To begin with, she’d felt justified in not calling him again. She didn’t want to embarrass him, she told herself. And she certainly didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for her. This woman he was with: who knew how serious that was? After the way he’d walked out of her apartment, she’d had no reason to believe he would be glad to hear from her again.
But as the weeks went by and the baby grew inside her, she knew she’d been fooling herself. Of course, he’d want to know about the baby. The trouble was, she had no idea how she could approach him now. She should have phoned again when she’d had the chance, she thought unhappily. Matt might not care about her, but she was sure he’d care about the baby.
The fact that he hadn’t challenged her petition for divorce was some justification, surely. Apparently, the fact that there might have been consequences from the night they’d slept together hadn’t occurred to him. But why would they? she’d mused ruefully. They’d been trying for a baby for so many years without any success.
No, after that confrontation in London, he appeared to have washed his hands of her. And she consoled herself with the thought that there’d be time enough to think about how she was going to handle the situation after the baby was born. The last communication she’d had from his solicitor had quoted the address on Cable Cay that Matt had given her. So, evidently, he’d left NovCo now and moved to the Bahamas, as he’d planned.
Alone?
Pushing that thought aside, Joanna studied the details of the showing that was taking place the following week on the website. Since becoming a partner in the business, she’d set up the website and acquired a list of email addresses she could use to announce forthcoming events. It had worked well and drawn a lot of new people into the gallery, people who only learned about things through social media.
The young artist being featured this coming week was a favourite of hers, and she hoped the exhibition went well. Unfortunately—or fortunately, whichever way you looked at it—Joanna would not be around to see it. She was leaving for Cornwall on Saturday, much against David’s better judgement, she had to admit.
He believed she’d be better off staying in London. He’d be on hand if she needed him, and she could always continue updating the website from home. These days, he deferred more and more to her judgement, and there was no doubt that she would miss the excitement of not knowing what each day was going to bring.
Despite learning how expensive a childminder was going to be, she’d still been able to invest in the gallery, which she hoped would provide security for the future. Initially, she’d believed she could only afford one or the other. But because when she and Matt had divorced, she’d been contacted by Matt’s solicitor with a view to selling her shares in NovCo, she’d decided she owed it to her father to accept the interest they’d made.
As she sipped her tea, she heard the outer door open and guessed her partner was back from lunch. David had been schmoozing with a wealthy collector, who he hoped would agree to attend the following week’s showing.
She heard footsteps in the gallery, but David didn’t immediately come through to the office. Either he was making adjustments to the display or it wasn’t David at all. Which meant she should show her face. It wouldn’t do to allow a would-be customer to feel neglected.
Setting down her tea, she rose to her feet, briefly checking her reflection in the glass of a picture hung above David’s desk. She wore her hair in a single braid these days and, apart from a few errant strands curling about her ears, it hung smoothly over one shoulder.
But it was almost the end of the day and any make-up she’d started out with was virtually non-existent. Not that a touch of mascara and a smear of cinnamon lip gloss achieved much. All the same, with her prominent bump, she bore little resemblance to the glamorous receptionists she’d seen in other galleries around town.
Stepping out into the gallery proper, she glanced quickly about her. Had she been mistaken? There didn’t appear to be anybody about. But the gallery was quite big, and the stone bases supporting the current display of bronzes blocked her view.
‘Hello,’ she called, hoping someone would answer. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I hope so.’
The voice was sardonic but, in spite of the passage of time, so recognisable that Joanna’s breath caught helplessly in the back of her throat.
Matt, she saw with some dismay, stepped out from behind the wooden frame that stood at the front of the gallery, announcing the current artist’s identity. In narrow-fitting jeans and a thigh-length leather jacket, the collar tipped up against the rain, he looked heartbreakingly familiar, and she found it hard to tear her eyes away.
Licking her dry lips, she said, ‘Matt.’ She took a breath. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Do you need to ask?’
Looking at Joanna now, Matt was glad he’d had the sense to check out the gallery before actually speaking to her.
Despite what Sophie had said, he hadn’t intended to make this trip, but something—some suspicion, perhaps, that Sophie hadn’t been entirely honest with him—had compelled him to find out for himself. He’d arrived in London late the previous day—much against his better judgement, it was true—and as soon as he’d checked into his hotel, he’d had his chauffeur bring him here.
It was January and it had been fairly dark when he’d arrived at the gallery and, as it happened, Joanna had just been leaving for the day. She’d been alone, a long wraparound coat attempting to conceal her appearance, but Matt had known at once what it was Sophie had been trying so hard not to say.
Joanna was pregnant. And fairly well advanced if he didn’t miss his guess. But how well advanced and whose baby was it? He had a right to be suspicious, when not only had she not told him, but she knew as well as he did how singularly unsuccessful in their efforts to get pregnant they had been.
He hadn’t attempted to speak to her then. He couldn’t.
He’d had Jack drive him back to his hotel and had spent the rest of the evening getting mindlessly drunk, trying to erase the image of his wife in bed with another man.
This morning, he’d phoned Sophie, uncaring that it had been the middle of the night in New York, and expunged a little of his frustration on her. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’ He’d practically yelled the words. ‘I’d at least have been warned what to expect.’
He’d felt guilty later, and he’d phoned again and apologised for blaming her. But, God Almighty, what had he done to deserve this? he wondered. And why the hell hadn’t Joanna told him herself?
Though why should she, he argued, if it wasn’t his baby? He might be beating himself up unnecessarily over an event that had nothing to do with him. On top of which, he had the mother of all headaches, a combination of a hangover and the bitter recriminations that had kept him awake half the night.
Now he moved forward. ‘Well, let me see,’ he said, answering her question, and there wasn’t an atom of warmth in his voice. ‘I thought you might have something you wanted to tell me.’ His eyes swept insolently down her body, lingering with undisguised contempt on the bump that swelled her dress. ‘Ah, I see you do.’
The more charitable thoughts Joanna had been having about her ex-husband vanished with his words. His arrogance infuriated her.
‘Why should you presume I have anything to tell you?’ she demanded, forgetting all about the feelings of guilt she had been nurturing earlier. Her hand slid protectively over her belly. ‘I don’t believe I’ve made any claim against you.’
Matt’s eyes turned hostile. Suddenly, despite what he’d been thinking, he knew the baby was his. Joanna had never been much good at lying, and he could see the apprehension in her eyes.
‘Just when were you planning on telling me?’ he demanded, ignoring the