One-Night Pregnancy by Lindsay Armstrong

is calling?’
    ‘It’s—it’s—Mrs Smith from Numinbah.’
    ‘Please hold on for a moment, Mrs—uh—Smith.’
    Bridget held on until the voice came back.
    ‘Adam can’t leave his guests at the moment, Mrs Smith, but he’d be able to see you tomorrow morning at nine o’clock at the Marriott. Just ask for him by name. Thank you for your call.’ The line went dead.
    Bridget took the phone from her ear and stared at it in frustration. She’d been about to say that she didn’t need to see Adam, she’d only like to talk to him, but the knowledge sank in that she might only ever be able to get a message to him—it was what he himself had said in the helicopter, although she’d had no idea why he would go to those lengths to protect his privacy at the time.
    Now she did, and it ignited a spark of rebellion in her. How could he treat her like this? Even if he didn’t know she was to be the mother of his child, it irked her tremendously.
    It also prompted her to review her situation and make some plans. And she looked up pregnancy on the internet, so she would have a clearer idea of what she was in for.
    Yes, she would see Adam Beaumont tomorrow—but only to clear her name…
    She dressed with special care the next morning, in a straight green linen dress that matched her eyes, teamed with a cream jersey jacket and high heels. It was one of her more sophisticated outfits, suitable not only for the Marriott but for the Beaumonts. Then she had second thoughts. She looked as if she was going to a lunch, the races, or a job interview.
    She took it all off and donned pressed jeans, a loose knit top the colour of raspberries and flat shoes. She cleaned off all the make-up she’d put on, but then her face looked pale and there were shadows under her eyes, so she started again using the barest minimum.
    She’d washed her hair, so it was bouncy and shining with gold highlights. She regretted she’d not thought to get her fringe cut, but it was too late for that—and anyway, what did it matter?
    And anyway, again, she would be running late if she wasn’t careful, after all this dressing and undressing.
    She threw her keys into her purse and raced downstairs to her new second-hand car.
    She walked across the Marriott foyer at two minutes past nine. Two minutes later she was being ushered into Adam Beaumont’s suite.
    He was standing at the windows in the lounge, looking down on the view of Surfers Paradise—not a sparkling view today, but cloudy and with showers scudding past. He turned as his assistant, a bright young man, the owner of the disembodied voice Bridget had heard the night before, announced her.
    ‘Adam—Mrs Smith. Could I bring some coffee?’
    Adam Beaumont raised an eyebrow at Bridget, who said, in a curiously heartfelt way, ‘No. That is, no, thank you.’
    The assistant withdrew, and they were left staring at each other. He wore a blue shirt with a white pinstripe, and navy trousers.
    There were no blue shadows on his jaw, no other reminders of the way he’d been on that stormy night in the Numinbah. He was groomed and eminently businesslike, and he was alarmingly tall, but Bridget’s heart did a somersault in her breast all the same.
    How not to remember she’d been in his arms and loved it so much? she wondered forlornly. Then she took some deep breaths and spoke.
    ‘I’ve found out who started those rumours.’
    He blinked.
    ‘It was my colleague. I mentioned her to you the other day. She—she’s authorised me to tell you all this: she was your brother Henry’s mistress until recently,when he dropped her.’ Bridget hesitated, then went on, ‘Dropped her rather brutally, I gather. So she looked around for a way to get even with him.’
    ‘Are you—?’ Adam Beaumont frowned. ‘Is this for real, Bridget?’ he asked with supreme skepticism, and added dryly, ‘You’re going to have to do better than that if—’
    ‘No, please listen to me,’ Bridget broke in. ‘She said that