Bound By The Unborn Baby. Bella Bucannon

delightfully intense expression as she carefully read each item restored his good humour. She finally looked up and gestured, palm out.

      ‘How on earth am I supposed to decide? I’m not even sure what some of them are. You choose for me.’

      ‘The lemon sole is particularly good. Or the chef’s special if you are in the mood for lamb.’ His gaze dropped to her pink, unenhanced lips. Forget food—he wanted to taste her. She’d be sweeter than any dessert coming out of the kitchen tonight.

      Her voice cut through his inapt thoughts.

      ‘I’ll bet they’re all delicious. Nothing too spicy or strong-flavoured.’ Putting her menu on the table, she laid her arms on top, unintentionally drawing his attention as she leant forward. ‘And small portions for me, please.’

      The taut fit of the material over her breasts intrigued him. Had being pregnant enlarged them? They’d been hidden under her loose jacket yesterday. Tonight they’d been the first thing he’d visually noticed when she’d stepped from the car—preceded by that perfume so not right for her.

      What the hell was wrong with him? The woman opposite him wore a wedding ring and was pregnant. He tamped down his libido, concentrated on selecting their meal.

      ‘Oh, wine...?’ Alina’s hands fell to her sides as a young woman carrying a bottle placed an ice bucket and stand next to their table.

      ‘Non-alcoholic,’ Ethan hastily reassured her, before addressing the waitress. ‘Please allow my guest to sample it.’

      She savoured the tangy fruit flavour, drank a little more, and smiled. ‘It’s very refreshing. Thank you.’

      She gazed around while he ordered their meals. A screen of plants, plus a larger than standard space, separated them from the adjoining tables. Little chance of being seen—none of being overheard. Had he asked for it? Or—oh, this upmarket hotel must be part of his Starburst chain.

      The waitress left. Alina raised her glass, let the tangy liquid slide down her throat. Her curiosity overrode tact. ‘Are these plants and extra space always here?’

      He shrugged. ‘On request. Some couples find the seclusion romantic. Some men aspire to an elaborate setting with privacy for a proposal.’ He paused, a glint of amusement in his eyes. ‘In case of rejection.’

      She understood the need to keep her presence a secret. An icy shiver ran down her spine. What if he rejected her proposal? She had to persuade him it was best for everyone involved.

      ‘Doesn’t it invite curiosity from people who might recognise you? Who’ll wonder who I am?’

      ‘Few people dine this early. I believe you’ll feel more comfortable eating here, then we’ll go somewhere quieter to discuss our situation.’

      ‘You’re right. Thank you.’ Her gaze wandered from the silverware, the fine cut-glass, and the decorative light fittings to the amazing panorama outside the window.

      ‘Fine dining. Romantic setting with harbour lights. They create a wonderful memory for any couple,’ he commented.

      Like a sandy beach with rippling waves at dawn. Her eyes misted. She bit the inside of her lip. Don’t go there. It’s all gone. Gone for ever.

      Ethan wasn’t about to let her attention stray. He had too much to learn in too little time. Her history. The reason she’d agreed to be a surrogate. Why she wore that ring. Why a simple piece of jewellery rankled so much.

      ‘Alina?’

      Too sharp.

      She started, blinked twice, and refocused. ‘I’m sorry. I was miles away.’

      ‘I noticed.’ He leant an elbow on the table, rested his chin on his hand, and scrutinised her. He sensed her superficial demeanour was a defensive shield, preventing her from revealing anything personal. It was one he aimed to breach for his, and the child’s, benefit.

      ‘Relax. Enjoy your meal. You like seafood?’

      ‘Love it.’

      Her words coincided with the appearance of their appetiser: creamy pumpkin soup with croutons. They ate in silence, apart from her praise for the country fresh flavour. He signalled for the empty dishes to be removed, requested their mains be held for five minutes.

      Once they were alone, he leant forward. ‘How long had you known Leon and Louise?’

      ‘Oh. Um...I guess casually for more than three years. If there was a position vacant I worked in a café near their house whenever I was in Barcelona.’

      ‘A waitress?’ His eyebrow quirked. Whenever she was in Barcelona? She was not a resident?

      She bristled at his inference of her pursuing a lowly profession. ‘Be careful, Mr James. You’re demeaning your staff, who are giving us excellent service tonight.’

      He acknowledged her rebuke with a nod. She looked gratified and continued. ‘It’s a useful skill for a working traveller. I rarely stay anywhere for long.’

      ‘Any other useful skills?’ This was getting worse by the minute. Casual worker. Temporary. No profession. Why had they chosen her?

      Alina fought the urge to challenge his condescending attitude. He was the baby’s uncle—ideally its future guardian.

      Her choices had been determined by her need to have limited social contact. She toyed with the stem of her glass, drew in a steadying breath. ‘Any office work, translating or bar tending. Plus anything seasonal or transient, such as crop harvesting. I have references, if you’re interested. It’s been my life for seven years—my choice.’

      ‘Not any more. Your foreseeable future will be governed by what’s best for the child you are carrying. And I will have an input in every decision.’

      His low, inflexible tone added to the challenge in his piercing eyes. She matched him, picturing his relatives’ joy—so short-lived.

      ‘The baby is my main priority. I’m taking care of myself, eating healthily, exercising sensibly.’

      The bite in her voice shamed her. She’d never been confrontational, had always tried to get along with others, even in short-term work environments.

      She gulped, tried for conciliation. ‘Everything I do is to maintain their dream.’

      Their dream—not hers. Talking with Ethan James raked up memories best left forgotten.

      ‘What nationality are you? Where are your legal documents? Birth certificate?’ He topped up their wine glasses as he spoke, then watched her as he drank.

      Hands hidden in her lap, her spine rigid, she refused to show any sign of weakness. ‘I’m Australian, born and bred. Is that good enough for you? For your parents? My passport’s in the safe at the hotel.’

      She’d done it again. She’d anticipated his questions, prepared herself for suspicion, even rejection. So how did he manage to wind her up so easily?

      He waited. His unfathomable dark blue eyes revealed nothing. Inexplicably, she found herself wondering how those firm full lips would feel pressed against hers.

      No. No. No! She let out a loud huff of air. Had to be hormonal. Couldn’t be the man. It was vital for him to think the best of her.

      She tried again. ‘Anything not needed regularly is with my solicitor in Crow’s Nest.’

      ‘Good. Easily accessible.’ He nodded, smiled as if her reply pleased him. ‘Here comes our main course.’

      He’d chosen grilled lemon sole served with lightly sautéed vegetables and a side salad. It was melt-in-the-mouth scrumptious—the best meal she could remember. Her tension eased as he kept the conversation neutral and light. Because he was satisfied with her answers so far?

      Dessert was an unbelievably good strawberry soufflé. She sensed his perusal as she scraped