Sandra Field - Pregnancy Of Convenience

“Oh no, I shouldn’t.”

Lenny had rolled her eyes. “You’re also intelligent, rich, charming when you want to be, rich, and a famous mountaineer. Oh, and did I mention rich? I rest my case.”

“Rich you got right,” he’d replied. “The rest—forget it.”

Lenny had laughed and cajoled him into helping her with some supplemental geometry, a subject that was as much a mystery to her as literature was a delight. Cal loved his daughter Lenny more than he could imagine loving anyone else in the world…more than he’d loved her mother for the last few years of his marriage, he could now admit that to himself. Although never to Lenny.

He should remarry. Settle down and provide a proper home for Lenny, add a woman’s presence to her life. Trouble is, he didn’t want to. Nor had he met anyone who gave him the slightest desire to embrace—for the second time—the state of holy matrimony.

If only he didn’t travel so much; it made it more difficult with Lenny. He’d curtailed his mountain-climbing expeditions the past few years. But he also had to travel for his work. Cal had inherited money from his adventurous, immigrant father; after multiplying this money many times over in a series of shrewd investments, he’d purchased an international brokerage firm; then, later, a chain of prestigious auction houses in Europe and New York, dealing with antiques and fine art. Although computer technology had cut back a certain amount of travel, there was still no substitute for a hands-on approach to his various business concerns.

One more reason why Lenny was in a private school in Switzerland.

The woman on the bed gave another of those low moans. Cal came back to the present, thrusting a birch log into the heart of the flames, and turning his attention to the bed. Despite the heaped-up bedclothes and the warmth of the room, Joanna Strassen was still shivering. Moving very slowly, his eyes trained on her face, Cal lifted the covers and got into bed beside her. Gathering her in his arms, he drew the whole length of her body toward his.

She fit his embrace perfectly, as though she had been made for it. Her cheek was resting against his bare throat, her breath softly wafting his skin; he could feel her tremors, the small rise and fall of her breathing against his chest, and the firm swell of her breasts pressed to his rib cage.

His body’s response was unmistakable. He still wanted her. No matter what she’d done.

Gritting his teeth, Cal thought about the ice ridges of Brammah, the ice cliffs of Shivling, the glaciers of Everest. All to no avail. Cursing himself inwardly, he then tried to imagine she was a fellow climber with hypothermia and that he was simply doing the medically correct thing.

Equally useless. Her skin was sweetly scented, her hair in its thick braid gleamed in the firelight as though the flames themselves were caught there, and each shiver that rippled through her slender frame he felt as though it were his own body. He’d been too long without a woman, that was his problem. After all, how long had it been?

If he had to struggle to remember, it had been altogether too long. Time he rectified that. Soon. And when better than now, with Lenny in school in faraway Switzerland?

There was that blonde in Manhattan, he’d met her at a charity ball; she’d insisted he take her phone number, he must have it somewhere. She’d certainly given every signal that she was willing to climb into his bed, no questions asked.

He couldn’t even remember her name. Shows what kind of an impression she’d made.

There was also Alesha in Paris, Jasmine in Boston, Rosemary in London and Helga in Zurich. All of whom he’d dated; none of whom he’d slept with.

Joanna Strassen stirred in his arms. Hastily Cal eased his hips away from hers, wondering if her shivering had lessened slightly. The sooner he got out of this particular bed, the better.

The woman in Manhattan had had a diamond pin stuck through her left nostril. That he did remember. No wonder he hadn’t phoned her.

A shudder suddenly ripped through Joanna’s body. Her eyes flew open, wide with terror, and with a strength that shocked Cal she pushed hard against his chest. “No!” she cried. “No, I won’t—” Then, with another of those racking shudders, she stared full at him. He saw her swallow, watched with a flash of admiration as she fought to subdue the terror that only a moment ago had overwhelmed her.

The terror that Gustave had come back from the grave to haunt her? His admiration vanished. But before he could speak, she muttered, “You’re not Gustave…oh God, I thought you were Gustave.” Her voice rose in panic. “Who are you? Where am I?”

“No,” Cal said evenly, “I’m not Gustave. Gustave’s dead, remember?”

Again terror flooded her eyes, eyes that were the sapphire blue of her sweater. As she pushed away from him, jerking her head back, she gave a sudden sharp cry of pain. Bringing one hand to her forehead, she faltered, “Please…where am I? I—I don’t understand…”

No wonder Gustave Strassen had returned again and again to his faithless wife. If he, Cal, had thought her beautiful when she was unconscious, how much more so was she with emotions crossing her face, with her eyes huge and achingly vulnerable in the firelight? He said with a deliberate brutality that at some level he was ashamed of, “You had an accident. You’re at Dieter and Maria Strassens’ house.”

Her body went rigid with shock. Then she brought both hands to her face, briefly closing her eyes. “No,” she whispered, “no…tell me that isn’t true.”

“It’s true. Where else was I to bring you? They, I might add, were no happier taking you in than you are to find yourself here.”

“They hate me,” she whispered, and for a moment the blue of her irises shimmered with unshed tears. “I don’t want to be here! Ever again.”

Either she was an accomplished actress, shedding a few tears to brilliant effect; or else everything he’d been told about her actions and character was inaccurate. Gustave, Franz, Deiter and Maria; were all of them wrong? It didn’t seem very likely. Cal said coolly, “Little wonder they hate you.”

She edged even further from him in the bed, her wince of pain instantly disguised. “Who are you?”

“Fate?” he said, raising one brow.

“Stop playing with me,” she pleaded, and again tears glimmered on her lashes. “Please…I don’t understand what’s going on, you’ve got to tell me.”

“I’m the guy who happened along the road after you’d run smack-dab into a telephone pole. You should be thanking me. With the car not running, you’d have frozen to death in short order.”

“The car…” She frowned. “I remember now, I got into the car and left here. It was snowing and windy, but the roads are so straight, I was sure I’d be all right.”

“It wasn’t exactly the most intelligent course of action,” Cal said bluntly.

“I couldn’t bear to stay! And they wanted me gone, they almost pushed me out the door. But once I was out on the road, I couldn’t see where I was going and then suddenly that pole was right in front of me…the last thing I remember was turning off the ignition because I was afraid of fire.”

“One more dumb move to add to the rest.”

“So they told you about me,” she said quietly. “And you believe them.”

“Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?” Cal demanded; and discovered to his inner consternation that he did indeed want to be supplied with those reasons.

“Oh God…” she whispered.

She looked utterly forlorn. In one swift movement Cal rolled out of bed. “I’ll go and get you some soup now that you’re awake. Then I’ll run a hot bath for you.”