A Question of Pride Read Online Free

between them. After a night like that he would draw back a little, become remote and unreachable and maybe not come near her for days.
    Last night had been one of those times. That was what made his gesture in her office earlier all the more confusing, because he had come forwards when usually he would be backing off. He had acted very much out of character, and it confused her—bothered her at a time when she was confused and bothered enough.
    It was dark outside now, the street lights turning everything a dull gold colour. Hardly anyone seemed to be moving down on the ground now, and once again the feeling of being very much alone assailed her.
    She took a deep gulp at the whisky, then grimaced at the bitter taste. She didn't even like the stuff, yet she had felt the need for some kind of bolster—still did, for her nerves were screaming for release. Pain, fear, depression, and a thousand other emotions were vying for domination, while she stood, as outwardly calm as she always appeared.
    Thank God for self-control! Clea mocked herself bitterly, then scorned herself for the self-deception.
    She wasn't in control, she was in shock.
    A pale hand drifted to the flat of her stomach, and Clea looked down at it, her slender fingers spread out across the dark cloth of her tailored skirt. How long would she remain like this—slim, neat-figured? Not long; she was already in her second month of pregnancy. Her condition would begin to show soon.
    Max had planted a seed inside her, and it was going to grow into a baby, a beautiful, dark-haired, blue-eyed baby. She trembled at the sudden and unexpected jolt of emotion that gave her. A baby ...
    hers and Max's baby ... Abortion was out! she decided, with a fierceness that yet again surprised her.
    Marriage to Max was out. She took another gulp of whisky.
    And her job. That was going to have to go. She couldn't stay here now, not without losing her pride.
    Max would hate it if he had to see her every day, growing big with his child, her figure—the body that was all that kept him coming back to her—becoming distorted and unattractive. No, she couldn't remain working here.
    She would have to go and see Joe, and plead with him to release her from her contract of employment without letting Max know. She would have to sever all reliance on Max before she told him why, or he would insist on keeping her on here, if only out of a sense of duty to her. She couldn't stand that. She couldn't stand the humiliation, working here and seeing him day after day, knowing that they would never again share a look, a tender touch ...
    Stop it!
    Clea swung away from the window, angry with the way her rambling thoughts had gone. 'Drinking alcohol won't help much, either,' she rebuked herself out loud. 'Neither your mood, nor the baby you're carrying.' She walked into Max's cloakroom and poured the remains of her drink into the washbasin, then rinsed out the glass, taking it back to the drinks cabinet and replacing everything as it should be.
    'Go home, Clea,' she ordered herself.
    But she didn't make any move towards the door: instead, she made for the deep alcove where Max had two large leather chesterfield couches arranged by a low walnut table and several elegant green planters.
    She sat down wearily on one of the couches, leaning her dark head back and closing her eyes.
    How was she going to manage? She had her flat, of course. It was hers, bought and paid for while her father had been alive. It had been the family home, then—and a happy one. She smiled at the memories conjured up in the quietness of Max's office. Her father was half-Italian. He had run his own very exclusive restaurant in London until he'd become ill. Then the business had had to be sold, because he could no longer look after it. When he'd died, he'd left her mother and herself financially secure. No debts, their own home to live in for as long as they wanted. But none of this was any compensation to the wife and child he'd left