Kitabı oxu: «Suddenly Expecting»

One

Ten weeks ago, Katerina Jackson had spent one night in bed with her best friend. And it had been absolutely amazing.

Now, as she drove down the Captain Cook Highway, just before she got into Cairns, she was confronted with an image of the man in question, naked and smiling seductively down at her.

Kat’s foot instinctively tamped on the brake, and she only just managed to avoid the car in front as it stopped at the red light. The burn on her cheeks went all the way down her body, ending in her thighs, where it pooled annoyingly in her groin. She looked up at the familiar massive billboard featuring Marco Corelli, the golden boy of France’s premier futball league and Marseille’s highest goal scorer in the club’s entire history.

Well, he wasn’t exactly naked. The stacked Y-fronts left little to the imagination, though, as did his splayed hands across his low-riding waistband and the caption “Come and Feel My Skins.” But it wasn’t his ridged abs, popping biceps and the seductive Adonis line of muscle that disappeared into the low-riding underwear that heated her blood. It was that familiar, tempting come-here-so-I-can-have-my-way-with-you grin, the curve of his overtly lush bottom lip and the forbidden promise in those dark, sensual eyes. The way the camera had captured his hypnotic charm as he looked up from behind artfully tousled, rakish black hair, one curl lying teasingly across his forehead and cheek.

She’d had to pass that damn billboard every morning for the past ten weeks, his perfect face staring knowingly down, as if he remembered every single thing he’d done to her that night. How he’d made her sweat, how he’d made her moan. How he’d made her pant.

She snapped her gaze back to the road, glaring at the taillights as the traffic finally began to move.

“God, I am so stupid,” she muttered in the air-conditioned silence. It was Marco, her best friend since high school. The arrogant former-soccer-star-turned-sports-commentator, the underwear-endorsing charmer, Mr. Flirt with a dozen different girlfriends. She was his best mate, secret keeper, sounding board, partner in crime. His plus one when he needed a date to some swish function. He was also her boss’s on-again, off-again boyfriend.

She cast her mind back, sifting through her and Grace’s many conversations about Marco. Yeah, they’d definitely been off for a while before that night, so there was one less moral dilemma to worry about. Which just left the main two.

Oh, she couldn’t just have sex with her best friend, noooo. She had to end up pregnant, too.

If you could see me now, Mum. All your pretty, shiny dreams of your daughter having a perfect life, a perfect career. A perfect husband surrounded by perfect, healthy children.

The sliver of pain sliced through her, drawing blood, before she effectively sealed up the wound and pulled into Channel Five’s parking lot. After flashing her ID to the guard, she parked, gathered her bag and strode into the studio. Then she tossed her bag in her office and checked her phone.

Four missed calls, one from her friend Connor, three from Marco, plus a text message. Back in town. We need to talk. Drinks on the boat? M x

She sighed then finally replied. Sorry, snowed under at work. Can’t get away. Plus there’s a cyclone warning, in case you haven’t noticed. K x

After she sent it, she scrolled back to their texts from two months ago, a painful reminder that only rekindled her inner turmoil.

Have a good trip to France.

Hate to run and fly. We shouldn’t leave last night without talking about it.

Nothing to say. Let’s just blame it on booze and stupidity and forget it happened, okay?

Are you cool with that?

Totally. Erasing from my memory in three…two…one…

J Okaaaay. See you in a few weeks.

And that was it. Due to both their schedules, they had a mutual phone blackout during his assignments, although he always managed to send a few photos of the local scenery. But now he was back and wanted to do the usual drink-and-talk, and she had no idea what to tell him.

You can’t avoid him forever.

“You can’t avoid him forever,” Connor confirmed five minutes later when she returned his call.

“What the hell, I’m gonna give it a shot.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He deserves to know.”

Kat slid her hip on the corner of her desk and sighed. “I can hear your disapproval all the way from Brisbane.”

“Kat, I’m not disapproving. But I’m one of the few who know exactly what you’ve gone through these past few years. The guy deserves to know.”

Trust Connor to tell it to her straight. Marco, Connor, Kat and Luke—the Awesome Foursome, they’d called themselves in high school. All so very different in personality and temperament, yet “perfectly awesome together,” as Marco had put it. He’d been the cocky one, a skilled charmer, whereas his cousin Luke had had the whole bad-boy thing going on, always in trouble, always on detention. Connor was the devastatingly handsome silent-and-deep one, her unbiased sounding board who always told her the truth, uncolored by hyperbole or emotion. Sometimes it was scary how detached he could actually be, which was, ironically, what made him an exceptional businessman. He never let anyone into his private circle and she was always grateful she’d been allowed entry all those years ago.

“I…just can’t tell him,” she said now. “I’m already a wreck, and I can’t deal with all the emotional baggage, too.”

“That’s unfair, sweetie. Marco would never do that to you.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose and then glanced up as a runner gave her the wind-up signal, indicating she was due on set.

Kat nodded. “Look, I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”

Connor sighed. “Stay safe during the storm.”

“I will.” She hung up, firmly pushed the conversation to one side and made her way to makeup just as her phone rang again.

It was Marco. “I do not want to talk to you,” she muttered and slid the phone to Silent.

“Avoiding a call from the boyfriend?”

Kat slid a glance to Grace Callahan, the star of Queensland’s number one breakfast chat show, Morning Grace, sitting in the makeup chair, getting her hair done. The woman was forty, only seven years older than Kat, but she had that polished, shiny look of someone who’d not only spent enormous amounts of time and money on her appearance, but was convinced it was the most important thing in her life. Her blond hair was curled into an artful tousle, her fake-tanned skin smooth, her body gym-honed. Yet for all her high-maintenance appearance, she had an addictive personality that attracted people by the bucket load. Which was probably why Marco kept coming back.

Kat glanced at her phone and nodded, unwilling to explain further. “No, just…a guy.”

“Really?” Grace’s wide eyes met hers in the mirror. “A real-life guy? Oh, my God, where’s my phone? I want to take a picture of this moment.”

Despite her mood, Kat smiled. “You make me sound like a nun.”

“I was beginning to think you were, hon.” She winced as the makeup girl pulled a lock of hair through the curler. “This is exciting—makes a change from all the Cyclone Rory news. Can I put it in the show?”

Kat snorted a laugh. “You know you can’t, so stop asking. I’m not newsworthy.”

“Are so.” Grace waved the girl away and ripped the makeup cape from her shoulders. “You’re a celebrity, and celebrities are always news.”

“Please, don’t remind me. I hate those people who’re famous for just being famous.”

“Sorry, hon, but your little scandals have fueled the gossip columns for ages. It only takes another to set it off again.” She straightened her dress then walked to the door, Kat following.

Kat sighed. It was true. She was nothing particularly special: the daughter of a merchant investment banker and an events planner, a private school student. The gap year she’d spent between high school graduation and university had been twelve months of partying, but just as she was about to begin her journalism degree at Brisbane Uni, she’d been offered a job as society reporter for The Tribune instead. Then, she’d gone spectacularly off the rails a year later, after her mother’s death.

“You never did set the record straight about everything, you know,” Grace said over her shoulder as they continued down the corridor. “It’d make a fabulous feature.” She swept her hands out, indicating a huge headline. “Former It Girl Katerina Jackson finally spills the dirt on her marriages, the seedy side of French football and those scandalous photos.”

“Never going to happen, Grace.”

“We could start at the beginning, make it a full show. We’d do background, talk about your childhood, your upbringing. How you beat up Marco when you were fourteen—”

“It was a shove, not a hit—”

“—and how you all ended up on detention like some modern-day Breakfast Club scenario—”

“I knew I shouldn’t have told you that.”

Grace laughed. “I’m not going to say anything, hon, unless you want me to. But I do find it fascinating that your closest friends are a soccer superstar, a billionaire merchant banker and the nephew of a rumored mobster. All hot alpha men. All completely different. And all newsworthy.”

Marco, Connor and Luke. Her best friends since high school, since that awkwardly hilarious lunchtime detention had played out like some eighties teenage movie and they’d bonded over their hatred of school and their shared tastes in movies, music and computer games.

“What were you all there for again?” Grace casually asked as they walked to the studio.

“You know full well what.”

“You’d decked Marco—”

“A shove, Grace. For showing off in front of his mates and getting all up in my face.”

“Why? What did he say?”

“Honestly, I can’t even remember.” Yeah, she did —a stupid teenage comment about her lack of “womanly attributes” that, to Marco’s credit, he’d apologized for later.

“Whatever. Luke had been caught defacing the toilets and… What was Connor’s crime?”

“Correcting the economics teacher then threatening to bankrupt him.”

“Wow, harsh.”

“That was Southbank Private for you.” She shrugged. “All the girls were too intimidated to talk to Luke and Connor. I wasn’t. And from there we clicked. It just so happens they’re guys.”

“And you’ve never thought about…?” Grace waggled her eyebrows. “You know.”

“What? No!”

“Not even with Marco?”

Kat threw her an exaggerated eye roll to cover up the warmth in her face. “No, Grace, I haven’t,” she replied as they walked onto the set. “And I have no intention of giving anyone an exclusive. I’m your research assistant now, that’s it.” Grace approached a raised yellow couch and coffee table surrounded by a cluster of cameras. The lights streamed down as the set director came over to go through the lineup. “The other stuff is old news. People don’t want to hear about it.”

“They do. But I’ll just keep trying,” Grace replied with a smile, taking the glass of water the runner offered.

“Of course you will.” Kat accepted her usual green tea from the set assistant as Grace sat on the sofa and began to rearrange the strategically placed props on the table.

“Soooo…have you heard from Marco?” Grace asked casually.

“Not yet, no,” Kat lied, fiddling with her phone. “He was commentating the Coupe de France, and that was only three days ago.”

“I heard he’s supposed to be back today.” She smoothed her dress down over her artfully crossed legs. “I’m arranging a surprise dinner for later in the week.”

“Really?” Kat paused, her insides suddenly tight, and she took a sip of tea to cover up the weird feeling. “Are you two back on again, then?”

Grace laughed. “I don’t think we’ve ever really been off. I’ve got plans.” She took another sip of water. “Let’s face it—my body clock’s been ticking steadily for years. And now I have an established show and some serious credibility in this industry. It’s time I started thinking about having a baby.”

Kat choked, tea dribbling down her chin. She swiped at it then stared at Grace. “With Marco?”

“Of course with Marco!” Grace frowned slightly, eyeing the guy adjusting the lighting. “Is that a problem? I know you and he are close…”

“Oh, no. I mean, yes… I mean…” Kat took a breath, trying to steady her clenching gut. “We’re close and share a lot, but we do have one rule—never butt into each other’s love life.”

“Really?” Grace looked intrigued. “So he’s never commented on James or Ezio, not even in passing?”

“No.”

“And you’ve never said anything to him about me?”

Kat gave her a look. “No. It’s not my business. You want to have babies, it’s fine with me.” She gave a smile, one she’d learned to adopt out of necessity. A smile designed for intrusive cameras, when they’d been camped outside her door, trailing her on the way to work, shopping, to the gym, interrupting her family and friends and becoming so invasive she’d had to get a court order to put a stop to it.

“You sure?” Grace asked curiously as she gathered up her notes. “I always thought there was some subtle sexual tension going on with you guys, but—”

“Me and Marco? No. No way!” she denied, a little too forcefully. “I mean, he’s a great-looking guy and he’s my best friend, but he’s…” She groped for a word. “A free spirit.”

“I would’ve said a tart,” Grace added with a smile. “And a world-class flirt. A good thing, too—he won’t butt into my life and make demands on how I should be raising my child.”

What could she say to that? Everything Grace said was true. Marco loved his life and lived it at breakneck speed. He had no room for a permanent partner, let alone a child.

Kat swallowed thickly, watching everyone fuss around Grace as the cameras got into position. For all her confusion, her crazy thoughts and outrageous scenarios she’d gone through these past few days, the choice was simple. He wouldn’t want a baby. She most certainly didn’t.

Kat adjusted her headset and sidestepped the studio camera as it wheeled toward her, watching Grace smiling into Camera One as she continued with her dialogue.

Grace could be snippy, snarky and demanding, but beneath the polished blond exterior she had a heart of gold. Kat sourced the hard-luck stories and Grace reported them, raising thousands for each charity they publicized. Grace was the public face, the ex-soapie star clawing her way back from alcohol and drugs to become the biggest-rating breakfast talk show in Queensland. Kat preferred it like that, preferred to work behind the scenes. It made a nice change, even though she still fielded a handful of interview requests every day.

No, she was content with her life. Work filled every waking moment, which meant no time for dating. Just as she’d told Connor during their regular “bon voyage, Marco” night out ten weeks ago in a Brisbane bar, she didn’t do attachments or relationships anymore.

“Too much work, too difficult to navigate and way too painful when they inevitably end,” she’d said, downing her drink and eyeing her friends across the table.

Marco and Luke had laughed, but Connor had had a weird look, a kind of sad-but-deadly-serious one that had annoyed her enough to order that last, fateful vodka and orange.

She swallowed an irritating lump in her throat. There was nothing wrong with her. As a teenager she’d never been obsessed with boyfriends, weddings or babies, which had set her apart from most girls in the elite Southbank Private School in Brisbane. Couple that with her preference for sport, pub bands and getting dirty over short skirts, makeup and gossip, and she’d naturally migrated toward the boys. And then there was “that incident”—as her father had called it—when she’d shoved Marco Corelli, the son of the now-notorious crime boss Gino Corelli. After the furor had died down and she’d done her counseling and detention stint, she’d realized she’d become a bit of a legend to her peers. Connor Blair, the moody silent one, had allowed her to sit with them at lunch. Luke—always so very angry—had bonded with her over obscure pub bands, and Marco… Well, he’d apologized and she’d scored a friend for life.

Complicated, complex Marco. The cocky, flirty teenager with an insane gift for soccer, who’d grown up into a gorgeous, talented, self-assured man. The guy knew her secrets, her childhood wishes, her family tragedies.

Especially her family tragedies. With her mother’s death from motor neuron disease and the chances of Kat being a carrier, she’d never allowed that particular fantasy of becoming a mother take root. But now, faced with the bald-faced reality of actually being pregnant, she had absolutely no clue how to feel. After all those years of refusing the tests, of arguing with Marco that she preferred to spend her life living and not worrying, she’d actually gone and gotten tested. Now she had to wait for the results, which added extra stress to her already stressful situation.

Which was why she couldn’t tell Marco. Ever.

With a sigh, she refocused on the here and now. By the time they’d finished filming the week’s shows, it was eleven at night and Kat was dead on her feet. She said good-night to everyone and dragged herself to her car, fumbling with the keys as she went, her mind focused on takeout, a hot bath and double-checking her apartment for the impending storm.

Then she glanced at her car and stopped in her tracks.

Marco.

Her heart pounding, her gaze swept over him—his suit, his loosened tie, the dark hair flopping over his forehead and curling at the collar. The faint shadow of stubble dusting his firm jaw. The way he stood, all sexy and casual, hands buried in his pockets. And those wide, piercing brown eyes staring straight at her.

On another man, one with less confidence and overt sexuality, his features could almost be called pretty, if not for the overabundant aura of pure male surrounding him. His hair was a controlled crop of curls, perfectly framing those high cheekbones, lush mouth and come-to-bed eyes. And when he smiled…Lord, you could hear the knickers dropping for miles around. He reminded her of days gone by, of stocking-and-breech-clad heroes, flamboyant coats and huge romantic gestures full of wild symphonies and desperate, love-smitten poems.

And he’d been the best sex she’d had in her life.

Yes, he was adored by millions around the world. Everyone knew the story—only son of Italian immigrants, raised in Australia until a talent scout had recruited him for the French futball league at the tender age of sixteen. Marco, the dreamy Italian with romantic eyes and glorious touch-me hair. If that wasn’t enough of an unfair advantage, he’d also acquired a hot French accent from his years living and working in Marseille and Paris. Marco, her best friend.

Her heart contracted then expanded again, and she wanted to die from the sudden ache of it all.

They’d known each other for nearly twenty years. Telling him would irrevocably change everything. Marco didn’t do commitment. He loved his job, he loved women and he loved the freedom to enjoy both. And there was no way she’d lose him as her best friend after one foolish—amazing—night. She couldn’t.

With a deep breath she continued, heading straight for her car. And the closer she got, the worse the weird feeling grew.

They’d done things—intimate things. Things she’d never imagined doing with him. They’d gotten naked, and he’d touched her and kissed her all over. Now he wanted to talk about it, and she’d rather swim with a pod of sharks than rehash her supreme stupidity that involved that night.

God, could it get any worse? With false bravado, she clicked off her car alarm and then crossed the last few meters to open the door.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, resisting the urge to lay a hand on her belly. Instead, she tossed her bag into the passenger seat.

“We need to talk.” His unique voice—a sexy mix of French and faint Italian accents—never failed to make her shiver, but now she shoved her hair back behind her ear and steeled herself to face him. The bright security lights slashed across his face, revealing a serious expression that made her heart thump. But instead of giving in to the panic, she swallowed and crossed her arms, tilting her head.

“About?”

“We can talk on my boat.”

She sighed. “Look, Marco, it’s late and there’s a cyclone approaching. Can’t this wait another day?”

“You’ve been avoiding my calls, so no. And the storm’s not due for hours yet.”

He glanced up at the dark sky and narrowed his eyes at the barely discernible wind that had picked up.

“I’m tired.”

He stared at her, irritated. “Phone calls. Avoiding.”

She blinked slowly. “You’re not going to give up until I agree, are you?”

“Non.”

She sighed. “Fine. But be quick about it.”

He eased off her car, moving into her personal space, and instinctively Kat took a step back, which only prompted him to frown. “You’re not going to stand me up, are you?”

“No, I am not. Girl Guide’s honor.”

“Good.” With a firm nod, he walked past her, got in his car and drove off.

She watched his taillights blink as he turned left out of the parking lot before she had time to fully comprehend what her acquiescence really meant.

We need to talk. Those four little words lay heavy with meaning, conjuring up a multitude of awkward scenarios from her disastrous past. Ten weeks ago, they’d not only crossed that line between friends and lovers, they’d burned it to the ground, and part of her wanted to run home and hide under the bedcovers. The other part wanted this awkward situation over and done with.

With a sigh she got in her car, fired up the engine and drove out of the car park. She couldn’t run from him forever. It was time to suck it up and face whatever consequences that one night had wrought.

The marina was alive with activity, crowded with people securing their boats and belongings in preparation for the oncoming storm. Kat parked and headed down the wooden platform, eyeing the foreboding water as the dark waves lapped against the jetty. In a few hours’ time, a category-four cyclone would sweep across the coast, and everyone knew all too well the devastation it would bring. The city had only just managed to recover after Cyclone Yasi had slammed into North Queensland some years before.

Marco’s boat was moored at the end, a sleek, shiny thing he’d gone into great loving detail about when he’d first bought it. The only thing she remembered from that conversation was not the horsepower, the dimensions or the fuel consumption, but rather his little-kid excitement. It had made her heart flip then, as it did now when she recalled the three-year-old memories.

He stood on the deck and offered his hand as she stepped across the gangplank. Without thinking she took it.

It was weird—she’d held his hand a thousand times before, and yet right now this one simple gesture was making her jittery, as though her whole body had been put on alert and was awaiting the next eager move.

Which was stupid. Ridiculous. And highly inconvenient.

Dammit, that was what came with sleeping with your bestie. Because now she couldn’t stop the memories of those same hands roaming all over her body and doing things that had gotten her all hot and panting.

As they walked aft, she managed to surreptitiously slip her hand from his, avoiding his sideways glance by determinedly staring straight ahead.

God, she hated this awkwardness. They’d gone and done the unthinkable and ruined everything, and for a second, she felt that indescribable pain slice into her heart, leaving a deep and wounding scar in its wake. Things would never be the same again. It was like one of her disastrous relationships all over again, like everything her father had blurted out that one awful time in the heat of argument.

For God’s sake, Kat, can you just for once not be front-page news? Stop with all the attention and drama and just be a normal person?

The shame burned briefly as she recalled his expression, a bitter twist of anger and disappointment. Then her thoughts were interrupted by the familiar hum and throb of engines as they entered the cabin.

She stopped in her tracks. “Are you casting off?”

“Oui. We’re going to the island.”

She gaped. Annoyance quickly morphed into fury. “Are you out of your mind? No!” She strode outside but it was too late. Furious, she whirled, pinning him with dagger eyes. “I didn’t agree to this! And there’s a cyclone on its way, in case you haven’t noticed.” She threw an arm wide, indicating the dock rapidly disappearing. “The town’s in lockdown. And my car is at the marina.”

He crossed his arms and leaned back onto the rail, then absently pushed back a curl as the wind whipped his hair around his face. “First, my house on the island is designed to withstand weather extremes, cyclones included. It’s probably safer than most places on the mainland. Second, I’ll call someone to pick up your car. And third, the reports say the island will only catch the edge of it—the eye will hit Cairns after 3:00 a.m.”