The Sheikh's Sinful Seduction(51)

                None of this was ideal. In fact, it was the kind of repetition of history she hated to own up to, but she would manage. And her baby would not carry the burden of fault that had been hers most of her life.

                As she reached the steps to the converted row house that held Miss Ivy’s flat, the self-satisfied lambent green town car at the curb caught her attention. Its tinted windows and details of chrome where out of place in this village. The driver’s side door opened, startling her into halting.

                Zafir straightened and slammed the door with a firmness that made her flinch. As he came around the bonnet, seemingly unaware of the rain that pattered onto his uncovered head, she told herself to run, but could only stand there and stare.

                No tunic or headdress, but he was as exotic and resplendent as always, even in a bespoke English suit of cast-iron-gray with a sharp white shirt and a silver tie. His beard was shaved to a narrow line that edged his set jaw and cut a goatee around the uncompromising firmness of his mouth.

                His remarkable green eyes were as flat as frosted glass as they traveled to the billow of her overcoat. He flinched, but it wasn’t with surprise. More like, okay then.

                The way he moved was smooth and unhurried, but his approach still felt like a blast of hurricane-force wind. He covered her hand on the umbrella and lifted it high enough so he could stand under it with her. Her hearing dulled and became more acute at the same time. Damp, earthy, male scents of aftershave and coffee, wool and warm, masculine skin, clouded into the little space and overwhelmed her senses.

                She swallowed, falling into lust all over again.

                Pathetic. She was in the middle of her third trimester, about as sexy as a cow ready to calf, but she wanted to lie with him. Naked and joined.

                “Let’s get out of this mess,” he said in the voice that had been raising the hairs on her scalp since the first time she’d heard it.

                Out of the rain? Or the situation?

                Her heart kicked into gear as he nudged her into movement. His free hand grazed her elbow and he pointed her in the direction of the steps. She began to tremble as the enormity of his being here hit.

                Did he know? Of course he did now. She wasn’t the size of a house, but her coat was tented over her bump like a tarp over the bow of a boat. That radiation of umbrage from him was unmistakable. She’d grown up with those sorts of vibes directed at her. She knew all too well this sense of disapproval jabbing into her like the point of a sword.

                But had he known? Had he come to see her? Or because he’d learned of the baby? How?

                As they stepped into the small space beneath the overhang of the stoop, he stole the umbrella from her nerveless grip, lowered and shook it, then followed her through the door that her numb fingers could barely unlock. He dropped the umbrella into its stand and paced his footsteps into hers as they climbed the two narrow flights to Miss Ivy’s door.

                Her mind raced, but she couldn’t seem to catch a solid thought. Bring him into the flat? Take him somewhere else? Where? Why was he here? What was he going to say?

                How much did he hate her for this?

                “Fern?” Miss Ivy called from the tiny alcove of the kitchen as they entered. “A woman called for you. She didn’t leave her name, but I told her you’d be back about now so I expect—”

                Miss Ivy trailed off as she emerged with a glass and a tea towel in hand. “Hello,” she said with a lilt of curiosity in her tone, eyes going sharp as she looked into Fern’s face—which had to be ghostly pale. Her brows pulled together with concern.