For the Babies' Sakes (Expecting) (Harlequin Presents, No. 2280) by Sara Wood Page B

unexpectedly his body melted.
    â€˜It’s not the Inquisition,’ he murmured drily, aching to see how frightened she was.
    â€˜I wish it were,’ she mumbled.
    â€˜I could set one up if you like,’ he offered, hoping to amuse her.
    She didn’t look his way. Her heavy panic breathing made the fluid red sun-dress move seductively and he tightened his defences, focussing hard on an article about the menopause, absorbing enough of it to be amazed at what women went through.
    â€˜Not very popular, this doctor,’ came Helen’s tinny, scared voice.
    He glanced around the empty room and felt worried. There wasn’t even a receptionist. Had he brought Helen—the possible mother of his child—to some inadequate quack?
    â€˜Perhaps they’re all healthy hereabouts,’ he suggested, hiding his qualms.
    If the doctor didn’t come up to scratch, Dan vowed, he’d cut the interview short and whisk her off to a specialist. Didn’t matter how much it cost. She had to have the best.
    â€˜Doesn’t look like a waiting room,’ she ventured, with a brave attempt at conversation.
    Judging that she needed diverting, he put down the magazine and made an effort to entertain her.
    â€˜Must be the least clinical surgery I’ve ever been in,’ he agreed. ‘If all waiting rooms had comfortable armchairs and mustard sofas, I imagine they’d make patients feel a lot better. Can’t think why it’s not full of people discussing the constant rain, global warming and the rocketing price of umbrellas.’
    â€˜I suppose this is the doc’s sitting room when everyone’s gone home.’
    The subdued Helen leaned forward and warmed her trembling hands by the log fire, which burned in the inglenook.
    â€˜Well, let’s make ourselves at home, since we’re clearly being invited to. That aroma of roasted coffee beans is irresistible.’ Dan went over to the antique table beneath a lattice window where a tray was laid with refreshments. ‘Coffee for you?’ he asked politely, his hand on the percolator.
    â€˜Should I?’ she asked, her grey eyes glistening with unshed tears.
    How would he know? Suddenly he felt shocked by his ignorance about nutrition and dos and don’ts for pregnant women. Though he had to remember she might not be carrying his baby.
    It felt as if a bucket had scooped out his insides and he knew that this baby was more important to him than he’d imagined.
    Desperate to hide his emotional response from her, he turned back to the tray.
    â€˜You could try the fruit teas they’ve got here.’ He examined them, taking solace in reading out the labels. ‘Chamomile. Raspberry, ginger and lemon—’
    â€˜Chamomile. I think it’s calming,’ she said, sounding as if she needed a proper tranquilliser.
    But drugs like that were taboo, of course. Even he knew that she had to watch what she ate.
    If she was pregnant. The bucket did a good job of excavating his stomach again. In the absence of a stiff brandy, he’d settle for a shot of caffeine.
    Unnerved by the store he was putting in this baby, he handed her the drink, steadying her hand when it shook so hard that the cup rattled noisily in the saucer.
    She let his fingers remain for a while and he stupidly put himself on the rack, yearning to pull her into his arms, to nuzzle her gloriously silky hair, to kiss her trembling lips…
    His imagination even allowed him to think that the atmosphere between them had thickened with desire. That she ached for him and was holding herself back with difficulty.
    Fool. As she’d said, if there were any sparks still around, it was either his imagination, or her body living in the past. Mentally, she’d written him off.
    With a quick gesture he withdrew his hand and left her cup to its fate. It was a while before his heart rate had settled down again and he’d got his stupid, desperate