Page 53 of A Treasure Worth Seeking

He looked at her with that shrewd scrutiny that had earned him his reputation. “So that’s the way it is,” he said slowly. “You love him, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said without shyness or hesitation.

He went to the window and stared out at her tree-shaded lawn. A panoply of early spring spread out before him. Everything was lush and green, verdant, fecund. The thought sickened him as he said, “I know how you feel about your religion and all, but maybe it would be better, all things considered, if you had an… uh… operation.”

She smiled at his cowardice over saying a word. She shook her head with a sad little smile. “No, Bart. It’s not just because of my religion. It’s me. I could never do that.”

“You won’t give it up for adoption.” It wasn’t a question. He already knew that answer.

“Do you really think, knowing my background, that I would even consider such a thing?” she admonished him kindly. “No, Bart. I’ll rear my baby by myself.”

He came back to her quickly. He spoke hurriedly as if he might change his mind before the words were out. “Sweetheart, marry me. I don’t care about the baby. I didn’t mean those things I said. I was angry, honey. I’ve wanted you for so long. I swear it doesn’t matter. Hell, everybody’ll think the baby is mine anyway.”

“But we would know different, wouldn’t we?” she asked gently. “I don’t want to live a lie like that, Bart. And I don’t want you to have to either.”

“I love you. I want you on any terms.”

She sighed and ran her fingers through his thick, dark hair. “I know. But my answer is still no.”

She had refused him and continued to do so. Bart wasn’t as persistent as he had been the first time he asked her to marry him, but he remained close at hand as if hoping she’d change her mind.

But she wouldn’t. She touched her stomach again lovingly just as the buzzer on her intercom sounded again and distracted her from her daydreaming.

“Yes, Betty?” she asked, pressing down the button on the panel.

“There is someone here to see you, Erin. Are you free?”

“Yes. Who is it?”

“A Mr. Lance Barrett.”

Chapter Twelve

Her heart skidded to a jolting stop. Respiration was impossible. Her eyes closed against a wave of dizziness that almost made her fall to the thick carpet. The world slipped off its axis and tilted crazily before righting itself. She managed to grip the edge of the desk and ease down into her chair.

“Erin, did you hear me?” Betty asked.

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“Y… yes.” What could she do? Lance was here. Just beyond that door. She had to see him. But how could she bear it?

What did he want? What if he realized her condition? What could she tell him? The questions tumbled through her mind, but there were no answers. She would have to brazen it out and hope for the best.

“Send him in, Betty,” she answered with a modicum of poise she was far from feeling.

She ran an anxious hand over her hair, licked her lips, and smoothed the bodice of her dress over her breasts, swollen with pregnancy. He mustn’t see. His perception was so keen. His training was to see things—

He walked through the double oak door.

If she thought that her memory of him had magnified his physical attributes, she was wrong. He was even more handsome and virile than she remembered. His hair was casual, a trifle longer, and bleached lighter from the summer sun.

The blue eyes had lost none of their brilliance, though the lightened eyebrows were a stark contrast to his tanned face. There were fine white lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes that she didn’t remember, but they were probably only more noticeable because of his tanned complexion.

If anything, the cleft in his chin lent itself to more arrogance. As he smiled at her, however, she noticed a vulnerability around his stern mouth that hadn’t been there last February.

The most drastic difference in his appearance was his clothes. She had teased him about wearing a uniform of dark suits, white shirts, and dark ties. He had defended himself by saying that government agents shouldn’t attract attention by wearing designer sport coats and flashy shirts.

His light yellow shirt wasn’t flashy, but the cut of his dark brown coat was surely European. The tan trousers fit his thighs and hips in a way that denoted they had been tailor made. There was no necktie around his neck. Instead his collar was left open to reveal a peek at that tawny mat of hair that covered his torso.

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