He too wore a smile but its edges were sharper than a porcupine spike. ‘You didn’t get my message?’
‘What message was that?’
He held up a couple of grocery bags. ‘That I’d be doing dinner tonight.’
‘Umm …’ Stunned, she tried to think. Message? What message? When message? How message? He was here to do dinner? Half thrilled, half terrified, totally hungry and utterly too late, she went to decline, polite platitudes finally finding their way to her brain.
He’d already pushed past and was disappearing down the hall. She had nothing else to do but shut the door and follow him. He’d gone straight to her kitchen and was unpacking the contents of the bags onto the island bench. Unsure of what to say she looked at the label on the bottle of wine, brows lifting when she saw the vintage. She glanced up and found him studying her sardonically.
‘Why so surprised? I’m not cheap, Calypso, as well you know.’
Her ears pricked. ‘Since when do you call me Calypso? How do you know my name is Calypso?’
He took the bottle and lazily started uncorking it. ‘Shall we let it breathe a while?’
She said nothing, just kept her stare up, eyebrows still sky high.
The cork came out with a small, satisfying pop. ‘I had you investigated.’
‘You what?’
‘Not by a private eye. I wanted to find out more about you. So I got my PA to dig round.’
‘Around what—me or my business?’
‘Your company initially, but, as you are your company, a bit came up about you too—nothing terribly exciting save the odd rumour. And as you haven’t been around to ask I got her to—’ He broke off. ‘Where’ve you been these last few weeks, Cally? Not at work?’
‘I haven’t been well.’
‘Oh?’ He skimmed over her robe. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
She ignored the obvious question. ‘What rumour? About the company? Food isn’t your business. Money is.’
‘Your food makes money. You’ve got a solid performer there.’
‘Don’t try to flatter me. What’s your interest?’
He turned his attention to the bag again, lifted out various-sized containers.
‘Calypso.’ He mused. ‘Calypso—the concealer. Did you know your name meant that? Got anything you’re concealing, Cally?’
‘It’s the name my airhead mother gave me because she wanted something different. I think I’m lucky really. It could have been a lot worse.’
‘Hmm. Seems appropriate to me.’
What did he mean by that? She didn’t get the chance to ask because he was talking again and she was so surprised to see him all she could do was stare.
‘So, have a glass of wine with me. I’ve got some other delicacies.’
She watched with horror as he poured two glasses full of the deep red wine and then pulled the lid off a tub of marinated mussels. Shellfish. She shouldn’t have shellfish. Then he lifted out a creamy camembert so ripe the smell had her gagging.
Quickly she went to the sink and ran a glass of water. Knowing she had to take small sips. Just small or she’d lose it all.
He’d fallen silent, not drinking, not laying out the nibbles, not eating, just watching her with intense focus.
‘I’m not really feeling like wine tonight,’ she started babbling. ‘Not that hungry, actually. Would you mind if we postponed this? I’m afraid I didn’t get your message.’
‘I thought it would be a nice surprise.’ He placed the glasses across from each other on the centre island. ‘Don’t you like surprises?’ He ripped the lid off another container. ‘I don’t much like them either. And I don’t want to postpone this. In fact …’ he stopped moving altogether and simply stared at her—hard ‘… I think we need to have that chat we didn’t have a few weeks ago.’
She just needed to keep breathing, she thought desperately as she heard the steel behind his words. Whatever it was he wanted to talk about, he wasn’t going away. Defensive, guilty, she tried to rouse anger that he’d had someone pry into her life. ‘I can’t believe you had me investigated.’
His body tensed. ‘Nothing that isn’t readily available. Company records, newspaper articles, financial accounts. You come from interesting stock, Cally. It wasn’t hard to find out about you. But, honestly, it wasn’t that helpful. I already know things about you that not many others could possibly know. I don’t need an investigator to know you intimately.’ His voice lowered and his eyes were like lasers. ‘I already know how you want it, what you like me to do, how you sound when I do it.’
The reaction in her body was immediate and she ran her fingers across her forehead, obscuring her face so he wouldn’t see it. The heat fevered her mind and the temptation to slip her robe off her shoulders was almost irresistible. But it wasn’t Blake-The-Playful standing here now and nor was she in any position to resume some frivolous, meaningless sex-a-thon. Clamping down on the desire, she looked back to him, waiting to hear what it was he had to say.
He gestured to the delicacies now spread between them on the bench. ‘You sure you won’t have some of the cheese? It’s really very good.’
If it was even remotely a risk Cally wasn’t having it. But he moved to stand opposite her. ‘I know you like gourmet, Cally. Have some with me.’
‘No.’
‘An oyster, then?’ He skewered one and waved it in her direction.
‘No.’
Something settled in Blake’s face. He put the fork down, placed his hands on the bench and leaned across it towards her. She stood still and tried to ignore how damned attractive he was, fighting the magnetism dragging her towards him and the sweet craving for intimacy.
Looking her square in the eye, he spoke softly so she listened hard. ‘I’m nothing if not honest with you, Cally. Can you say the same to me?’
She was hypnotised by his eyes, burning inside, and her newly discovered but most treasured secret tumbled out.
‘I’m pregnant,’ she whispered and her heart thundered. He was the first person she’d told. She supposed it was right that it be him. She had been going to tell him anyway—some time.
‘Congratulations.’ He said it coolly but then picked up his glass of wine and emptied it in one gulp. ‘How far along are you?’
‘Only a little. I only just found out.’
‘Only a little? You’re either pregnant or you’re not, Cally.’
‘I am. I’m pregnant.’ Even as she said it—to a guy who was looking less than thrilled about the idea—she couldn’t stop the thrill running inside. Unutterable delight. She’d never expected to be able to say that, had refused to dream it could or would ever happen. But it had.
He refilled his glass. Took another sip—this time not quite draining the glass but, still, it was no way to drink a bottle of wine that expensive. ‘I thought you said you were never having children.’ He was looking frostier by the second. She’d known this would probably be his reaction but disappointment jolted her all the same.
‘I shouldn’t have. The chances of my conceiving a baby are—’
‘What, one in six?’
He definitely was not pleased. She knew then to kiss goodbye any fantasy of baby makes three and happy ever after. Blake didn’t need to worry; she wanted nothing from him. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. She’d