12. Hudson #2
“Oh.” Her gaze moved over my suit, my watch. “You’re rich.”
“I have a good job.”
“And a lobby that made me feel underdressed in my own skin. I thought you worked there not owned the building.”
“Mary.”
She looked away and her fingers tightened around the cream card. The card from Boston. Hudson and Lincoln Holdings, heavy stock, embossed lettering, private investment and property development listed in three cities. I’d given it to her as a lifeline. She’d kept it for two months.
I took it carefully. The corner was bent. One edge had softened, as if she’d held it too often. “You kept it.”
“I considered burning it once. Very symbolic. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any matches.”
“Lucky for the card.”
“It has led an eventful life.”
Rain ran down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.
“What are you doing in London?” I asked.
Her mouth opened but nothing came out.
She looked past me toward the office, then at the river, then down at the hand still resting low over her stomach. Her fingers curled there, protective before she seemed to realize what she’d done.
The new note in her scent rose again. Soft violet, warmth under rain. My blood went cold.
“Mary?”
“I...” She bit her lip hard enough to blanch it. “I came to tell you something.”
“Okay.”
“And Lincoln.”
“All right.”
“But then I saw your office.”
That wasn’t what I’d expected. “My office frightened you?”
“No.” She frowned. “Yes. Not because of the office. Because of what it means.”
“It means we work there.”
“It means you’re rich.”
“You knew that.”
“I knew you were fancy. Fancy is one thing. Carrara marble on the floor is another.”
“Mary.”
“Don’t say my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to make sense and ruin my panic.”
I stepped closer by half a pace. “You don’t need to choose anything because of money.”
Her eyes snapped to mine. “I know that.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. Artem gave me enough money to get free of my father. I’m not skint, Hudson. I’m not here because I need a wallet with a jawline.”
Despite everything, a laugh nearly escaped me. I swallowed it because her hands were shaking. “Then why are you here?”
She looked down, not talking. All I could hear was the river, the rain, and the rush of traffic beyond the embankment. Mary drew one breath, then another. When she spoke, the words were barely louder than the weather. “I’m pregnant.”
The city disappeared. Or it simply ceased to matter.
Mary stood in front of me in the rain, pale and shaking, with one hand over her stomach and our scent wrapped around her like a truth she’d carried across an ocean.
My body understood first. It was in the new softness in her scent, the way her hand rested over her middle, the exhaustion, the fear. My mind arrived late and brutal. The baby could be ours.
No. The baby was ours in every way that mattered if Mary wanted us anywhere near it.
I took one step toward her, then stopped myself.
Her eyes were bright. “Say something,” she whispered.
“I’ve negotiated land deals worth more than some governments’ annual budgets.”
“What?”
I shook my head. “I’m shocked.” It wasn’t the right thing to say. I knew it as soon as her face closed. “And I appear to be saying the first thing in my head, and that was it.” I had never in my life had less language.
She swallowed. “Sorry.”
I shook my head. “No. It’s a good shock. How far along are you?”
“That’s what you ask?”
“No.” I reached for composure and found only panic. “No, Mary. I’m sorry. I mean, are you well? Have you seen a doctor? Are you safe?”
She blinked. Rain clung to her lashes. “I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking.”
“My body doesn’t know if that’s because London is wet or because of my poor life choices.”
“Coming here wasn’t a bad choice.”
Her mouth trembled. “Wasn’t it? Maeve went on and on about you needing to know.” She looked away before I could see too much.
“We did need to know.”
“You don’t have to be kind.”
“I know.”
“I mean it. If you think I’m too young, or this is too complicated, or Damien...”
His name landed between us but I ignored it as I stepped closer this time and stopped only when she looked back at me. “Damien doesn’t decide what we do.”
“He’s your son.”
“Yes.”
“And I’m...”
“Our mate,” I said.
The words came out before I could make them careful.
Mary went still. The violet in her scent flared. “Don’t say things like that on a public sidewalk.”
“Why?”
“Because I might believe you, and then we’ll both look foolish.”
“I’d survive.”
“I wasn’t worried about you.”
A flicker of her true self again, even through the fear and the rain. I clenched my hands together. I wanted to touch her so badly my hands hurt. “Come back to the office,” I said.
Her eyes widened. “No.”
“Mary.”
“I can’t go back into that marble lobby while emotionally compromised. I’ll say something terrible to your receptionist.”
“Andrea will survive.”
“She looked kind. I don’t want to test her.”
“Then coffee.”
She looked past me at the cafe. Her face shifted, and I understood before she spoke.
Too public, too many people, too much chance of shaking apart in front of strangers.
“My office is private,” I said. “You can sit down. We can call Lincoln. Or not call him yet, if you want to breathe first. You can have tea, water, food, whatever you need.”
“I don’t need you to fuss.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
“You’re pregnant, soaked through, and shaking on the Thames path.”
“A concise but unflattering summary.”
“Come inside.”
She looked at the river and I waited. Finally, she held out her hand. “Fine. But if your office has a chandelier, I’m leaving.”
“No chandelier.”
“A sculpture?”
“Possibly.”
“Hudson.”
I smiled despite the terror still trying to climb my ribs. “I’ll walk you past it quickly.”
She huffed, almost a laugh. When my fingers closed around hers, her scent warmed. So did mine.
“Don’t get ideas,” she said, staring straight ahead as we walked back toward the building.
“Too late.”
Andrea was at reception when we returned. Her gaze moved from my hand around Mary’s to Mary’s wet coat and pale face. To her credit, she didn’t ask a single question.
“My office,” I said. “No interruptions unless it’s Mr. Hart.”
“Of course.”
Mary leaned closer as we crossed the marble floor. “She knows.”
“She knows you’re important.”
She smiled at the floor. “Am I?”
“You’ll work it out for yourself.”
I brought her into my office and shut the door.
Mary’s gaze went straight to the sculpture but she just smiled and let me guide her to the sofa instead of the chairs by the desk.
She sat carefully, coat still buttoned, hands clasped in her lap.
The sight of her there, rain in her hair and our child inside her, hit me so hard I had to turn toward the cabinet just to breathe.
“Tea?” I asked.
“Water.”
Good. Practical. I could do water.
I poured a glass and brought it to her. She took it with both hands.
“Thank you.”
I sat in the chair opposite her, leaving space.
She drank the water. Her hand shook less by the second sip.
“Have you seen a doctor?” I asked.
“Yes.”
Relief struck first. “Good.”
“I’m pregnant. I’m healthy. The baby is where it should be. I’ve been told to eat more often, rest more, reduce stress, and avoid dramatic emotional situations, which suggests the doctor has a sense of humor.”
“How far?” This time the question landed softer.
“Nearly eight weeks.”
I closed my eyes, and the hotel came back in pieces. The sheets, the smell of violet, and her laughter after the first time Lincoln made her drink juice.
The card bent in her hand.
“Ours,” I said. Not a question.
Mary looked into the glass. “I haven’t been with anyone else.”
Something primitive in me settled. Something civilized in me hated that it mattered so much. “I wasn’t asking that.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“No,” I said. “I was thinking I don’t know whether to hold you or call a doctor, and I’m trying very hard not to do either without permission.”
Her eyes lifted and the room softened around the edges. “That’s very you, Hudson.”
“What’s me?”
“I don’t know.” She paused then smiled. “Maybe you’re just controlled panic wearing a fancy pin-striped suit.”
I laughed. The sound startled her.
Then the office door opened. Lincoln walked in, phone in hand, with irritation written across every line of him.
“God,” he said, looking down at his screen, “I wish I could stop smelling her.”
Mary froze on the sofa, and Lincoln looked across to her as his phone lowered by inches.
His scent changed so fast the room seemed to tilt toward him. “Mary,” he said.
She lifted the glass in a tiny, doomed toast. “Surprise.”