The Baby Swap Miracle (15 page)

No chance, though. He’d walked away. Taken himself off the next day, and it was only by chance she’d seen the car return this afternoon, and then Daisy had reappeared, running to greet her as she walked back to her cottage after finishing work in the garden. But Sam hadn’t come, which meant he was still angry.

She’d stopped a little earlier today, because she’d needed to shower and change for the class, but now it was six-thirty, and she had to leave in a few minutes, and if she hadn’t been so stupid Sam would have been with her and she wouldn’t be facing the class alone again—

There was a soft knock at the door.

‘Emelia? It’s Sam.’

She sat motionless for a second, unable to believe her ears, and then she heard him knock again. ‘Emelia?’

She opened the front door to find him standing there, looking good enough to eat in soft, battered jeans and a clean white T-shirt that fitted him just right—not tightly, nothing so blatant, but closely enough to show off his flat, toned abdomen and broad, solid chest. His hands were rammed in his back pockets, his face unsmiling, and his eyes were expressionless.

‘Are we still on for tonight?’ he asked, and she felt her eyes filling with tears.

She tried to speak, but the tears welled up and choked her, and she turned away, stumbling back inside and pressing her hand to her mouth, all the emotions of the weekend rising up at once to swamp her. She’d thought he wasn’t coming—thought he was angry with her, and she’d felt so ashamed—

‘Hey, hey, come here,’ he said, and she felt his hands,
warm and hard and safe on her shoulders, turning her into his arms and wrapping her against the solid and utterly reassuring bulk of his chest.

She slid her arms round him and hung on. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she began, but he shushed her and hugged her again.

‘That’s my line,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to take over, I just thought if the baby was going to be staying regularly, it made sense to have the house equipped for him. I didn’t even think about how you might feel about him staying with me. I just made all sorts of stupid assumptions, and I’m sorry. I’m new to this, you’ll have to tell me how it goes.’

‘Like I know!’ she said as she let him go, trying to laugh and hiccupping with another sob instead.

She found a tissue in her hand, still neatly folded as if he’d come prepared for waterworks, and when she’d got herself under control again, she realised she’d left a dribble of mascara on his shoulder.

‘I’m sorry, I’ve messed up your T-shirt,’ she said, but he didn’t even look at it.

‘It doesn’t matter. Are you OK?’

She nodded, and without warning he tilted up her chin with his fingers and brushed a fleeting kiss over her lips. ‘Let’s go, then,’ he murmured, and she followed him out, her lips tingling, her heart skipping crazily because he’d kissed her.

Sam had no idea how he’d ended up escorting the mother of his child into an antenatal class.

It was so far off his radar it was laughable, but there he was, surrounded by all the happy mothers-and fathers-to-be, introducing himself to them as Sam. Nothing else, but it seemed nothing else was needed.

Pretty obviously, they all assumed he was the father—
which shouldn’t really have been a problem, given that it was the truth, except that he was trying to work up to telling people and he hadn’t quite got a handle on how to do it yet. But here, of course, he didn’t have to, because the birth partners were either the babies’ fathers, or they were women themselves.

There was some introductory chat and a graphic discussion of labour that made his blood run cold, and then they did some breathing exercises for working through contractions.

Fine, he thought. Easy. Think of something distracting—ride the wave. Simple. Next time he hit himself with a hammer, he’d try it. It would make an interesting change from swearing and whimpering.

They talked about drugs for pain relief—presumably for when riding the wave ceased to be effective—and positions for labour. And the more he heard, the more relieved he was that her mother would be there.

But then as the class ended, the tutor looked him in the eye and said, ‘So, see you next week again, Sam,’ and he found himself agreeing.

‘Did you mean that?’ she asked as walked out to the car.

Did he? Maybe. He had no idea why, and there was no way she’d ask him to be there for the birth, but the classes? That was different. He could do that.

‘Yes—if you’d like.’

She looked as if she was going to say something for a second, but then she nodded and got into the car. ‘Thanks.’

He slid behind the wheel and took the buckle of the seatbelt from her, clipping it home. ‘Your mother’s coming for the birth, isn’t she?’ he asked, checking.

‘She should be. I’ve got to report back the substance of
the classes so she can keep up, and she’s aiming to come down the week before my due date.’

‘And if you’re early?’ he asked, glancing across at her as they paused at a junction.

She turned and met his eyes. ‘Then I guess if the worst comes to the worst and my mother can’t get here in time, I’ll be on my own.’

Oh, hell. He was about to offer—he was opening his mouth to say so, when he thought better of it. He couldn’t be her birth partner. It was all getting too close for comfort, and he was getting so emotionally involved with Emelia it was going to be really hard to keep his distance.

So he said nothing, and they travelled the rest of the way in silence.

She finished the rose garden by lunchtime on Friday, and went home to rest.

The little hedges round the central beds were clipped, the grass was cut and edged, the gravel paths were hoed, the roses were blooming their heads off. No thanks to Sam. He’d been fussing again—probably because of something Judith had said about not overdoing things and making sure exercise was appropriate for the stage of the pregnancy.

She’d seen his eyes narrow and known he was filing it for later, and she’d been right. Every time she stretched, he was there with a drink, or asking her about something trivial. Not the nursery—he’d learned his lesson on that one—but other things. The knot garden. The vine in the kitchen garden. Anything to stop her working, but it was finished, at last, and now it was time to enjoy it.

And enjoy it she would, with Sam, because it was a beautiful garden, a wonderful, sensual feast of scent and colour, and after she’d showered and put on the gorgeous dress she’d succumbed to on the day of her scan, she went
back in there to check everything, and sat down in the arbour for a moment to soak up the atmosphere.

She’d made some nibbles and put a bottle of bubbly on ice in his fridge—nothing fantastic, but she felt a few bubbles were in order—and as she sat there, taking time out and waiting for Sam to come, she ran her hands slowly backwards and forwards over her bump. The baby stretched, and she arched her back to make room, and laughed softly as he took advantage and kicked her in the ribs.

He was restless, stretching and squirming, and she spoke softly to him, settling him with her voice. Odd, how she’d learned that her voice could soothe him. Or make him agitated, if she was arguing with Sam. Their baby seemed to hate that.

She saw Sam at the window of the bedroom, and waved. The builders had gone for the day, the place was theirs alone. And it was time to celebrate the garden.

‘Come down,’ she called, and he left the window.

Moments later, he emerged from the house via the French doors from the sitting room, and crossed to her. He’d showered and changed, washing away the building dust and detritus from his hair, and it was still damp, just towelled dry and raked back with his fingers, but he hadn’t shaved, the stubble fascinating her. She so wanted to touch it…

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, and she frowned.

‘Of course I’m all right. I wanted to show you the garden, that’s all. It’s finished.’

He looked around it, and she shielded her eyes as she turned towards the sun, pointing out the old rambling rose that had scrambled through an apple tree and burst into life.

His brows drew together in a frown. ‘You should have
your sunglasses on,’ he told her gently. ‘You’re screwing up your eyes.’

She tilted her head, a little cross that he wasn’t paying attention to his garden after all her hard work on it. ‘Why are you so worried about my wrinkles?’ she demanded.

‘I’m not worried about your wrinkles, I’m worried about your eyes.’

‘Really? Why? They’re my eyes. I’m perfectly capable of looking after them myself.’

Sam gave a short huff of disbelief, unconvinced. ‘Is that right? So if you’re so good at looking after yourself, why are you rubbing your back?’ he asked with another frown. ‘You’ve overdone it again, haven’t you?’

Her eyes turned to fire, and she threw her hands up in the air in exasperation. ‘For goodness’ sake, what is it about this whole thing that’s turned you into a caveman? First my eyes, now my back. Are you like this with all women, or is it because of the baby?’

‘It’s nothing to do with the baby—’

‘Well, what, then?’ she cried. ‘You watch my every move, you fuss and interfere and crowd me until I’m ready to scream, and then I catch you looking at me as if—’

She broke off, breathing hard, and his eyes dropped to her breasts, rising and falling with every breath, taunting him with the ripe, sweet flesh that he ached to touch.

He lifted his eyes to hers again. ‘As if I want to pick you up and carry you into my cave and make love to you?’ he said softly, his voice raw with need.

Her eyes flared, darkened, and her mouth formed a silent O of surprise. Her lips quivered, and she flicked out her tongue to moisten them and he was lost.

‘Really?’ she whispered.

He tried to laugh, but it came out strangled. ‘Yes, really,’ he said. ‘I know it’s crazy, I know it’s inappropriate, but—I
want you, Emelia. And I’ve wanted you, if I’m honest with myself, from the day I met you.’

She sucked in a breath. ‘Oh, Sam.’

She reached up a hand, her knuckles brushing lightly over his cheek. He could feel the drag on his stubble, where he hadn’t had time to shave, and he could hardly hear for the blood pounding in his ears. Her thumb trailed over his bottom lip, tugging it, and he sucked in a sharp breath and closed the gap.

Their lips touched, tentatively at first, then with a hunger and urgency that should have frightened her, but simply seemed to fuel her passion.

‘Emelia,’ he groaned, and then her legs buckled and he caught her, sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her in through the French doors and up to his bedroom. He kicked the door shut, the last functioning piece of his mind aware that Daisy was following, and set her gently down on her feet.

Her dress—that lovely dress she’d bought after so much deliberation—had ridden up, exposing her legs, and the top had twisted, showing off her cleavage. So ripe. So lush.

‘So beautiful,’ he whispered hoarsely, his breath snagging in his throat and almost choking him. He reached out a trembling hand and touched her, a lone finger trailing down her cheek, her throat, over the hollow above her collar bone, down over the soft, tender skin he’d ached to touch for so long now.

He cupped her breast in his palm, his fingers closing over it and squeezing gently, and she dropped back her head and gasped, her pupils flaring and driving him over the edge.

He tore his clothes off, stripping off his shirt over his head, kicking his jeans aside, shucking his boxers. He needed her—needed her now, and, oh, he had to slow
down… He knelt at her feet and slid his hands up her legs, his fingers finding a tiny scrap of lace and elastic that almost sent him into meltdown.

He nearly lost it. He’d thought— Hell, he didn’t know what he’d thought. Big maternity pants? Not this tiny little scrap of nothing that came away in his hands, pale turquoise with little pink bows. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, counting to ten.

Maybe a hundred would be better. A thousand—

‘Sam?’

He opened his eyes and looked into hers, and she reached out a trembling hand and laid it against his heart.

‘Make love to me?’

Emelia woke slowly, her limbs languorous, her eyes heavy-lidded.

Sam was beside her, his legs tangled with hers, his palm warm and gentle against their child. She turned her head to look at him, and met his watchful eyes.

‘Hi,’ she said softly, and he smiled, but the smile didn’t quite seem to reach his eyes. Those shadows she’d seen lurking there from time to time seemed darker now, more troublesome than before, and she reached out a hand and cradled his cheek.

‘It’s OK, Sam,’ she whispered. ‘I know you don’t want this.’

Didn’t he? Hell, he didn’t know any more what he did want, but making love to Emelia had been one of the defining moments of his life, and he hated the wave of doubt that lashed him now. If only he could trust her— Oh, that was so stupid, of course he could trust her. She wasn’t Alice—and yet…

‘Can we just take it a day at a time?’ he asked, and she smiled sadly, her eyes gentle.

‘Sure.’

The baby kicked, and his hand jerked, then settled again against the imprint of a hard little foot. ‘Hey, steady, you, that’s your mum,’ he murmured, and dropped a kiss on her bump, then stroked his hand over the smooth swell, amazed at how it had grown in the few short weeks she’d been there. Shocked at the thought of how much bigger it would grow. More shocked still at what was to come.

And for the first time, he realised he wanted to be there for the birth, wanted to be part of the beginning of his son’s life, his first breath, his first sight of the world. He wanted to hear that first cry, to be there when the midwife laid him on her breast. And he wanted to be there for Emelia.

He wanted it so much it scared him.

‘You were going to show me the garden,’ he said gently, and she searched his eyes, then smiled tenderly and kissed him.

‘I was.’

He got up and held out his hand. ‘Come on, then—let’s have a quick shower and you can show me what you’ve done, and then we’ll go out for dinner.’

‘I’ve made some food,’ she told him. ‘And I put a bottle of fizz in the fridge. I thought we ought to celebrate it being finished.’