Pleasure, Pregnancy and a Proposition (9 page)

Louisa forced down the traitorous spurt of warmth. So what if he’d been trying to help her? It didn’t give him the right to ride roughshod over her wishes whenever it suited him.

‘I mean it, Luke. I’m not eating lunch with you until you
promise me you won’t do this again. I’m not a child and I won’t be treated like one.’

‘You’re mad!’ he shouted.

He looked bigger than ever. She didn’t care.

‘You haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon and you’re prepared to starve yourself to make a stupid point?’ he said, frustration pulsing off him.

‘Missing a meal won’t kill me,’ she said. ‘If the Suffragettes could do it, so can I.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The Suffragettes,’ she said calmly, even though her insides were churning at the thought of what was really at stake here. ‘Those pesky females who fought for women’s rights.’ If they were ever going to have a chance of dealing with this baby together she had to win this round.

‘I know who the Suffragettes are,’ he grunted, then spun away and paced across the room. His stiff, angry strides lacked his usual grace.

He braced his hands on his hips as he stared out the window. His shoulders looked like carved rock silhouetted against the sunshine. Clearly he’d never had an ultimatum like this before, and he didn’t have a clue how to deal with it. Well, good—it was about time he learned that not every female on the planet was prepared to bow to his every whim.

The expertly mown lawn dissolved in an angry haze in front of Luke’s eyes. He was so annoyed with Louisa he wanted to throttle her. The woman was turning out to be more of a challenge than he’d anticipated—and not the enjoyable kind.

One minute they’d been about to devour each other, and the next she’d been talking a load of rubbish about
rights and decisions and demanding he apologise for…For what, exactly? He didn’t even know what he’d done that was so terrible.

To add injury to insult, he was so hard in his jeans it was a wonder he hadn’t made a complete fool of himself.

Nobody told him what to do—especially not someone who’d been so vulnerable the night before that he’d had to mop up her tears and tuck her into bed like a baby. She needed him to take care of her. If she’d just admit that they could get past all this nonsense and get back to what mattered. And right now relieving the ache in his groin was top of the list.

But how had she turned the tables on him so neatly? She’d been as ready as he had a moment ago. He’d heard that staggered moan, smelt the intoxicating scent of her arousal. But she’d still managed to pull back. He knew she could be stubborn, and over-emotional, and contrary, but where had this backbone of steel come from?

He rubbed the back of his neck, tried to focus on the problem.

What mattered in any negotiation was the bottom line. And the bottom line here was that he wanted Louisa to stay—for a week at the very least. So they could finish what they’d started—both in bed and out. It was pretty obvious she had a problem with any kind of authority—so he’d have to tread more carefully.

He turned around. She was watching him, waiting, her eyes flinty with determination, her fingers clasped tight on the lapels of her robe. She looked valiant, despite the bare feet and freshly scrubbed face—like a warrior instead of the fanciful, inexperienced girl he’d once taken her for. Why he found that attractive, he had no idea.

As he approached her he noticed how her puckered
nipples stood proud against the thin fabric of the robe. She was no more immune to him than he was to her—he might have to concede this battle but he would still win the war.

Louisa could see he’d calmed down, but her stomach muscles were still taut with nerves. If he didn’t apologise now she would have to leave—and in the last few minutes she’d realised she didn’t want to. Not yet.

Although she wasn’t really sure why.

They’d spent nearly the whole of the last twenty-four hours bickering. And when they weren’t bickering…Well, the overpowering desire to get naked with him didn’t make their association seem any more promising, really. But as she took in his tall, elegant frame, that devastating face, the thick hair falling in careless waves across his brow and the carefully hooded eyes, she realised she found Luke Devereaux as intriguing as he was infuriating.

The man was an enigma—and a devastatingly sexy one at that. And she wanted to know a lot more about him. Who was he? What made him tick? And why did he captivate her, even though he appeared to have the sensitivity of a gnat?

But first they’d have to get his ego under strict supervision.

He buried his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. The stance made him look a little wary. She considered it a good sign. If he apologised now, she’d give him some slack.

‘I did the right thing, bringing you to Havensmere,’ he said firmly.

Okay, she wasn’t giving him that much slack. ‘If that’s your idea of an apology it’s leaving a little to be desired.’

‘I’m not apologising for doing what needed to be done.’

Her stomach muscles clenched even tighter. He wasn’t
going to give an inch. The stab of regret made her feel foolish. The man wasn’t intriguing. He was a control freak. Clearly they would never get along.

‘So I guess that’s my cue to leave, then,’ she said. But as she stepped past him his hand shot out to stop her.

‘Wait.’ He held on to her arm. ‘You needed your sleep last night—and I didn’t want to argue the point when you looked so fragile.’ She opened her mouth to speak, but he pressed a finger to her lips. ‘Shh, let me finish.’ He sighed, letting go of her arm and burying his hands in his back pockets again. ‘Despite my concerns about you, I can see I should have asked you first—before I arranged your leave with Parker.’

She obviously wasn’t going to get him to be contrite. The rigid line of his jaw made it clear even this much of a concession was costing him. ‘Will you promise not to do it again?’ she asked.

‘Do what, exactly?’

‘Make decisions for me without my consent.’

The moment stretched between them before he gave a reluctant nod. ‘Okay.’ His brow furrowed. ‘But I want you to stay the week. Will you?’

She smiled, the questioning look in his eyes making her feel as if she’d just felled Goliath. ‘Of course I will. All you had to do was ask me properly.’

He smiled back—and her knees weakened even more, for a very different reason. He touched his thumb to her cheek. ‘Good.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’re eating on the pool terrace. It’s at the back of the house. Ask one of the staff how to get there when you’re ready.’

She watched him walk away in silence.

He glanced over his shoulder as he opened the door. ‘Don’t be long. I’m starving,’ he said, then shot her that too-tempting smile again and left.

She frowned at the door as it closed behind him.

Now, why did she get the feeling she hadn’t felled Goliath at all, only bruised him a little?

L
OUISA
patted the waistline of her linen trousers as she walked down the wide, sweeping staircase to the entrance hall. Was it her imagination or had the waistband got tighter?

Her boot heels gave a sharp crack on the floor of the hall and echoed in the church-like silence. Louisa dropped her head back to look up at the high vaulted ceiling. It finished in a glass dome two storeys above, which flooded the area with natural light. Gold-framed portraits hung on handprinted silk wallpaper, and carefully positioned Chippendale furniture was polished to an eye-watering gleam. A series of corridors tapered off in different directions, both on the ground level and the one above. Obviously Luke hadn’t been kidding when he’d said Havensmere had sixty rooms. He might even have underestimated.

Despite the sparkle of sunlight on the parquet floor, the house was cool. Luke Devereaux’s home made her think of Maxim de Winter’s Manderlay. Magnificent, but intimidating. Well, at least she had her make-up on at last. The dab of eyeshadow and the dash of lipgloss made her feel bolder and better prepared for what was to come.

She had her armour on now—and she intended to use it.

‘Ms DiMarco, it’s good to see you up and about.’

Louisa turned at the sound of the soft West Country accent.

A round, ruddy-faced woman walked towards her, wearing a smocked dress, her practical brogues scuffing on the polished floor. ‘I’m Mrs Roberts, the head of Mr Devereaux’s household staff,’ she said, drawing level. She brushed her hand on the apron tied around her waist and offered it to Louisa.

The older woman’s grip was firm and hearty, her smile unreserved and welcoming. Luke might be Maxim de Winter, but at least his housekeeper was no Mrs Danvers.

‘Hi, I’m Louisa DiMarco—nice to meet you.’

‘Nice to meet you too, dear.’ The housekeeper’s smile broadened. ‘Mr Devereaux’s waiting for you by the pool. The chef has done a very nice poached salmon for lunch. I’ll tell Ellie, our kitchen maid, to serve it now, shall I?’

‘Um, that would be great—thanks.’ Louisa stumbled over the words, having another Scarlett-down-the-rabbit-hole moment.

The chef? Ellie? How many staff did Devereaux have? He was only one man, for goodness’ sake.

The housekeeper reeled off a set of instructions on how to get to the pool terrace in her pleasantly efficient way, and then smiled as her eyes dipped to Louisa’s waistline. ‘Mr Devereaux has told us your happy news, by the way, so on behalf of the staff here I’d like to congratulate you.’

Louisa gave a tentative smile back, not sure what to say. So Luke had told his staff about the baby. Why did the thought make her feel uneasy?

‘We’re honoured to have you here, my dear,’ the housekeeper continued, still beaming at her as if she’d won the Lottery. ‘Anything you need, you let me or one of the other staff know.’

‘Thanks—I will.’

Louisa watched the woman leave, feeling more daunted than ever.

She wasn’t a complete stranger to the lifestyles of the rich and famous, of course. She worked for one of the most sophisticated women’s magazines in the country. She’d been to perfume launches at Claridge’s, gone on a PR junket in Manhattan, but she’d never been waited on in her own home.

She’d grown up over her father’s north London deli, for goodness’ sake, with her whole family crammed into three small bedrooms. She’d never considered herself deprived. But now, as she walked past a series of staid, deathly quiet drawing rooms—all of them larger than her family’s entire flat—she wondered how she and her child would fit into Luke Devereaux’s world. And whether he could possibly fit into hers.

As she opened the glass-panelled door that led to the gardens she felt like an actress, moments away from her West End debut, who hadn’t learned a single one of her lines. Stage fright didn’t even begin to cover it. She drew in a deep breath of the flower-scented air and prepared to play the role of her life.

The translucent blue water of the swimming pool sparkled invitingly as she stepped out on the flagstoned terrace. She spotted Luke on the other side of the pool, seated at an elaborate wrought-iron table shaded under a leafy chestnut tree. A young woman in a black maid’s uniform was laying out a selection of plates and platters as he read his newspaper.

The fine china, the lacy linen tablecloth and her devastatingly handsome host were all so perfect her pulse spiked again. If it hadn’t been for Luke’s faded jeans the scene would have looked like something out of a Renoir painting.

Le Déjeuner sur l’Herbe
deluxe, Louisa thought wryly.

She watched as Luke gave the girl a curt nod. The maid nodded back and left. No wonder he had that take-charge attitude. He’d obviously been born and bred to give orders and to have them obeyed instantly. She smoothed her hair down. Well, he wasn’t going to order her around—not any more.

Her boot heels clattered on the stone tiles and he glanced over his shoulder. She could have sworn she felt all those centuries of power in his gaze as it raked over her. He folded his paper and stood up as she approached—the epitome of aristocratic gallantry. The impeccable manners didn’t fool her, though. She knew how quickly the veneer of civilisation disappeared whenever he was challenged—or aroused.

He gestured to the poached salmon displayed on a bed of exotic salad leaves. ‘I hope you’re hungry. Leonard has prepared enough for an army,’ he said, those penetrating silver eyes locking on her face.

Her breathing got a little choppy, and her heart skipped a beat. Stop it, woman. He’s just a man and you’re his equal, not his subordinate, whatever he might think.

‘It looks delicious,’ she said, grateful the rumble in her stomach was disguised by the rustle of leaves.

She sat stiffly in her chair and observed him as he seated himself and began serving their meal. No wonder she’d found him irresistible that night, when she’d thought he was a regular guy. Being in this mansion, though, would remind her every day that he was anything but. He was an aristocrat, a lord of the realm, a man far too used to being the master of all he surveyed.

She picked up a monogrammed napkin and spread it over her lap.

She was going to have quite a job on her hands teaching Luke Devereaux he was not the master of her. With that in mind, she ought to keep her hormones under better control than she had this morning. Jumping into bed with Luke whenever he clicked his fingers probably wasn’t the best way to give him a lesson in humility or convince him she wasn’t his latest toy.

Luke watched as his guest forked up some salmon and slid the pale pink flesh into her mouth. Oil slicked her bottom lip and her tongue darted out to lick it off. He accepted the familiar punch of lust with a half-smile.

Louisa DiMarco was easily the most troublesome woman he’d ever met, but there was no denying she fascinated him. He wasn’t used to women standing up to him the way she had, and he couldn’t recall the last time one had said no to him—especially when it was obvious she wanted to say yes. That she was pregnant with his child raised the stakes—but as far as he could see it didn’t alter them. Once this tantalising battle of wills was over he intended to have his child properly provided for and Louisa DiMarco right where he wanted her.

He lifted the icy jug of homemade lemonade and poured them both a glass. He brought the glass to his lips and let the cold, tangy liquid slide down his throat as he contemplated his opponent. He’d expected she’d object to the decision he’d made about their future this morning. But he’d worked out a strategy and this time he was sticking to it. She’d got him so stirred up earlier he’d lost control of the situation for a moment. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

He was the hunter here, not her—and he wasn’t about to get captured by the game.