Chapter Five
‘Wait.’ She paced the gravel driveway, fingers pressed to her lips. ‘I can’t do this.’
Aristotle stood his ground, arms crossed over his chest. ‘Which part?’
‘This.’ She twisted her engagement ring. ‘All of it. The engagement. Marrying you. Telling them.’ She looked anxiously towards the mansion. ‘Aristotle, this is a mistake.’
His lips pursed. ‘You’re pregnant with my baby. There is no alternative.’
‘But surely we can—’
‘I misspoke. There is one alternative,’ he said, lifting a finger into the air, holding it between them.
She stopped walking and stared at him, her stomach in loops. ‘Court.’
He dipped his head once. ‘I have lawyers currently preparing our wedding documents, but if you’d prefer, I can brief them instead for a custody hearing.’
She felt the blood drain from her face. ‘Aristotle,’ she whispered, tears springing to her eyes, surprising her. She blamed pregnancy hormones. She was under no illusions when it came to this man’s awful, hateful ways.
For the briefest moment, something shifted in his expression. Regret? Sympathy? Something soft. But then, his features tightened into a mask of determination.
‘I will not have my child doubt my commitment to them.’
Her brow furrowed at the intensity of his statement. The feeling behind the words.
‘Why would they? We can make sure that doesn’t happen.’
A muscle throbbed at the base of his stubbled jaw, drawing her gaze there, to the pulse.
She wasn’t able to reply though. Before she could form a cogent argument, much less put it into words, the front door pushed open and Melina Machairas flew out, her elegant figure—tall and slim ever since Rosie had met her—dressed in an expensive-looking trouser suit, her long salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a neat plait.
‘Oh, Rosie, you’re home. Thank you, my darling, you did it,’ she said, moving first to Aristotle and embracing him, as Rosie’s father stood in the doorframe to the house, observing the scene.
It all happened so fast, and yet to Rosie it was almost as though time stood still.
She was conscious of every detail of the scene, from the moment Melina wrapped her in a huge hug, smelling of roses and vanilla, then reached down and took hold of Rosie’s hand—her fingers brushing over the ring a moment before surprise and realisation crossed her face.
‘Rosie? What is this?’ She held Rosie’s hand up, studying the ring, looking from Rosie to Glen with a broadening smile. ‘Darling, who’s the lucky man?’
Her mind went blank. Completely and utterly, uselessly blank. She gaped at her stepmother, then over her shoulder to Aristotle. He was looking at Rosie with an inscrutable expression. Saying nothing, leaving it up to her.
Marriage, or custody dispute. Which he would undoubtedly win.
But there was more to consider, like his assertion that this child would be better with both of them in their lives.
If they could make this work, wasn’t that likely?
There were so many advantages to this marriage, including her ability, when she was ready, to travel for work, and know that her child would be safely cared for.
She’d never leave for long, of course, but at least she’d have the option to do some consulting trips.
It was the passion in his voice though, when he’d said, ‘I will not have my child doubt my commitment to them’, that strangely served to convince her of the rightness of this. It was making the best of a bad situation.
‘Actually, that’s what we came to talk to you about,’ she said, after a beat.
Now, when she glanced at Aristotle, she saw triumph in his eyes.
She tamped down on an answering emotion.
Frustration, yes, but also, damn it, desire.
Because this version of him—take charge, know-it-all, arrogant executive—was tantalizingly powerful and sexier than sin. And how she hated him for that.
‘That would be me,’ he said, taking a step towards Rosie and shocking her then by sliding a hand possessively around her waist, drawing her to his side.
She wasn’t used to this new role she’d been thrust into and shock must have shown on her features when she jerked her face towards his, because his eyes narrowed with unspoken warning and then, as if to ram home what he’d just said—to all of them—he dropped his head and kissed her, then and there.
Even as he kissed her, he knew it was a mistake. A mistake to do this now, here, in front of his mother, her father. A mistake to kiss her, knowing that his baby was growing inside of her, sparking all sorts of caveman ideologies he’d never knowingly ascribed to.
He’d kissed her twice before, and each time had become a fire that raged out of control, culminating in sex. Hot, fast sex. And though neither of them was going to strip naked here and now, the same undeniable spark of passion flared to life as though they were completely alone.
The kiss had been borne of necessity—designed to convince the witnesses of something they might otherwise doubt.
And also to remind Rosemary of the parts they were to play.
But the second his lips pressed to hers, demanding and insistent, her whole body had gone soft against him, moulding to him perfectly, so his hands had itched to reacquaint themselves with her generous curves—including the changes.
He kissed her and in the back of her throat he heard the moaning with which he was intimately familiar, as her hand slid around to the small of his back and pressed there, fingers wide.
Every part of him grew hard in anticipation.
He pulled back moments before that choice was lost to him, staring down at her with a sense that he was in freefall.
Damn this woman.
‘What the hell?’
Glen Richardson’s voice went some of the way to cutting through the fog of need that had swamped them both.
He took a small step away from Rosemary, but kept an arm around her back.
For support or closeness, he couldn’t say.
His fingers, on her hip, moved rhythmically, small motions up and down, tempting him with the gentle curve there, making him itch to slip inside the waistband of her skirt and feel her bare flesh.
Both times they’d made love, she’d been wearing clothes.
The first time, he’d been completely caught off-guard by what had happened.
Urgency had overcome him, and her shirt had been left in place, revealing only the outline of her full, rounded breasts to his hungry gaze.
The second time had been so fast, her dress in place the entire time.
It was a shame, not to have ever revelled in her nakedness and explored her body as a lover should—slow and thorough.
‘Is this true, darling ones?’ His mother’s tone was noticeably happier.
‘Yes.’ He spoke swiftly, eyes lifting to Glen’s face now and staying there. ‘We’re getting married.’
‘But—why?’ his mother asked.
Aristotle turned a droll expression on her. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’
A glance at Rosemary showed her cheeks were delightfully flushed. He reached over with his spare hand and brushed a finger over them, feeling the heat. She looked up at him, lips parted on a quick rush of breath.
‘Now, wait, just a minute.’ Glen reached them and stood toe to toe with Aristotle. But it was Rosemary he addressed. ‘You don’t need to do this.’
He felt her stiffen at his side and for a moment he was worried that she’d back out, rejecting him, reminding him that no one needed him and never would.
‘I know that,’ she said, though, softly, reaching out and wrapping her fingers over her dad’s hand. ‘I want to.’
‘You want to marry Aristotle?’ he said, looking from one to the other, as if it made no sense.
‘Why are you surprised?’ she pushed.
‘Well, for one thing, you barely know each other. For another, you’ve got nothing in common.’
‘We’ve known each other since I was fourteen,’ she said.
Out of nowhere, that vision of Rosemary, the first time they’d met, speared him. Her wide, curious eyes, her ready smile.
‘You’ve met, yes, but that’s not the same as knowing each other.’
‘We didn’t want to say anything,’ Rosemary was continuing, and in the back of his mind, he had to admit he was impressed with how she was rolling with this, improvising calmly enough to convince the most astute audience.
‘Until we were sure it was serious. Because of you guys.’ She gestured from one to the other.
‘There was no sense getting anyone’s hopes up, until we knew it was worth mentioning. ’
Melina moved into their field of vision, her smile making it obvious how she felt.
She put her hands on Rosemary’s forearms, tears in her eyes.
‘I could not be happier,’ she said. ‘I have loved you like a daughter for as long as I’ve known you.
The fact you will now be both my stepdaughter and daughter-in-law is a dream come true.
’ Then she reached out, pressing a hand to Rosemary’s stomach.
‘Not to mention, I’ll be the grandmother of your baby. ’
Aristotle clenched his jaw. He bit back the rejoinder that, strictly speaking, she wasn’t. No more than she was his mother. Somewhere out there, another woman held that role—not that she’d cared enough to claim it.
‘How long has this been going on?’ Glen asked, looking considerably less pleased. Aristotle’s hand resumed its tracking over Rosemary’s hip, so he felt the moment she shivered and brought her closer to his side, folding her against his hard planes, relishing the softness of her curves.
‘It’s been a while,’ Rosemary said noncommittally. ‘But it was at your birthday—’ she addressed Melina ‘—that we realised we were in love.’
The word slammed into him like a grenade, landing in his throat and threatening to detonate, making it impossible to contemplate speaking.
Love.
He instantly dismissed the word and the concept.
No matter what else she was, Rosemary was a first-rate actress, though. He almost felt convinced by her schmaltzy performance.