The Baby Deal Page 4

  ‘I want you packed and out of here within the hour.’

  ‘Fine,’ she stated coolly, refusing, absolutely refusing, to give Patricia the satisfaction of seeing her buckle under. ‘I assure you I’ve no more desire to be here than you have for me to stay, but…’ she paused, more in a bid to maintain her composure than for emphasis ‘…I’ll leave with a cheque for the three months’ allowance I’m owed.’

  ‘Oh, no, you won’t! Your father left me with the responsibility of seeing the high standard of dignity the Vaughan family has preserved for generations was maintained by—’

  ‘Well, then, Patricia, considering your display tonight, you’ve let him down badly, haven’t you?’

  ‘How dare you accuse me of such a thing, after the way you’ve disgraced yourself? You’ve sullied the family name and reputation—my name and reputation!’ she added. ‘I’m not going to give you one cent!’

  ‘My father left me that money and—’

  ‘And he gave me the power to decide whether you fill the requirements to receive it!’ Patricia shrieked, whatever control she might have regained while Amanda-Jayne was in the bathroom fast dwindling. ‘Now I want you out of my house, immediately. Do you hear me? Immediately! How dare you desecrate my reputation like this, you…you…?’

  ‘Obviously, your memory is failing since you consider this your house, so I’ll be helpful and remind you that tart and tramp were your nouns of choice earlier. But your opinion means less than nothing to me and—’

  ‘My opinion reflects what any decent person’s will be now it’s known you’re…you’re…having a relationship with a common criminal!’

  As much as she hated to defend the man whose bragging mouth had put her in this situation, she wasn’t in the mood to concede her stepmother anything. ‘Reb Browne might’ve had a few juvenile crosses against his name, but he’s earning an honest living now. What’s more, we aren’t “having a relationship”.’

  All colour drained from Patricia’s face. ‘Dear Lord! Have you no shame? No morals at all?’

  Since it was a question Amanda-Jayne’s own conscience had berated her with all too often of late it was a struggle to keep her voice flippant and cool. ‘According to you, apparently not. However, neither do I have my last three months’ trust fund allowance. Since that is my immediate concern, and I won’t leave until I have it, I think it should also be yours.’

  It took all of Amanda-Jayne’s willpower to remain stony-faced as she crossed the room and opened the door for her stepmother. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Patricia, I have packing to do and you have a very large cheque to write…’

  Patricia fled the room muttering unintelligibly; in the wake of her exit, Amanda-Jayne locked the door and then dissolved into tears, uncertain of precisely why she was crying, but not able to stop.

  Thirteen days later, surrounded by the white-on-white luxury of her harbourside penthouse, she was again fighting tears, but on this occasion she knew they had nothing to do with her pregnancy-erratic hormones and everything to do with her impossibly desperate situation and her inability to find any solution to it.

  When she’d driven away from the family home in the pre-dawn hours on January the first, she’d allowed herself to believe that not only was she starting a fresh year but a fresh phase in her life. There had been enormous satisfaction in taking Patricia’s cheque and stating that she wouldn’t be returning until the day she turned thirty and assumed control of the house.

  Her exit line had been intended to remind Patricia that ultimately it would be she who’d be calling all the shots—except the reality was that she’d shot herself in the foot and was rapidly bleeding to death.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she whispered, tears dropping onto the letter she held in her hand. ‘What am I going to do?’

  She was a fool. An arrogant, useless, unemployable, nearly three months pregnant fool.

  She should have anticipated that Patricia would stop payment on the cheque. Just as she should have known that the fuddy-duddy family solicitors would side with Patricia when she claimed that Amanda-Jayne’s pregnancy violated the clause in her father’s will stating, ‘…if in the opinion of my wife either of my children act in a manner which invites scandal, or in any way damages the good name of the family, their trust allowance is to be suspended for whatever length of time my wife sees fit, up to but not beyond the age where they are eligible to gain full control of their individual trusts.’

  Amanda-Jayne tried to muffle the half sob, half laugh which broke from her as she gazed out at her multi-million-dollar view of the Opera House and Sydney Harbour Bridge. She was the heir to a fortune, with one of the most expensive roofs imaginable over her head, and she’d be lucky to be able to pay her next electricity bill, much less pay the sum overdue on the lease agreement for her car. Her credit cards were already maxed out and unless she could find a way to keep up the cost of her private health insurance she was going to be facing an enormous medical bill in just over six months’ time.

  The idea of having her baby under the public heath scheme terrified her, not because she didn’t believe it was more than adequate, but because she wanted her own ob-gyn. Dr Geermaine knew her complicated medical history, he knew how important this pregnancy was to her. He was the one who’d said it may well be her only chance at motherhood. Maybe if she explained her predicament when she went to deliver the medical records Reb Browne had sent he’d agree to keep her on as a private patient.

  After all, it’s not as if I’m a welfare case, she thought with bitter irony, tossing the letter of demand onto the desk already scattered with a host of other bills with ‘URGENT ATTENTION REQUIRED’ stamped in red. Oh, no! I’m too ‘asset-rich’ to qualify for any social security!

  After days of hanging out at the unemployment office and attending countless interviews, which had only highlighted her total lack of employment skills, she’d today swallowed every last vestige of her pride and made an appointment at the local social security office. It had turned out to be the most humiliating and humbling experience of her entire life. It had never occurred to her not to dress well for what in her mind was a business appointment, but the way her expensive clothes had contrasted against those of most of the other welfare applicants had consumed her with guilt. Had she been able to think of any other way to solve her immediate cash problem, she’d have walked straight back out of the office the moment she arrived. Which would have at least saved her two and a half wasted hours and achieved the same results.

  After presenting the required copy of her tax return from the previous year, bank statements and evidence of all stock and property in her name, they had been shoved back at her by a teenage clerk with too much make-up and no manners.

  ‘Ms Vaughan, I can understand how someone like you would be ignorant of the social security system,’ she’d said, making little effort to hide her amusement. ‘But the Government isn’t in the habit of giving money to people who clearly don’t need it.’

  ‘But I do need it,’ Amanda-Jayne had protested, swallowing even more pride by admitting, ‘I’ve got bills coming out of my ears—’

  ‘Then I suggest you do what the rest of us do—get a job.’

  ‘I’ve tried! For your information there’s an unemployment problem in this country.’

  ‘I can assure you, Ms Vaughan, I’m in a better position than you are to know about that. However, government assistance is only granted on the basis of a means test. It’s not given out to wealthy women with more assets than brains.’

  ‘Excuse me!’

  ‘Gladly,’ the girl quipped. ‘Next, please!’

  When Amanda-Jayne had demanded to see a supervisor, she’d had to wait twenty minutes for a harried-looking man in his late thirties. After complaining firstly about his junior clerk’s attitude and then pleading her case, the man had quickly scanned the documents she’d brought, then slid them back in the folder and grinned at her. ‘Lucky you, Ms Vaughan. Stop wasting both our time.’

/>   It had taken every bit of her resolve not to dissolve into tears on the spot, but in the wake of the letter of demand from the car dealership they now flowed freely, blurring her scenic view until the harbour seemed to swallow up everything—everything except her fears. What was—?

  She jumped as her front door reverberated from a series of loud thumps. Followed by an incessant ring on her doorbell.

  ‘Let me in, A.J.! I know you’re there!’

  Reb Browne.

  Her heart had dropped into her shoes, but all her brain could assimilate was that after the day from hell she really should have been expecting that the devil himself would pay her a visit.

  CHAPTER THREE

  REB hastily ‘pulled his punch’ when the door, towards which his fist was again heading, was reefed open and Amanda-Jayne stepped into its path.

  ‘How on earth did you get in here?’

  Her tone implied people wearing jeans and carrying leather jackets and bike helmets were usually shot on sight by the doorman, but what gave Reb pause was her face. There was no question she was every bit as beautiful as he remembered, but despite her cool, controlled expression and regal poise there was also no question she’d been crying. A lot.

  For some reason the notion of Amanda-Jayne Vaughan crying was as incongruous as it was disturbing and it took him several seconds to refocus on what she was saying.

  ‘…security block. Now how did you get my address and who let you in?’

  ‘The guy on the door seemed to think this qualified as a pass key.’ Grinning, he handed her the business card she’d previously given him. ‘It was the back that impressed him most,’ he added as she frowned at the card.

  “‘Hoping to hear from you soon,’” she read, the pitch and disbelief in her voice rising with each word. “‘Drop in and surprise me. A.J.!” This isn’t my writing!’

  ‘Lucky for me, the doorman didn’t know that,’ Reb said, stepping around her to stroll into the centre of her living room.

  ‘Mmm, nice view you’ve got here. Although I don’t go much on this bleached decor—’

  ‘How did you get my address?’ she demanded. ‘I didn’t give it to you.’

  ‘No, and neither would your mother, so—’

  ‘Stepmother.’

  The force of her correction was telling. ‘Ah,’ he said sagely, ‘so that’s the way the wind blows. Well, that’s something we have in common; I wasn’t real taken with the woman either.’

  ‘I’m not interested in your opinion of Patricia,’ she said, her eyes flashing with rage. ‘I asked how you found out where I lived.’

  ‘Just a matter of posting off those medical records you wanted and waiting until you went to the post office to pick them up.’

  ‘You’ve been following me?’

  ‘Not personally. But if you ever need a good P.I. let me know.’

  ‘How dare you? You have no right to invade my privacy that way.’

  ‘Sweetheart, you’re carrying my child, which as far as I’m concerned gives me a whole heap of rights. So as of right now you can forget any ideas you’ve got about cutting me out of its life. You mightn’t have much of an opinion of me or my gene pool, but you’re way off base if you think I’m going to walk away from my own flesh and blood.’

  Amanda-Jayne felt herself teetering on the brink of hysteria and immediately her stomach started acting up again. Taking a steadying breath, she tried to assimilate the fact that Reb Browne had tracked her down and was actually in her living room. Nothing was working out as she’d envisaged; all her hopes of an uncomplicated pregnancy were going from bad to disastrous. Her morning sickness was never-ending, all the money she’d expected to have she didn’t and the father she’d counted on fading into the background hadn’t. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to go! It was just supposed to be her, her baby and a future filled with happiness. Instead…instead… Oh, God, she prayed, please don’t let me start crying in front of him.

  Reb watched as a dozen emotions rushed across her pale face, but he couldn’t guess at what she was thinking. Still, there was no doubt his announcement had shaken her up, but since that had been his intention it irked him that he was now feeling guilty about it. He’d meant what he said; no way was he going to be shut out of his kid’s life.

  Unnerved by her ongoing silence and suspecting she was hoping it would either force him to speak first or simply give up and walk out, he made a production of tossing his jacket and helmet onto her well-stuffed sofa then dropping down beside them.

  Amanda-Jayne opened her mouth to demand that he leave, but before she could form the words her common sense suddenly started jumping up and down and yelling, Think, you idiot! He’s here because he wants to contribute to the baby’s upkeep… And right now you need money. Even if it is his!

  That the man who was currently draped over her sofa like a model in a jeans commercial was the answer to her prayers didn’t sit at all well with her; in fact it further agitated her already distressed stomach. However, the reality was she wasn’t in any position to pander to her pride. She was up to her eyeballs in bills and facing countless more in the next few months. Swallowing the taste of bile along with a chunk of her self-esteem, Amanda-Jayne forced herself to speak calmly and civilly.

  ‘Am I to understand it,’ she said, ‘that you hired a private investigator to follow me simply because you’re determined to contribute to the baby’s upbringing?’

  ‘I think I made that more than clear to you when you came to see me. And you,’ he said, ‘made a point of throwing the offer back in my face then skipping town.’

  ‘I…er…didn’t want to be responsible for placing you under a financial strain.’ It was a lie and the smile on his handsome face told her he knew it.

  ‘Very considerate of you, but I think it’s best if you let me worry about my finances and you take care of your own.’

  If she hadn’t felt so ill she’d have laughed at the irony of his comment, but all she wanted to do was get rid of him before she humiliated herself and lost the contents of her stomach.

  ‘Very well, then,’ she said briskly. ‘Since you’re so insistent and have gone to such extreme lengths to find me and pursue the matter, I’m prepared to accept your financial assistance. I’ll speak to my solicitor tomorrow and have him draw up the necessary paperwork.’

  ‘Oh, that won’t be necessary; I’ve already got my solicitor taking care of that,’ he said.

  The one-upmanship in his voice tempted her to say she hadn’t realised criminal lawyers handled maintenance cases, but she decided to quit while she was ahead for the first time in weeks. ‘In that case, I’ll give you the address of mine.’

  She’d just started to cross to her desk when he mentioned the monthly sum he considered reasonable and she nearly staggered with surprise. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was far more than she’d have been getting even if she’d qualified for social security. While she had no idea what garage proprietors made, she doubted Reb would have very much left for himself once he’d paid out that large a sum to her. Given her own recent experience of being cash-poor, she didn’t feel comfortable putting anyone else in that position; not even him.

  ‘Er…that’s very generous,’ she said, almost choking on the desire to say, I’ll take it! ‘But are you sure you can afford that much?’

  ‘I thought we agreed I’d worry about my finances and you’d worry about yours?’

  Well, so much for trying to be considerate and reasonable! Stung by his cavalier attitude, she sent him her frostiest glare then hurriedly scribbled down the details of her solicitor. Returning to where he lounged on her sofa, she held the piece of paper out to him at arm’s length. ‘Here. I don’t think we have anything more to discuss. I’ll accept your offer as it stands.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s a condition to my offer…’

  Amanda-Jayne swallowed hard. ‘What?’

  ‘You have to marry me to get it.’

  At his deadly serious e
xpression Amanda-Jayne’s heart lurched into her throat. ‘Marr—oh, God, I’m going to be sick!’

  By the time Reb recovered from the shock of her words and the sight of her racing across the room with a hand clamped over her mouth, Amanda-Jayne had locked herself in what he presumed was the bathroom. Her initial responses to his enquiries as to whether there was anything he could do were merely a series of worrying retches, gags and heart-wrenching whimpers and he was considerably relieved when these eventually progressed to curses, demands that he get out and accusations of, ‘This is all your fault!’

  It was almost an hour before she re-emerged wearing what Savvy referred to as a slip-dress—a plain spaghetti-strapped navy shift that brushed her ankles above feet that were bare and sporting cherry-coloured toenails.

  She shot Reb a lethal glare. ‘I thought I told you to get out?’

  ‘You did. Several times. But I never walk away from a card game when I have all the trumps.’

  ‘The only thing you have,’ she fired back, ‘are delusions of grandeur or a serious drug problem! Why on earth would I want to marry you for a measly monthly sum like you offered? Potentially I’m worth more than you can even dream about.’

  ‘That might be so. But right now,’ he said, strolling to her desk and picking up a fistful of the bills littering it, ‘your potential worth is about as useful to you as last week’s TV guide.’

  She raced to snatch the papers from his hand. ‘How dare you snoop through my personal papers? Just because I’m a bit behind—’

  ‘Cut the act, A.J.,’ he said tersely. ‘We both know you’re in debt up to your pretty little ears and that your trust fund has been frozen.’

  Even as embarrassment warred with anger in her face, Reb could practically hear the gears in her head rotating as she fought to engage her brain. He knew the instant she had by the flash of triumph in her whisky-brown eyes.

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ she said haughtily, ‘but I happen to be in the process of negotiating the sale of this penthouse. I can assure you that once that’s finalised money will be the least of my problems.’