Having the Billionaire's Baby(14)

"Are you okay?" The deep voice, softened with concern, sounded close behind her.

The Band-Aid folded in on itself, sticking irretrievably. She threw it   into the trash and reached for another one. "It's nothing serious."

"Do you need a hand?"

"No. Not even a finger." She pressed a tissue to the cut that still oozed blood.

Ignoring her feeble joke, Nick stepped closer, crowding her in the small   bathroom. That proximity, that faint scent, overrode the pain and did   straightaway what she'd earlier denied-sent her thoughts back to their   first encounter, and the thrumming sensuality of it. He reached for her   hand again, and this time she let him see the cut. She was beginning  to  think she might need more than a Band-Aid. "I've kind of hurt my  wrist  too."

Gently, he wiped the blood away, then, still cradling her hand in his,   he looked up and met her gaze. "I'm taking you to the emergency room."

The threat of his suggestion quashed her awareness of his proximity, of   the gentleness of his touch, the caring in his eyes. "I don't like   doctors. Or needles."

His grip on her hand tightened. Green eyes met and held hers. "Deal with   it." The sympathy stayed in his gaze. "Where's your first-aid kit?   We'll do what we can here. But then you are going to see a doctor."

She looked at the cut again. Maybe he was right. Reluctantly, she nodded   at the bathroom cabinet. "The cupboard beneath the sink. Red box.  White  cross on it."

Nick's half smile softened his features. He crouched down and reached   into the cabinet. For a second his movements stilled, and sudden fear   clenched in her chest. He stood with the first-aid kit in his hands. She   couldn't see his face as he bent over her hand and deftly applied a   couple of Steri-strips.



The twenty-minute trip, with her wrist iced and her hand bandaged, was   made in silence. Callie knew what was in her bathroom cabinet beside the   first-aid kit, could too easily picture the pristine box. She'd spent   long enough staring at it over the past few days. She just didn't know   whether Nick had seen it, whether he had time to read what it was.

And she wasn't about to ask him.

The A&E clinic was mercifully quiet. She filled in a form on a   clipboard, and after waiting a short while a nurse approached. "If you'd   like to come with me," she said, sounding far too cheery. Callie  wanted  to turn and run. She glanced at the door, then at Nick.

"Do you want me to come with you?" There was a tightness in his   expression and a frown marred his brow. But still, he seemed the lesser   of two evils. She nodded and they followed together as the nurse, her   right shoe squeaking quietly with each step, led them to a room with a   white-sheeted bed, a desk and a couple of chairs. The smell of   disinfectant permeated the air. Callie felt the nausea rising.

"Take a seat. The doctor will be with you in a moment." The squeaks faded away down the corridor.

"How much don't you like doctors or needles?"



She didn't look at him. "It's nothing I can't handle."

Before he could question her further, the doctor appeared. He scanned   the form on the clipboard, then turned to Callie. "Let's take a look at   you. Why don't you sit up on the bed?"

She eased herself onto the bed, legs dangling vulnerably over the edge.   The doctor carefully examined her hand and then her wrist.

"You'll need stitches, and you've sprained your wrist, but it's nothing   serious," he said cheerfully, apparently having been to classes with  the  nurse.

Didn't they know there was nothing remotely cheery about being here,   about the prospect of stitches? Callie hesitated. She looked up and saw   the gaze of both the doctor and Nick on her. "Perhaps it'll be best if   you lie down," the doctor suggested, a sudden wariness creeping into  his  expression.

Did that mean she'd gone as white as she felt? Callie was happy to oblige. She lay back on the bed and screwed her eyes shut.                       
       
           



       

"And sir," the young doctor said, "you might like to hold her other hand."

Callie opened her eyes to see both of them still watching her. She gave   her head a small and apparently unconvincing shake. In two steps, Nick   was at her side and took hold of her good hand. She didn't want to need   anyone, and especially not him. As she was about to pull her hand from   his clasp she looked across at the doctor, saw the syringe he held and   felt as though she was falling. She turned her head, and her eyes  found  Nick's, saw strength and comfort offered in the depthless green.  He was  here with her for now, and this would be all right. He told her  so  without speaking. She closed her eyes and tightened her fingers  around  his hand. His thumb stroked gently across the back of her hand,  warm and  sure. A calmness stole through her.



That calmness had fled by the time Nick stopped his car in front of her   house. "Thanks for helping me out." It was over, and now she needed to   get rid of him. "You don't need to come in, I'm fine now."

He turned off the lights and cut the engine.

The silence pressed down on her. "I know I was a sissy back there, but   honestly, I'm fine." Using only her left hand, she unbuckled her seat   belt and opened her door. "Thanks again."

Nick opened his door and got out as she did. He looked at her across the   roof of the car, his face illuminated by the sensor lighting that had   come on. He did not look happy. "We haven't finished talking."

She remembered the financial reports still stacked on her outdoor table,   hoped against hope that it was those reports he was referring to. Not   the box in her bathroom cabinet. "The reports can wait. It's late, you   must be tired. I am." She faked a yawn.

"I don't want to talk about the reports," he said quietly. He shut his   car door and climbed the steps to the veranda, then stood waiting at her   front door.

Callie took slow, dread-filled steps toward him. He made no move to help   her as she fumbled with her key, finally slipping it into the lock and   pushing the door open.

"Can I make you a drink? Tea, coffee, something stronger?"

He shook his head, lips pressed ominously together. But at least he didn't mention the box.

She didn't want a drink, either, but playing for time, Callie filled the   kettle, set it to boil. Even in the distorted reflection of the   kettle's curving stainless steel she could see that he watched her.   Avoiding facing him, she pulled a mug from an overhead cupboard, dropped   a tea bag into it. Nick sat on a bar stool on the far side of the   breakfast bar. She turned back and watched the kettle. The only sound in   the room was the low whisper of the water heating and the occasional   quiet drum of his fingertips on the countertop. The feeling of vertigo   that had assailed her at the clinic threatened to return. Her heart   thundered in her chest.

A chair leg scraped across the floor, footsteps sounded down her   hallway. Perhaps he just needed to use her bathroom. Callie poured   boiling water into her cup, prodded the teabag with a spoon. As the   footsteps returned she dropped the sodden bag into the bin and added a   dash of milk to her drink.

Finally, she could delay it no longer. Cup in her good hand, she faced   the breakfast bar. Nick was seated again, watching her. On the counter   in front of him sat a rectangular blue-and-white box. She dragged her   gaze from the box to the man. The Nick who'd held her hand at the clinic   was gone. This one's icy glare chilled her to the marrow.

"When did you buy this?"

Callie opened her mouth to answer, but no words came out. She'd only   bought it a few days ago, when she could no longer ignore the lateness   of her period. She quailed under his scrutiny. Could she lie, tell him   that the box wasn't hers or that she'd bought it a year ago, but then   never had to use it?

Tension radiated from him. "What aren't you telling me?" The question was harsh, more like an accusation.



She looked at the box. Guilt and fear rose within her. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

"What wasn't supposed to happen? Are you pregnant?"

"I don't know," she said quietly, not meeting his gaze. "That's why I   bought that." She nodded at the innocuous-looking box, a cardboard   grenade with the potential to explode throughout her life.

"You told me you'd had your period."

"I did." Finally she looked up. Confusion and distrust were etched on his face.