The Sheikh's Sinful Seduction(52)
“That was my assistant,” Zafir explained. “You must be Ivy McGill? Thank you for saving me the trouble of waiting in the rain any longer than I had to. You’re well? Our family was given to understand you were quite ill.”
His tone dripped sarcasm. Fern tried to ignore it.
“Miss Ivy, this is Sheikh abu Tariq Zafir ibn Ahmad al-Rakin Iram. Or you might be more familiar with him as, um, Mr. Zafir Cavendish, grandson of the Duke of Sommerton, who sits in the House of Lords. I did—” she cleared her throat “—give the impression that you were in need of care when I cut short my teaching contract with his sister’s children.”
“I see.” No doubt Miss Ivy saw very well. No one had ever accused her of lacking math skills.
“Let me take your coat, Fern,” Zafir said, stepping behind her so her heart nearly leaped out her mouth.
You don’t live here. It’s not your job to take my coat, she wanted to protest. Don’t stay. Don’t talk to me. Don’t even look at me.
Then she felt the brush of his fingertips against her shoulders and the sensuous memory of his stripping her clothing from her body came back to her like sunshine breaking its warmth across her face. She suppressed a shiver of mixed longing and mortification.
He stepped away to hang the dripping coat on the hooks over the rubber mat. Fern balanced a hand on the wall and unzipped her boots, taking extraordinary care with placing them so the insides wouldn’t be filled by the rivulets off her coat, afraid to turn and face him.
“Why don’t you make us some tea,” Zafir suggested behind her, but Fern suspected he was looking at her, not Miss Ivy. He was willing her to face him and own up to what she’d done. “Fern and I need to talk.”
Hugging herself, as if that could disguise this huge evidence of her carelessness that stretched the knit of her oversized jumper, Fern forced herself around.
Miss Ivy looked worried. She had pressed Fern many times to tell her who the father was and now there was such anxiety in her small dark eyes.
Fern managed a tight smile. “It’s fine,” she assured her.
Miss Ivy nodded jerkily and slipped into the alcove, where she’d be able to hear the murmur of their voices while she filled the kettle and brought out her good china.
Fern dared a glance at Zafir and saw a puzzling mixture of emotions on his face. He aimed his hard stare at her belly. Something fierce yet angry gripped him. Not dangerously threatening, but deeply primal.
She swallowed and edged toward the sofa, where she lowered to perch on the edge of the cushion, facing him, facing up to all of this that she’d mostly been denying. Visiting a doctor and reading ads for flats was only the tip of the iceberg as far as fully accepting her pregnancy went.
A rush of despondency hit as the biggest part that she’d been avoiding—the fact her baby had a father—confronted her with ominous silence.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen, Zafir.” Her voice was husky with self-castigation.
“It’s mine,” he said, more statement than question, but the demand for confirmation made her choke out a shocked laugh.
“Who else?” she asked, askance.
“I needed to hear it.” He looked away, his profile carved sharply from granite. His hand fisted at his side and his jaw worked, but the news didn’t seem to please him.