The Promise (2 page)

“I didn’t know about the note, but I did know Jake and Clarisse had been involved.”

“Why didn’t you mention it?"

Again her eyes mocked him. “When we were together, other things always seemed more important.”

A muscle moved in his jaw. “How is it that your family has never tried to cash in on this favor before?”

“I can’t speak for my family. Perhaps no one has ever needed it.”

“But you do. Need a favor, I mean.”

She moved, he couldn’t say exactly how. But it was just enough to make him consider that she might not be as at ease as she seemed. “I prefer to think of it as collecting on a promise.”

“How long have you had the note?” 

“I inherited it last year. Clarisse never had children—in fact, she never remarried—so the note was handed through her younger sister to her daughter, who was my mother, who in turn passed it on to me at her death.”

“Is your father still living?”

“He died several years before my mother.”

“I’m sorry.” His jaw tightened. Dammit. Why had he let himself become sidetracked by personal matters?

He thumped the note with his thumb and middle finger. The crumpled ball of paper shimmied, then stilled. “You know, don’t you, that this note would never hold up in court?”

Her chin seemed to lift a notch. “It’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

She had to be bluffing. She had to know that if she somehow managed to get him into court, a highly unlikely event, he could completely destroy her character.

“Your grandfather was a great man,” she said. “I can’t imagine you would want his name dragged through court.”

“Yours would be there, too, right alongside his. ”

“And so would yours.”

His eyes narrowed. “You must want this very badly.”

There was another movement; this time he saw one of her fingers jerk and pull the skin of the hand on which it lay. The gesture bothered him in a way he couldn’t put into words.

“Yes,” she said quietly, “I do.”

He’d had enough. He leaned forward, intense, predatory. “All right, let’s quit playing games. I’ll bite. How much do you want?”

For a moment she looked startled. “How much?”

He made a sound of impatience. “How much money do you want?”

“I don’t want any money from you.” Her derisive tone denounced him for jumping to that conclusion.

He blinked. “Then just exactly what is this favor you want?”

“I want you to make me pregnant.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “I beg your pardon?”

“I want you to make me pregnant,” she repeated, softer this time, but just as firmly.

He felt like a wall of bricks had fallen on him. Very slowly he leaned back in his chair.

Sharon eyed him warily, waiting for the explosion to come. When it didn’t, she decided that his calm, awful control was in many ways more terrible than the explosion she had anticipated. “Do you mind if I pull this chair closer to your desk?” she asked rhetorically, already standing and gripping the arms of the mahogany and leather chair. “I have several documents to show you.”

Conall watched her inch the heavy chair across the thick carpet, knowing he should help her but badly needing the time to think. At thirty-two years of age, he had assumed he had reached the state where he couldn’t be shocked. He had assumed wrong.

Her request was preposterous! What in the hell did she hope to gain by it? By trying to hold him to this stupid promise, did she hope to embarrass him and the family? And if so, why?

He suddenly noticed the modest slit at the hem of her navy skirt, and the small amount of ivory lace that peeped out. His brows drew together in a scowl. So there was lace beneath the proper appearance, delicate, feminine lace. The idea disturbed him.

Satisfied now with the chair’s position, Sharon sat down and pulled from her briefcase a sheaf of papers, a pair of brownish-red-framed glasses, and a pen. She laid the papers on the gleaming mahogany surface of his desk and donned the glasses.

“Now,” she said as she handed him several clipped-together sheets of paper, “I have taken the liberty of having an agreement drawn up that I hope you will find satisfactory.”

He dropped the document in front of him without even looking at it.

She felt his hard cobalt-blue gaze on her and tried not to let herself become rattled. She had known before she had come here today that he was a force, a power. And she had known that his masculine good looks were enough to stop a woman’s heart. None of it was unexpected, she told herself, and she could cope. She just had to stick to her plan and keep this on a business level.

“The document outlines our individual responsibilities in this matter, and it is fairly simple. The sum total of your responsibility will be to impregnate me. All other responsibilities are mine. Upon signing this document, you will give up all claims and rights to the child, and, of course, the child will bear my last name, not yours.” She glanced up at him.

“Are you out of your mind?” he asked quietly.

She started and her hand hit a Baccarat crystal swan paperweight, sending it skittering. His quick reflexes saved it from toppling off the side of the desk.

“Perhaps I should show you the chart first,” she murmured, and lay another paper on top of the document already in front of him. His gaze never once wavered from her.

She lightly cleared her throat. “This chart documents my menstrual cycles for the last ten months. As you can see, I don’t have a very regular cycle, which makes it somewhat difficult to plan the right time to conceive. But I have just finished my period, and I calculate that I should begin to ovulate in approximately one week.” She tapped the end of her pen on her copy of the chart. “That week and the following one would be the time when I could conceive.”

“What are you trying to do?” he asked.
And what are you trying to do to me?
he added silently.

“I’m trying to have a baby,” she said.

“Try artificial insemination.”

She shook her head. “It won’t do for my purposes.”

"This is pointless and you know it.”

“No, I don’t know it. All I’m asking is a small investment of your time over a two-week period. ” 

He rubbed his forehead. He had had many propositions from women in his life, but hers was not only unexpected, it didn’t make sense. And her answers to his questions were giving him no explanation, no hint as to what lay beneath this outrageous request of hers.

“Two weeks,” he murmured thoughtfully, deciding to play along with her, at least for a few minutes. “As I understand conception, it would also require quite another sort of investment on my part.”

She felt heat wash up her neck and saw his eyes follow the color.

“What is it you really want?”

“I’ve told you,” she began, then stopped and drew a measured breath. “Perhaps if we look again at the legal agreement, you’ll be able to understand that all I want from you is to make me pregnant. If you will refer to page two, paragraph four of the agreement, you will see that I will not now, or ever, request any money from you.” She brought out more papers from the briefcase and held them up to him. “And these are my tax statements for the last five years that will verify to you that I am capable of supporting myself and my child without help from you.”

She laid the tax statements on top of the still-unread chart and legal agreement. “I want you to be assured that the child will be well taken care of.”

He got up, circled the desk, and perched on its comer.

She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but his nearness had caused a pressure in the air that seemed to touch her skin in an almost hurtful way. Thankful that she would soon be through, she continued on. “To further assure you that the baby’s well-being is and will continue to be my top priority, I will tell you that in preparing for this baby, I have had no alcohol or any type of drug in the last ten months.”

“Ten months. Since you’ve had the note a year, that means It took you two months to decide to ask me for this favor.”

"That’s right, and I assure you I didn’t make the decision lightly.” She reached for the final set of papers she intended to show him. “This is the result of my latest physical with attached blood tests that proclaim me free of all disease, communicable or otherwise. It also states, by the way, that I am not already pregnant.” She paused while she added the tests to his growing stack of documents. “Of course, I will expect you to have the same tests done. Since you don’t seem to engage in random sexual liaisons—”

“Don’t seem to?” he asked, cutting in sharply.

She met his gaze coolly. “Don’t worry. I haven’t had you investigated. It wasn’t necessary. All I had to do was keep up with the society columns. Those same columns also informed me that you are not currently involved with anyone. It makes it convenient all the way around.”

His teeth came together with a snap. “I think it’s time this interview ended. ”

“Perhaps you’re right. I’ve covered everything I need to for the time being.” She carefully folded her glasses away in the recesses of the briefcase and stood. "I’ll leave these papers with you. Shall we say forty-eight hours for you to consider?” Turning for the door, she added, “My phone number is on my card.”

He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, the control he used completely unnecessary to the act. When she had almost reached the door, he said, “Actually, there is one more thing I would like to ask.”

She turned and looked at him. “Yes?”

“Why me, Sharon? Why do you want
me
to try and make you pregnant?”

“Because, Conall, this time you’ll know without a doubt that the baby is yours.”

Sharon closed the door of her apartment behind her and eyed the distance between her and the couch that sat against one wall of her small living room. It appeared an incredibly long way for her to walk. Her steps were leaden, her legs weak. It seemed to take her an eternity to cross the room, and when at last she collapsed onto the couch, she let out an exclamation of relief.

She felt icy from head to toe and was shaking uncontrollably. The trembling had started as she left the Deverell Building and had grown progressively worse on the drive home.

Ten months had given her plenty of time to plan what would happen when she came face-to-face with Conall Deverell, but truthfully, ten years of careful preparation wouldn’t have made today any easier. Walking into his imposing wood-paneled office—the seat of the Deverell power and the throne room of their crown prince—had taken every ounce of courage she possessed. And that had been only the beginning of the ordeal.

Conall had recognized her immediately; she hadn’t been sure he would. It seemed to her she had grown and changed to the point that
she
might not even recognize the eighteen-year-old she had been when they had known each other. All she remembered of herself at that age was how tender her heart had been, how full of hope. And how he had broken it.

She tugged a crocheted afghan off the back of the couch and wrapped it tightly around her. She had to get warm; she had to stop shaking.

She was doing the right thing, she assured herself as she had many times before. The first part, possibly the worst part, was over, and she had done well.

She had remained self-possessed and dispassionate and had presented the matter to him in a businesslike manner. In the process, she had managed to surprise, shock, and stun him, just as she had hoped. Catching him off guard had been the only way she could think of to guarantee he would listen to her. She had even managed to get in the last word.

She pulled the afghan more closely around her. Of course, everything she had put herself through would be for nothing if he didn’t agree to honor the promise. But she was counting on his pride and his ego, and she didn’t think she would be disappointed.

The phone began to ring, then her answering machine switched on, and she heard his voice.

He gave the name and address of a restaurant, then said, “Meet me there tonight at seven-thirty for dinner. If the place isn’t to your liking, call me back and tell me where you would rather meet. But I think I deserve an explanation, don’t you?”

The line went dead. Her machine turned off. A faint smile touched her lips.

She was over one more hurdle.

A vein pounded in Conall’s temple as he stared at the phone he had just hung up. He had chosen a restaurant for their meeting in the hope that it would provide neutral surroundings for a calm, objective discussion.

Except he didn’t feel the least bit calm and objective. Nor did he want to wait until this evening to see her again. He wanted her here now! He wanted to grab her and yell
What in the hell do you mean, this time I’ll know for sure the baby is mine?

He pressed a finger against the pounding vein. How dare she waltz into his office after ten years with that damned note of Jake’s and demand
anything
of him, much less that he make her pregnant.

She knew better. She knew he couldn’t make her or anyone pregnant. She knew he was sterile.

Conall watched the way the full skirt of Sharon’s azure blue dress gently swayed back and forth with the movement of her hips as she walked ahead of him, following the waiter through the restaurant. The dress was as demure as the suit she had worn to his office, but less severe, softer, more interesting, relying as it did on a simple cut for its style and the wide shawl collar to offer a becoming frame for her face.

His anger had died down. He felt keyed up and tense, the same way he felt just before a good corporate fight. Battling any kind of adversary always made him feel a special kind of aliveness, and in this instance the fact that his adversary was Sharon made the upcoming fight all the more interesting.

Their table sat next to a wall of windows that overlooked the Charles River. Conall waved the waiter away and pulled out a chair for her. “Is this table all right?” he asked casually.

“It’s fine,” she murmured.

A cynical smile shaped his mouth. Although this was one of the best restaurants in the city, he was sure she would have met him anywhere. The damned promise aside, she wanted something from him, something other than what she had already indicated, and that made
him
the one in control.