His Wedding-Night Heir(21)

She should have realised that one day some kind of recompense would be demanded from her—if not in cash, because there wasn't any, then certainly in kind. She should have known that Nick had marked her out from the start as his future bride—young, she thought stormily, and biddable. Not a living, feeling girl, but a puppet, easy to manipulate. Or so he'd considered. And she, pitifully, had totally misread his intentions.

Well, at least she'd forced him to think again. To accept that she wasn't the naive push-over he'd originally bargained for. Ready to sacrifice her emotions, her self-respect and her trust in exchange for a roof over her head and his money to spend.

Except that it had not been about money at all. And the knowledge of that had provided the basis for the private tragedy that was beginning to unfold.

7 suppose you know that you're trespassing?' Those were the first words Nick had ever said to her, and she would never forget them.

In a way, it had been a covert warning that he was forbidden territory and she encroached there at her peril. And she'd picked up on it even if it was at some unconscious level. Wasn't that why she'd taken the job in London—in order to put distance between them and recover from the threat to her untried emotional equilibrium?

But where Nick was concerned her instincts had always been heightened, she recognised. Hence the bad dreams over the past year, signalling to her that his net had been spread again. That the search was on in earnest.

I should have listened, she thought. Found another country to live in, even.

Except, of course, that her passport had been left in her hand luggage back at Wylstone Hall, ready for the honeymoon that never was. Stranding her in Britain, within his reach. A mistake she would not make again once she was finally free.

She became aware that they were pulling off the motorway, traversing a roundabout into a smaller country road.

She sat up. 'Where are we going?'

'There's a good pub not far away,' he said. 'And you need food.' She was aware of his swift, sideways glance. 'Or are you going to tell me you're not a lunch person either?'

Actually, she was ravenous, but she wasn't about to admit it.

She lifted her chin. 'Just as you wish.'

'If only it were that simple,' he murmured with faint amusement.

They drew up a short while afterwards outside an old-fashioned country inn, an ancient timbered building with low ceilings and uneven floors, and, at the rear, well-kept gardens, bright with flowers, and a lawn stretching down to the river, offering tables shaded by parasols.

'Will this do?' Nick halted at a table in an arbour, heavy with climbing roses just coming into flower.

'Fine.' Cally picked up a menu and hid behind it.

'They're famous here for their pies.' Nick seated himself opposite. 'I'm ordering steak and kidney. How about you?'

Cally, who had no wish to enter into the spirit of the occasion, tried to work up an interest in the sandwich list, and failed utterly. 'Turkey and ham,' she capitulated, after a brief struggle. 'And a glass of dry white wine—please.'

She watched him cross the grass to deliver their order, and saw how women's heads turned as if operated by strings when he passed by. Two pretty girls at an adjoining table were waiting, saucer-eyed, for his return.#p#分页标题#e#

And it was worth waiting for. Even she had to acknowledge that. In a crowd of thousands, she would still be able to pick

out that long, lithe stride. Feel the pull of that cool, understated masculinity, and the unwelcome stir of her own senses in response.

To her embarrassment, he saw her watching his approach and smiled across at her. She looked away, swiftly and blindly.

As he put down the drinks and resumed his seat Cally said, quietly and urgently, 'Nick, it's still not too late. We don't have to do this.'

His brows lifted. 'You want to change your order? Or go somewhere else? I thought you'd like it here.'

Her voice shook slightly. 'That's not what I meant, and you know it.'

His mouth twisted. 'Well—perhaps,' he conceded drily. 'So, what exactly are you saying?'

Cally lifted her chin, "That if you announced you were looking for a surrogate mother for your baby the queue would form on the right. Because that's all you really want—isn't it? You—you don't need to involve me.'

'Oh, yes, I do, darling,' he said softly. 'And that's why I'm not going for surrogacy, or adoption, or even down the IVF route, or any other potential means of escape that fertile brain of yours can summon up.' His smile was hard—implacable. 'You married me, Cally, for better or worse. And now, a little belatedly, you're going to learn to be my wife.' He added harshly, 'The number of lessons required will depend entirely on yourself.'

Her breath caught. She said huskily, 'You—really want your pound of flesh, don't you?'