The Pregnant Tycoon
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Caroline Anderson
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CHAPTER ONE
HAPPY Birthday, Izzy. The big three-O. Terrific.
Izzy felt her smile slipping and yanked it back with effort. Any minute now her face would start to crack. For what felt like hours she’d laughed at the witty in-jokes, picked at the delicate and hideously expensive canapés and now she’d had enough. If she didn’t get out of here in the next five minutes, she was going to scream.
Loudly.
It was her thirtieth birthday, and she was at a party. Not her party, though, although it was in a way her celebration. No, this was a party to celebrate the phenomenally successful flotation on the stock market of yet another company she’d rescued from certain death.
Been there, done that, she thought tiredly, but everyone was on a high, and only a real party-pooper wouldn’t want to celebrate with their friends.
Friends? She gave a quiet, slightly despairing little laugh. Apart from Kate, she hadn’t known any of them for more than a year at the most. Were they really friends? Or were they only there because of who and what she was?
And who was she? She knew what she was, and if she ever lost sight of it, the press would lose no time in reminding her with one of the selection of nicknames they thought so amusing.
The Stripper, The Assassin—Godzilla was the latest in a long line. And all because she went in where angels feared to tread, and restructured ailing companies, turning them around and pointing them in the right direction. And, of course, because she was a woman, and because she was so young, she’d attracted a lot of attention in doing it.
More, really, than was warranted. Plenty of people did what she did, but not many, she was forced to admit, with such startling results. She’d been lucky—very lucky. Her instincts had only let her down once, and the press had loved it.
But not this time. This time it had been another runaway success, and she knew she’d never need to work again.
She would, of course, simply because if she didn’t work, then what would she do with her life? Without work, it was empty.
Barren.
Nonsense, she told herself. You’ve got a great apartment overlooking the river near Canary Wharf, a fantastic assistant in Kate, you can have anything you want—except privacy.
That was the penalty. She had more appearances in the society rags than the average royal, every date she went on was turned into a full-blown affair—which was a joke, because most men were so terrified of her they’d run screaming before they got to her bedroom door—and she was standing there surrounded by people who didn’t even know her.
Heavens, I don’t know me. Where are my real friends? Do I have any?
‘Excuse me,’ she murmured with a vague smile, and headed for the ladies’ loo. A few minutes alone—
‘You OK?’
She glanced at Kate, her right-hand-woman—and the closest thing she had to a real friend—and dredged up a smile. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘Great party. They’re a super bunch—I’ll miss them. Still, there’s always the next lot.’
She fell into step beside Izzy, going with her into the cloakroom, chatting to her over the top of the cubicles so even that moment of respite was denied her.
She was wondering where on earth she could go to be alone when Kate erupted out of the cubicle and joined her at the washbasins. ‘So, how’s the birthday going? I remember being thirty. Shattering. I went on the internet—that website for contacting old schoolfriends and so on. Found out what they were all doing. Weird.’
She chattered on, telling some involved story about a couple who’d rediscovered each other through the internet, but Izzy wasn’t listening any more. Her attention had been caught by the words ‘old schoolfriends’, and she was miles away. Light years.
Twelve, to be exact, up in Suffolk in the long, glorious summer between leaving school and going off to uni, camping by the river in a field owned by Will’s parents, all of them laughing and telling jokes and chasing each other around in the long, sweet grass, full of the joys and without a care in the world.
Where were they all now?
Rob and Emma and Julia and Sam and Lucy—and Will. Her heart lurched. Where was Will?
He’d kissed her there, down by the river in the shelter of the willows. That had been their first kiss—the first of many that blissful summer, and a prelude to more than kisses. Much, much more than kisses, she remembered with a pang of longing.
And then she’d gone to university, driven by the need to get on with her life, and he’d gone away with Julia and Rob and Emma, travelling around the world, and come back at the end of the year with news that had shattered her dreams. Her friend Julia, with whom she’d shared everything—including, apparently, Will—was pregnant with his child, and he loved her and wanted to marry her.
Her world had fallen apart that day. She’d spent the next few years reconstructing it brick by brick, until the wall she was hiding behind was so high nothing and no one could get over it. She hadn’t seen him since.
Where was he now? What was he doing? Was he still with Julia? And the child—a girl or a boy? Had there been others? Little dark-haired boys and girls with his quick wit and sparkling eyes, and a smile that left her breathless…
A familiar ache of longing settled in her chest, and she dragged in a deep breath and forced her eyes to focus.
Her reflection stared back at her solemnly and did nothing to improve her humour. Mouse-brown hair, curly on a good day and like wire wool in the rain, relieved by a few delicate highlights to give it a bit of lift and stop it looking like an old pan scourer, topped a face set with dull grey-green eyes splodged with brown. A kind person would call them hazel. Her mother called them muddy. Small, even features did nothing to draw attention to her, but at least she supposed she wasn’t actively ugly, and her smile, when she could be bothered to produce it, was OK.
She practised it fleetingly, and scowled. OK? Just barely.
‘All done?’
Her eyes swung across to meet Kate’s in the mirror and she summoned that elusive and barely OK smile. ‘Yes, I’m all done. Let’s go back to the party.’
Steve was waiting for her—suave, sophisticated, and relentless—and for some reason totally unable to light her fire.
Not that he was alone. Nothing and no one seemed to light her fire these days, either personally or professionally. She’d lost interest in everything, and she was filled with a strange restlessness that made her snappy and short-tempered.
‘I thought you’d deserted me, Isabella,’ he said with a smile that made her skin crawl.
She gave a brief, humourless laugh. ‘No such luck,’ she said, and he gave her a rather peculiar look, as if he couldn’t quite work out if it was an insult or not. Her head was starting to ache, and she knew it would be at least another two hours before she could get out of there.
‘Are you OK, Bella?’ he asked her, apparently genuine concern showing now on his smooth, rather characterless face. He was probably just looking for an excuse to take her home, she reasoned, but repelling his advances yet again was absolutely the last thing she needed. Knowing her luck there’d be a photographer lurking, anyway, and she didn’t believe in the old maxim that there was no such thing as bad publicity.
There was, and she’d had enough of it to last her a lifetime. A single glimpse of her on the arm of the very recently divorced CEO would be enough to put another notch on the imaginary bedpost that the gutter press had dreamed up out of thin air, and there was no way she was adding any more fuel to that particular fire.
‘Just a bit of a headache,’ she said, digging out that smile again. ‘I’ll be fine—and don’t call me Bella. You know it’s not my name.’
He laughed, quite unmoved by her reprimand. He seemed unmoved by most things, she thought, and not for the first time she wondered what made him tick. Money, probably—lots of it, and preferably somebody else’s. Still, he wouldn’t need to worry about that now, not since her makeover of his company. She’d made him rich beyond his wildest dreams, and women would be all over him like flies on a muck heap.
He trailed a finger up her bare arm, pausing thoughtfully at her shoulder before slipping his fingertip under her strap and toying with it absently. ‘We ought to get together, you know, Isabel,’ he murmured, getting her name right for once. ‘How about Friday evening? We could do dinner—somewhere quiet.’
‘Quiet sounds good,’ Izzy muttered under her breath, not really referring to his suggestion, but he pounced on it like a terrier with a rat, and she couldn’t be bothered to argue. Before she could draw breath he’d arranged the venue, the time and told her what to wear. If she hadn’t had such a headache coming on, she would have told him what he could do with his quiet night. As it was she just stifled a sigh and nodded.
She persevered until midnight, then, excusing herself, she took a taxi home and let herself into her cool, tranquil apartment with a sigh of relief. This was quiet. This was what she needed.
She heeled off her shoes, padded over to the kitchen and filled a glass with iced water from the cooler in the fridge door, then dropped gratefully into the corner of the comfortable sofa, her feet tucked up underneath her on the butter-soft leather as she stared blindly out over the city skyline.
Lights twinkled, millions of them. All those people out there busily getting on with their lives, she thought, the clubs and bars in this thriving corner of the capital throbbing with life. It was still early by their standards, merely the beginning of the night. Even the thought exhausted her.
She rubbed her temples, pulling out the pins that held her unwilling hair in place. It sprang free, a wild tangle of curls tumbling down over her shoulders, and instantly her headache eased. She sighed and dropped her head back against the soft cushion of the sofa and closed her eyes.
She wanted to open the window, to slide back the big glass pane and step out onto the roof garden, but all she would hear would be the honking traffic and the sirens, the sounds of the city by night.
It would be quiet in the country, she thought, the only sounds the rustlings and cries of the animals. Perhaps quiet wasn’t the word. She thought again of their campsite by the river all those years ago, the astonishing sounds of the countryside at night, and she had a fierce longing to return, to hear the sounds again.
Kate’s words came back to her, piquing her curiosity, and she got up and went over to her computer.
With a few keystrokes she connected to the internet, and within minutes she’d registered with the website Kate had talked about and was scanning a list of once-familiar names.
Rob’s name sprang out, and she clicked on the envelope beside it to read his message. It was so much like him that she could almost hear his voice. He was a solicitor now, married to Emma, they had three children, and they still lived in the village.
How incredible, after all this time, that they were still there in the same place. She felt a little stab of something that could have been envy, but crushed it ruthlessly. What was she thinking about? She had a fantastic life—success, wealth beyond her wildest expectations, a full and hectic schedule.
What more could she possibly want?
Will.
She ignored the curiously painful thought, dismissing it before it took hold. She’d e-mail Rob, and ask him how everyone was. Without stopping to think too much, she wrote a quick e-mail and then as an afterthought included her telephone number.
Maybe he’d ring and they could have a chat.
‘Michael, I’m not telling you again, do your homework or that GameBoy’s going in the bin. Rebecca? Beccy, where are you? Your stuff’s scattered about all over the place.’
She wandered in, her mouth formed in a sulky pout around her thumb, and with ill grace she shovelled her books back into her school bag and flounced off again.
Will sighed and rammed a hand through his hair. He had the accounts to do, another endless round of forms to fill in for yet another set of regulations—and when he’d finished that, he’d have the ewes to check—again. Still, at least it was warm now. Lambing in April, even if it was by accident, knocked spots off lambing in February.
The phone rang, freeing him from the paperwork he hated, and he scooped up the receiver almost gratefully.
‘Hello, Valley Farm.’
‘Will—it’s Rob. Just making sure that you haven’t forgotten the party.’
His heart sank, the gratitude evaporating. ‘No, I haven’t forgotten,’ he lied. ‘When is it?’
‘Friday—seven-thirty onwards, at the house. You are coming, aren’t you? Emma will give me such hell if you don’t.’
And him too, no doubt. ‘I’ll try,’ he promised evasively. ‘I might be able to get away for an hour or so, but I’m still lambing, so don’t rely on me.’ He didn’t need anyone else relying on him. He felt as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders as it was, and the party was just one more thing he had to do out of duty.
‘Stuff the lambs.’
‘With garlic and rosemary?’
‘Smartass. Just be there,’ Rob said firmly, and the dial tone sounded in his ear.
He dropped the receiver back into the cradle and scowled at it. If it was anybody else, any way on God’s earth he could get out of it, he’d do exactly that. He couldn’t, though. It was Rob and Emma, their tenth wedding anniversary and thirtieth birthday joint celebration, and he had no choice.
That didn’t mean, however, that he had to enjoy it or stay longer than was strictly necessary!
Two hours, tops, he promised himself. And duty done, honour satisfied, he’d be able to come home and—
And what? Sit here in the empty house on his own and stare morosely at the four walls? Go alone to his big, empty bed and lie staring at the ceiling, equally morosely, until sleep claimed him?
He snorted. He could always tackle some of the endless paperwork that dogged his life and drove him to distraction. God knows, there was enough of it.
Shooting back his chair, he went through to the kitchen, noting almost absently that Michael was now doing his homework, albeit in front of the television, and Rebecca was curled in the big chair with the dog squeezed up beside her and a cat on her lap, her eyes wilting.
‘I’m just going outside to check the sheep,’ he told them, hooking his elderly jacket off the back of the door and stuffing his feet into his muddy Wellington boots. ‘Beccy, bed in twenty minutes. Michael, you’ve got one hour.’
He went out into the cold, quiet night and made his way across to the barns. There were warm sleepy noises coming from the animals, soft bleats and shufflings in the straw, and he could hear the horses moving on the other side of the partition that divided the barn.
He did a quick check of the lambs, made sure none of the ewes was in trouble, then, satisfied that all was quiet, he cast an eye over the other stock: the chickens and ducks all shut up for the night, the house cow and the few beef calves out in the pasture behind the house. Then he checked the horses that were not his but were there on a DIY livery. He always included them in his late-night check, just to be sure they had water and none of them had rolled and got themselves cast, stuck firmly up against the side wall and unable to stand up again.
All was well, though, and with his arms folded on the top of the gate he paused for a moment, drinking in the quiet night.
A fox called, and in the distance he could hear a dog barking. Owls hooted to each other, and the pale, ghostly shape of a barn owl drifted past on the night air, on the lookout for an unwary mouse.
Vaulting over the gate, he left the stockyard and walked round to the old farmyard on the other side of the house, looking round at all the changes that had been made in the last few years.
The old timber cowshed and feed store had been turned into a thriving farm shop and café, selling a range of wonderful mainly organic foods, many of them cooked by his mother. She ran that side of the enterprise, while his father supervised the timber side of the business, the garden furniture and wooden toys and willow fencing which were now manufactured on-site in the old milking parlour.
Diversify, they’d been told, and so they had. Instead of boggy, indifferent grazing down by the river, only usable in the height of the summer, they now grew coppiced willow, cutting it down to the ground every winter and harvesting the supple young shoots while they were dormant. They were used to make environmentally friendly and renewable screens and hurdle-style fencing panels, now hugely popular, and all sorts of other things, many to special order.
He still grew crops on the majority of the farm, of course, but it was going organic, a long process full of bureaucracy and hoops of red tape that he had to jump through in order to satisfy the stringent requirements of the food industry, and then there were the sheep. In a few weeks, when the lambs were a bit tougher, he’d move them down to the saltmarsh pasture on the old Jenks’ farm, because organic saltmarsh lamb fetched a huge premium in the specialist restaurant market.
Buying up the farm from Mrs Jenks had been a major investment at a time when they couldn’t really afford it, but it had been a one-off opportunity and there had been no choice. It had spread their resources even further, however, and made more work, and it would be years before they got a return.
Small wonder, he thought, that he was tired all the time. Still, the farm was thriving again, their futures were secure, and that was all he asked.
With one last glance round to make sure that nothing had been overlooked, he went back inside. There was a little scurry and he saw the tail-end of his daughter disappearing through the doorway. He suppressed a smile and laid a friendly hand on Michael’s shoulder.
‘How’re you doing, sport?’
‘OK, I suppose. Just got my French to do now.’
Will chuckled ruefully. ‘Not my strong point, I’m afraid. You’ll have to ask your grandmother if you get stuck.’
He put the kettle on, and went upstairs to check on Rebecca. She was already in bed, with very little sign of having washed her face or cleaned her teeth, and he chivvied her through the bathroom and then tucked her up in bed.
‘Read me a story,’ she pleaded, and although he was exhausted, he picked up the book from beside her bed, settled down next to her with his back propped against the headboard and his arm around her shoulders, and started to read.
‘Dad?’
Will sucked in a deep breath and forced his eyes open. ‘Michael? What time is it?’
‘Nearly ten. You’ve been here for ages.’
Will glanced down at Rebecca, snuggled against his chest fast asleep, and gently eased his arm out from behind her and settled her down onto the pillow. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, getting to his feet. ‘I just sat down to read her a story—I must have dropped off.’
‘You look knackered,’ his son said, eyeing him worriedly. ‘You work too hard these days.’
Will ruffled his hair affectionately and gave him a brief hug. ‘I’ll live,’ he said, and wondered if it was only to his own ears that it sounded like a vow.
‘Good grief. Emma?’ Rob pushed his chair back from the computer and turned towards the study door as his wife came in.
She propped herself against the doorframe, arms folded across her chest, and tipped her head on one side. ‘What is it?’ she asked him. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
He gave a shaky chuckle. ‘Well—in a way. It’s Isabel Brooke. She’s sent me an e-mail. She wants to get in touch. I’ve got her phone number—shall we ring her?’
Emma shrugged away from the doorframe and came and stood beside him, her hand on his shoulder, peering at the screen. ‘Well. Wow—the famous Isabel Brooke! You could always ask her to the party.’
Rob gave a startled cough of laughter. ‘You have to be joking! Why on earth would she want to come up here to our boring, pedestrian, provincial party?’
Emma slapped him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Hey! This is our party. It’s going to be the best party this county has seen in a long while. Boring and provincial, my foot. Anyway, she might like it.’
Rob chuckled again. ‘I stand by to be amazed. So, shall I ask her?’
Emma shrugged slightly. ‘Why not? She’ll either say yes or no.’
‘Sometimes, my darling, you are so profound.’ Rob stood and wrapped his arms around his wife. ‘It’s too late tonight. I’ll ring her tomorrow. Just now, I have better things to do…’
‘Isabel? There’s a call for you—somebody called Rob. I told him you were in a meeting, but he said it couldn’t wait.’
Kate was hovering, her head stuck round the meeting room door, waiting for her answer. Izzy frowned and rubbed the little crease between her brows with a small, blunt fingertip. ‘Kate, I really don’t have time for—’ She hesitated, a thought occurring to her. ‘Did he give a surname?’
Kate shook her head. ‘He just said you go way back.’
Izzy smiled apologetically at the people gathered around the table. ‘Would you excuse me?’ she murmured. ‘I won’t be a moment. Kate, could you be a love and see if anyone needs more coffee?’
She went out into her office and picked up the phone. ‘Isabel Brooke,’ she said, curiosity vying with wariness.
‘I was beginning to think you weren’t serious about getting back in touch with us—or were you just making me cool my heels so I know my place?’ the familiar voice said laughingly, and Izzy felt her mouth kick up in a smile.
‘And hello yourself,’ she said, settling down in her chair with her feet propped on the edge of her desk, crossed at the ankles. A smile played at the corners of her mouth. She picked a little bit of fluff off her trousers and smoothed the fabric absently. ‘I’m sorry, I really was in a meeting, and I’d said no calls. I didn’t realise I’d given you my office number.’
‘You didn’t, but I didn’t want to leave it too late, so I got my secretary to do a bit of sleuthing. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. Great. How are you? And Emma? Three kids now! I’m impressed.’
He laughed. ‘Don’t be. They were the easy bit. We’re all fine—really good, but nothing like as spectacular as you! Talk about a meteoric rise in the world.’
Izzy shrugged, then realised he couldn’t see her. ‘It’s only money,’ she said dismissively, realising that it was true. What was her success when measured against Rob and Emma’s happiness and the birth of their three children? She swallowed a lump of what had to be self-pity, and put her feet back on the floor.
‘Look, Rob, I really am rather tied up this morning, but I’d love to see you all. Is there any way we can meet up?’
‘Actually, that’s why I’m phoning you. Emma and I are having a party to celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary and our thirtieth birthdays, and we want you to come. The trouble is, it’s tomorrow night. Not very much notice, I’m afraid, and I expect you’re so busy you won’t be able to make it, but loads of us will be there and it would be really great to see you.’
Something big and awkward was swelling in her chest, making it hard for her to breathe, and there was a silly smile plastered to her face that she couldn’t seem to shift.
‘That would be fantastic. Of course I’ll come—I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll hand you back to my secretary and you can give her all the details, and I’ll see you on Friday. Thanks, Rob.’
She spoke briefly to Kate and asked her to get all the relevant information from Rob and book her a hotel room nearby, and then, ruthlessly suppressing a twinge of guilt, she also asked her to contact Steve and cancel the dinner engagement he’d talked her into at her party. Then, forcing herself to concentrate, she went back into the meeting and smiled brightly at the assembled company.
‘Sorry about that, everybody. Now, where were we?’
Izzy was a mass of nerves. It was quite ridiculous. She did very much more scary things than this every day of her life, and yet, for some reason, this whole event had taken on the most enormous significance.
Because of Will? What if he was there? And Julia? Oh, Lord.
She checked the address and eyed the house warily, reluctant to go in there yet. Twelve years was a long time, and a lot had happened. Too much? They always said you should never go back, but maybe it was time. Maybe this was just what she needed to get closure.
She checked her appearance one last time in the little rearview mirror of her car, and then with a mental shrug she abandoned any further prevarication, got out of the car and strode purposefully towards the open front door, the flowers she’d brought clutched just a little tightly in her hand.
As she drew nearer she could hear the sounds of a party in full swing—loud voices, shouts of laughter, the insistent rhythm of music that invaded her blood. It would be pointless to ring the doorbell, she realised, and so, her heart pounding in time to the beat, she walked down the hall and through the open door at the end, a smile plastered to her face.
For a moment no one noticed her, then a sudden silence fell, and everyone seemed to turn towards her. Her smile was slipping, brittle, and she stared at the room full of strangers and wondered what on earth she was doing there.
Then a man detached himself from the crowd, shorter than she remembered, his body more solid, his hair thinner, but the sparkling green eyes and the smile that encompassed the world were just the same, and he strode towards her, arms outstretched.
‘Izzy!’
‘Rob,’ she said with relief, and went into his arms with a sense of homecoming that took her by surprise.
He released her, holding her at arm’s length and studying her, then dragging her back into his arms for another bear hug. ‘Emma!’ he called. ‘Look who it is!’
Emma hadn’t changed at all. She was still the friendly, lovely girl she’d always been, and she hugged Izzy, took the flowers with an exclamation of delight and dragged her off to meet all the others.
Well, most of them. There was no sign of Will, and Izzy suppressed the strange sense of disappointment that prickled at her. She’d had no reason to suppose he would be there, so it was ludicrous to feel so bereft at his absence.
Anyway, if he’d been there, Julia would have been, as well, and she wasn’t sure that she was ready to meet her again, even all those years later.
And then there was another sudden silence, and her eyes were drawn to the doorway.
A man filled it, his dark hair untidy and rumpled as if he’d just combed it with his fingers, although they were now rammed firmly in his pockets. He looked awkward and uncomfortable, ready for flight, but before he had the chance to make his escape the spell broke and the crowd surged round him, wrapping him in a welcome as warm as it was inescapable.
And then he looked up across the crowded room and met her eyes, and her heart jammed in her throat.
Dear God, after all these years. He hasn’t changed, she thought, then shook her head slowly. No, he has changed, but he’s still—Will. My Will.
No.
Yes!
Stop it. Never mind that. Look at him. Look at the changes. He’s bigger—taller, heavier, older. His eyes look tired. Beautiful, still staggeringly beautiful, but tired.
Why so tired?
She wanted to cry, to laugh, to hug him—and because she could do none of them, she retreated, through a door she found conveniently placed behind her, and fled into the sanctuary of another hallway.
She needed time—time to think. Time to get her ducks in a row and her heart back under control before she said or did something stupid.
Oh, Lord. Will…
