Free Next Door to Murder by Anthea Fraser Page B

episode about which he’d always been uncomfortable, and latterly ashamed. She was so agonizingly young . How could he have let things get so far out of hand? Yet, in his defence, it had been she who’d initiated the affair, phoning almost daily to invite him to some function or ball or opening, until, flattered, he’d succumbed, accepting that she always got her way. She was also very beautiful, with her cascade of red-gold hair and her green eyes.
    And those green eyes now challenged him from across the room. She was still by the door. He beckoned her closer, but she made no move.
    â€˜It’s not a social call, Dominic. I’ve come to tell you I’m pregnant.’
    He stared at her, his heart plummeting. ‘You can’t be,’ he said ridiculously.
    She ignored him. ‘And Daddy isn’t too happy about it.’
    Dominic moistened his lips. ‘Daddy’, whom he’d met through business contacts, was a prominent member of the House of Lords. But God, what timing. Any minute . . .
    â€˜Miranda, I’m truly sorry, but I can’t deal with this now. I’ve—’
    â€˜An important call. Yes, so you said.’
    â€˜Look, I’m not being dismissive, believe me, but it really is impossible. If you’d care to wait, I’ll meet you down in the coffee lounge in an hour or so. It’s not open to the public, so tell them you’re meeting me. There’s a supply of magazines in there, to help pass the time.’
    And before she could protest, he took her arm and led her firmly out to Carla.
    Back in his room, he rubbed a hand over his face. Oh, God, God, God, he could have done without this! How in hell could he remain focussed for the duration of this blasted call?
    It seemed a very short space of time before the phone rang.

Five
    D ominic’s willpower being one of his strengths, the conference call had gone well, but he remained at his desk for a good ten minutes after it ended, wondering how best to approach Miranda.
    Finally, deciding to play it by ear, he took the lift to the ground floor and made his way to the coffee lounge. He saw her at once, long legs crossed, hair screening her face as she flicked through a magazine; saw also that several of the businessmen grouped around the room were casting speculative glances in her direction.
    She looked up as he approached, but didn’t speak.
    â€˜Another coffee?’ he asked, seating himself opposite her and noting her empty cup.
    â€˜No, thanks.’
    Pity; it might have helped things along. He cleared his throat. ‘Right; I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Now, let’s start again. You’re sure you’re pregnant?’
    â€˜Of course I am.’
    â€˜And – forgive me – it is mine?’
    Her eyes flashed, but she merely said tightly, ‘Yes.’
    He waited for the inevitable claim that there’d been no one else, but surprisingly it didn’t come; a glaring omission in the circumstances.
    â€˜How far on are you?’
    â€˜Twelve weeks.’
    â€˜Twelve weeks?’ he repeated, his voice rising. ‘You took your time telling me.’
    â€˜I wanted to be sure.’
    He thought back three months. April. Easter in Paris. He’d intended the weekend to be their last together, during which he’d gently extricate himself from the affair. In the event, since she was enjoying it so much, he’d postponed doing so, finally broaching the subject over dinner at the Savoy a couple of weeks later.
    With a pang, he remembered the blank shock on her face, the phone calls that had followed, during which she’d alternately wept and raged at him, refusing to accept that it was over. It had been the messiest and most painful ending of any of his affairs. And now this.
    She was watching him, perhaps following the pattern of his thoughts.
    â€˜So what now?’ he asked quietly.
    She lifted her shoulders in a