Читать книгу The Blackmail Pregnancy - Melanie Milburne - Страница 9

BYRON was leaning against the car, listening to someone on the other end of his mobile phone, his eyes squinting slightly against the bright sunshine. Cara approached the car and he turned as if he sensed her behind him. He carefully avoided her eyes as he came around and opened the door for her. He finished the call and slid into the driver’s seat, all without addressing a single word to her.

Cara wanted to break the silence but couldn’t think of anything to say. What did one say to an ex-husband in these situations? I still love you after all these years? I made a mistake, the biggest mistake of my life, when I left you? Can we try again?

‘No.’

‘Did you say something?’ His eyes flicked her way as he turned the wheel.

She hadn’t realised she’d spoken out loud, so deep was her concentration on the past.

‘No, nothing…’

He turned the car into the traffic before speaking again.

‘I thought we could have lunch.’ He glanced at the car clock. ‘I have a client at two, but if we’re quick we can grab a sandwich and a coffee somewhere.’

Cara didn’t want to appear too desperate for his company, and wished she could invent two or three clients of her own, but the rest of her afternoon was unfortunately very free.

‘I should get back to the office—’

‘And do what?’ He glanced at her again. ‘Your business has ground to a halt. Is my company so distasteful to you that you can’t even stomach the thought of sharing a simple meal with me?’

She flinched at the bitterness in his voice.

‘No, of course not.’ But even to her own ears her tone lacked conviction.

‘No wonder you’re balking at the suggestion of sharing my bed,’ he ground out. ‘Let alone bearing my child.’

Cara stared at her tightly clenched hands in her lap, and before replying waited until she had her emotions under some sort of control.

‘Lunch will be fine,’ she said at last. ‘I don’t have any other engagements.’

He drove to a café in Neutral Bay in stony silence. Cara looked at him once or twice, but his attention was on the traffic ahead. His normally smooth brow was deeply furrowed, the lines around his mouth tightly etched, as if he were only just managing to keep control of his anger. She knew he was angry with her. Seven years of anger separated them just as much as the issues that had caused the first rift.

She’d been adamant from their very first date that she had no intention of ever having children. She hadn’t told him the real reason, but instead had grasped for the generally held assumption that young career-driven women had better things to do with their time than haunt some man’s kitchen barefoot with a protruding belly. The fact that she hadn’t at that point in her life had a career hadn’t taken away the strength of her argument. But at twenty-two years old what truths of the world had she really known? She’d flitted from job to job, searching for something she had known was out there somewhere for her to devote herself to. But back then it hadn’t yet appeared on the horizon.

It had taken the bitter divorce to propel her into the field of interior design. She’d immersed herself in her studies, trying to dull the throb of pain that just wouldn’t go away. And yet for all her efforts the pain was still there, waiting for a chance to break free of its bounds.

Byron parked the car and she joined him on the pavement outside the café. A waitress led them to a table shaded by a huge leafy tree and Cara sat down and stared at the menu sightlessly.

‘Cara?’

She looked up and his eyes clashed with hers.

‘What sort of coffee would you like?’ he asked, indicating the hovering waitress.

‘I’ll just have a mineral water, please,’ she told the waitress, who then moved to the next table.

She could feel Byron’s speculative gaze on her and fidgeted with the hem of the tablecloth to distract her.

‘What happened to the latte lady?’ he asked.

She gave a shrug and examined the menu once more.

‘She couldn’t sleep.’

As she looked up and caught the tail-end of a small smile she wished she’d looked up earlier.

‘Do you drink?’

‘Alcohol, you mean?’

He nodded.

‘Not any more.’ She lowered her gaze once more and stared at a tiny crinkle in the tablecloth in front of her.

‘Tell me about your mother, Cara.’

Cara stiffened. Schooling her features back into indifference was hard with him sitting so close. So close and yet so far.

‘I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead,’ she countered, and was relieved when the waitress arrived with their drinks.

She drank thirstily and hoped he’d move onto another subject.

Once the waitress had left Byron spooned sugar into his cappuccino and stirred it thoughtfully. He’d been a little unprepared for seeing Cara again. He’d thought it would be easy. He’d breeze in and call the shots. But somehow something wasn’t quite right. He’d been too young and inexperienced to see it before. He’d fallen in lust and then in love with an ideal—an ideal that had turned out to be a real woman with issues that just wouldn’t go away. He could see that now. Hurt shone from her hazel eyes, hurt that he’d certainly contributed to—but not just him; he felt sure about that.

She’d never let him meet her mother. He wondered now why he hadn’t insisted. Somehow Cara had always found an excuse: her mother was away visiting relatives, couldn’t make it to the wedding, had the flu and wasn’t seeing anyone. He hadn’t pressed her about it. Anyway, her mother had lived in another state, so visiting had mostly been out of the question. He had spoken to Edna Gillem once on the telephone, and it still pained him to recall their conversation. It had well and truly driven the last nail into the coffin that had contained his short marriage.

With the wisdom of hindsight he could see the mistakes he’d made almost from the first moment he’d met Cara. She had been out with a group of friends whom he’d later referred to as ‘the pack’. They had been like baying hounds, crying out for male flesh, and from the first moment he had seen Cara was in the wrong company. She’d looked scared, vulnerable in a way that had dug deeply at the masculine protective devices his father and grandfather before him had entrenched in his soul.

He’d taken her to one side to buy her a drink and one drink had led to another. He’d taken her to his apartment and she’d fallen asleep on his sofa. In three weeks she had been sleeping in his bed, and eight weeks later wearing his ring. He’d never slept with a virgin before, and it had taken him completely by surprise.

He often felt guilty when he recalled his actions of all those years ago. If only he’d taken his time, got to know her—the real Cara, not the shell she presented to the world. Maybe he wouldn’t be sitting opposite her now, in a crowded café, with the pain of seven years dividing them. They could have had kids in school by now—kids with hazel eyes and light brown hair that wouldn’t always do as it was told.

He stirred his coffee and took a deep draught, his eyes catching hers as she reached for her mineral water. What was she thinking? She looked so cool, so composed, but still he wondered…

‘How are your parents?’ she asked.

He gave his coffee another absent stir and Cara saw the hint of a small smile of affection briefly lift the corners of his mouth.

‘They’re fine. Fighting fit. Dad has taken up golf and Mum is part of a bridge club.’

‘And your twin brothers and sister?’

He pushed his half-finished coffee aside and met her interested gaze.

‘Patrick eventually married Sally, and they have five-year-old twins—Katie and Kirstie. Leon and Olivia now have three kids—Ben, seven, Bethany, five, and Clare is three. Fliss has two-year-old Thomas, and is apparently expecting a girl this time.’

Cara drained her glass and set it aside.

‘And your business?’ she added. ‘It finally took off?’

‘Like you would never believe,’ he said, and then added with a rueful twist to his mouth, ‘You should’ve hung around.’

She didn’t respond. The waitress appeared with the sandwiches he’d ordered earlier, and she stared at the food set down before her and wondered how she’d ever force it down her restricted throat.

She’d never doubted he’d be successful as a property developer; he came from a long line of very successful moneyed men. What surprised her was how little that success had fulfilled him. She’d imagined him married, with the brood of kids he’d always wanted, but he was still single—and asking her to resume their relationship temporarily. She didn’t understand him. Perhaps she never had.

Some endless minutes passed before either of them spoke.

‘My parents send their regards,’ Byron said. ‘I was speaking to them last night.’

Cara met his eyes across the table and looked away again.

‘Please send on my own. I’ve thought of them over the years.’

‘What about me?’ he asked after a tiny pause. ‘Have you thought about me?’

She fidgeted with her napkin, ignoring the untouched food in front of her.

‘A bit.’

‘Just a bit?’

‘A lot.’

He seemed satisfied with her answer and she instantly regretted saying anything that would make Byron think she was still hankering after him, like a lovelorn ex-wife who couldn’t get her life back on track.

‘Did Felicity finish her degree?’ She asked the first question that came into her mind.

‘With honours. We’re very proud of her. She’s the first Rockcliffe female to complete a doctorate. My mother got as far as her master’s, but it took Fliss’s determination and brilliance to lift the game that next notch.’

‘I always thought she’d do it,’ Cara said. ‘She’s got what it takes.’

‘Evidently so have you,’ he observed. ‘That’s an impressive degree hanging on your office wall.’

‘It came at a high price.’

‘But worth it, surely?’ he asked. ‘You’ve made your mark on Sydney’s design intelligentsia.’

‘But not on the bank manager.’

‘No, but they’re hard to please at the best of times.’

She felt a smile tug at her mouth.

‘Trevor would be glad to hear you say that,’ she said.

‘Did you meet him at design school?’

She nodded. ‘He was a friend of a friend—you know how it goes.’

‘Have you got a boyfriend? A lover?’

Cara bent her head over her food, playing with the salad garnish. ‘I can’t see that it’s any of your business. What about you?’ She lifted her eyes gamely to his.

His dark gaze gave nothing away. ‘Suffice it to say I’m in between appointments.’

Her heart squeezed at the thought of him involved with someone else, but she fought against revealing her feelings to him. It was none of her business who he slept with—now.

‘So I take it your offer to me is some sort of stop-gap?’

‘You might like to see it that way, but I prefer to see it as an investment in the future.’

‘There’s not much future for children without two loving parents,’ she pointed out. ‘Surely all children are entitled to at least that?’

‘That’s the ideal, of course, but life doesn’t always go to plan. There are literally thousands of households headed by single parents. No one could say they’re doing a substandard job; they’re just getting on with it—bringing up the next generation as best they can.’

Cara toyed with her food, rearranging it without lifting any morsel of it to her mouth.

‘Some do better than others,’ she said, pushing her plate away.

Byron knew her statement was loaded but decided against pressing her. She looked tired, almost defeated, as if the world had been cast upon her slim shoulders. She was visibly sagging. Her eyes refused to meet his and her shoulders were slumped as if in surrender. He thrust his napkin aside and got to his feet.

‘Come on. I’ll take you back to your office.’

She was glad of the reprieve. She felt uncomfortable in his company and couldn’t wait to be free of it so she could think clearly. Having him so near clouded her thoughts, ran them together—like a red T-shirt thrown amongst white washing.

He settled the bill and she allowed him to lead her by the elbow towards the car.

‘I’ll see you on Sunday,’ he said when he left her outside her office. ‘I’ll pick you up from your home. Trevor gave me your address the other day.’

Cara waited until his car had disappeared down the street before she turned towards her office, her thoughts jumbled inside her head.

Trevor was waiting for her.

‘How was it?’

‘How was what?’

‘The house,’ he said in excitement. ‘Was it everything and more?’

She gave him a vague smile and pushed past to go to the sanctuary of her office.

‘It was that and more. I’m going to take the job and start work immediately. I’ve got a house—no, a mansion to fill with furniture, and only four weeks in which to do it.’

Trevor gave a whoop of delight.

‘That’s my girl!’ he crowed. ‘We’re not going under!’

No, she thought. You’re not going under—just me. And she closed her office door on his carefree smiling face.

Byron was right on time when he pulled up in front of her small rented apartment on Sunday evening. Cara had been watching from the window and now stood in the hall, waiting for his knock.

She opened the door and felt her stomach tilt at the sight of his tall frame before her. He was wearing dark trousers and a lightweight knit top that highlighted the breadth of his shoulders.

She had chosen to go casual as well. Her camel coloured pants teamed nicely with her black top, and her hair was loose for a change. She saw his eyes flick over her as she stood before him, his expression giving nothing away. She wanted to say hello, but instead reached for her bag, trying to cover her unease.

‘I thought we might go somewhere quiet and discuss your decision over dinner,’ he said as she followed him out to his car.

‘Fine.’

One-word answers were all she could manage on the way to a little Italian restaurant in Glebe. Cara sat twisting the strap of her bag and wondered what he was thinking. Was he anticipating resuming their relationship tonight? Or would he wait until she’d finished the house?

They were seated with drinks and menus in front of them when Byron asked, ‘Have you come to a decision?’

She looked up at him in alarm. Couldn’t he at least wait until their food had been ordered?

‘I meant about the food,’ he added with a small tilt of his mouth as he noticed her troubled expression. ‘You don’t need to panic just yet.’

‘I’m not panicking.’

‘Yes, you are. I can feel your tension from here.’

‘I’m not tense, I’m…I’m concentrating.’

‘On what?’

‘The menu.’

‘What do you feel like?’ he asked.

‘What?’

He gave her another frustrated look.

‘I’m still talking about the food.’

‘I haven’t had time to look,’ she replied coolly. ‘You keep badgering me with questions.’

‘Sorry.’ His apology was gruff as he returned to his own menu. ‘I realise this isn’t easy for you.’

‘Are we still talking about food?’ she asked.

His mouth twisted as he met her eyes across the table.

‘No, not this time.’

The waiter appeared and asked for their order. Cara rattled off the first thing she’d seen under main courses and sat back and waited for Byron to relay his own preference. Once the waiter had bustled away she felt the full heat of Byron’s gaze.

‘So, what have you decided, Cara?’

‘I’d hardly call it a decision,’ she said with some resentment. ‘You’ve made it very difficult for me to do anything else.’

‘I made it difficult?’ he asked with heavy irony. ‘I wasn’t the one who didn’t take a decent look at the business end of things until it was too late to do anything. What world are you living in, Cara? You can’t blame other people for your own mistakes—even if they were innocently made.’

She gave him a tight-lipped cold stare.

‘Trevor is not an ideal business partner,’ he continued.

‘Why?’ She threw the question at him crossly. ‘Just because he’s gay?’

‘No,’ he answered evenly. ‘It has nothing to do with that. He hasn’t got what it takes to run a business.’

‘And neither do I?’

He reached for his glass of red wine and twirled it in his hand before responding.

‘No. Your heart’s not in the books—it’s in the design end of things. I could see it in your eyes when you saw my house.’

He was right, but she wasn’t going to let him enjoy that little victory.

‘We can’t all be highfliers like you, Byron,’ she said. ‘Trevor and I weren’t educated in one of Victoria’s most prestigious fee-paying schools. We don’t have family money to back us.’

‘You had my money. The divorce money.’

‘It’s expensive setting up an office,’ she said. ‘The computers and so on.’

He seemed to accept her answer and she inwardly sighed with relief.

‘How soon can you get the house ready to live in?’ he asked, unsettling her again.

‘I…I’ve got a few ideas about furniture, but it could be weeks.’

‘I told you a month—that’s all.’

‘It’s not long enough.’

‘Surely we can live in the house with the bare essentials?’ he said. ‘All we need is a bed and—’

‘You expect me to live with you?’ she asked in alarm.

‘Of course. I thought you understood that.’

‘But what about my apartment?’

‘You call that shoebox an apartment?’

She gave him another cold, resentful glare.

‘I would’ve thought you’d have the most sensational home after all those years in the business. Or is this yet another case of the plumber with a leaky tap?’ he added when she didn’t respond.

‘I had other priorities. I’m hardly home, so it didn’t seem important,’ she said.

‘Well, you can sell it, or rent it out for the time being. I want you to live with me at the Cremorne house and I want you to start tomorrow—furniture or no furniture.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Her eyes widened in panic.

‘I’m signing on the dotted line tomorrow with your financial people. I expect you to fulfil your part of the contract.’

‘I hardly call it a contract,’ she ground out bitterly. ‘More like a dictatorship.’

‘Call it what you like. It’s immaterial to me. I’m putting a lot of money in your business and I want some immediate returns on my investment.’

‘You’re sick,’ she fired at him. ‘How can you sit there and discuss this…this farce, so clinically?’

‘Quite frankly, Cara, I don’t really care what you think about me personally. I have a goal in mind, and this time not even you are going to stand in my way.’

‘You definitely need help,’ she muttered as she savaged her bread roll. ‘I’ve never met anyone with such a big ego.’

‘And I’ve never met anyone with a lesser one,’ he countered neatly.

Cara’s butter knife clattered against her plate as she looked away from his penetrating gaze. Fortunately the waiter appeared just then, with their food, and she was spared the right of reply. Not that she could think of one; he was right—she had no self-esteem, never had. Her mother had seen to that, right up to the very day she died.

She forced herself to eat at least some of the food set before her, even though her appetite had completely disappeared.

‘You don’t seem to be enjoying that,’ Byron observed some minutes later. ‘Would you like something else instead?’

She shook her head and forced another mouthful down.

‘You look as if you’re going to face a firing squad at dawn,’ he said after another minute or two had elapsed. ‘Relax, Cara. You might even enjoy it.’

A vision of their passion-locked bodies flitted unbidden into her mind and she lowered her head to her plate to disguise the heat she could feel coursing across her cheeks.

After a few painful minutes she pushed her plate away in defeat. She wiped her mouth on her napkin and caught the hard glint in his eyes.

‘You’d do anything but talk to me, wouldn’t you, Cara? Even force-feed yourself a meal you don’t want so you don’t have to speak to me.’

‘I have nothing to say to you.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What about, How was it for you that day I left? Were you upset? That would be a good place to start.’

Her hands tightened in her lap but she didn’t answer him.

‘Or what about, Did you know I was pregnant when I left? That would make for a very interesting conversation, now, don’t you think?’

Cara stared at him in abject horror, all the colour draining away from her face. His expression was clouded by anger, his dark eyes glittering dangerously with it, showing her that this was no time for denial. Without warning the moment of truth she’d quietly dreaded for seven years had finally caught up with her.