Their Secret Baby (7 page)

Clutching at the side of the basin, Caitlin sank down onto the toilet seat, her legs having the consistency of jelly beneath her.

What if…?

Oh, dear God, what would she do if last night had consequences? Permanent consequences. Because if she was to be pregnant—by
Rhys Morgan
of all people—then there was no way she could abort any baby she had conceived. Even one that had a father like that man. And if she…

But no, she was tormenting herself with things she couldn’t deal with yet because they were still totally in the realms of ‘What if?’ She had enough to cope with right now.

The silence from her bedroom allowed her the chance of a little hope that maybe, just maybe, Rhys had done as she asked and gone. She was going to have to risk it anyway, because she couldn’t stay in here all day long. It was getting late as it was. Her father was going to start ringing or, worse, calling round to find out where she was if she didn’t put in an appearance soon. She’d left him alone with Fleur quite long enough.

Reaching for the peach-coloured velvet robe that hung behind the bathroom door, she pulled it on, belted it tightly around her waist, drew in a much needed breath, straightened her shoulders and opened the door.

Her hopes were dashed immediately.

Rhys Morgan was lounging in a chair, half-dressed and apparently totally at his ease.

‘You’re still here!’

‘As you can see.’

‘But I told you to go.’

‘And I told you that I wasn’t going anywhere until I see my daughter. I came here to find my child and I’m not leaving without her.’

‘Well, tough!’

Marching across to the wardrobe, she pulled out clothes at random, not caring what her hand fell on. Anything would do; anything at all. The only thing that mattered was getting
dressed
. Covering herself in something—anything. Protecting herself from this man’s cold blue eyes.

Though the truth was that, the way he was glaring at her right now, she felt that she’d need a suit of armour to defend herself from that searing stare.

‘I have work to do. I need to get dressed.’

‘And we’re going through that whole “Little Miss Modesty” pantomime again, are we?’ Rhys taunted, but then, suddenly and totally unexpectedly, he pushed himself to his feet.

‘I’d feel better for a shower myself, if you don’t mind if I use the bathroom.’

‘Be my guest.’

She didn’t know if he had suddenly had an attack of conscience or had decided that tact was the best approach—or if, quite simply, like her he felt decidedly grubby after last night. But she was just so grateful for the opportunity to have a few minutes alone that she would have run a bath for him if need be.

‘There are clean towels in the airing cupboard.’

Having him shut the door behind him brought such a rush of relief that she almost sank down on the carpet in weak exhaustion. Only the thought that she had no idea how long he was going to take, and the realisation that her time of privacy might be very short-lived, kept her upright and determined. The last thing she needed was for Rhys to open the door and find her still in her underwear.

Hurrying into a neat white T-shirt and navy trousers, she yanked a comb through her hair, pulling the still wet strands back into a smooth pony-tail. She didn’t feel like prettying up in any way, but self-esteem demanded that at least she didn’t face the world showing every second of her near-sleepless night in the pallor of her face, the faint shadows under her eyes.

A quick smoothing of tinted moisturiser into her skin, a touch of lipstick and a slick of mascara onto her lashes made things look slightly better. There was no time for anything more as the rush of water in the shower was shut off and the knowledge that Rhys was on his way out had her hurrying from the room and down the stairs.

Anything other than to face the prospect of seeing him emerge from the bathroom, his lean torso still faintly warm from the shower, the crisp dark hair flattened to the strong bones of his skull by the water.

Food was the last thing she wanted, but she made a pot of rich, strong coffee in the hope that it would wake her up a little, stimulate her bewildered brain cells into thinking of some way out of this mess. She still hadn’t come up with anything by the time she heard Rhys’s footsteps descending the stairs and he came to stand in the doorway, leaning idly against the wooden frame.

‘The coffee smells good,’ he commented with a relaxed casualness that only added to her sense of discomposure and being on edge.

Why wasn’t he as ill-at-ease as she felt? Couldn’t he at least have the decency to look just a little bit less sure of himself? But then, of course, he was probably only too used to waking up in strange beds with relatively unknown women by his side. Quite unlike herself, who had only ever known Josh in that way—until now.

‘There’s some in the pot—help yourself.’

It was an effort to force her voice into speech but she managed it.

‘Thanks…’

This time there was a little less confidence in his tone, and, hearing it, Caitlin looked up from studying her own mug of coffee to see that he hadn’t moved. Instead, he was still in the doorway, but this time he was studying her intently as if he had something uncomfortable on his mind.

And the thought that it might just be every bit as uncomfortable as what was on
her
mind pushed her into unguarded speech.

‘It’s not poisoned! However much I might wish you had never come into my life, I’m not so desperate as to take that way out.’

His grin in response was quick, wry and bleakly cynical.

‘You might want to when you hear what I have to say.’

C
AITLIN
was proud of her response.

Other than a quick tightening of her grip on the handle of her mug, until her knuckles showed white, she managed to maintain a degree of control that might have seemed like calm if you didn’t look too closely at the shadows in her eyes, the way that the colour had fled from her cheeks.

‘Is this the point where you say the line about “we didn’t use anything”?’

Rhys nodded, his face grim.

‘Unfortunately.’

He levered himself upright, crossed the room to the worktop where the coffee-pot stood, and poured himself a mug of the dark brew. But all the time his brilliant blue eyes stayed fixed on her face, watching every fleeting change of expression that flickered across it.

‘Don’t let it trouble you. I won’t.’

She had hoped to sound unconcerned and reassuring but failed miserably. Instead she just came across as coldly indifferent, stupidly careless.

‘That’s a totally irresponsible attitude!’

‘Oh, is it?’

Lightning flashes of anger flared in the burnt amber of her eyes, defying him openly.

‘And who are you to lecture me about irresponsibility when you weren’t exactly thinking twice about
precautions
last night? I didn’t notice you putting on any brakes, saying hang on—’

‘All right!’

For the first time since she had known him, Rhys’s voice came close to a shout as he slammed his coffee mug down on the worktop so violently that the brown liquid slopped over the sides. But almost immediately he seemed to recollect himself, ruthlessly reigning in the black fury that burned in his eyes.

Drawing a deep, ragged breath, he spoke more calmly. ‘OK, I admit I wasn’t thinking either. But if you had been—if you’d once said stop, or that you weren’t protected…’

‘So now it’s all my fault? You didn’t want any of it?’

‘Of course I did—then! But now I’m deeply regretting something that I wish had never, ever happened.’

Oh, he knew how to stick the knife in, Caitlin reflected miserably. How to slide an emotional stiletto right in between her ribs and then twist it sharply until she almost screamed in agony.

Deeply regretting something that I wish had never, ever happened.

Yes, he knew how to reduce something that she had thought was so wonderful, so special, the hope of a new beginning, to a quick tumble in a stranger’s bed. Something so sordid and meaningless that he already regretted it had ever happened.

‘Well, don’t worry about it.’

Again she tried to sound confident, only managing the sort of airy indifference that earned her another savage glare of dark reproof.

‘No, honestly—wrong time of the month.’

He looked so relieved that she wanted to throw what was left of her coffee right in his face. And she would have done if she hadn’t known deep down inside that she was lying and it was nothing like the
wrong
time of the month, unless of course you meant the wrong time of the month to be having wild, crazy, totally unprotected sex with a near complete stranger. And that it very definitely had been.

Not that there ever was a
right
time for the lunatic way she had behaved last night.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Well, I can’t guarantee it. But I don’t think you need to concern yourself about the possible consequences of our stupidity.’

‘I can’t not concern myself. I was involved.’

‘Look, I’ll see the doctor. This is the sort of situation the morning-after pill is made for. It will be fine.’

‘Well, if you should have any doubts then you’ll let me know.’

Not ‘please let me know’—or even ‘you should let me know’. But ‘you’ll let me know’ as a command, an order that he expected to have obeyed.

‘And you will…?’

‘Well, naturally, I’ll take care of my responsibilities.’

‘Naturally.’

Suddenly too uneasy and uncomfortable to stay where she was, with those cold blue eyes watching her every expression, she moved across the kitchen, silent on bare feet, to perch on a pinewood stool beside the small breakfast bar, tucking her feet up on the first rung.

‘And you needn’t worry about anything else. Any infection…’

Rhys seemed determined to rub her nose in the totally sordid side of the events of the previous night.

‘There will be no problem there.’

‘Oh. Great. That’s good to know.’

She flashed a weak, insincere mockery of a smile on and off like a neon sign, and pretended to drink some of her coffee, grimacing as she realised that it was now almost completely cold.

Well, if she’d had any illusions left that last night had meant something—anything—to him then he’d completely demolished them in a few short, blunt sentences.

Totally irresponsible…

Something that I wish had never, ever happened…

Naturally, I’ll take care of my responsibilities…

You needn’t worry about anything else. Any infection…

The words pounded against her skull like blows, making her want to cover her head with her hands and moan aloud. As it was, she closed her eyes for a moment so that she didn’t have to look into Rhys’s cold, brutal face.

He hadn’t left her with a shred of self-respect or pride—but that wasn’t the worst thing about this whole appalling situation.

The worst thing was knowing that he had come for Fleur. That the baby was what he wanted. And that, if he could, he would take the little girl away from her.

And leave her with nothing.

In the darkness behind her closed lids she suddenly heard Rhys draw in his breath sharply and rawly.

‘Caitlin…’

Something about his use of her name penetrated the fog of misery that shrouded Caitlin’s mind, forcing itself on her attention. Some sudden, dramatic change in his tone of voice, an unexpected, totally bewildering note of sharp concern alerting her to the fact that he was suddenly in a very different mood.

‘Dear God, Caitlin, what’s wrong? What’s happened to you?’

‘Wrong?’

She couldn’t help herself; her eyes flew open, looking straight into the dark, shadowed concern of his.

Had she got him all wrong? Had she misread a sign or two somewhere? Was it possible that he actually really
cared
after all? That she mattered at least just a little bit to him?

‘Wh—what do you mean, what’s wrong?’ she quavered, afraid of letting show just how much this change of heart meant, and at the same time afraid that he might think it didn’t matter at all.

But Rhys’s sapphire eyes were fixed on a point much lower than her pale, strained face. He was staring at—

Fearfully she followed the line of his gaze down past her waist, her knees, her legs, to the point where…

‘Oh!’

Seeing what he’d seen, she couldn’t hold back the cry of shock and concern. Her left foot was bleeding, red stains were smudged and painted all over the white skin of her instep and above. And on the beige tiles of the kitchen floor, little red drops marked everywhere she had stood, tracing out her path with perfect clarity. ‘What the hell have you done?’ His tone was a disturbing blend of exasperation and concern.

‘I—don’t know.’

Shaken, Caitlin held out her foot, watching in shocked fascination as another tiny drop of blood trickled along the edge of the sole.

‘What…?’

Instantly she regretted her action as Rhys slammed down his coffee mug and came towards her. To her horror he dropped to one knee before her, taking her bare foot in cool, solicitous hands and turning it gently so that he could examine it closely.

‘What’s happened?’

‘The photo frame upstairs,’ Rhys pronounced. ‘The broken glass. You must have stood on that when you were getting dressed. Didn’t you notice?’

‘N-no. Not really.’

Wasn’t the truth more that she had been so totally uptight, so severely stressed out, that she hadn’t been capable of noticing—or feeling—anything? She had been so horrified by what she had just learned about Rhys, completely obsessed with just what this meant and the possible repercussions of the discovery, that she couldn’t form any other thought in her mind. She must have cut her foot then and simply not even realised.

‘It looks worse than it is.’

Rhys was examining the sole of her foot, studying it closely and touching it carefully in several places. The indescribably gentle sensation of his fingers against her lacerated skin made Caitlin draw in her breath on a raw, uneven sigh.

Instantly his dark head came up sharply, blue eyes locking with burning gold.

‘Am I hurting you?’

Caitlin could only shake her head in fierce desperation, willing him to believe her. She felt the colour ebb and flow in her face and could only pray that he thought the discomfort in her foot was responsible for her uncontrolled reaction.

She couldn’t bear it if he guessed what it meant to her to have this devastating, arrogant man kneeling before her, her wounded foot held gently in his strong hands, his proud dark head bent over it. She could inhale the scent of his skin, see the dark shadow on his strong jawline where he was desperately in need of a shave, and the temptation to reach out and stroke the soft black silk of his hair was almost overwhelming.

Last night, or, rather, the events of the morning, the revelation of who he was and the total indifference he had shown to her feelings as a result, should have taught her that she was playing with fire even dreaming of being involved with a man like Rhys. Common sense screamed at her that to be involved with him was only flirting with danger. She didn’t
want
to be involved with him. But when he came up close to her like this and touched her so gently, his blue eyes darkening with what seemed like genuine concern, she knew that all the ‘shoulds’ and all the common sense in the world had no impact on the way she
felt
.

And the way she felt was that if Rhys Morgan was to look up into her face as he had done then and say, ‘Caitlin, I want you. Come back to bed with me again and let me make love to you over and over, all through the rest of the day and long into the night,’ then she would go with him, foolishly and blindly maybe, but oh, so willingly and oh, so happily.

And then? How would she deal with the result? The fall-out from her own emotional equivalent of a nuclear war?

But of course Rhys didn’t say those words. He didn’t tell her he wanted her. He didn’t ask her to come back to bed with him. Instead he frowned over the small wounds in her foot, examining them closely.

‘There are some tiny bits of glass in here. You’ve been walking round like this all morning?’

‘Hardly all morning!’ Caitlin protested, the contrast between the words her imagination had put into his mouth and the ones he actually spoke twisting her up inside. ‘It’s only been a short time!’

‘Long enough.’

Rhys knew that he was speaking roughly, that he sounded far more angry than sympathetic, but he seemed to have lost control of his voice. He had no idea what it was about this woman that made his normally firm grip on his self-control weaken so badly. He only knew that when he was with her his thoughts became scrambled and opaque and he just wasn’t functioning normally.

Or, rather, one part of him was functioning in overdrive, he admitted, while the rest, the more rational parts, seemed to have lost all their power. Uncomfortably he shifted from one knee to another, trying to ignore the ache in his groin and disguise the blatant evidence of just what being here, like this, was doing to him. The movement tightened his grip on Caitlin’s foot and instinctively she jerked slightly away from him.

‘Hold still, woman!’ he growled, flashing her a furious glare.

‘I am holding still!’ she protested. ‘You’re the one who moved.’

‘I have to see this in the light.’

He shifted again, under the pretext of turning her foot towards the window, but it did no good. The heat and pressure below his waist remained just as troublesome, not easing a bit.

How could just holding her foot do this to him?

The long, narrow bones were delicate in his hands, the fine, soft skin intensely pale against the deeper colour of his fingers. The curve of her heel fitted into the palm of his hand with a sensual perfection and the shadowy cleft between the big toe and the one next to it was an unnerving echo of the perfumed valley of her cleavage in the deep turquoise lace bra as he had undressed her the previous night.

He had to fight himself hard not to give in to the temptation to lift her foot to his lips and press a kiss onto each and every one of those toes, before moving along the curve of her instep, to her ankle…

Oh, hell, no! No. Thinking this way was only making things so much worse.

‘You need this cleaning up and some antiseptic putting on it. Do you have a first-aid box?’

‘Bottom cupboard on the left.’

She gestured with a nod, sending the long pony-tail in which she’d fastened her hair flying.

Her voice had sounded almost as strained as his, Rhys couldn’t help thinking as, thankful for the momentary respite, he got up from his place on the floor and hunted in the cupboard she’d indicated. Was it possible that she was feeling this as badly as him?

She certainly looked pale enough, those amazing eyes shadowed and clouded.

It helped to concentrate on practical matters like hot water and cotton wool and Elastoplast so that by the time he was back in his kneeling position on the floor he felt that he could cope this time.

If he was quick.

If he didn’t look up into her face and think about how it had felt to kiss those lips where now white teeth were worrying at the fullness of the bottom one. And didn’t think about last night as he wiped away the trickle of blood that had run down her heel.

Last night, when those long, slender legs had curled around his waist so tightly that her heels had rested on the backs of his thighs and she had…

Hell, not again!

He rubbed rather more roughly at her foot in an attempt to distract his thoughts, causing Caitlin to draw in her breath sharply between her teeth.