The Heiress's Secret Baby by Jessica Gilmore Read Free Book Online Page B

pleasure and felt a jolt in the pit of her stomach, a sudden insistent ache of desire as her nerve endings remembered the way his hand had settled in the curve of her waist, those same fingers moving up along her body, making her purr almost as loudly as Mr Simpkins.
    ‘Is that why you went away?’ he asked, all his attention seemingly on the writhing cat. ‘Because of your brother?’
    Polly flushed, partly in shame at having to admit her own second-class status to a relative stranger—and half in embarrassment at her reaction to the slow, sure strokes from Gabe’s capable-looking hands.
    ‘Partly,’ she admitted. ‘I had to get away, learn who I was without Rafferty’s.’
    ‘And did you?’ He looked directly at her then, his eyes almost black and impossibly dark. ‘Learn who you are?’
    Polly thought back. To blisters and high altitudes. To the simple joy of a shower after a five-day trek. To long twilight walks on the beach. To lying back and watching the stars, the balmy breeze warm on her bare skin. To the lack of responsibility. To taking risks.
    It had been fun but ultimately meaningless.
    ‘No,’ she said. ‘I saw some amazing things, did amazing things and I had fun. But there was nothing to find out. Without Rafferty’s I don’t have anything...I’m no one.’
    ‘That’s not true.’ His voice was low, intimate.
    ‘It is,’ she argued. ‘But Raff? He is utterly and completely himself. I think I’ve always envied that. And now he has Clara—which is great, she’s lovely and I’m sure they’ll be very happy. But my brother and best friend getting married? It leaves me with no one.’
    She heard her words echo as she said them and flushed. ‘I am the most selfish beast, ignore me, Gabe. I’m tired and fluey and having a pathetic moment. It’ll pass!’
    He regarded her quietly. ‘And you don’t eat,’ he said after a while. ‘Come on, I’ll cook.’
    * * *
    Polly was still protesting as Gabe rummaged through the fridge, trying to find something he could make into a meal a Frenchman could be proud of. It might have to be a simple omelette, he decided, pulling the eggs out of the fridge along with a courgette, some cheese and the end of some chorizo.
    ‘You really don’t have to cook for me,’ she said. ‘I’m quite happy with some bread and cheese.’
    ‘Do you ever cook?’ He looked at the gleaming range cooker, the beautiful copper saucepans hanging from their hooks looking as blemish free as the day they were bought.
    ‘I butter bread and slice cheese. Occasionally I shred a lettuce.’
    ‘That is some variety.’
    ‘I know.’
    He continued to chop onions as she watched.
    ‘So you’re a business whizz-kid, a gourmet chef, a triathlete. Is there anything you can’t do?’
    ‘I’ve never backpacked.’
    ‘Didn’t fancy the dirt and blisters?’
    ‘I didn’t have the time.’ Gabe scraped the onions into the pan and tipped it expertly so they were evenly covered in oil. ‘I went to university late and had a lot of time to make up. No chance to slack off.’
    Polly was sitting at the counter, her chin propped in her hands. ‘Is that why you set yourself such a punishing schedule now?’
    Was it? All Gabe knew was that once you’d spent a year confined to bed, without the strength to get a glass of water, watching your classmates grow up without you, that once you knew just what losing someone meant then you had to make the most of every single second.
    ‘You can sleep when you’re dead,’ he said. It was all too true; he’d thought about that long enough.
    Now he just wanted to live every moment.
    Polly continued to watch as he whisked the eggs. ‘What do your parents think? Of you working away? Did they expect you to work with them?’
    Ouch, that was direct. ‘They found it hard to adjust.’ He poured the eggs into the pan with a flourish. ‘They wanted me to go to university nearby, stay in Provence. When I said I was going to Boston they were hurt.