Pregnancy Proposal
Auteur
Tessa Radley
Lezers
17,2K
Hoofdstukken
12
One
Heath Saxon’s footsteps echoed against the polished stone floor as he walked through the deserted reception area of Saxon’s Folly Estate and Wines. He had expected more fanfare over his return as winemaker to the illustrious Saxon’s Folly winery, located in the Hawkes Bay on the east coast of New Zealand. An olive branch from his father on his first morning would have been welcome. A fatted calf even better. After all, it wasn’t every day that the family bad boy came back.
So maybe he hadn’t come a long way in miles—he lived over in the next valley and most Thursday nights came for dinner—but the emotional gap he’d covered by returning spanned more than physical distance. Ever since that final, fierce altercation with his father he’d stayed well away from the winery itself where he’d once toiled long hours creating fine wines using a blend of science and art. Business and family just didn’t mix.
Now he stared around the winery. The oak vats smelled exactly as he remembered from when he’d been chief winemaker here.
“Heath…”
Every muscle tightened at the sound of the soft voice behind him. Amy. He turned and his eyes drank in the sight of her.
A tentative smile played on her pearly-pink lips. Her bobbed dark-chocolate hair was smoothly tucked behind her ears, gold studs glinting in her lobes. Subtle makeup, only enough to hide the dark circles beneath her golden eyes, nothing more. If it hadn’t been for those molten eyes, she would’ve looked like a schoolgirl. Not frumpy, but almost too neat to be true in the white shirt with a rounded collar and the navy skirt.
Innocent.
Or maybe not. Inside he sighed silently. He’d planned to avoid Amy today. All week. Forever, if he could. He started to move away. “Yes, Amy?”
The smile faded. “Taine just called in sick. He says it’s a only a sore throat and he should be back at work tomorrow.”
Taine was one of the Saxon’s Folly cellar hands. “That’s fine.”
“He says to give him a call and he’ll give you an update on what he was supposed to do today.”
“I’ll call him back.”
Amy hovered. “Thanks, Heath.”
“My pleasure.” He bit off dark thoughts about what really was his pleasure. Amy’s mouth swollen with his kisses…Amy lying on his bed…Amy saying—
Hell, why was he torturing himself like this?
He need look no further than her pursed pale-pink mouth to know that none of that was going to happen.
“Heath?”
“Yes?” He’d tried to control his frustration but Amy’s amber-gold eyes darkened at his tone. “Sorry, I was thinking about finding Jim—” the other cellar hand “—to let him know Taine wouldn’t be in.”
“I simply wanted to be the first to say welcome back.” Pursing her mouth into a tight bud, she tipped her nose in the air and turned on her heel and stalked away.
Heath was left watching her trim bottom in the demure navy skirt, her straight back retreat. He restrained the fierce urge to swear.
First day back and he’d managed to offend Amy Wright.
Just great.
So what else was new? He should be used to it by now. Ever since he’d waded in and bought the bankrupt Chosen Valley vineyard from Ralph Wright, Amy’s father, he’d been separated from her and his family by more than just the range of hills between the two wineries that was appropriately named The Divide.
His heroic gesture had offended even Amy, who hadn’t recognized it for what it was—an attempt to rescue her and her father from a crippling cycle of debt. As for his own father, Phillip Saxon had seen it as an attempt to go into direct competition with Saxon’s Folly. Heath shook his head. Perhaps his armour was so tarnished no one could recognize his good intentions any more. So he’d retreated into grim silence, and the gap between him and his family—and him and Amy—had widened.
And now he was back at Saxon’s Folly. Because Saxon’s Folly needed a chief winemaker. Caitlyn Ross, the previous winemaker, had left to get married—to start a new life in Spain with Rafaelo, the half brother Heath had slowly grown to like and respect over the past few weeks.
Of course his father hadn’t asked him to return. The old man was too full of stiff-necked pride for that. It had been Caitlyn who’d begged him to come back so that she could leave Saxon’s Folly with a clear conscience.
It felt strange to be back. Heath’s gaze narrowed as Amy disappeared through the arch that led into the reception area.
Heath suspected that once again his soft heart was going to cost him. Dearly.
For Amy the morning passed in a rush. The phone hadn’t stopped ringing and everyone demanded her attention. With Saxon’s Folly Summer Festival—a Christmas Eve celebration of the ripening grapes—now a little over three weeks away, a final panic had settled in.
“Amy could you order more candles for the carols ceremony?”
“Amy, would you mind getting these brochures printed?”
“Don’t forget to hire three marquees for the festival, Amy.”
“Omigod, Amy! Kelly Christie just called to say that she’d like to cover the festival for the Christmas Day edition of her midday TV show.”
Most of the organizing was already done—with some things, like booking the jazz bands, done a year in advance—but last-minute crazy details like Kelly Christie kept cropping up. It hadn’t been this bad last year. Amy wasn’t stupid; she was the reason why there had been a constant stream of people arriving at her desk with requests. It had been going on—albeit on a slightly less insane scale—for weeks. No, make that months. Two months to be precise.
The Saxons were worried about her. She wished she could tell them that she was fine but they didn’t ask. Their concern just lay in their eyes, in the way they hovered around her, coming with requests in person rather than phoning or e-mailing what they wanted through to her.
The only one who didn’t have a million questions to ask or a zillion mundane tasks to keep her busy today was Heath Saxon.
Black sheep. Hothead. Bad boy.
She shut her eyes. She should’ve been grateful that he’d kept his distance on his first day back, she should be saying thanks to—
“Amy, do you know where Alyssa is?”
Eyes snapping open, she found Megan, the youngest Saxon, in front of her.
Megan was staring at her in a way that made Amy’s heart sink.
“Are you all right, sweetie?”
“I’m fine,” Amy reassured her. For the past two months everyone had been handling her with kid gloves. It was time for the PA of Saxon’s Folly to get back to normal. “Sorry, you caught me daydreaming. I think Alyssa went into town with your brother.”
“With Joshua?”
Naturally Alyssa had gone with Joshua, her fiancé. Who else could she have gone with? Heath, of course, he was back at Saxon’s Folly. But then Amy got a good look at Megan’s face. She looked sad. Megan must be thinking about Roland. Amy swallowed and glanced away before the tears came.
There was a silence.
“Sweetie, don’t be so hard on yourself. Give yourself a break.” The gentleness in Megan’s voice made Amy’s throat grow thick.
She bit back the sob that threatened. “Really, I’m fine!”
But Megan’s concerned eyes told her she didn’t believe it.
“Okay, I’m just feeling a little emotional today.” Amy dragged in a shaky breath. She pushed the strand of hair that had fallen over her forehead back behind her ears. “An Auckland florist called. Roland ordered a bouquet for me…they wanted to know what colours I was choosing for the wedding, so they could select suitable ribbons for the bouquet.”
“Oh, my God.” Megan covered her mouth. “Sweetie, I’m so sorry.” She came forward in a rush.
Bracing her hands on the counter separating them, Amy shrank away. If Megan hugged her she was going to cry. She knew it. She shook her head frantically. “It’s okay, really it is.”
“No, it’s not okay. Roland—”
“—is dead.” She didn’t want more pity. “And there won’t be a wedding.” Megan must be hurting too. Roland had been her adopted brother, though no one had known he was adopted until a little over a month ago.
“Amy, I’m so sorry.” Megan covered Amy’s hands where they lay on top of the reception counter.
Amy fisted her fingers. “Me too. He wasn’t supposed to die.”
“No, you were supposed to get married…live happily ever after. That’s all you—everyone—ever wanted.”
Amy’s mouth trembled. “I think I was fourteen when I decided I was going to marry Roland Saxon. I told him when I turned sixteen but he said I was too young for him. So I proposed at my seventeenth birthday dinner.” After he’d kissed her outside in the romance of the dark summer’s night…kisses meant true love and marriage, didn’t they?
How young she’d been. How very idealistic.
Megan’s cell phone rang.
“You’d better get that,” Amy said, sliding a hand out from under Megan’s to rip a tissue from the box on her desk and determinedly wipe her eyes. The outside line rang, so she picked it up and said in a bright voice, “Saxon’s Folly Estate and Wines,” and then started to note down a booking for a tour group that wanted to do a wine tasting.
Megan’s call ended. Clearly she wanted to talk. But Amy didn’t. She gave Megan a quick smile, before huddling down behind the counter and starting to describe the various packages available for tour groups. When the call ended she looked up.
To her relief Megan had gone.
“I’m worried about Amy.”
Heath stilled in the act of counting wine bottles shelved in order of vintage in the wine-master’s cellar. A bottle of every wine the winery had produced since it was started by Spanish monks almost a century ago was stored there. At the sound of Megan’s voice he stared fixedly at the cursive gold print on the label of the bottle in front of him.
Finally Heath turned his head and met his sister’s direct gaze. “We’re all concerned.”
“Roland’s death has been hard on all of us.” Megan gave a sniff, belying her composure.
“At least we’ve got each other to share the grief with,” Heath said. “You, me and Joshua have always been close.”
“Exactly! But Amy’s so alone, it breaks my heart. She pretends she’s fine. But she’s so fragile,” said Megan, coming in and closing the door behind her. “I’m sure she’s lost more weight.”
Heath shrugged helplessly. “Dad suggested she take time off. Joshua suggested it. I suggested it. She took two weeks and came back looking worse than she had before. I don’t know what to do next.”
Megan leant against the antique desk where every chief winemaker at Saxon’s Folly had worked, and said, “The wedding would have taken place in two weeks. She must be thinking about it all the time.”
“Probably.” Heath could feel himself growing tense. He’d spent so long refusing to think of Amy’s forthcoming marriage to his brother that he hated being reminded of the occasion. Though he was certain Amy had thought of little but the frothy romantic event. Beneath that goody-two-shoes exterior lurked the heart of a romantic.
“She needs to be kept busy.”
“Why?” He stared at his sister. In his opinion, Amy needed a break, a rest, time to reflect. Time to grieve.
“So that she doesn’t get a chance to think about Roland’s death.” His younger sister loved organizing other people. “I’m going to get her even more involved in helping with the festival.” Megan gave a shudder. “She was in the car with him—the memories must give her nightmares.”
Heath closed his mind against the night his brother had died. He didn’t want to remember…
Instead, he pondered his sister’s suggestion. The annual Saxon’s Folly Summer Festival took place the day before Christmas, a busy time of year. And it took a lot of work to make it happen. In the past Roland and Megan had done most of the organizing. Roland had been marketing manager and had worked closely with Megan, whose main role was PR. Since Roland’s death Megan had been assuming more of the marketing role—and she’d drawn in Alyssa Blake, Joshua’s fiancée, to do some of the overflow PR work. For all he knew, Amy might enjoy being more involved, too.
“That’s not a bad idea,” he said finally, “but the festival isn’t going to replace her wedding.”
Megan rocked back on her hands against the desk and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “I know that, Heath.”
“She has to face the fact that Roland is gone.” Heath turned back to the wall and pulled a random bottle out of its pigeonhole.
“She knows he’s gone.” His sister sounded impatient. “That’s why she’s so lost.”
Heath wasn’t so sure. Amy had retreated into a place where no one could reach her. She’d frozen everyone out. He was almost certain it was her way of escaping reality.
Of hiding from the truth…
He stared unseeingly at the bottle in his hands. When she came out from that place, there was going to be a lot of pain: she was going to have to accept that Roland was gone. Forever. And at some point Amy was going to have to realise that she was still young, that her life wasn’t over. That she still had a chance to live…and love.
“Maybe you can talk to her, Heath.” Megan’s voice held the forceful determination that he knew all too well.
No. He didn’t want to talk to Amy—and he doubted she’d listen. He’d done enough harm already.
He slotted the bottle of wine back into its pigeonhole and walked over to the desk Megan leaned against, dropping down into the antique leather chair behind it and propping his elbows on the blotter.
“No.” His answer was very final.
Megan swivelled around and eyed him curiously. “Did you two have a fight?”
“A fight?” He frowned at his sister. “What do you take me for? I couldn’t do that to Amy. Not at this time.”
“I thought it might be your idea of shock therapy.”
“Shock therapy?” God. Heath raked his hands through his hair. “No way.” Maybe he’d had some misguided intentions. But not shock therapy. Nothing that deliberate—or cold-blooded.
“Okay, I got it wrong.” Megan picked up the exclusive catalogue of wines that they mailed to Saxon’s Folly’s top customers and flipped idly through it, her bangs falling forward over her eyes. “I noticed you’ve been avoiding her for the past couple of weeks and wondered. I thought you two were friends.”
Heath was relived to be out of his sister’s sharp eyesight. Since Roland’s funeral Amy had rebuffed every attempt he’d made to offer comfort. Finally, he’d given up and taken to avoiding her.
“Not really.” Not since she’d turned sixteen. What he felt for Amy wasn’t friendship; it was a whole lot more dangerous.
“But surely after what you did for her—”
“What did I do for her?” he said too quickly.
The catalogue landed on the desk with a thud. “You bought the vineyard after Ralph ran it into the ground.”
“I didn’t do that for Amy.” Heath folded his arms across his chest. “Whatever gave you that idea? I did it for myself. Once it became clear that Saxon’s Folly wasn’t big enough for me and Dad I had two choices—go work for someone else, or set up my own show.”
“But why Chosen Valley? Surely you realised that buying a vineyard that close would get into Dad’s face?”
“It was a good choice.” He didn’t elaborate further. He didn’t need to—he’d been proved right.
“You didn’t have to pay what you did—”
“It was a fair market price.”
“But you could’ve—”
“Give it a rest, Megan.”
“And you arranged a job for Amy here at Saxon’s Folly.”
He shrugged. “So what? I arranged for Dad to employ Caitlyn, too.” He grinned at his sister, intent on distracting her, and took refuge in humour that he didn’t feel. “Maybe I have frustrated latent urges to be a hotshot corporate recruiter.”
Megan burst out laughing. “You? A hotshot recruiter? Never. You’re a softie. Your only latent urges are to help people. You arranged that job for Amy because you felt sorry for her, because after being brought up as Daddy’s princess she didn’t have a whole lot of marketable skills and you—”
Relieved that Megan thought his latent urges had been motivated by altruism rather than something far more basic, Heath growled, “Back off!”
His sister gave him a triumphant look. “I will for now.”
But once she’d gone, Heath brooded. If Megan had noticed that he was avoiding Amy, others would, too, and the last thing he needed was questions. The sooner he made his peace with Amy the better.
Amy saw him coming.
She ducked her head down and busied herself with entering a column of sales figures into the computer. When Heath finally stopped in front of the counter she gave a fake little start and her hands fluttered to her breast. “Oh, Heath, you surprised me.”
She got the feeling that her deception hadn’t worked. Colour rose to her cheeks. Amy never lied. Discomforted at being caught in the act, her hands stilled on her shirtfront, a barrier from behind which she could watch Heath.
He was tall, his hair so dark in comparison to Roland’s bright-red mane. Heath’s eyes were black. Brooding. Unreadable. The darkness underlined by the black T-shirts and black jeans he normally wore.
Black Saxon.
As a youngster he’d gotten into a lot of fights and gained a terrible reputation. She could remember a period when Heath had always seemed to have his eyes blackened, which was when the Black Saxon nickname had stuck. But he’d always been kind to her.
He’d been a rebel. He’d fought with his father, resisting his authority. His parents had been only too pleased to pack him off to university. She’d heard tales of hazings and wild parties, but when he’d returned he’d changed. Matured. For a while she’d considered him one of her best friends.
But somewhere along the line it had changed. He’d withdrawn. The silences between them had become uncomfortable. And when her father had almost lost the winery, Heath had charged in and bought it—no doubt for a song. Though he’d felt guilty enough to arrange a job for her at the winery. It had suited her…and brought her closer to Roland.
After the night Roland died, she and Heath no longer seemed to know what to say to each other.
She didn’t even know what he thought about the discovery that Roland was adopted…or how he felt about the arrival of his half brother last month. Or what he thought about Caitlyn leaving.
But then she’d been so caught up in her own woes she hadn’t asked. Her self-absorption made her shudder with embarrassment. She needed to remedy that. “Do you think Caitlyn will be happy with Rafaelo?”
He gave her a strange look. “Why shouldn’t she be?”
“I thought—” Amy broke off, flushing.
He came closer. “You thought what?”
“Uh…I thought that you and Caitlyn had something going.”
He threw his head back and laughed out loud. “Me and Caitlyn?”
Despite the flash of white teeth from this close, Amy could see his black-devil’s eyes weren’t laughing. “I thought…”
“You thought what?” There was a fixed intensity in his eyes, an intensity that made her want to shudder in discomfort again.
“She came back from university with you.” Amy glanced away from that penetrating gaze and fiddled with the computer keys, opening a file, feeling foolish.
She wasn’t clever—not like Caitlyn Ross whom everybody knew was supersmart. Caitlyn had gone to university on a science scholarship. By contrast, Amy had tried hard at school, done exactly as she was told, but though she’d usually gotten a prize at the end of the year it was always for effort or citizenship rather than academic brilliance. Teacher’s pet. The unkind taunt of her schoolmates came back in an unwelcome blast.
She felt, rather than saw, Heath shrug. “I tutored Caitlyn. It was no secret that she was going to go places. So I told Dad about her, and for once Dad actually listened to what I had to say.” A bitter slant distorted his sculpted mouth. “He offered her a vacation job. She was so good there was no way he was going to let her go.”
“Did it hurt that your father became her mentor? That she took your job as chief winemaker?” Amy had wondered about that when he bought Chosen Valley.
“Nah, when I resigned I suggested Dad promote her.”
“So he took your advice again.” Maybe Heath didn’t see how much stock Phillip Saxon placed in him. It wouldn’t hurt to point it out. It was awful that there was such a rift between the two Saxon men.
“He would’ve been stupid not to have.”
Amy gave him a quick upward glance. “Maybe it was because you’ve always held her in such high regard that I thought you’d end up married.”
Heath’s shoulders rose under the close-fitting black T-shirt, then dropped nonchalantly.
He certainly didn’t look heartbroken. A frown wrinkled Amy’s forehead. She’d been so certain that Caitlyn had wanted Heath. She’d caught Caitlyn watching him in the past, a soft, yearning look on her face. All that had changed with the Spaniard’s arrival. Rafaelo had swept her off her feet. Emotion clogged up her throat. “Oh, well, I hope Caitlyn and Rafaelo will be happy together. Have they set a wedding date yet?”
Heath gave her a sharp glance. “Next year, I believe.”
A wedding…
Amy bit her lip and looked down at the keyboard. Her lip began to hurt. She bit harder.
“Amy?”
She didn’t look up. She hit the keyboard with a series of random taps. A tear splashed onto the spacebar.
“Amy!”
She bent her head lower. Heath mustn’t see her crying. Not him, of all people.
Too late. He’d come around the counter. He was standing beside her; she could hear his breathing, loud in the private space behind the counter. Amy’s shoulders started to shake. Inside she felt hot and tight as if she were going to burst. As if she could no longer hold it all in—all the grief and emotion she’d been pressing down, terrified it might explode out.
“Hush.”
Heath’s hands came down on her shoulders. She stiffened. But the thickness in her throat grew more painful. She swallowed. That hurt. She could barely breathe.
He pulled. The typist’s chair spun round. She caught one glimpse of his face, saw the torment in his dark eyes, and hurriedly shut her own eyes as tightly as she could. But still the tears leaked out, burning down her cheeks.
There was a rustle of fabric, as if he was crouching down. But she didn’t dare open her eyes. Then Heath’s hands tightened on her shoulders, pulling her from the chair. She gasped as she slid. Suddenly he was no longer behind her, and she landed in a sprawl across his thighs where he knelt beside the chair, the slim-fitting navy skirt riding up to expose bare pale thigh.
She tried desperately to tug it down.
The linen resisted. A moment later Heath’s arms closed around her, drawing her tightly against his chest. He smelt warm and male, of sun and dust and a hint of lemon. She made a little choking sound and buried her face against his shirtfront.
“I know you loved him for so long. I know there’s a huge hole in your life now.”
The choke became a sob.
Her throat was hot. Her insides twisted. She wanted to order Heath to be quiet, to release her, to go away, but she couldn’t find the strength.
Tears rushed down her cheeks.
“Cry all you want, Amy. Let it all out.”
She couldn’t bear for him to see her like this, in such a state. He was so contained, so controlled. He was no longer the impulsive bad boy; he’d grown up. Whereas she’d regressed. She’d gone from being the good girl who did everything right every time to someone she didn’t know. Someone who felt like she’d lost total control of herself, her life.
Darn it, she didn’t even know why she was crying. The tears had come out of nowhere. For a moment she allowed her body to sag and great gasps of pain escaped her. Heath didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just kept her close in the circle of his arms. Embarrassed, Amy gave a gulp and summoned all her strength.
She pulled away from him. A horrified glance revealed that there were unsightly damp patches over the front of Heath’s immaculate black T-shirt where she’d blubbered like a baby.
Kneeling on the carpet, she reached for a tissue from the box on the desk. No way was she dabbing at the sodden patches on his shirt with a tissue. She wasn’t going near him. Sniffling, she retreated further and said, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t seem to stop crying.”
He reached for her. “You’ve had a terrible time and I haven’t helped—”
She fought her way out his arms and leapt to her feet, cannoning into the chair and causing it to shoot sideways. All at once the room started to tip sideways, before righting and tipping back the other way.
This must be what an earthquake felt like. Her vision turned spotty. “Heath, I don’t feel well.”
Her legs crumpled beneath her. She glimpsed a foggy Heath lurching toward her.
Everything went dark.
