Until a day in early May.
While Kate had become accustomed to not eating or sleeping, her nausea couldn’t be so easily ignored. Particularly when she finally paid attention enough to recognize she was sick only in the mornings. After a few moments of panic, she turned to a search on the Web—needing reassurance.
But her search wasn’t reassuring.
She still could be wrong, she told herself. Really, how could it possibly be when Yash had given her the shot in Singapore? There must be some reasonable explanation. Recalling a conversation with Justin’s wife, Amanda, jogged Kate’s memory. Amanda had mentioned her obstetrician’s roster of celebrity clients and the doctor’s name had sounded movie star-like as well. Bryce Clifton. So Kate called Dr. Clifton’s office and made an appointment. Not because she was interested in the celebrity factor, but she expected someone like Amanda would chose a good physician.
Two days later, her nausea not improved, Kate was nervously flipping through a magazine in Dr. Clifton’s waiting room, which resembled a cozy country house parlor rather than the chrome and plastic decor normally found in doctors’ offices. She was the only person waiting. Apparently, posh doctors didn’t stack up patients like they did in the clinic back home.
A nurse came in, summoned Kate in a hushed murmur, and led her to another cozy room painted in warm colors—save for the white-sheeted, stainless-steel examining table. Kate was handed a flower-print hospital gown to put on and directed to a cheerful little dressing room with rose garlanded wallpaper, pink leather chairs, and paintings of pretty landscapes on the walls.
If the goal was to make you relax, it was working.
When Dr. Clifton came in, he introduced himself with well-mannered charm, as if they were meeting over tea, even made similar small talk. Then, he said with a smile, “Let’s see what we have here,” the nurse helped her lie down, and as he examined her, he spoke softly to the nurse in a kind of medical shorthand.
Then, disposing of his surgical gloves, he helped Kate sit up and said with another smile, “Congratulations, Miss Hart. You’re going to have a baby.”
“Impossible!” she blurted out.
Dr. Clifton’s smile broadened. “You’re not the first one I’ve heard say that.”
“But I’m on the contraception shot.” Kate schooled her voice to a more polite tone. “How is it possible?”
“The shot isn’t infallible, my dear. Were you not told?”
“But I was told the percentages were extremely small. Obviously,” she said, trying to remain calm, when her pulse was racing, “not small enough. Have you any idea how far along I am?” she said, frantically trying to count back.
“You’re approximately twelve weeks, Miss Hart. When was your last period?”
She told him that since the shot she’d hardly had a period. And he did some calculations. “You’re due in early November—I’d say the tenth.”
Kate went pale. A bona fide date made it terrifyingly real.
The doctor patted her shoulder. “Would you like to lie down for a few minutes? Many patients need a moment or so to absorb the news. Or would you like me to call someone to come and see you home?”
“No!”
“Well, then,” he said tactfully, because he’d seen other young women like Miss Hart who were concerned with their privacy, “the nurse could show you to a quiet room where you could rest.”
Kate shook her head, sat up straighter. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary. It’s just a shock—when you think you’re protected.” And stark and clear, the words Don’t use that. Okay? rang through her mind. It had been her decision that first night they were together in Singapore.
So she couldn’t blame Dominic for not using a condom, although she’d love to, since he’d broken her heart—twice. She was to blame though. No one else. Which just went to show how much havoc a tall, dark, shockingly handsome man could cause when a woman wanted him.
Soon after her return to work, Kate realized she couldn’t possibly maintain the pretense of professionalism when her life was in complete free fall. So she begged off sick, telling her fellow consultant and weekend accounting partner, Joanna, “It’s just a migraine. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
An unfortunate lie, since Joanna actually had migraines, which meant that Kate had to endure a recitation of a long list of remedies that were only marginally effective, and she had to try to discuss her symptoms with some personal awareness. She mostly punted by nodding at appropriate moments and repeatedly saying, “That’s it—exactly.”
After making her escape, overcome with nausea, she quickly ordered a pot of tea in the café downstairs, found a quiet corner seat by the window, and immediately drank down half a cup. Tea actually helped her queasiness she’d discovered.
Then sitting quietly, nursing her tea, she felt her stomach settle, and resorting to the slow countdown she’d learned from Gramps, she tried to relax. There were times he’d waited for days in enemy territory for a target to come into his sights, he’d said, and when he could barely move for days on end, he needed to say calm. Jesus, she missed him. Her eyes filled with tears. She missed Nana too and she smiled, thinking of what Nana would say when she told her she was going to be a great-grandmother. She’d probably say, Beat that news, Jan Vogel, because Jan was always bemoaning the fact that she didn’t have grandchildren. And in a hidden away spot that had resisted all her best attempts to scour her life of Dominic’s presence, she wondered for a fleeting moment what Dominic would say.
While Kate had become accustomed to not eating or sleeping, her nausea couldn’t be so easily ignored. Particularly when she finally paid attention enough to recognize she was sick only in the mornings. After a few moments of panic, she turned to a search on the Web—needing reassurance.
But her search wasn’t reassuring.
She still could be wrong, she told herself. Really, how could it possibly be when Yash had given her the shot in Singapore? There must be some reasonable explanation. Recalling a conversation with Justin’s wife, Amanda, jogged Kate’s memory. Amanda had mentioned her obstetrician’s roster of celebrity clients and the doctor’s name had sounded movie star-like as well. Bryce Clifton. So Kate called Dr. Clifton’s office and made an appointment. Not because she was interested in the celebrity factor, but she expected someone like Amanda would chose a good physician.
Two days later, her nausea not improved, Kate was nervously flipping through a magazine in Dr. Clifton’s waiting room, which resembled a cozy country house parlor rather than the chrome and plastic decor normally found in doctors’ offices. She was the only person waiting. Apparently, posh doctors didn’t stack up patients like they did in the clinic back home.
A nurse came in, summoned Kate in a hushed murmur, and led her to another cozy room painted in warm colors—save for the white-sheeted, stainless-steel examining table. Kate was handed a flower-print hospital gown to put on and directed to a cheerful little dressing room with rose garlanded wallpaper, pink leather chairs, and paintings of pretty landscapes on the walls.
If the goal was to make you relax, it was working.
When Dr. Clifton came in, he introduced himself with well-mannered charm, as if they were meeting over tea, even made similar small talk. Then, he said with a smile, “Let’s see what we have here,” the nurse helped her lie down, and as he examined her, he spoke softly to the nurse in a kind of medical shorthand.
Then, disposing of his surgical gloves, he helped Kate sit up and said with another smile, “Congratulations, Miss Hart. You’re going to have a baby.”
“Impossible!” she blurted out.
Dr. Clifton’s smile broadened. “You’re not the first one I’ve heard say that.”
“But I’m on the contraception shot.” Kate schooled her voice to a more polite tone. “How is it possible?”
“The shot isn’t infallible, my dear. Were you not told?”
“But I was told the percentages were extremely small. Obviously,” she said, trying to remain calm, when her pulse was racing, “not small enough. Have you any idea how far along I am?” she said, frantically trying to count back.
“You’re approximately twelve weeks, Miss Hart. When was your last period?”
She told him that since the shot she’d hardly had a period. And he did some calculations. “You’re due in early November—I’d say the tenth.”
Kate went pale. A bona fide date made it terrifyingly real.
The doctor patted her shoulder. “Would you like to lie down for a few minutes? Many patients need a moment or so to absorb the news. Or would you like me to call someone to come and see you home?”
“No!”
“Well, then,” he said tactfully, because he’d seen other young women like Miss Hart who were concerned with their privacy, “the nurse could show you to a quiet room where you could rest.”
Kate shook her head, sat up straighter. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary. It’s just a shock—when you think you’re protected.” And stark and clear, the words Don’t use that. Okay? rang through her mind. It had been her decision that first night they were together in Singapore.
So she couldn’t blame Dominic for not using a condom, although she’d love to, since he’d broken her heart—twice. She was to blame though. No one else. Which just went to show how much havoc a tall, dark, shockingly handsome man could cause when a woman wanted him.
Soon after her return to work, Kate realized she couldn’t possibly maintain the pretense of professionalism when her life was in complete free fall. So she begged off sick, telling her fellow consultant and weekend accounting partner, Joanna, “It’s just a migraine. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
An unfortunate lie, since Joanna actually had migraines, which meant that Kate had to endure a recitation of a long list of remedies that were only marginally effective, and she had to try to discuss her symptoms with some personal awareness. She mostly punted by nodding at appropriate moments and repeatedly saying, “That’s it—exactly.”
After making her escape, overcome with nausea, she quickly ordered a pot of tea in the café downstairs, found a quiet corner seat by the window, and immediately drank down half a cup. Tea actually helped her queasiness she’d discovered.
Then sitting quietly, nursing her tea, she felt her stomach settle, and resorting to the slow countdown she’d learned from Gramps, she tried to relax. There were times he’d waited for days in enemy territory for a target to come into his sights, he’d said, and when he could barely move for days on end, he needed to say calm. Jesus, she missed him. Her eyes filled with tears. She missed Nana too and she smiled, thinking of what Nana would say when she told her she was going to be a great-grandmother. She’d probably say, Beat that news, Jan Vogel, because Jan was always bemoaning the fact that she didn’t have grandchildren. And in a hidden away spot that had resisted all her best attempts to scour her life of Dominic’s presence, she wondered for a fleeting moment what Dominic would say.
