“Are you into role-play?” he drawled. “Is that why you’re dressed like a hired assassin from a time-travel movie?”
“That’s exactly what I am,” she said without missing a beat. “I thought it would take more to convince you.”
Damn. He didn’t want to find her amusing. There was too much at stake.
“Take off your sunglasses. I want to see your face.”
She complied, fumbling them slightly as she slipped them into a pocketbook hanging from a long strap over her shoulder. She lifted a frown of consternation to him.
“I actually made this for my interviews at—” She brushed the side of her skirt, making the pleats flutter. “Doesn’t matter. I came to London to sell all the clothes I made, but I needed something to wear into this hotel that would blend in. I am a designer. I’m just not paid professionally for it.”
“You’re also a maid. Or you were, until they realized you have sticky fingers.”
“It was in the bin,” she said as though she was tired of repeating that. “Delia Chevron threw twenty-five thousand pounds into the bin. I thought it was a ticket for dinner and hoped to network or get some publicity for my work. Do you think at any point through all of this nightmare that one single pap has asked me who made my gown? Believe me, I’ve come to regret the whole escapade.” She waved an arm in a wide circle.
“Me, too,” he said, stung more deeply than he’d expected by that word regret.
She dropped her arm and her mouth pouted with injury, as though that particular word had landed just as hard for her.
Then she set her jaw and lifted her chin.
“Don’t pin what happened onto me. I changed my mind about that gala before you’d even spoken to me. You dragged me there, throwing me to them as ‘fresh meat to chew on.’ Do you know that I thought I was on a date?” She tapped where the pretty yellow lace of her camisole peeked between her lapels. “You might have explained that I was your paid escort. Who the hell sends a woman earrings worth a hundred and fifty thousand pounds for one night together? I wasn’t that good, Saint.”
He would beg to differ but only ran his tongue across his teeth.
“Why didn’t you text me sooner?” he asked.
“Because you cost me my job and set the hounds of hell upon me. Thanks. Sign me up for more of that. I can’t wait.”
This was going well. He ran his hand down his face, trying to reset.
“I should have dealt with Julie sooner, instead of giving her an opportunity to feed off your story. That wasn’t fair to you.”
“You think?”
“Is that why you’re here? To tell me you’re angry at how this played out?” He would only grovel so far, and she’d just witnessed the extent of it. “Or have you decided you want compensation for your trouble after all?” He moved to the ice bucket. It held a bottle of Prieur Montrachet that he’d had room service deliver. “Have a seat. Do you want something to drink while we discuss terms?”
She didn’t move.
He pulled the bottle from the ice and glanced over, catching a look of wounded shock on her face.
“That’s really mean,” she said.
“What is?”
Saint knew. He was uncomfortable with his guilt and how strongly he was reacting to her. He was doing what he’d learned to do when intense emotions took hold in him—he set them aside and used cold logic while he did whatever was necessary to make the issue go away.
“I can’t undo what happened, Fliss. I did cost you your job and threw unwanted attention onto you. People seem to think I don’t take responsibility for my actions, but I do.” Money might not fix everything, but it bought some very effective bandages. “Tell me what will make you feel better, and I’ll see what I can do. A storefront for a boutique perhaps?”
Still she didn’t move or speak.
He opened the bottle and poured two glasses, then carried them to the coffee table.
“Come,” he invited as he seated himself and leaned back.
After a moment, she came toward him. She seemed very pale as she sat on the sofa across from him, only lowering to perch on the edge of the cushion. She stared at the glass of wine but only clasped her hands in her lap, back very straight. She lifted her gaze to his.
“I didn’t come here to ask anything of you,” she said with quiet dignity. “Nothing. I mean that. Nothing.”
“Except my time,” he noted drily.
“Not even much of that,” she assured him with a proud lift of her chin. “I’m catching the train back to Nottingham once I’ve finished the rest of my errands. You’ll never hear from me again. But I had to tell you something that didn’t feel right to send as a text.”
“What’s that?” He did his best to sound detached, but his ears were ringing with that word. Never. He held his breath, straining to hear over that jarring sound of a train disappearing down a tunnel. His muscles felt both paralyzed and tense with readiness to leap and catch.
“I’m pregnant.”
Saint didn’t move. She wasn’t sure he was breathing.
Then there was a faint, fractured clink before he gave his wine a startled look and swore.
He’d snapped the stem on his glass. He cupped one hand under the other and rose to head to the bar.
“Are you bleeding?” Fliss hurried after him to see him rinse the welling blood from his fingers into the sink. “I’ll call the desk.” She looked for the hotel phone.
“I can deal with it.” He wrapped a clean bar towel around his fingers as he strode into the bedroom.
Fliss covered where her heart had been pounding with anxiety from the time she’d worked up the courage to hit Send on her text. It had increased to alarming levels when she had entered this hotel, picked up the card from a bored-looking bellman, then stepped off the elevator and made her way to this door. Now it was racing so fast she felt dizzy. Her nerve endings were sizzling and her mouth had gone dry.
