Modern Romance August 2019 Books 1-4. Heidi Rice

and troubled emotions and no wonder that a sudden powerful wave of nausea washed over her.

      Did her face blanch? Was that why Lucas stepped forward, an unfamiliar look of concern creasing his face as he reached out towards her? ‘Tara? Are you okay?’

      There was no delicate way to say it, even though it was an intimacy she had no desire to share with a man who’d shown her not one iota of compassion or respect since she’d got here.

      She swayed like a blade of grass in the wind. ‘I think I’m going to be sick!’ she gasped.

      He muttered something in French—or was it Italian?—and Tara moaned in dismay as he caught hold of her before she fell, lifting her up into his arms. Last time he’d carried her it had been a shortcut to his bed—and hadn’t that been the beginning of all this trouble?—but this time he merely carried her to the nearest bathroom so she could give into the intense nausea which was gripping her. And as she bent over the bowl and started to retch he was still there, brushing away the curls which were dangling around her face, even though she tried to push him away with her elbow.

      ‘G-go away,’ she gasped, mortified.

      ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

      ‘I don’t want you seeing me like this.’

      ‘Don’t worry about it, Tara,’ he drawled. ‘I’ve been on enough school football trips to have witnessed plenty of boys being sick.’

      ‘It’s not the same,’ she moaned.

      ‘Stop talking.’

      She did but it took a while before she felt better-which was presumably why she allowed Lucas to dab at her face with a deliciously cool cloth. Then, after a moment of cold, hard scrutiny, he handed her some paste and a spare toothbrush.

      ‘Wash up and take as long as you like. Call me if you need me. I’ll be right outside.’

      Tara waited until he had closed the bathroom door behind him, and as she staggered to her feet to the mirror she looked in horror at the white-faced reflection staring back at her. Her eyes were huge and haunted and her hair couldn’t have been more of a mess, which was saying something. She tugged at the elastic band so that her curls tumbled free and shook her head impatiently.

      What had she done?

      Thrown up in front of a man who didn’t want her here. Given him news he didn’t want, a fact which he’d made no attempt to hide. Even worse, she was thousands of miles from home.

      Past caring about her old vest top, she peeled off her too-hot sweater, splashed her face with water and then vigorously washed her hands until the suds stopped being grey. Then she brushed her teeth until they were minty-fresh and removed a hotel comb from its little packet of cellophane. It was slightly too small to properly attack her awry curls but she managed to marginally tame them before going over to the door. Whatever happened, she would cope, she thought grimly. Look what her mother and her granny had done during times when having a baby out of wedlock was the worst thing which could happen to a woman. She dug her teeth into her lip. It was true that their lives had been pretty much wrecked by circumstances but they had managed. And she would manage too.

      Pushing open the door, she found Lucas waiting outside, his body tense and his features still dark with something which may have been concern but was underpinned with something much darker.

      His question was dutiful rather than concerned. ‘How are you feeling?’

      ‘Better now,’ she informed him stiffly.

      ‘I’ll ring for the doctor.’

      ‘Please don’t bother. I don’t need a doctor, Lucas. Women often get sick when they’re pregnant. I’d just like you to call me a cab and I’ll stay in the hostel I’ve booked for tonight—and tomorrow I’ll see about getting the first flight back to Ireland.’

      He shook his head and now there was a look of grim resolution in his eyes. ‘I’m afraid that’s not going to happen, Tara.’

      She tilted her chin in disbelieving challenge. ‘You mean you’re going to physically stop me?’

      ‘If I need to, I will—because I would be failing in my duty if I allowed you to travel around New York on your own tonight, especially in your condition,’ he agreed grimly. ‘There’s only one place you’re going right now and that’s to bed.’

      ‘I’m not—’

      ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, in as firm a voice as she’d ever heard him use. ‘You most certainly are. There’s a guest suite right along the corridor. I’ve put your things in there. And it’s pointless arguing, Tara. We both know that.’

      Tara opened her mouth to object but he was right because she recognised that resolute light in Lucas’s eyes of old. She’d seen it time and time again when he’d been in the middle of some big negotiation or trying to pull off a deal which nobody had believed could ever happen. Except that he made things happen. He had the wherewithal and the clout to mould people and events to his wishes. And didn’t part of her want to lie down on a soft bed and close her eyes and shut out reality? To have sleep claim her so that maybe when she opened her eyes again she would feel better.

      But how was that going to work and what could possibly make this situation better? She had let history repeat itself and she knew all too well the rocky road which lay ahead. But none of that bitter knowledge was a match against the fatigue which was seeping through her body and so she nodded her head in reluctant agreement. ‘Oh, very well,’ she mumbled ungratefully. ‘You’d better show me the way.’

      Lucas nodded, indicating the corridor which led to the guest accommodation, though he noticed she kept as far away from him as possible. Yet somehow her reluctance ignited a flicker of interest he wasn’t prepared for and certainly didn’t want. He frowned. Maybe it was because women didn’t usually protest about staying in his hotel suite or try to keep him at arm’s length like this. He was used to sustained adoration from ex-lovers, even though he was aware he didn’t deserve such adoration. But women would do pretty much anything for a man with a big bank account who gave them plenty of orgasms, he thought cynically.

      He’d tried to convince himself during the preceding weeks that the uncharacteristic lust he’d felt for Tara Fitzpatrick had gone. It should have gone by now. But to his surprise he realised it hadn’t and he was discovering there was something about her which was still crying out to some atavistic need, deep inside him. Even when she was in those ill-fitting jeans and a vest top, he couldn’t help thinking about her agile body. The pale breasts and narrow hips. The golden brush of freckles which dusted her skin. He remembered the way he had lowered her down onto his rocky hardness and that split-second when he had met the subtle resistance of her hymen. And yes, he had felt indignation that she hadn’t told him—but hadn’t that been quickly followed by a primitive wash of pleasure at the thought that he was her first and only lover?

      His throat grew dry as he continued to watch her. The red curtain of curls was swaying down her back, reminding him of the way he’d run his fingers through their wild abundance, and the hot punch of desire which had hardened his groin now became almost unendurable.

      Yet she was pregnant. His skin grew cold with a nameless kind of dread—a different kind of dread from the one he had experienced in the lawyer’s office. She was carrying his child.

       And in view of what he had learned today—wouldn’t any child which had sprung from his loins have an unknown legacy?

      He opened the bedroom door and saw the unmistakable opening of her lips as her roving gaze drank in the unashamed luxury of her surroundings and it was a timely reminder that, despite her innocence, she was still a woman. And who was to say she wouldn’t be as conniving as all other women, once she got into her stride? ‘I hope it meets with your satisfaction,’ he drawled. ‘I think you’ll find everything in here you need, Tara.’

      Did she recognise the cynical note in his voice? Was that why she