Barbara McMahon - Her Pregnancy Surprise - His Pregnancy Bargain / The Pregnancy Secret / Their Pregnancy Bombshell

To her intense annoyance he seemed to find her threat wildly amusing. Maybe, she thought darkly, it was the idea of any woman saying no to him that struck him as funny…?

‘My mother is a firm believer in propinquity. I am not,’ she told him drily. ‘Perhaps we should lay down a few ground rules.’

‘I should tell you I’m not big on rules,’ he confided, stifling a yawn.

‘Now there’s a surprise.’

‘In fact,’ he admitted. ‘I see a rule and I feel this almost overwhelming desire to bend it a little,’ he returned, stretching with languid grace.

Megan felt her stomach muscles clench and looked at him in frustration. Without trying he could drive her crazy. What was going to happen if he took it into his head to try? It didn’t bear thinking about.

Her expression fixed she braced her hand on the back of a chair covered in faded tapestry. One day she might be able to work out why she had ever thought this was a good idea. Right now that day seemed awfully far off.

‘Why am I getting the idea you’re not taking this seriously…?’

‘I get the idea you take everything much too seriously,’ he retorted, looking at her curiously. ‘What do you do when you’re not looking down a microscope?’

‘I avoid men like you.’ Actually she had never met a man like him. Were there any other men like him…?

‘Have you seen the ghost?’

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘How do you know we have a ghost?’ she wanted to know.

‘Don’t all old places like this have a ghost…or several…?’

‘I suppose they do,’ she admitted. ‘But I’ve never seen one.’ And frankly a ghost would scare her less than this incredibly sexy man did. ‘Now, seriously, we should lay down some ground rules.’

His head went back, revealing his strong brown throat as he laughed. Oh, God, she thought, he really is just too attractive, in a dangerous what-the-hell-is-he-going-to-do-next sort of way.

‘Right, forget the rules, just keep it simple. If in doubt say nothing; better still, let me do all the talking.’

‘Won’t that make me appear as if I don’t have an opinion of my own?’

‘That’s the way I like my men.’

‘Under your thumb.’ He extended his aforementioned digit towards her.

He had nice hands, she noticed, but then he had nice everything. ‘I like the strong, silent type…’ she crisply corrected. ‘If in doubt just look enigmatic,’ she advised. Her frown deepened as she scanned his face. ‘Do you think you could do that?’

‘I could.’

‘But are you going to do?’ Or was he going to make a total fool out of her?

‘Is this suitably enigmatic…?’

‘You’re a natural,’ she assured him drily. This was all going to go terribly wrong.

‘Relax,’ he advised. ‘This is going to be fun.’

‘If you think this is fun you have a seriously warped mind. Now just try and remember,’ she pleaded, ‘you’re a famous author.’

‘I’m a famous author,’ he repeated solemnly. ‘Do you believe me?’

‘I know you’re not…I don’t count.’

‘Believe me, by the end of tonight I’ll be so good even you will believe I’m a famous author.’

‘Let’s not get too ambitious.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’ve got to get changed for dinner.’ She extended one denim-covered leg to prove the point. ‘I’ll come back for you in half an hour. Don’t,’ she added, wagging a warning finger at him, ‘move until I get here.’

Of course he did.

THE French doors had been open all through dinner and the guests had drifted out onto the terrace to sip their drinks and chat. Despite the unpromising start the day had produced a perfect summer evening, warm and balmy, spoilt only by an unexpected shower, which was brief but heavy.

Luc and Megan were caught out in the open when the heavens opened. By the time they reached the shelter offered by the leafy canopy of the ancient oak tree it had stopped raining.

Luc, grinning, shook his head, sending droplets of water everywhere. ‘There’s something exhilarating about a summer shower.’

Easy for him to say, she thought.

Casting a resentful glance from under her lashes at Luc’s classically perfect profile, she pondered the unfairness that made him look incredible with his hair plastered damply to his skull. The moisture that clung to his naturally dark skin only served to emphasise the healthy glow.

She had gone for a vintage look tonight. With a sigh she looked down with distaste at her silk calf-length skirt; it clung damply to her legs. The chiffon overskirt with its beading detail might well be ruined—pity, it had been her favourite. She could feel the excess moisture from her wet hair running in a cold trickle down her neck, she didn’t even want to think about what it looked like.

Luc, his back set against the gnarled tree trunk, watched as she ran her hands down her bare arms to remove the excess moisture that clung to her pale smooth skin. She had great arms; like the rest of her body they were toned and firm.

At least the cotton halter-top wouldn’t be ruined by the rain, Megan thought, concentrating on the positive. Which was more than could be said for her hair…negative thoughts refused to be totally banished.

‘Have you ever danced?’

A line forming between her feathery brows, Megan lifted her head to look at the tall figure standing in the shadows. ‘ Dance? What on earth are you talking about?’ She glared up at him, bristling with suspicion.

Luc registered the antagonistic glitter in her eyes, but didn’t comment on it. ‘You’re very graceful.’

Megan felt her cheeks grow hot. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘I was simply making an observation. You carry yourself like a dancer. I was wondering if you trained at some point…?’

‘Me, a dancer!’ She looked at him as though he had gone mad. ‘I’m a research scientist.’

‘Does being a boffin preclude you having a sense of rhythm?’

She dealt him a look of exasperation. ‘I don’t dance. I…well, I did have a few lessons when I was a kid,’ she conceded. ‘Singing lessons too. They were meant to help my asthma.’

‘Did they?’

‘Well, it got a lot better.’

‘You’re shivering,’ he observed as a fresh shudder ran visibly through her slender frame. ‘I’d offer you a jacket except…’ his grin made him appear almost impossibly attractive ‘…I’m not wearing one.’

Megan watched him place his hand flat against his chest. A shaft of agonising awareness shot through her—she was conscious of every crease and fold of the white cotton that clung like a second skin to the broad expanse of his chest. She was even more painfully conscious of the shadow of body hair sprinkled over his broad chest and the suggestion of muscular definition.

Drawing a deep breath as she struggled to regain her composure, Megan developed a deep interest in his shoes.

‘You can have my shirt if you like.’

Her stomach flipped over at the thought of wearing something that was still warm from his skin, something that still bore the scent of his body.

An awful thought occurred to her. Did he know that she had just been mentally removing it? Had she been that obvious?

‘I don’t like.’ It wasn’t just cold that made her teeth chatter violently, it was images of Luc standing there stripped to the waist, his golden skin gleaming his…Stop this, Megan! This was not the time or place to explore her darker emotions!

‘Do you want to go back to the house?’ she asked him abruptly.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ Luc enquired, scanning her rigid face.

After his performance tonight Megan couldn’t believe he had the cheek to ask. Of course she had known when she had gone back to his room and found it empty that she had made a terrible mistake. When she had come downstairs and found him surrounded by a laughing, admiring crowd who were hanging on his every word all her worst fears had been realised.