The Heiress's Secret Baby (10 page)

‘You’re very welcome to come with us,’ Sasha said with a bright smile. ‘Ready to meet baby?’

Confused words of refusal rose to Polly’s lips but when she started to speak nothing came out. Of course she didn’t
need
company but it might be nice to have some backup, someone to reassure her that she wasn’t imagining the whole thing.

Indecision was writ clearly on his face as he ran a hand over the dark stubble. ‘Why not?’ he said after a moment.

‘No, don’t worry,’ she began but he was already on his feet.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and see who’s been causing you so much trouble.’

* * *

Gabe had seen more than his fair share of scan pictures. From the moment of his eldest niece’s conception it felt as if he had been asked to admire thousands of fuzzy pictures of alien blobs. It wasn’t just his family; more and more friends and colleagues were replacing their social media ID photos with what, he was fairly sure, was an identikit picture.

Secretly Gabe wondered if the whole thing was a scam, if there was just one photo that had been mocked up several years ago and was palmed off on every expectant couple. They probably made a fortune out of it.

The nurse led them into a small room. A chill shivered down Gabe’s spine and his stomach clenched. The dull green walls, the blind at the window, the metal bed surrounded by machinery. It was a different country, a different patient and yet utterly, achingly familiar.

Old pains began to pulse in his limbs, scars to throb. He swallowed hard, trying to control his breathing. A cool hand touched his arm. Gabe braced himself for pity.

But all there was in the clear blue eyes was understanding. ‘You can wait outside,’ Polly said softly. ‘It’s fine.’

How did she know? How could she know?

He took a deep breath. ‘I’m okay. Makes a nice change to not be the one on the bed.’

The hand lingered, squeezed. ‘Thanks.’ She didn’t say anything else, just sat on the bed, her hands clasped, and waited for instructions.

Gabe folded himself into a chair while Polly was fussed over, the moment before frozen in his mind. He didn’t often speak of his time in hospital, those days were over, but when it did come up there were usually two reactions: cloying pity or brisk heartiness.

It wasn’t often anyone showed tact and understanding. He hadn’t expected it from Polly; she was such a cat that walked alone. Why did she hide it? The sense of humour, the love of vintage accessories, her compassion? Did she feel that the human made her weak?

‘Okay now, can you just lift your top?’ The nurse’s voice broke into his thoughts. The language was different but the tone exactly the same as the many, many nurses he had interacted with over the years: brisk, matter–of-fact.

Polly obediently rolled up the silk T-shirt, wincing as she did so, and Gabe tried not to laugh as he caught her expression—the carefully chosen top was going to get horribly creased. She was dressed for a board meeting not a doctor’s appointment. Resolutely Gabe dragged his eyes away from the long legs lying supine on the bed, only to find himself staring at a flat stomach, the colour of warm honey.

It was a completely inappropriate time to stare but he couldn’t help himself. She was on the thin side of slender, her ribs clearly visible. The cream fitted top set off the remains of her holiday tan; Gabe could hear her words echoing in his head: ‘
swimming naked in the sea
’. Just how much of her was honey brown?

He looked away quickly, trying to cleanse his mind of images of long limbs in clear waters, the hair floating languorously on the sea’s surface. A lithe mermaid, dangerously desirable.

‘This may be a little chilly,’ the nurse warned her—‘
it’ll be utterly freezing
’, Gabe translated mentally and by Polly’s quick shudder as the gel touched her belly knew he was right. ‘Okay.’ The nurse was smiling at him. ‘Ready to say hello?’

The language was cloying, the situation somewhat surreal and the nurse evidently under the assumption that he was responsible for Polly’s situation but any embarrassment dissolved the second the nurse ran the scanner over Polly’s stomach. The screen wavered for a second and then there, in sharp focus, there it was.

Gabe stared at the screen. People used the word ‘miracle’ all the time until it lost any meaning but surely,
surely
this alien person floating around in Polly’s body was a miracle?

He was so used to associating hospitals with pain and death he had completely forgotten what else they represented: life.

‘It’s still tiny,’ the nurse told them. ‘But perfect.’

Gabe looked over at Polly. Her head was turned to the screen; she was utterly transfixed. He didn’t know if she had even heard the nurse.

‘Is everything okay, as it should be?’ he asked.

‘It’s still early days, you’re what? Eleven weeks? But everything looks like it’s right on track. The hospital will want to scan you again in about two to three weeks. All the details are in your pack. Do you want a photo?’

The ubiquitous photo. Suddenly Gabe could see the point of them after all. Why wouldn’t you want to monitor every second?

He looked over at Polly but she didn’t respond. But of course she would. Wouldn’t she? ‘
Si
, I mean, please.’

Polly still hadn’t spoken.

‘Polly? Is everything okay?’

She blinked, once, twice as if released from a dream and then turned to him, her face transformed, lit up with an inner joy. It almost hurt to look at her.

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Everything is perfect.’

* * *

The contrast was completely surreal. One moment she was lying down, almost helpless as she deferred to the judgement and expertise of others, less than two hours later she had been on her feet, standing in front of a group of suited, booted, note-scribbling board members. Here she was the expert, the one in control, setting the pace and the agenda.

If she couldn’t still feel the chill of the gel, sticky on her stomach, if she hadn’t glanced down to see, with a shock of surprise, that she was no longer wearing the cream, fitted silk top but a sharply tailored pink shirt, she would think she had imagined her morning.

This was her future. A world of contrasts.

‘That went well.’ Her grandfather was sat at the head of the table. If his gaze lingered a little longingly on the bookcases that used to be filled with his belongings, if he eyed the pictures on the wall with barely hidden nostalgia then Polly couldn’t blame him. The store was his life, his legacy.

As it was hers.

‘Really interesting presentation, Pol,’ Raff said. Her twin had spent his first meeting as a member of the Rafferty’s board watching and listening intently but not jumping in. Not yet, although he had asked a few penetrating questions.

Polly knew him too well to think that he didn’t have decided opinions—or that he wouldn’t voice them—but he had been a supportive presence for her first official meeting as CEO.

She smiled at him, a rush of love for him flooding her. Despite their past disagreements and the long absences he was still part of her. And he would be part of her baby’s life too, unconditionally, that went without saying. ‘Thank you, Raff. For everything.’

‘I love the pop-up idea—both in store and out. Where do you think you’ll start?’

‘In store,’ she said, dragging her mind back to the matter at hand.

‘We can use the centre of the Great Hall. It’s mostly used for themed displays anyway. I’ve found this great designer who uses vintage fabrics and jewellery and reworks them into a more modern design but still with a hint of history. They’re something really special and tie in brilliantly with the building and best of all she’s completely unknown. We would be a great launch pad for her and it’s exactly the kind of thing I’m looking for. Unique and creative.’

‘And start branching out with the food when?’ Her grandfather might sound casual but his gaze was as sharp as ever.

Much as she wanted to get started, Polly knew this couldn’t be rushed. ‘Next year. We’ve left it too late in the season to start properly—all the best festivals are booked up and there’s no point starting anywhere else. But we are investigating doing a few surprise pop-ups locally so that we can test some concepts—Hyde Park, South Bank, Hampstead Heath. Picnics and Pimms, that kind of thing. We’re in the process of applying for licences.’

‘Dip your toe in, eh? Not a bad plan.’ Her grandfather shifted his gaze over to Gabe, who was busy packing up his laptop. ‘That’s all very well, but I still don’t know about this digital strategy of yours. It’s risky.’

‘Not mine, Gabe’s,’ Polly corrected. ‘I agree, it is a lot of money—but you were the one who told me to hand all digital concerns over to him.’

‘What’s your gut instinct?’

She hesitated as Gabe snapped his briefcase shut and turned his attention to the trio at the table, his eyes intent on her. ‘Truth is I’m torn,’ she admitted. ‘I think it’s innovative and brilliant, but the technology is untried at this scale and the outlay huge. My heart tells me to go for it but my head is a lot more cautious. But, if we wait, and someone else gets in first, then we lose both the competitive edge and the PR advantage. Gabe, what do you think? Honestly.’

Gabe leant back against the wall, arms folded, and regarded them intently. Polly willed him to dig deep, to find something that convinced her, convinced her family.

‘My parents use something a little similar,’ he said after a long moment. ‘It’s not as all singing and dancing as the concept I presented but their web and digital presence is very different from their competitors’—much more interactive, presenting the vineyard, restaurant and B&B virtually just as it is in reality. Why don’t you come over and see? See how the physical matches up with the online and Natalie can talk you through click-through rates, bookings and the uplift in spend.’

Polly shifted nervously. ‘Go to Provence?’ Go to Gabe’s home. Meet his parents and sisters, see the place he had grown up in?

A further blurring of the lines she kept trying to draw—and ended up rubbing out.

‘That’s an excellent idea,’ Raff said warmly. ‘I think that’s exactly what we need, to see something similar and grasp just how it works in practice. You should go, Polly.’ He looked at Gabe. ‘If Pol agrees it’s a goer then you have my vote.’

‘I agree.’ Her grandfather was looking at her thoughtfully. ‘Take your time, look at every angle and then report back. If Raff and I are a yes then the rest will fall into line. But it needs your unequivocal approval, Polly. It’s too much of a gamble for half-hearted efforts.’

‘If we go this weekend the wine festival is on.’ Gabe was checking his phone as he spoke. ‘They have all kinds of stalls—wine, obviously, food, entertainment. Could be good research for planning just what the Rafferty pop-up brand will be.’

Polly nodded, to all intents and purposes solely focused on the matter at hand—but her mind was churning. This was all a little cosy.

She had spent the last week trying to re-establish much-needed boundaries—and so evidently had he. Now they had separate offices, now he spent so little time in Hopeford, she could convince herself that her evening of weakness was a one-off anomaly. A symptom of shock.

But if that
was
the case then what harm could a weekend do? It was just a working weekend like any other, she reminded herself. In fact it was probably a good thing, a chance to prove to herself that she was in control, in every way. ‘It sounds perfect,’ she said. ‘Count me in.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘W
HAT
A
SHAME
we didn’t get to see some of Paris, but it was easier to fly in to Toulouse. I would have liked to have shown you around Desmoulins.’ British retail royalty meeting the cream of Parisian style; it would have been an interesting introduction.

Now they were in his country, on his turf, Gabe was back behind the wheel, waving a protesting Polly into the passenger seat, refusing to listen to her attempts to direct him; no phone sat nav could possibly know the roads, the shortcuts better than the returning native.

‘I’ve never been to Paris.’ She was looking out of the window, seemingly absorbed in the scenery. It was worth looking at, the undulating hills and bright fields of lavender and sunflowers. At one point Provence had felt too rural, too stiflingly parochial to hold him. Now his blood thrilled to the scented air. He was home.

‘You must have. A woman like you! Business, romance, shopping...’

She was shaking her head. ‘Nope. Business I conduct in London. Romance?’ She smiled wryly. ‘I didn’t really take time in my twenties for romantic breaks and the least said about this year, the better.’ She rubbed her stomach. Gabe had noticed how often her hand crept there instinctively, unthinkingly, as if she had a primal need to connect with the life within.

‘And I shop at Rafferty’s of course. Or Milan or New York if I do want a busman’s holiday.’

‘But...’ He was incredulous. Surely everyone came to Paris at some point in their lives. ‘But what about fashion week?’

She shook her head. ‘That’s the buyers’ job. I can’t predict the next season’s hits and I don’t need to. I pay people with far more flair to do it.’

Oh, she had flair. It helped that she was almost model tall and model thin; it made it easy for her to wear clothes designed with willowy slenderness in mind. But she wore them with a panache that didn’t come from the designer. It was innate. Even today, casual in a pair of skinny jeans and a yellow flowery top, she turned heads.

‘But why? It takes what? Two and a half hours by train? It’s a day trip.’

Polly smiled. A little self-consciously. ‘It’s silly.’

Gabe turned to look at her. Now he was intrigued; what on earth made Polly Rafferty blush in embarrassment?

‘I can keep a secret.’

‘I know.’ She winced. ‘You already know far too many of mine. I can’t give you any more.’

She had a point. It was odd, knowing things not even her brother knew. Tied them together in a way that wasn’t as unwelcome as it should be. He should even the score, make them equals.

Gabe turned his concentration back to the road ahead, navigating a tight bend before answering. ‘That’s fair. How about I tell you two of mine and then you answer?’

She leant back in her seat and considered. ‘They have to be embarrassing secrets. Or deeply personal. Things you have never told anyone.’

‘Okay.’ He took a deep breath. Gabe was a businessman; he had always done what he needed to to get ahead. A little stretching of the truth here, taking a gamble on an assumption there. Nothing dishonest or illegal—more a prevarication.

But he couldn’t prevaricate here; Polly was right. He did owe her a secret or two.

He just had so many to choose from. It might be nice to let one or two of them out, to lighten the load.

Gabe concentrated on the road ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. ‘When I was ill I hated my parents so much I couldn’t even look at them when they came to visit.’

He heard her inhale, a long, shuddering breath. But she didn’t protest or tell him he must be mistaken. ‘Why?’

‘Because they hurt so damn much. Every needle in my vein pierced them twice as hard, when I retched, they doubled over. My illness nearly killed them. They wanted me to live, to fight, so badly that when I slipped back I knew I was failing them. My illness failed them.’

He could feel it again: the shame of causing so much hurt, the anger that they needed him to be strong when it was almost too much. The responsibility of having to fight, to stay alive for them.

‘They must love you a lot.’ Her voice was a little wistful.

‘They do. And I love them but it’s a lot. You have to be strong for yourself in that situation, single-minded. Their need distracted me. Added too much pressure.’

‘Is that why you don’t want children?’

He thought back to her scan, to the life pulsing inside her, the unexpected protectiveness that had engulfed him and picked his words carefully.

‘Our lives are so fragile, our happiness so dependent on others. I’ve been cancer free for nearly ten years, Polly. But it could come back. I don’t want to put a wife or a child through the suffering I put my parents through. I don’t want to suffer like that for someone else. Is it worth it?’

There was a pause and he knew without looking that her hand would be back at her midriff.

‘I hope so,’ she said after a while.

He continued driving while she busied herself with her phone. ‘You still haven’t told me your second secret.’ She was looking away again. It was like being in the seal of the confessional: intimate and confidential.

Gabe didn’t even consider before he answered. ‘Ever since I kissed you in the office I’ve wanted to do it again.’

Another silence. This one more loaded. He was achingly aware of her proximity, of her bare arms, the blonde hair piled precariously in a loose knot, the hitch in her breath as he spoke.

His words had unlocked a desire he didn’t even know he carried, one he had hidden, locked down. The kiss had been totally inappropriate. They were colleagues; she was his boss. He didn’t want or need anything complicated—and nothing about Polly Rafferty was simple.

She was prickly and bossy. She didn’t know the names of half her staff and was rude to and demanding of the ones she did know. She worked all the time. She was pregnant.

Sure, she was conventionally pretty with her mass of blonde silky hair, her dark blue eyes and legs that went on for ever but that was just the surface. It was the inappropriately intimate conversations with cars, that carefully hidden vulnerability and her way of looking into a man’s soul and seeing just what it was that made him tick that made her dangerous.

It made her formidable. It made her utterly desirable.

‘What does the tree mean?’ Her words pierced the thickened atmosphere, the soft voice a little unsteady, her hands twisting on her lap.

‘Pardon?’

‘Your tattoo? What does it mean?’

His mouth twisted. ‘My mother didn’t cry once during any of my treatment but she wept when I showed her that tattoo. And not with pride.’

‘I think it’s beautiful.’ Her voice was almost shy.

‘It’s life,’ he told her. ‘I wanted my body to reflect growth and hope, not death.’

‘My mother told me you should visit Paris to fall in love.’ Polly changed the subject abruptly. ‘That’s why I’ve never been.’

‘You’ve never fallen in love?’

‘I’ve been in “like”,’ she said. ‘I’ve been in companionable comfort. I’ve desired.’ Did her eyes flicker towards Gabe at the last word?

His chest tightened at the thought, the blood pulsing hot and thick around his body.

‘But, no. I haven’t been in love.’ She bit her lip. ‘That is rather shameful for a woman of thirty-one, isn’t it?’

‘Non.’
The word was strong, vehement. ‘Real love is rare, precious. Many of us will never experience it.’ He’d thought he’d found it once. Had watched it slip away.

‘My mother left home when I was eight. Our father died a couple of years later but he was in a home all that time.’ Her voice faltered. ‘We found him, Raff and I. He’d had a stroke. He needed full-time care and we were a mess. My mother just couldn’t cope. People always took care of her, you see. She was one of those fragile women, all eyes and a way of looking at you as if you were all that mattered. She went away for a rest and just never returned, found someone else to take care of her.’

‘I’m sorry.’ The words were inadequate.

‘Oh, it was a long time ago, and I think I always knew. Knew she couldn’t be relied on. It was harder on Raff. He absolutely adored her. But for some reason I never forgot her words. She said she’d been to Paris before, with friends, boyfriends, but when she went with Daddy the city turned into a magical wonderland and she knew...’

‘Knew what?’

‘That she was in love,’ she said simply. ‘And she made me promise her, promise I would never go to Paris until I was sure I was ready to fall in love. It’s funny, I have spent my whole life not being my mother, not relying on anyone else, always doing my duty. But I kept my promise.’

Her mouth curved into a reminiscent smile. ‘She also told me to always wear lipstick, make sure my hair was brushed and to wear the best shoes I can afford. I never forgot that advice either.’

‘Even on the Inca trail?’

She exhaled, an amused bubble of laughter. ‘Especially then.’

‘I hope you get to Paris one day.’ She deserved it, deserved to have the trip of her dreams, to experience the world’s most romantic city with somebody who loved her by her side.

But the thought of her strolling hand in hand through the city streets with some unknown other, cruising down the Seine, kissing on the Pont des Arts, made his whole body tense up, jealousy coursing through his veins.

It was ridiculous; he had no reason to be jealous.

Jealousy implied need. Implied caring. Sure he liked Polly, respected her, was attracted to her. But that was all.

If she worked somewhere else, if she weren’t pregnant then she would be perfect—for a while. She was as busy as he was, as focused as he was, she wouldn’t want him to take care of her, to text or call five times a day. She wouldn’t care if he went away for a weekend’s training or decided to pull an all-nighter at the office.

And when she talked about the likes, the companionable comforts and the desires of her past there was no hint of regret. She moved on without a second’s thought. Just as he did.

But she
was
his boss and she
was
going to have a baby and there was no point dwelling on what-might-have-beens. Because the boss situation would change one day but the baby situation most definitely wouldn’t. And that made her even more off-limits than ever. She deserved someone who would want a family, someone to take her to Paris.

‘You may even fall in love there,’ he added.

‘Maybe.’ She didn’t sound convinced. ‘It’s a fairytale, though, isn’t it? Not real life. Because, although Mummy had that perfect moment, it didn’t mean enough in the end, didn’t stop her bailing when things became rough.’

‘No.’ There was nothing else to say.

She took out a few pins and let her hair fall, before gathering it up and twisting it into a tighter knot, a few strands escaping in the breeze. ‘It was a sharp lesson. If you rely on someone else you are vulnerable. You need to be self-sufficient, to protect yourself.’ She sighed. ‘It would be nice to meet someone who understood that, who didn’t think being independent means not caring.’

She shook her head. ‘One day I’ll go to Paris, on my own. Or take the baby.’

‘You could go to Disneyland.’

She grimaced. ‘I am so not ready for this.’

Gabe glanced over. ‘You will be,’ he said. ‘I think you are going to do just fine.’

* * *

There was something intimidating about meeting other people’s families. Mingling, small talk, conferences, cocktail parties, those posed no fear at all for Polly. But the intimacy and warmth of family homes chilled her.

Even at school she’d hated the invites back to other girls’ houses for the holidays. It was all so alien: in-jokes and traditions, bickering, knowing your place was secure. So different from the formality of her grandparents’ house, a place more like a museum than a home for two children.

Throw in a different language, a tangle of small children and in-laws and her arrival at the Beaufils chateau was a scene right out of her worst fears. She was seized upon, hugged, kissed and exclaimed over by what felt like an endless stream of people.

‘It is lovely to meet you.’ Madame Beaufils linked an arm through Polly’s and whisked her through the imposing front door.

‘Thank you so much for having me.’ Polly did her best to relax. She wasn’t really that comfortable with physicality, more of a handshake than a hug person, but she couldn’t work out how to disentangle herself without causing offence. ‘Your home is beautiful.’

No fakery needed here. Polly had grown up accustomed to a luxurious home; her grandfather still lived in the old Queen Anne manor house in the Berkshire countryside that she and Raff had been brought up in. But the weathered old chateau with its ivy-covered walls, surrounded by lovingly tended gardens that stretched into the vineyards beyond, had something her childhood home lacked.

It had heart.

There were pictures everywhere: photos, framed children’s paintings, portraits and certificates. The furniture in the huge hall at the centre of the house was well chosen, chic but loved, the sofa a little frayed, the mirror spotted with age.

‘It’s a mess,’ Gabe’s mother said dismissively. ‘We put our money into renovating the old barns for the B&B and wedding business, and for turning the wings of the house into apartments for Natalie and Claire and their families. But I like it like this. It feels as if my children are still here with me.’ She looked longingly at a large photo of a laughing, dark-eyed girl.’

‘That’s Celine,’ she said with a sigh. ‘My biggest fear is that she will meet someone in New Zealand and never return to us. It was worse when Gabe was in the States. Paris was better but at least he’s just over the Channel. I can almost breathe again.’

It must be claustrophobic to be needed like that, Polly thought with a stab of sympathy for the absent Celine. But a small, irrepressible part of her couldn’t help wondering what it would be like. Her grandmother was certainly miffed if Polly didn’t meet her for tea and accompany her shopping when she was in town, and her grandfather liked updates on the store. But neither of them needed Polly for herself. Any granddaughter would have done.