Sandra Field - Pregnancy Of Convenience

It would have given Joanna enormous satisfaction to have thrown her pillow at his retreating back. Or drummed her heels on the cold hardwood and screamed out all her frustration. She did neither one. Cal Freeman already thought she was the equivalent of pond scum. A tantrum would really finish her off.

Why did she care what he thought?

So he had a great body. More than great, she thought, her mouth dry. And she’d be willing to bet he was quite unaware of the effect of his physique on a woman who, apart from that one time a few months ago, hadn’t been to bed with anyone for at least four years. Including her lawfully wedded husband, Gustave Strassen.

Not that Cal would believe that.

Cal Freeman. She’d heard about him over the years. That spectacular ascent of the northeast ridge of Everest. His climbs on the Kishtwar range and the Kongur Massif. His heroic rescue of two French climbers in the Andes. Gustave had never encouraged talk about Cal Freeman; Gustave had always wanted to be the center of attention, another facet of his character that a love-blind nineteen-year-old had totally missed.

How ironic that Cal should have effected another rescue, this time of Gustave’s widow, from a blizzard on the prairies.

Hurriedly Joanna got dressed; she was already heartily sick of her blue sweater. Then she braided her hair, made the bed, drew the curtains, and undid her briefcase. If she was to be stuck here for the morning—beyond the morning, she refused to look—she might as well get some work done.

So when Cal emerged from the bathroom, his hair still damp, she had her laptop set up and was frowning at the screen. He said, “I’ll be back in half an hour with your breakfast.”

She nodded without raising her eyes. He added, an edge of steel in his voice, “Where I come from, you look at someone when they speak to you.”

“I’m working—can’t you see?”

“According to Franz you’ve got lots of money. So what kind of work do you do that’s so important that you can’t even be civil?”

This time her head snapped up. “What I do with all the spare time I have as a stinkingly rich widow is none of your business.”

“Don’t push your luck, Joanna,” Cal said with dangerous softness.

He hadn’t yet shaved; the dark shadow on his jawline did indeed make him look dangerous. But Joanna had done a lot of growing up since she was nineteen. “And what happens if I do?”

“I wouldn’t advise you to ask that question unless you’re prepared for the answer.”

Although her pulse was beating uncomfortably fast, she said with credible calm, “He-man stuff.”

His words had an explosive force. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are? Especially when you’re in a rage.”

A blush scorched her cheeks. “Don’t change the subject!”

“Oh, I don’t think I am.” He gave her a grin she could only call predatory. “I’ll be back.”

The bedroom door closed behind him. Joanna let out her breath in a long sigh. She wasn’t normally argumentative, nor was she overly aware of the male half of the species: if Gustave had been anything to go by, she was better off alone. But Cal Freeman seemed to destroy all the self-sufficiency she’d striven to achieve over the long years of her marriage.

Her first resolution, she thought fiercely, was to work all morning. And her second, to ignore the dark-haired man who was virtually her jailer.

She turned her attention back to the screen, and by sheer stubbornness managed to immerse herself in revising the tenth chapter. Her New York agent had already found a publisher for this, her second novel; she was determined it wasn’t going to bomb, as could so often happen with second novels. Especially after all the critical attention the first one had gained.

It seemed no time before Cal opened the door, carrying a tray. Quickly she closed the file; she had no intention of him finding out about her other life as a writer. She said casually, “That smells good.”

“I cooked the eggs myself,” Cal said. “Didn’t want Maria pouring hot pepper sauce all over them.”

She steeled herself against the laughter lurking in his gray eyes. “What’s the weather forecast?”

“Like this all day. Wind dying around midnight, the plow should come through during the night, and I’ve booked a tow truck first thing tomorrow. No flights out of Winnipeg today.”

“Oh, that’s just wonderful,” said Joanna, fighting down a wave of panic that was out of all proportion.

Cal’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going out to my vehicle to bring in Gustave’s gear,” he said coldly. “I’m presuming you don’t want any of it?”

She flinched. “No,” she said in a low voice. “I don’t need a harness or a set of ropes to remind me of Gustave.”

Cal plunked the tray down on the table. The trouble was, she fascinated him with far more than her incredible beauty. Anger, sadness, frustration, terror, she’d shown them all; and now he had to add a kind of dignity that he could only respect. “Eat your breakfast,” he ordered. “Any complaints about the eggs can be directed to the chef.”

She suddenly grinned. “I’m hungry enough they could be as tough as climbing boots and I wouldn’t complain.”

Her smile was full of mischief. Turning away so he wouldn’t grab her with all the subtlety of a caveman, Cal said brusquely, “I’ll be back with your lunch.” Then he wheeled and left the room.

The next couple of hours were far from pleasant for Cal. Maria’s iron facade wasn’t equal to seeing her son’s climbing gear; Dieter openly had tears in his eyes. Against his will, Cal’s anger toward Joanna was revived; although he was honest enough to admit some of that anger should be directed toward himself for letting her get past his defences so easily. Eventually the Strassens disappeared to their own room; around noon, his eyes tiring from the fine print of War and Peace, Cal took himself to the kitchen and produced some untidy but interesting sandwiches for himself and Joanna. Picking up hers, he headed back to the bedroom.

He could be very soft-footed when he chose to be. Not stopping to analyze just why he should want to take Joanna by surprise, Cal padded into the bedroom they’d shared last night. She was scowling into her laptop computer, totally focused on what she was doing. He couldn’t help admiring her concentration, for Joanna Strassen definitely didn’t want to be here: that much he did believe. Suzanne, under similar circumstances, would have been indulging in a major sulk. But Joanna was being…stoic, he thought. Stoicism was right up there in his list of virtues.

She’d fastened her hair in an untidy mass on top of her head; skewering the shiny black coils was a yellow pencil. As he watched, she leafed through a black-covered journal to her left, read half a page intently, and began rummaging through the papers on the table, muttering something under her breath.

Cal said lightly, “What’s your problem?”

She jumped, knocking several papers to the floor. “Do you get a kick out of creeping up on people?” she demanded. “Where the hell is my pencil?”

“In your hair,” he said amiably.

Her scowl deepened. “I’ve been doing that for years—I never think to look there and don’t you dare laugh at me.” Her gaze dropped to the plate in his hands. “You expect me to eat those?”

He glanced down. The tomato slices had skidded, the lettuce was falling out, and he’d been so generous with the egg salad that each sandwich bulged bounteously. Like a pregnant woman, he thought. “I couldn’t care less if you eat them or not! After Dieter and Maria saw Gustave’s gear they were very upset, and I sure as heck wasn’t going to ask either one of them to make your lunch.”