The Pregnancy Proposal. HELEN BIANCHIN

      Then they’d slip from this large bed, share a leisurely shower before dressing for the day ahead, eat breakfast together and take the lift down to the basement car park.

      This morning was different. So much had changed in the past forty-eight hours. Gone was the easy camaraderie, the sanctuary of unreserved loving. Now there were barriers, doubts, reservations.

      Insecurities and unresolved resentment, she added silently, aware that every second she remained quiescent related to an invitation she was reluctant to offer.

      Two years of unrestrained loving, yet at this moment she felt as nervous as she had the first time they’d shared sex.

      ‘I must get up.’

      Jared’s hand slid from her ribcage to her stomach. ‘Stay.’

      The breath caught in her throat, and she tamped down the need. If she stayed, there could only be one end, and although she craved the wild, primitive pleasure his touch would provide, she’d only despise herself afterwards for giving in.

      ‘I can’t.’

      There was a lost, almost forlorn edge to her voice that tore at him more than the words she uttered.

      ‘Stay,’ he repeated gently. ‘With me.’

      Did he have any idea how hard it was for her to refuse? Or how easy it would be to give in? But what price a love that wasn’t equal? Self-survival had to be her ultimate goal. And she couldn’t, wouldn’t settle for anything less than his total commitment. Willingly given, not out of duty.

      Right now she needed to get out of this bed and put some distance between them, for if he kissed her she’d be lost.

      ‘I need to go into the office early this morning.’ Even as she uttered the words she was easing away from him, smooth, deliberate movements he made no effort to still as she slid from the bed and crossed to the door. If she chose to shower in the adjacent en suite he might see it as an invitation to join her, and the resulting intimacy would be more than she could bear.

      Half an hour later she’d showered and utilised the hair-drier. All her clothes, she qualified with a faint grimace, were in the master bedroom, along with her lingerie, hose, shoes.

      With luck, Jared would be in the shower and she could retrieve what she needed without him being aware she was there.

      Chance would be a fine thing, she acknowledged on re-entering the bedroom. He was in the process of dressing, a pair of black silk briefs sparing his tall muscular frame from nudity.

      She caught a glimpse of broad shoulders, lightly tanned flesh and the fluid movement of muscle and sinew as he reached for a white cotton shirt, aware of the ease with which he closed the buttons before pulling on elegantly tailored trousers to his waist and deftly sliding the zip fastener closed.

      There was nothing she could do to prevent the spiralling sensation curling through her body. Trying to stop it was akin to halting an incoming tide…impossible.