His Nine Month Seduction Page 2

“That’s fine,” Theo insisted with almost offensive clarity, shaking out of his coat and hooking it near the door. “Ready?”

  The restaurant was brighter than the bar had been and he studied her properly as she eyed their surrounds. More memories surfaced to the top of his mind. When she laughed, it was like bells being released on the breeze. Musical and lilting, he’d loved the sound of it.

  She wasn’t laughing now, though. Her expression was grim, her eyes loaded with emotions he couldn’t fully comprehend.

  “Is there anything you’re allergic to?” He waited for her to slide into the green leather banquette and then took the seat beside her. She pushed right back, as far against the wall as she could go, and he didn’t crowd her. But he stayed close enough to ensure their conversation wouldn’t easily be overheard.

  “Well,” she tapped a finger against the table. “Let’s see. Soft cheese. Rare meat. Ham. Prosciutto…”

  “That’s a lot of allergies,” he said with obvious surprise.

  “Not allergies,” she rolled her eyes. “I’m pregnant. I have to avoid all that.”

  Inwardly he cursed his complete lack of knowledge. When he and Marie had been trying to conceive, he’d looked into everything he could about cycles, fertility, the best diets to guarantee conception, all so that he could support her. But he hadn’t thought about the next step – what happened when a woman actually was pregnant.

  “Right. Here.” He thrust a menu towards her, his smile something between dismissive and totally-completely-out of his depth.

  And that had red flags flashing in her mind.

  Out of his depth was sexy. Sweet. Adorable.

  And she didn’t want to feel any of those things about him.

  He was a bastard. A bastard who’d had a one-night stand, probably after drinking more than she realized (though heaven knew it hadn’t affected his performance in the slightest) and then run out in the middle of the night. Where had he gone? Had he driven under the influence?

  Was the father of her baby just that irresponsible?

  “So?” She asked, still tapping her finger against the table top. “What do you want to talk about?”

  His eyes flashed with something like annoyance. “Everything. We’ve already established that I’m … scant on the details of our … night together.”

  “Not a night,” she corrected softly. “A few hours, I think.” She pushed open the menu, her eyes skimming it without seeing. “You were gone when I woke up, and I always wake at dawn. You must have crept out in the middle of the night.”

  He nodded, more memories bubbling through him. “My driver arrived,” he said, pleased with the detail that had emerged at just the right time. And from that thread, came others. His phone had rung, waking him up. He’d answered quickly, not wanting to disturb the woman in his bed.

  Not his bed – it had been a hotel. A pub?

  He’d arranged to meet Elliot and then he’d looked at her, one last time. He hadn’t wanted to go, he remembered now. She’d been a fantastic lover – unexpectedly so. But he’d had a lot of great sex, and getting back to London had been his priority. Before the scum paparazzi worked out where the hell he was, and why.

  The irony of that sat like a noose around his neck now.

  “I see.” She swallowed, a gesture he was quickly realizing spoke of disapproval.

  “I don’t remember much about you.”

  “And I don’t remember you having such a penchant for Captain Obvious statements.” The interruption was accompanied by a flick of her eyes heavenward.

  “Tell me,” he drawled. “Did I find your sarcasm cute at one time?”

  Colour flashed in her cheeks and he had a brief moment of satisfaction at realizing his quip had hit its mark. It was rapidly followed by regret. Embarrassing her was both futile and stupid.

  This woman was going to be the mother of his child.

  That was what he had to keep his mind on.

  “Look, I guess there’s no roadmap for us to follow here.” He kicked his legs out beneath the table, crossing them at the ankles. “Let’s agree to keep the jibes to a minimum.”

  “I can if you can,” she murmured under her breath. “What do you want to know?”

  He lifted his eyes to hers, and something like doubt swamped him. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and utterly unwelcome. “Everything. About you, and the pregnancy.”

  “Well,” she ran her finger over the menu, still not deciphering any of the Italian dishes on offer. “Everything about me could take a while. I am twenty-three…”

  He swore under his breath. “Twenty-three?” Hell. She didn’t just look young and sweet and naïve. She was basically still a kid. Even as a twenty-three-year-old himself he hadn’t looked at women this young.

  “Did I know that the night we…”

  “No.” She swallowed. “You didn’t ask and it didn’t occur to me to show you my ID.”

  “You’re so young.”

  “I’m ten years younger than you. Not even.”

  “So you knew that when we …?”

  “No. I googled you after you left,” she said, somewhat sheepishly.

  But when she looked into his eyes, she met something like embarrassment, bouncing back to her in a way that was surprising.

  If she’d searched him online then she’d have known all about his marriage break up, and the reasons that were most popularly speculated to be the cause. It was lucky she’d come to tell him anything about the baby, given the image he’d garnered since leaving Marie.

  “There is a hell of a lot on the internet about me,” he ran a palm over his chin. “A lot of it is make-believe.”

  “But not all of it,” she prompted with evident curiosity, wishing she’d paid better attention.

  He wished it were. Sadly, Theo Trevalyen had always been an object of interest to the press, and since his separation and return to the bachelor lifestyle, he was tabloid fodder on speed. “Not all of it.”

  Gianni appeared at the edge of the table, a smile playing around his lips when he saw the way they were leaning close together.

  “Ah, perfection, no? For dinner? What you like?”

  “Ummm,” Imogen scanned the menu, wishing she’d paid a little more attention in high school Italian. “Maybe…” She bit down on her lip.

  “The bistecca is excellent.” Gianni drew his fingers to his lips, kissing the tips and then exploding them in the air. “Good for two to share.”

  Imogen’s cheeks flamed at the inference. That they were lovers. On some kind of romantic date. Instead of two strangers who found themselves in an impossibly awkward situation. “Can it be well done?” She asked, lifting her eyes to his face hopefully.

  “Oh.” Disappointment was obvious in the man’s face and Imogen winced, returning her attention to the menu. The chef at her parents’ pub was just the same. It was a criminal offense to eat red meat that wasn’t still oozing blood in the middle. “Never mind. The spaghetti with bacon, please.”

  “Si.”

  Theo folded his own menu and handed it to Gianni. “Bistecca well done for me, and fries.” He turned to look at Imogen, and smiled. A smile designed to set her at ease, that had the exact opposite effect because it caused her pulse to fire and her heart to race.

  He was beautiful and he was sexy and he was most definitely, absolutely off limits…

  CHAPTER TWO

  “SO,” HE EASED BACK in the seat, stretching his arm along behind her, his long fingers dangling dangerously close to her shoulder. “You were working at the pub the night we met?”

  She nodded. “It’s my parents’,” she said quietly. “I help them out from time to time.”

  “But it’s not your full-time job?” He couldn’t have said why, but he was relieved by that. He didn’t like to think of her slaving away behind a bar, a target for men like him, who’d had a few too many and thought they could try their luck with the beautiful, young barmaid.

  “No.” She shook her head, put
ting an elbow on the table and propping her head in the palm of her hand. She smothered a yawn as she met his eyes. “I work at a daycare in town.”

  “In town as in..?” What was the name of the tiny little village he’d found his way to the middle of?

  “Swan on Green, yeah.” She bit down on her lip. “Probably not where you thought your baby would be raised, I guess.”

  He didn’t say anything. He sure as hell didn’t tell her that no baby of his would be raised anywhere but his own home.

  “Anyway, there’s a little daycare attached to the shopping centre. I’ve been there for four years.”

  “You didn’t go to university?”

  She shook her head. “No. I… couldn’t.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Why not?”

  “Just circumstances,” she intimated vaguely. “Family stuff. It’s not important.”

  Only it was important to Theo. He couldn’t have said why, but curiosity was storming across him. “So you work at a daycare centre and you help your parents with the pub.”

  “That’s me,” she shrugged her shoulders. Shoulders that were slim and fair. Out of nowhere he saw them as they’d been, naked against the bed, a skein of moonlight dancing across her, like it was cutting her in two.

  “Boyfriend?”

  “No.” She lifted her eyes to his and glanced away.

  “I wasn’t your first lover,” he said with misplaced confidence; after all, he was still recollecting the details of that night.

  “No, that’s true,” she said with a lift of her shoulders. She’d had precisely two lovers before Theo, and neither of them were really in the same ballpark as him. Before that night, sex had been something two people did when they cared for one another. It was nice. Reassuring. Sweet.

  Not mind-blowing, world-changing, life-exploding…

  Something like distaste moved across his face. “And, I don’t mean to offend you, but are you absolutely sure…”

  “Sure?” She waited for him to finish the sentence but then comprehension dawned and anger flooded through her. “That the baby’s yours?” She clarified, looking away, trying to tell herself that it was a legitimate question. Only pregnancy hormones were shredding her ability to be reasonable and anger was a quick response.

  “Before you I hadn’t slept with anyone else in almost a year. So unless this is some kind of miraculous, first-of-its-kind gestation period, yes, Theo; the baby is yours.” She narrowed her eyes, her pulse firing aggressively. “But I don’t expect you to be overjoyed, or even to want anything to do with it, or me. Like I said at the bar, I just didn’t want to be one of those women who hide something as monumental as a baby from a guy. I couldn’t do that. And I wouldn’t do it to Lemon.”

  “Lemon?” He lifted his brows, his laugh conveying itself in the single word.

  “That’s what it is now,” she said self-consciously. “It’s just this thing I do,” she continued, the words stilted. “Each week I check what size it is. Sometimes though I just call it Bean.” She shrugged. “You’re missing my point. The baby’s yours.”

  “I believe you.” The words were graveled. “I just had to ask.”

  “I wouldn’t lie about something like this.” She fixed him with a cool, clear gaze. “I’m not out to get anything from you. I don’t want to scam you. I don’t care that you’re you, and I’m me. The differences between us don’t matter. This baby deserves two parents who can work out a way to at least get along. That is, presuming…”

  “Okay!” Gianni seemed to have developed a knack for choosing the worst possible time to interrupt and he flexed his gift in that moment, his rotund belly hanging over the table as he slid bread and olives, olive oil and salt towards them. “Eat, eat. I have squid too, and some gnocchi. Just a little.” His grin was kindness itself, and Imogen found herself returning it even though her situation had made spontaneous happiness almost impossible.

  “I gather you’re a bit of a celebrity around here?” She imbued the words with disapproval; she couldn’t have said why.

  “On the contrary.” He watched as she dipped some focaccia into the olive oil, then sprinkled it with salt. “This is a place I can come to and be treated normally. Gianni doesn’t care what’s in my bank account or portfolio.”

  “And you like that,” she murmured, biting down on the bread and closing her eyes as the flavor filled her with pleasure. “Oh, this is good.”

  “Bread?”

  “Focaccia,” she corrected. “And a truly pungent olive oil.” She caught a droplet of oil that was escaping from the side of her mouth, chasing it back upwards and licking her fingertip. He watched, mesmerized, unable to deny the desire that was rampant in his system.

  The details of that night were still foggy, but hell, he would have judged himself for not getting her into his bed. She was impossibly, distractingly sexy.

  “You like food?”

  She pulled a face. “Who doesn’t like food?”

  His smile was just a hint on his face. “I know lots of women who would run a mile from a slab of bread like that.”

  Imogen’s heart dipped. “I’m sure you do.” She toyed with the napkin to her right, her eyes fixed on a point over his shoulder.

  “Say it,” he prompted, wondering at what thoughts were making her mind wander and her eyes cloud with ideas unspoken. “Say what you are thinking.”

  Her grey gaze flew back to his face. “How do you know I’m thinking anything?”

  His laugh was a thick rumble that rattled her all the way to the tips of her toes. “Because you have a face that gives you away.” He reached across for a piece of bread at the same moment she did, so that their fingertips touched. She jerked away immediately, her cheeks flushed.

  Something like frustration zipped through him and he hated, in that instant, that he couldn’t properly recall the night they’d shared. He sat back, his voice gravelly. “After you.”

  “Thank you.” So prim. So cold. Out of nowhere he saw her with flushed cheeks, eyes fevered and he knew that it wasn’t always the case. She was capable of deep, soul-burning passion.

  “That night…” He frowned, lifting his drink and sipping it. “I wasn’t myself.”

  She looked away, deliberately not meeting his eye. “Weren’t you?”

  Ghosts of the past pressed against him. “I’m afraid you were somewhere in the middle of a reasonably spectacular four-day bender.”

  “I didn’t realize,” she said truthfully. “You didn’t seem…”

  “No. I know.” He shook his head. “I should have known better than to have unprotected sex, no matter what state I was in.”

  “You did. We didn’t…” She sucked in a deep breath, the embarrassment of discussing the fact they’d slept together at odds with the certainty they’d be sharing a child soon enough. “We used protection.” Her eyes stayed glued to the table top. “I guess it’s not always effective.”

  “I see.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw, the roughness of his stubble making a scratchy noise that fired desire in her blood. Need was a persistent hammer, beating against her chest. Memories of that night flashed through her mind and she tried her hardest to push them aside.

  “I must say, I’m relieved,” he grunted. “I would have thought it impossible to forget something so basic. But… the state I was in…” He shrugged his broad shoulders apologetically.

  “Right,” she nodded. “You’d only just divorced, right?”

  “A little while before,” He nodded, the word thickened by emotions she didn’t want to analyse.

  “I didn’t know that. I mean, that night. It’s only afterwards, since I’ve had to, um, google you…”

  His laugh was a husk. “This is awkward for both of us, I know.” He reached across the table, surprising her by pressing a hand over hers. She stared down at their hands for a moment, his dark and large, hers fair and small. She felt his warmth and strength through the small gesture, and now her eyes moved, of their own accord, to lock w
ith his.

  It was a mistake.

  Touching. Staring.

  Thud, thud, thud. Her pulse fired as though supercharged.

  They’d done a lot of touching and staring that night.

  How had he forgotten? It had been one of the most amazing nights of her life. She’d never felt such a strong connection with another soul, and it had meant nothing to him.

  She cleared her throat, pulling her hand free on the pretense of reaching for her glass of water. She sipped it, dropping her eyes away, wishing she could so easily erase the effect of his touch on her body.

  “It doesn’t have to be awkward. I’m not expecting anything from you, like I said.”

  She wasn’t looking at him, so didn’t see the way his expression hardened momentarily. She didn’t see the way his eyes flashed with determination, an instant rejection of the words she’d offered.

  “Listen, Imogen,” he kicked back in the seat, a study in relaxed contentment even when every line in his body was taut. “We don’t know each other well.” The assertion hung between them like a truth she wanted to bat away.

  She wanted to rail against it, pop it with a pin as though it were a balloon she could dispose of. Because she did know him. Somehow, in those few hours, she had felt him move inside of her and she had felt him. The essence of him; all of him. Their connection had imprinted on her forever.

  Him, apparently, not so much.

  “If you did know me, you would see that I can’t simply step back and let you raise my child.”

  It wasn’t what she’d been expecting. At all.

  A sound of surprise strangled in her throat as her startled gaze was pulled back to his. “What?”

  “I’m not going to be an absent father. And I’m not going to let you go through the pregnancy alone.”

  Her eyes were as round as saucers. “I… I’m not alone. I have my parents.”

  “That’s fine. Of course I’m not suggesting you cut them out of your life.” His smile was kind, but there was a strength of iron behind it.

  “Then what are you suggesting?”

  Gianni returned at that moment, with several small plates of savoury food.