Stop. Not possible. If he accepted Olivia’s story as true then he accepted Jodie to be pregnant with Zeb’s baby. So it didn’t matter that he’d never laid eyes on Olivia until yesterday—didn’t matter they met nowhere on the family tree: the unborn baby would link them together for ever. That would be plenty complicated enough without throwing sex into the mix.
So...
Drawing from his reserves of will power, he stepped backwards. ‘You’ve done a great job in here. I’ve persuaded Candice to withdraw her story and Noah has agreed to play his part. The press will be here in about half an hour.’
‘Right.’ Olivia blinked and then, taking his cue, she nodded. ‘I need to change. So can I borrow one of your shirts? That denotes seriousness, doesn’t it? Wearing someone else’s clothes—it’s pretty intimate. Plus I slept in my shirt last night, so that’s a bit grim, and I don’t think the all-black outfit is right. It’s too funereal-cum-cat burglar.’
Adam shrugged. ‘Fine with me.’ He gestured at the wardrobe. ‘Take your pick.’
She glided over to the wardrobe and slid the huge mirrored door to one side. There was a long minute as she stared inside. ‘Wow! That’s a lot of clothes.’ She turned. ‘How long are you staying here?’
He frowned. ‘I keep all my stuff here.’
‘So you live here? It’s your home?’ Her face was creased with confusion, as though the concept was incomprehensible.
‘I spend most of my time on the road, in one or another of the Masterson hotels. But I spend about a week or so a month here. So I guess it’s a base.’
Olivia turned to survey the bedroom as if she were soaking in the surroundings anew. ‘It’s very...nice,’ she said.
Nice? This was the height of luxury.
Adam followed her gaze to the enormous handcrafted wooden bed, the mirrored wardrobe, the glass desk and the flat-screen television. She’d already seen the lounge, with its enormous cream leather sofas heaped with textured cushions, the glass dining table surrounded by white leather dining chairs.
‘Glad you approve,’ he muttered, sarcasm dripping from his tone.
A flush bloomed in her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘That was rude of me. This is amazing. Honestly. Really impressive.’
‘But...?’ He wasn’t at all sure why but he wanted to know what she thought. Curiosity, maybe, at her bizarre reaction? Other women oohed and aahed. Olivia Evans was struggling to find a suitable compliment.
Elegant shoulders lifted as she waved a hand around. ‘It’s just not very homey, that’s all.’
Give him strength. ‘Homey?’
‘Lived in. Personal. I mean, did you choose anything at all in here? Or out there? Where’s the clutter?’
‘I approved the design.’ Irritation surfaced at the defensiveness that caused him to fold his arms across his chest. ‘And I don’t do clutter.’
His childhood home, where he had spent the first eight years of his life with his mother, had overflowed at the seams with knick-knacks and clutter. Maria Jonson had collected souvenirs of all her life’s experiences: snow globes, vases, paperweights, statues, garden gnomes. They had all ended up in their small terraced house. Maybe because his mum had had some sixth sense that her life was doomed to end way too early.
Sadness weighed heavy in his heart, along with remembered grief at leaving that home, seeing the house and all those precious possessions sold or donated to charity by Zeb.
‘Possessions clutter up life,’ his newly discovered father had told him. He’d placed a light hand on Adam’s shoulders. ‘I know it’s a hard concept, but you’ll work it out. You’ve got a new life now, Adam. A life of adventure.’
Words that had aroused such a conflict of emotion—sadness, excitement, guilt and fear—and set him inexorably on the path to becoming the man he was today.
Rubbing a hand over his face, Adam frowned. The past wasn’t relevant right now. Neither were his interior decorating preferences. Or his attitude to clutter. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Go ahead. Pick a shirt.’
She turned her attention back to the wardrobe and tilted her head to one side.
‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘For a man who doesn’t like clutter you sure do like clothes. What do you do? Find something you like and order it in every colour? You’ve got three styles in there. Long sleeves, short-sleeved shirts and T-shirts. Five colours each.’
Impressive. All the clothes were in a jumbled mass, and yet she’d analysed his wardrobe at a glance. Now she was looking at him with a disconcertingly assessing slant to her hazel eyes. To his own annoyance Adam realised he was rocking on the balls of his feet. As if he was uncomfortable.