Tall, Dark... Collection. Carole Mortimer

for the day—telephone calls she couldn’t make from Nick’s apartment.

      She had a lot of friends from university working in the art world who, like her, had decided to work in galleries or agencies instead of painting professionally themselves. One of them, she was sure, would give her some sort of lead on Andrew Southern’s agent.

      She was determined to track the artist down, no matter how impossible Nick seemed to think it was. Nothing was impossible if you had the right motivation. And she most certainly had that!

      Where was her mother now?

      Living in England somewhere? With a husband and possibly other children?

      Maybe. Hebe had no intention of disrupting her life, but now that she had seen that portrait she just needed to know.

      Was Andrew Southern her father?

      Why, if he had loved her mother, hadn’t he married her when he knew she was expecting his child? If Hebe was his child…!

      Why had she, Hebe, been given up for adoption?

      None of those things had been of interest to her before she saw that portrait—and, whether he realised it or not, she had Nick Cavendish to thank for that!

      It took half a dozen telephone calls once she got home to even track down Andrew Southern’s agent, and then a call to the agency only resulted in the receptionist telling her that she could make an appointment to speak to Mr Gillespie, and he would be happy to pass along any commission she might care to make, but she very much doubted he would be able to help Hebe in regard to meeting or talking to Andrew Southern personally.

      Hebe made an appointment for the following day, anyway. If nothing else she could give the agent a letter, possibly a photograph of herself, to forward on to the reclusive artist. If her mother had meant anything to Andrew Southern at all—and that portrait seemed to say that she had—then the photograph of Hebe alone would surely be enough to pique his interest!

      It was what she was hoping for, at least…

      Nick banged forcefully on the apartment door, his anger not having diminished in the least on the drive over here after discovering that Hebe had indeed gone from his own apartment before he’d returned.

      What did she think she was playing at?

      He had told her to stay put.

      She hadn’t.

      He had told her they would talk further when he got back.

      She hadn’t been there to talk to.

      And he was furious. With her. With himself. With the fact that he had become more and more convinced since leaving her earlier that she was pregnant.

      If Hebe was to be believed about having had no other relationships in her life—and her anger at the suggestion had seemed fairly convincing—then he was going to have baby…

      A little girl who would look like Hebe. Or a little boy who looked like him. And Luke…

      He banged on the door again, his fist raised a third time when the it suddenly opened. Hebe eyed him coldly from just inside her apartment.

      ‘There’s no need to break the door down, Nick,’ she snapped. ‘I was just eating a sandwich when I heard your—knock,’ she drawled pointedly.

      He drew in an impatient breath. ‘What sort of sandwich?’ he demanded to know. ‘You do realise that there are certain things you can’t eat when you’re pregnant?’ he added impatiently as he walked past her into the apartment, to look around him curiously.

      The apartment took up the second floor of one of the old Victorian buildings London was so famous for, with huge bay windows that looked out on a tree-lined avenue.

      The sitting room was bright and sunny, the walls painted yellow, multicoloured scatter rugs on the polished wood floor, the brown sofa and chairs festooned with an assortment of cushions in autumn colours.

      He turned to look at Hebe. She certainly looked a lot better than she had when he’d left her earlier. The colour was back in her cheeks, the sparkle—anger—was back in those gold-coloured eyes. She was looking very slim too, in the faded denims and fitted black tee shirt she had changed into since returning home.

      Well, the slimness was soon going to change, if his assumption proved correct!

      Although he had a feeling Hebe was going to be one of those women who put hardly any weight on while pregnant, and that despite the growing baby she would retain that air of delicacy that so appealed to him.

      He took a crushed paper bag out of his jacket pocket. ‘For you,’ he told her dryly.

      Hebe made no effort to take the bag from him, and in fact put both her hands behind her back instead. She knew exactly what was in the bag, and had no intention of satisfying his curiosity. ‘I don’t remember inviting you inside,’ she said irritably.

      ‘You didn’t,’ he confirmed, strolling over to where her plate, with its half-eaten sandwich, still sat on the table. He lifted one corner of the bread to look at the filling. ‘Cheese.’ He nodded approvingly. ‘You’ll need to keep up your calcium intake.’

      ‘Nick—’

      ‘Hebe?’ he came back challengingly.

      ‘Don’t you think you’ve taken this far enough?’ She sighed wearily, sitting down on the chair at the table. ‘Insulted me enough? I told you—I was faint and dizzy from hunger earlier, and for no other reason,’she said firmly.

      He put the bag down on the table next to her sandwich. ‘We’ll know in a few minutes, won’t we?’ he said grimly. ‘You can do this test any time of the day and get a correct result,’ he assured her determinedly.

      ‘A negative one, you mean?’ She nodded.

      ‘Hebe.’ Nick moved down on his haunches beside the chair. ‘You weren’t on the Pill. I didn’t use any precautions, either. Did you go to the doctor for a morning-after pill?’

      ‘Certainly not!’ She was horrified at the suggestion. ‘No, I thought not,’ he accepted flatly. ‘Have you had a period since we were together?’

      Her cheeks suffused with embarrassed colour. ‘Now, look—’

      ‘Have you?’ he persisted.

      Had she? Her periods had never been particularly regular, anyway—sporadic at best—so she tended not to take too much notice of dates, just dealing with them when they arrived. But, no, she didn’t think she had—

      She grabbed the bag containing the pregnancy test, got up and strode determinedly from the room. She would do his test, prove to Nick once and for all that she was not pregnant, and then hopefully he would just go away and leave her alone.

      Blue.

      The little line in the middle of the window was blue. Blue for positive.

      Hebe sat on the side of the bath, her head bent down between her knees as she breathed in short, controlling gasps, trying not to faint again.

      She hadn’t believed the result the first time, had been sure it was faulty, so had taken out the second tube in the double pack—trust Nick to want to make doubly sure!—and done it again.

      That one had a positive blue line through the middle of it too.

      She was definitely, positively pregnant.

      With Nick Cavendish’s baby.

      A baby he certainly didn’t want.

      Did she?

      She had never given much thought to having a baby of her own. Or, at least, if she had, it had been as part of and a progression of a loving marriage.

      Not the result of a single night spent in Nick Cavendish’s arms!

      Now what did