The Magnate's Baby Promise / Having The Billionaire's Baby. Sandra Hyatt

her profile, cup raised to her lips, something gave him pause.

      He must have made a sound, caught the corner of her vision. She whipped her head around, her shadowed eyes landing squarely on him at the exact moment the sun speared across the balcony. Glints of gold crowned her, a radiant halo for her soft lush features. But it was the expression in her eyes that sent shards of desire straight into his manhood.

      Her study of him was intensely personal. Arousing. He felt the burn of her gaze as if she’d run a slow hand over his body, leaving tiny flames in her wake. Her eyes roamed leisurely, first across his shoulders, then his chest. He remained frozen in her commanding grip, taking perverse enjoyment in her unabashed exploration, a hint of a smile kinking the corner of her mouth. Then her eyes dipped lower, much lower, and he instantly hardened.

      In a blink her eyes flew to his, full of stricken mortification, before she whipped her head back to the view.

      And damn, if he didn’t take that as a challenge.

      He slid the door open and the gentle warmth of the patio heater rushed him.

      Her nose twitched and she suddenly turned, eyeing his cup like it was a redback spider. “Can you…not…?”

      “Drink coffee?” He took a sip, smiling.

      She swallowed thickly. “The smell…I was fine a moment ago but now…”

      “Morning sickness?” His smile fell as she nodded, her eyes panicky as she took another convulsive swallow. Her vulnerability chased away the gentle teasing on his tongue. Swiftly he placed the cup on the floor behind him, then closed the patio doors on it.

      She took a ragged sigh. “Thanks. I’m a coffee drinker but apparently this baby hates it.”

      Cal automatically glanced to her waist, then back to her face. The soft morning light still bathed her, lingering on the tinge of shimmer in her curls. Seeing her this way, devoid of makeup and fancy clothes, a blush still evident on her cheeks, she truly was beautiful. Not like the over-sexual, half-dressed bodies the media portrayed as “perfect,” or the expensive, skinny socialites who frequented the few glittery events he’d reluctantly attended. No, Ava’s beauty was subtle and seductive, a hint of innocence in those blue eyes, combined with a lush mouth that tilted like a siren’s call at the edges.

      He remembered her smile, the way her throaty laugh had taken hold of his libido and squeezed.

      “What?” she asked curiously, breaking his dangerous train of thought.

      With ever-decreasing efficiency he reined himself in. “I’ll be home at seven with the papers for you to sign.”

      Had he just imagined her flinch? It had come out harsher than he’d intended but when she merely nodded in acknowledgement, he mentally shrugged it off.

      “Have a good time today, Ava,” he added softly before reopening the patio door, scooping up his cup and leaving her there.

      Wrestling his body into submission took longer than expected, but subdue it he did. When he finally left the apartment a half hour later, he’d dressed with a lot less care than he usually reserved for his morning ritual, aided by the tingling recollection of Ava’s perusal. The now-familiar irritation of being unable to switch off his thoughts put him in a bad mood for the rest of the day, flaring up whenever he was alone with only memories for company.

      Finally, at 7:00 p.m., after a long, frustrating day of meetings, product reports and several cryptic messages from Victor which he’d ignored, Cal stalked into his apartment with precious little patience left.

      A wall of delicious aromas slammed into him, stopping him dead. Garlic. He sniffed experimentally as his mouth began to water. Tomatoes, frying meat. He tossed his briefcase on the couch and walked into the kitchen.

      The sight of Ava, barefoot in jeans, sweater and an apron, humming a melody as she stirred something in a simmering pot on his cooktop, speared him on a primitive level.

       My woman. Mine.

      It churned up emotion so surprising, so intense that it slammed the breath from his lungs. The cliché—barefoot and pregnant, in his kitchen no less—no longer seemed amusing. Because when she threw him a smile and said, “Dinner’s ready in five minutes,” he wanted nothing more than to drag her into his bed.

      “You didn’t have to cook.” His words came out sharp, borne from frustration and his apparent lack of control.

      “I like to cook,” she said calmly, her attention resolutely on the pot. “If you don’t want it, you don’t have to eat it.”

      Swallowing his retort, he sighted the groceries on the kitchen bench. “Did you order that in?”

      She gave him an odd look. “No, I went to the supermarket.”

      “Did you carry all this?”

      She rolled her eyes at the dark suspicion in his voice. “No. Your mother pushed the cart then your doorman delivered it upstairs.”

      “I thought you went clothes shopping.”

      “We did.” When she offered him a platter of carrot sticks, he took one, crunching it thoughtfully. “You also needed food in your fridge.”

      “I have food.”

      “Wine, water, juice, coffee, cereal.” She ticked the items off on her fingers. “No fruit, meat, dairy or vegetables.”

      She turned back to the pot and gave the sauce another stir, but when he remained silent she threw a look over her shoulder. “What?”

      He shoved down a myriad of conflicting thoughts, smoothing his expression. “How’s the nausea?”

      She handed him a knife with a smile. “Gone until the morning, I suspect. Make yourself useful and cut the feta?”

      At his round dining table they ate in silence, an odd half tense, half expectant silence. Cal was fully aware of every move, every sound as they devoured the spaghetti and Greek salad she’d made. The tiny scrape of fork on plate, the gentle swallow of water being sipped only amplified the quiet. When he spoke, it was like a shot.

      “What did you buy today?”

      She downed her fork with deliberate care. “Yes.”

      Cal eyed her well-worn attire but said nothing.

      “A few dresses,” she said stiffly. “Some jeans, shoes, skirts. A few tops and a jacket. Don’t worry,” she added in a small voice. “I won’t embarrass you.”

      Damn. He’d hurt her but didn’t know how to fix it, so he did the only thing he could. He let silence do the mending.

      “We’ve had some interview requests,” he finally said, placing the cutlery across his plate.

      She sat back in her chair, digesting that information. “Do you expect me to give interviews?”

      He shrugged. “Only if you want. There’s also a bunch of glossies angling for a spread—Vogue, Elle, Cosmo, for starters.”

      “Fashion shoots.” She shook her head. “That’s just…surreal.”

      “You’re now a news item. You’re in demand.”

      “But only as your fiancée,” she countered.

      “I thought,” Cal said slowly, “women liked getting pampered, dressed up and photographed.”

      “I don’t do ‘pampered and dressed up.’” She stood abruptly. “I’m practical, a simple country girl who wears jeans and steel-capped boots. I clean the kitchen, I cook, I wash up. I work with dirt and dig a veggie patch.” In quick jerky movements, she began to clear the table. “I’m not glamorous, I’m not model material…I…I have crow’s feet and dry heels!”

      Her delivery was so frustratingly honest that Cal swallowed his snort of amusement.