Reclaiming His Pregnant Widow (8 page)

Without waiting for her next response, he said, “I have a lot of catching up to do—starting with buying a decent cell phone. Then there's office space to secure, staff to hire.” He glanced down at the black T-shirt and jeans and grimaced. “And clothes to buy.”

“Shopping never was your favorite occupation.” Clea's
mouth softened, then she glanced at the dainty platinum watch on her wrist. “I have meetings scheduled all afternoon. If you want, I could come with you later, after I'm done for the day…before I go out.”

The pleasure that had filled him earlier had dissipated. Brand shook his head. “I'll be fine. You clear your calendar. Use the extra time to get ready for your dinner.”

As Brand walked away, he left her staring after him, and he sensed that an opportunity to reconnect with his wife had been lost.

Next time, he vowed, he would not let such an opportunity slip past.

“Y
ou're going to kill me when you hear what I've done,” Clea told Harry that evening as soon as the maitre d' had settled them at a table beside open sash windows that allowed the summer evening air to drift over them.

“Kill you?” Harry grinned at her over the menu he'd opened. “Never.”

“Just wait,” she said darkly. “I promise I'll change your mind.”

“Why? What did you do this time?”

“This time?” objected Clea. Her order decided, she set the menu down. “That makes it sound like I regularly get into scrapes, and I'd like to remind you that when we were younger it was
you
who were always in trouble!”

“I've reformed,” Harry said piously.

Clea snorted in disbelief. “Just gotten better at concealing it.”

“Unfair! Remember who had to break the news of your marriage to your father?”

“I remember,” she said with feeling.

How could she ever forget? Her father had been furious, even though Harry tried his best to run interference on behalf of her and Brand. His help had only exacerbated her father's rage. Clea ended up wishing she hadn't given in to Harry's suggestion to do her dirty work, and broken the news herself. She'd been so feeble in those days. But then she'd been young…and naive.

“So what
have
you done now?”

She groaned and dropped her chin into cupped hands. “Brand thinks the baby is yours.”

Harry did a double take. “He thinks
what?
”

Clea bit her lip. “He thinks I'm pregnant with your child.”

“That's what you told him?”

It was difficult to gauge Harry's reaction. For the first time in her life, Clea couldn't read him. He certainly wasn't as irritated as she'd expected. But neither was he laughing. “Not quite.”

“So how did he get it so wrong?”

She started to feel awkward. “It's hard to explain.”

“Try.”

“Brand was being…difficult.” How best to make Harry understand why she'd done it? “He assumed—”

“That I was your boyfriend?” Harry closed his menu and put it down. “And you didn't correct him?”

Clea wriggled uncomfortably in her seat. “I…he was behaving like a jerk.”

“Clea! This is almost as crazy as your mad idea to have a baby in the first place.”

“Harry, please.” Clea reached for a linen napkin,
unfolded it and laid it on her lap. “I've had enough recriminations about that from Dad. Can we not go there?”

Leaning back in his chair, Harry assessed her. “So how did Brand react?”

“How do you imagine he reacted?”

“Badly,” said Harry, waving away the waiter approaching to take their order.

She nodded. “That's an understatement.”

“Poor Clea.”

That made her feel even more wretched. “Of course, I'm going to have to tell him that it's not true. It's not fair to embroil you in…” Clea couldn't think of the right word to describe the bitter divide that separated her and Brand so she finally settled for “…our problems.” What should've been a time of happiness with Brand back, had become riddled with bitterness and turmoil.

“Clea…” Harry pulled his chair around the table and draped an arm across her shoulders. “I hate to see you like this. We've been friends for a long time, right?”

She nodded, afraid to speak in case the tears that thickened the back of her throat spilled out.

“Remember that time I drank too much at William Hartwell's wedding reception and got pounced on by his beaky-nosed cousin? The one everyone except drunk ol' me knew was looking for a meal ticket to keep her in Moët and truffles for the rest of her life?”

She choked back a sound that was half laugh, half sob. “That was different. You were incapacitated—I had to rescue you from a fate worse than death.”

“You told me I owed you.”

“You do!”

The memory caused Clea to smile wanly. If looks could have fried, William's cousin would've have incinerated her on the spot.

Harry leaned forward. “So see this as repayment. Take advantage of me—let Brand continue to think you're carrying my baby. You don't have to tell him the truth right away. Give yourself some space, and choose the right time to tell him.”

Harry had a point.

Clea had always reacted on impulse…and it hadn't always served her well. Even deciding to have the baby had been a heartfelt reaction to the chasm Brand's absence had left in her life, an attempt to build the family they'd discussed. She'd so badly needed something…
someone
…to give meaning to her life.

Conceiving the baby had done that.

If she did as Harry suggested and continued to let Brand believe that Harry was her baby's father a little longer, then Brand would also keep believing that Harry was her lover. It would be easier to keep him at a distance, making it far less likely that Brand would pick up on her body's humiliating reaction to him. It would give her a mask to hide behind.

Which reminded her…

“Um…there's something else you should know.”

“What?”

“I told Brand we planned to get married.”

Harry stared at her in disbelief, and then gave a shout of laughter that caused heads at the neighboring tables to turn. “Too funny.”

“See? I've already taken advantage of you.”

Clea didn't want to face up to the fact that she also wanted to make Brand sweat just a little. After all, he'd vanished for four years without explanation with a woman he'd never bothered to tell her he'd once lived with. Yet last night he'd so clearly expected her to crawl into bed
with him in spite of all the distrust and tension simmering between them. Brand deserved to suffer—for a while.

But she had no intention of allowing him to permanently believe Harry was her baby's father.

“Use me as your human shield for as long as you want. Let Brand believe you intend to file for a divorce.” Harry beckoned to the waiter hovering a distance away.

On cue Clea picked up her menu, though food was the last thing on her mind right now. “A human shield is exactly what I need,” she told him with deep relief.

Harry as protection would help her to resist her attraction to Brand, though she wouldn't go as far as telling Brand she wanted a divorce yet. It might be weak-minded of her, but it would certainly be effective. Already she could feel an easing of the strain that had settled over her since Brand's return. “Harry, you're the best friend a woman could want.”

He gave her a bittersweet smile. “Anytime. Now I deserve some champagne to celebrate our so-called engagement.”

 

When Brand heard a car purr to a stop outside he found himself on his feet, stomach muscles tightening with expectation, as he cocked his head, listening for the lilt of Clea's voice.

Brand had finally conceded that Clea was right: Perhaps they had not communicated enough in the past. He'd considered the communication they shared in the bedroom enough. He'd told her how he felt with actions, not words. But now he was starting to realize that there were things they should've discussed. However difficult that might be for him.

Tonight he planned to begin building a bridge across the chasm of unspoken hurt and broken promises that lay
between them. To that end, he'd given Curtis the night off, to make sure he would be alone with Clea. The butler had initially protested, but Brand told him that after four years' absence, he needed time alone with his wife. To Brand's relief, Smythe had walked Curtis out. Now two mugs of chocolate—hot and frothy, just as Clea had always liked it—stood steaming on the butler's tray.

The sound of male laughter was unwelcome.

Brand strode out of the study into the hallway just as the front door access code bleeped.

Clea came through the door laughing, her hair thick and glossy, her mouth curved up in a smile. Emotion stabbed Brand. He'd missed her sparkle. Her joy. Behind her followed…Hall-Lewis.

Brand glared daggers at Clea, every male instinct on red-hot alert. So much for dinner with a friend. This wasn't the girlfriend he'd anticipated. His own fault! He'd allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security.

“Oh.” Her mouth formed a perfect circle. “You're still up.”

“I was waiting for you,” he growled.

“Clea, is there a problem?” Hall-Lewis came up behind Clea and placed his hands on her shoulders.

“No problem,” Brand said through gritted teeth. “Not now that you're leaving.”

He heard Clea's gasp and there was an instant's utter silence.

Then Clea rushed to speak. “Brand, there's no need to be rude to—”

“Clea, that was a wonderful evening.” Hall-Lewis smoothly overrode her protests. “I'll call you tomorrow and we can arrange a time for you to choose a ring.”

“Harry, don't worry—”

“Or if you're too busy, I can choose a diamond to match the stars in your eyes.”

Hall-Lewis chuckled. Brand fisted his hands at his sides. The man couldn't have made it clearer that he was much more considerate of Clea's workload than Brand had been yesterday.

When the other man's hands stroked along the curve of Clea's shoulders, down her slender arms, before turning her deftly and bending forward to kiss her, Brand shut his eyes so tightly stars danced on the backs of his eyelids.
He and Clea needed to talk.

Brand opened his eyes to find Hall-Lewis watching him over Clea's glossy head, his face alight with triumph. Brand's hands hurt with the force of clenching them as he fought to keep his fists at his sides. But there was no reason not to glare straight back.

War had been declared.

 

The silence that followed in the wake of Harry Hall-Lewis's departure wrapped Brand in a viselike hold. “I need a drink,” he muttered.

With a hollow sensation filling his chest, Brand headed down the high-ceilinged corridor and pushed open the door to the study that had once been his domain. The desk light was on, as well as a tall lamp beside the comfortable brown chesterfield couch where he'd sat earlier, reading, while he waited for Clea to return. The room bore evidence of Clea's occupation in his absence—a slim gold pen on the desk, a needlepoint cushion on his chesterfield, a shelf of novels that hadn't been there when he'd left—but essentially the room had remained the same, right down to the liquor cabinet in the far corner.

Clea was right on his heels as he opened the leaded-glass door of the cabinet. She ignored the mugs of hot
chocolate he'd painstakingly prepared—they were still steaming on the butler's tray beside the sofa.

“Do you really think that's wise?” Clea asked. “Don't you think we should discuss what just happened back in the hallway without alcohol clouding the issue?”

There was no way in hell he was discussing the primal instincts that had risen within him when he'd seen her with her lover. And he certainly wasn't admitting the deathly animosity that had passed between him and Hall-Lewis.

Or the bone-deep certainty that had settled in his gut.

Clea was his. And he was not about to let her go, even though she carried Hall-Lewis's baby. Brand intended to reclaim his wife.
His
wife. She was not Hall-Lewis's fiancée—and would never be his bride.

He and Clea still had a marriage—and that negated whatever unholy deal she'd struck with Hall-Lewis. Besides she wasn't even wearing the man's ring yet. Of course, she wasn't wearing Brand's ring, either, but he'd remedy that later. Right now there was only one thing on Brand's mind: convincing Clea that she belonged with him.

Fortunately, Clea was oblivious to all the undercurrents that had swirled between him and Harry, or the turmoil tumbling around inside his head. But Brand had decided that Clea was right about one thing…they needed to talk. And now wasn't the ideal time—he needed time to cool down.

He slid Clea a covert look. “Is that offer to help me choose clothes still open?”

Surprise flitted across her face. “Of course.”

Turning toward her, Brand exhaled in relief. “Good. We can go shopping in the morning and have lunch afterward.” Clea didn't know it yet, but there would be
only one outcome to the coming discussion: Hall-Lewis was history.

With Clea in front of him, Brand gazed down into the face he'd missed so much, and desire for her overwhelmed him.

“I made you a cup of hot chocolate.” It came out husky. He inhaled the scent of her, as fresh and fragrant as he remembered. Unspoiled. “It's next to the couch.”

“Thank you.” Clea veered away, breaking the spell.

His hands shaking, Brand reached into the cabinet and poured himself two fingers of Irish whiskey—perhaps it would numb the impact of Clea's heady jasmine perfume. Making his way past her without yanking her into his arms and annihilating the kiss Hall-Lewis had placed on her lips took a huge amount of self-control. But he accomplished it. Once safely seated back on the chesterfield, Brand leaned his head back and sighed, a short, sharp burst of sound.

“Tired?”

Brand looked up. Clea was standing in front of him. A smudge of cream from the hot chocolate coated her top lip.
How sweet it would be to lick that away.
“You should go to bed,” he told her brusquely. Before he acted on the explosive cocktail of rising desire and the sheer, possessive rage he'd felt at the sight of Hall-Lewis's hands all over her.

Mine.

He stopped himself from shouting it.

“I'll go as soon as I finish my chocolate.” Clea stretched and yawned. Then fluttering her hand in front of her mouth, she murmured, “Sorry.”

God, the last thing on
his
mind was sleep.

The cushion gave beside him as Clea dropped down onto the couch.