked up and stepped out to get herself some lunch, and stepped off the pavement deep in thought, a maroon Range Rover all but ran her over. It swerved wildly and screeched to a halt beside her and it was Lachlan who jumped out.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded, his grey eyes furious, his jaw hard as she tried to collect herself and still the pounding of her heart.

‘I...I wasn’t thinking,’ she stammered.

‘You could have been killed! Not to mention being instrumental in causing a head-on collision.’

‘I’m sorry. I ... really am sorry—what are you doing? ’

‘Kidnapping you,’ he said sardonically as he steered her towards the vehicle and gave her no . choice but to get in. ‘What do you think I’m doing?’

Clare had to hitch up her slim straight skirt to negotiate the high step, and while he gave her no help he penned her in so that there was no chance of escape. Then he slammed the door on her and strode round to get in himself.

She said coldly, although she clutched her hands in her lap to stop them from shaking, ‘Considering that I had assumed you’d left the country—I have no idea what you’re doing or planning to do.’

‘Then I’ll tell you.’ He shoved the gear lever forward and drove off, spinning the tyres. ‘I don’t—as you put it with such criminal connotations—leave the country until tomorrow. So I’m taking you up to Rosemont for lunch and if you dare say anything about how you’d planned to work this afternoon, Clare Montrose, I shall be even more annoyed.’

She bit her lip, not only at his words but the plain warning in his eyes.

He also said, ‘I’m all for being industrious and so on but when it’s taken to the heights you do, when it ousts every other damn thing from your mind, then it’s about time someone told you enough was enough. It is also Saturday afternoon—and my last day here for a while.’

Clare swallowed. ‘I wasn’t sure whether...you wanted to see me again.’

He was silent for a moment as he turned onto the Byron Bay Ballina Road. Then he said abruptly, ‘Do you want to see me again, Clare?’

Her voice seemed to stick in her throat. But finally she heard herself say, ‘I’ve been thoroughly miserable since... then. And not sure what went wrong. So I didn’t really know how to—’ she laced her fingers together ‘—approach you.’

She said it all staring straight ahead as he swung into Ross Lane which would take them up from the flat, coastal plain to the gently undulating countryside around Tintenbar and Alstonville.

Then, to her surprise, she heard him laugh softly, and her aquamarine eyes were puzzled and questioning as she turned to him.

‘Approach me?’ he said softly, and put his hand over hers. ‘Clare, all you had to do was click your fingers and I’d have come running.’

She gasped. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t!’

‘Ah, well, perhaps not.’ His eyes were amused. ‘But I’d have come all the same. The thing is, I don’t know how things went so awry the other night either but there’s obviously some worm of discontent niggling between us and I’d like to get to the root of it before I go.’

It shot through her mind that the problem between them would not be susceptible to solving in one afternoon, did he but know it.

She said quietly, ‘Perhaps we were foolish to think we could live in some sort of time capsule, so—’ she hesitated ‘—untouched by anyone or anything else, for ever.’

‘You’ve always seemed perfectly happy with the status quo, Clare.’

‘So have you. And yes, I was. It suited everything about my life so well. But it’s not, well, it’s not what I imagined could ever happen to me. So I’ve had moments of—unease.’

‘Tell me.’

She shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘Will it last? Can a relationship so physically orientated and so determinedly detached in every other respect last? Am I a stepping stone while you get over Serena? Those kinds of thoughts.’

They crossed the Pacific Highway and the Range Rover swept down a winding road then up again towards the lovely, camphor laurel country that was home to Rosemont.

‘That’s what was upsetting you the other night?’ he said at last with a slight frown.

Clare took a breath. ‘Actually, I was wondering whether you’d decided you needed a more available and amenable mistress. To take away with you on business trips, for example?’

A smile touched his mouth but it was faintly grim. ‘Would your unease with our relationship make you into that kind of mistress, Clare?’

‘No,’ she said definitely.

‘Then I think we have to acknowledge that for whatever reason—and there are plenty—and despite the odd bit of dissatisfaction, this is what suits us best. Yes,’ he said as she made a sudden movement beside him, ‘I did suddenly think that I would be lonely without you on this trip. I did, I don’t deny, think, Why the hell does she have to work so damned hard anyway?’

‘Go on,’ she said barely audibly.

He looked at her ironically. ‘My next thought was, I’m sure she’d hate me for thinking along those lines—and I wasn’t wrong, was I, Clare?’

A week ago he wouldn’t have been, she mused sadly. Now? Now, of course, everything had changed.

‘Which is why,’ he said at length when she didn’t answer, ‘I don’t think we should tamper with the order of things as they stand between us, Clare.’

‘I...I was going to say—I see,’ she responded as some inner resource came to her rescue. What she really felt like doing was bursting into tears, because the distortions and half truths had established what she’d always feared—that he wouldn’t want to marry her. ‘But I won’t be lawyerly,’ she soldiered on with a false smile. ‘You’re probably right.’

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