Storm Ravaged (Storm Damages 2) (Storm Legacy) (3 page)

He dragged his feet on the move, but I insisted. After all, he’d done quite enough for me, and now he needs his own life. We get together for Sunday brunch at his new condo off Wisconsin Avenue, the place he and his girlfriend, a nurse at Georgetown University hospital, bought together.

Before he left, I found a new roommate, but she shacked up with her boyfriend instead, waiting until the day before her move-in date to let me know. She forfeited the security deposit and first month’s rent so I have enough to pay the current and next month’s payments. But I’ll need a new roommate after that.

The thought of a new search with the endless phone calls and emails tacked on to a full time job and night law school classes exhausts me. But it’s something I need to do. If I don’t locate a new roommate, I’ll have to find some place a great deal cheaper than the Alexandria townhouse where I now live. As it is, my share of the rent is astronomical, half my monthly paycheck. So paying the full amount is beyond my means.

I grab a white sweater, open the blinds. While I wait for Samuel, I smooth down my dress, an empire waistline navy blue and white outfit I bought in London. Don’t know why I chose to wear a dress which accentuates my slight baby bump since I do just the opposite at work, hiding my pregnancy behind loose smocks and business jackets. Not that it’s done any good. Everybody knows I’m pregnant.

No one’s been bold enough to ask who’s the baby’s father, but the secretaries whisper when I walk by their desks. And I’ve caught more than one conversation behind my back. But what most upsets me is the change in my work assignments. Although Mr. Carrey continues to give me meaningful work, other partners and associates delegate menial jobs, rather than the meaty projects I enjoyed before my pregnancy became noticeable.

The situation is bound to get worse after the baby’s birth. Whether I keep the child or put it up for adoption, I’ll be damned either way. My future with Smith Cannon has been compromised by my pregnancy, and I don’t see a way out. Although I would hate to pull up stakes and move to a new law firm, I may be forced to do just that.

When I catch the limo pulling up, I grab my purse and walk toward the car where Samuel stands, holding the back door open for me. He’s wearing a stylish two-button suit which favors his large build to a T.

“Good morning, Ms. Watson.” His accent is a curious combination of southern American roots with a touch of Brit.

“How are you, Samuel?” I touch his arm, first time I’ve done so, but I can’t help myself. He got me out of a sticky spot in London, and, in a strange way, he’s dear to me.

“Fine. Thank you for asking,” he returns with a smile.

Soon he’s whisking me down the George Washington Parkway. The day is one of those early fall days, not hot, not cold, just right. As we cross Key Bridge toward Georgetown, I recall that wild ride in the limo and how I came apart in Gabriel’s arms. His power to seduce me in less than a day’s acquaintance astounded me then. Still does. I never fell so hard, so fast, for another man.

When we arrive at the Four Seasons, Samuel asks a valet to park the car while he escorts me through the lobby, up the elevator, down the carpeted corridor to Gabriel’s suite.

Barely a second after I knock on the door, Gabriel flings it open and my breath goes AWOL. For several seconds, I stand there like an idiot, taking him in.

He’s as gorgeous as ever in denim jeans, white shirt and a heather blue v-neck cashmere sweater, with a gray jacket thrown over it all. His hair falls loose to his shoulders, curling at the ends. His sexy stubble weakens my knees. Who am I kidding? The entire package weakens my knees.

“Thank you for bringing Ms. Watson,” he says to Samuel.

“My pleasure, Mr. Storm.” To my surprise, Samuel folds his arms across his front and remains standing against the outside wall of the suite. I can’t imagine what Gabriel would need protection from here in D.C.

“Please come in,” Gabriel says to me.

I’ve never been inside the West Wing Presidential Suite, or any other at the Four Seasons for that matter. The entire place screams understated elegance, decorated as it is in light blues, golds and greens. A huge square coffee table commands the living room surrounded by two sofas, one a soft green, the other a light blue.

“May I use the facilities?” One of the cons of pregnancy. You can’t go five minutes without having to pee.

“Of course.” He points to my right.

After I take care of business, I swipe a brush through my hair, freshen my lipstick, spread lotion over my hands.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, Elizabeth.
Enough stalling. I step out to find him lounging against the opposite wall, cane in hand, waiting for me. My cheeks flush with heat. I’ve done the dirty deed and then some with this man. Why I’m embarrassed by his hearing me urinate is beyond me.

Ignoring my obvious embarrassment, he leads me farther into the suite. “The ride wasn’t too long?”

“No.”

“I wasn’t sure what you liked to eat or if you suffered from . . .” His voice drifts off.

“Morning sickness stopped about a month ago. I’m in the second trimester, the one where you eat like a horse.” I pat my stomach.

He grins that special crooked grin of his, and my insides flip flop.

“Good, because I ordered everything.”

Boy, he’s not kidding. The dining room table fairly groans with pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, blintzes, fresh fruit, toast, croissants.

I look around. No one here but him and me. “Are you expecting someone else?”

“No. Just us.”

“Oh. Yes, I see.” Only two places are set at the far end of the table.

I load up my plate with bacon, eggs, pancakes and spread orange marmalade on a couple of croissants. He pours cups of coffee for him and me. I pass on the orange juice.

While we tuck into the food, the only sound to be heard is the cutlery. How can we be this uncomfortable after everything we’ve done with each other? Stuffed to the gills after twenty minutes, I stop eating, and he encourages me to move to the living room. I carry a cup of coffee just to have something to sip. Somehow, he manages to juggle another plate in one hand while leaning on the cane with the other. When I sit, he slides the croissant plate with a dollop of orange marmalade to me.

We’ve switched places, him and I. The first day we met I waited on him. And now he’s waiting on me. “You really want me to eat more?”

He flashes that devastating smile. “This is my small way of taking care of you.”

My chin hitches up. “I don’t need you to take care of me. I’m doing fine.”

“I can see that. You’re glowing. Pregnancy suits you.”

He’s seeing what I want him to see. He’s missed the early morning sickness, the endless exhaustion, not to mention dealing with a body growing bigger and more cumbersome every day. “So, I’m here. Let’s talk.” My tone is curt, businesslike. The only way I’m getting through this is to handle it like a business discussion and not allow my emotions to break loose. Hard to do when he’s so drop dead gorgeous, so overwhelmingly masculine. And when I want him so damn bad.

He takes a seat on the blue sofa across from me, but doesn’t offer anything for a few seconds. Probably trying to figure out how to broach the subject we are here to discuss. “So the baby might be mine.”

“Might.” I tear off part of a croissant and pop it into my mouth just to give me something to still my nerves. I’ve never been very good at lying.

“I had the night to think about what you said, Ms. Watson, and I’ve come to one indisputable conclusion.” He fixes a rather unnerving stare on me. “You’re not speaking the truth.”

I almost choke on the croissant. “What exactly am I supposed to be lying about?”

“The paternity of the child. When my sister discovered you were pregnant, she asked you if I was the father. You didn’t hesitate. On the contrary, you readily admitted it, while revealing you hadn’t told me yet. So the question becomes why would you lie about something which can be proved so easily? All it takes is one test of my DNA and your blood, and my paternity can be established with a 99% accuracy.”

With my words revealed as the lies they are, I latch on to the one thing I can contest. “What makes you think I would volunteer for a blood test?”

“The court order I will serve upon you if you fail to see reason. But I won’t have to go that far, will I? One phone call to Thomas Carrey should do the trick. I’ll simply intimate I’m the father of your child, but you’re refusing to take a simple blood test.”

“You wouldn’t!” If he tells Carrey, I’ll lose his patronage. And the Smith Cannon attorney is the only partner giving me meaningful assignments. Might as well kiss my career goodbye.

“On the contrary, Ms. Watson. I most certainly would.” He’s damn serious, but then he hasn’t become a billionaire without playing hard ball.

Maybe we have more present issues to discuss, but right now, I’ve had enough of being called by my last name. “Ms. Watson? Really? After everything we’ve done, you won’t call me by my first name?”

That pompous brow of his goes on the rise. “My apologies. Liz.”

Liz? What happened to Elizabeth?
The word he invoked with such heat and fervor it melted me every single time he breathed my name.

“What’s wrong? Would you prefer I call you something else?”

Yes, I do, but I’m not going to clue you in
. Figure it out on your own. “Liz is fine. Go on.” I snap off another piece of the croissant, jam it into my mouth.

He rises, grabs the entire plate of croissants from the dining table, brings it to the coffee table, and places it in front of me.

“No, really, I shouldn’t.” Those things have to be a gazillion calories each.

“Eat.”

I shiver at the command. Why do I love the way he orders me around when I won’t stand the same from another man?

“Thank you.” I lay another flaky roll on the empty plate and bring it to my lap. “Even if you were the father, and I’m not saying you are—”

He grunts with disapproval.

“—I’m not looking for help from you. I’m doing fine on my own.”

Without taking his gaze from me, he rests back against his seat. “Are you familiar with peer hereditary laws?”

Where did that come from? “Yes, of course.” We’d discussed it, among many other things, that weekend at the castle.

“You know my father’s an earl.”

“Of course.”

“As his oldest legitimate son, I will inherit the title.”

Is this going where I think it’s going? I curl a protective hand around my belly.

“Our baby, if it’s a boy, can inherit the title as well but first we’d need to—”

“—marry.”

“Yes.”

“No.” I jerk to my feet, spilling the plate and the croissant on the rug. But before I can bolt, he takes my hand. It’s the first time he’s touched me since forever, and a sizzle runs up my arm straight to my heart. I’m so enthralled by him, by his touch, I remain placidly in his hold. Not that it would do any good to struggle. The look in his eyes tells me he’s not letting go.

“Sit, Elizabeth. Please.”

Elizabeth!
There he’s said it. The sound of my name on his lips does what it always does. Can he tell I’m trembling? Because I am. I’m shaking like a leaf on a windy day. Unsure if my legs will hold me, I collapse on the couch. It’s only then he releases his grasp on me.

I struggle to regain control of my breathing, still my quivering. And as I do, reason sets in. “Wait. I don’t understand how you can ask me to marry you. Aren’t you betrothed to Lady Melissande?” The beautiful daughter of the Duke of Marchstone whom he proposed to the same night I ran out on him.

“We were never engaged.” His eyes drop to half mast, and I can’t tell if he’s lying or telling the truth.

“That’s not what the British tabloids reported.”

“They were wrong. And never mind her. It’s you I want to discuss.”

There’s more to the story, but he’s not going to tell me. That much I can tell by the firm set of his sensual lips. “Fine. Let’s talk about me. I don’t want to marry. You or anyone else. I told you that in London. Remember?”

“I proposed to you?” His eyes widen with surprise.

What?
“You don’t remember?”

He brushes a hand across his brow. “My . . . accident played havoc with my recollection of events. Some things I remember clear as a bell; others . . . not so much.”

What does that mean?
I shake my head. “You never proposed. But I didn’t expect you to. From the beginning, I made it very clear I did not want a relationship.” The implication of his lack of memory shocks me. “You truly don’t remember?”

“No.”

Did he forget some of the things we did? Some of the words we spoke? My heart sputters before taking on a beat again.
Did he forget me?
Surely, that’s not possible. And yet . . .

Awkwardly, he comes to his feet, and, leaning on the cane, he stutter steps up and down the rug behind the couch. “Sorry. If I don’t exercise the leg, it stiffens.”

I thread my hands on my lap, hoping I can hang on, but everything is unraveling too fast. I came prepared to argue he was not the baby’s father, only to have him strip the lie, and now I’m facing the possibility he doesn’t remember me. I swallow back a sob. How could he not after all we did? After all we shared?