A Question of Pride Read Online Free Page A

behind. Clea had worried for a time that her mother would never recover from her grief.
    That had taken five years to fade. Then, just twelve months ago, she'd married James Laverne. He'd literally swept the fragile Amy off her feet. Again Clea smiled at the memory. Poor Amy had had no chance! James had seen her and simply tumbled into love! His pursuit of her mother had been intensive—and amusing. They had a lovely home in Shepperton now—a cosy love-nest that anyone would envy.
    Amy had only been eighteen years old when she'd had Clea. She'd married the tall, dark and strikingly handsome Paolo Maddon against the wishes of her parents, at the very young age of seventeen, then went about proving all their premonitions of disaster wrong by remaining devoted to her husband beyond his death. And Paolo had been equally devoted to her. Amy was a tiny honey-blonde creature, with an air of defencelessness about her that went more than skin deep. She needed taking care of, for she was the dependent type by nature, and the five years she had spent without her first husband had probably been the worst ones of poor Amy's life. Now she had James to love and take care of her. And it was nice; Clea always felt a warm feeling inside when she thought of her mother and James, for their devotion to each other was just as strong as that between her father and Amy ...
    When James and Amy had married, they'd insisted Clea keep the flat as her own. 'You must have it, dear,' Amy had insisted when Clea had argued. 'I don't need the money we would get by selling, and your father would want you to live here. He loved this flat,' she said on a soft sigh. That dark Italian man would never fade from her mother's most tender thoughts—even the ultra-possessive James acknowledged that. 'We spent many wonderful years here. You have it,' she insisted again. Then I won't feel so guilty for deserting you.'
    It had been the master stroke that had won Clea over. Amy might be delicate by nature but she wasn't stupid. She gave Clea no room to refuse. Now she was grateful for that humble surrender, for having the flat as her own was going to make things a lot easier for her in the future months ... Her old bedroom would make an ideal nursery ...
    God! Her heart reeled. Pain, fear and excitement all culminated to form a mass of conflict inside her, and she dragged herself up off the couch, determined this time to go home to do her thinking.
    Max's desk stood with its shiny top clear of paperwork. She walked slowly over to it, running her fingertips over the smooth wood. He always left his desk completely clear like this ... Again his desire for neat and tidiness showed. A place for everything and everything in its place.
    Clea sighed and turned towards the door as the ache inside her became unbearable.
    Money ... She considered this as she closed the door to Max's office and went about tidying her own desk. Her salary here had been exceptional, but she'd fallen into the habit of spending rather a lot on clothes since she'd met Max. It had all been a front she'd put up for his benefit. Max liked his women to look chic, elegant—like himself.
    He wouldn't like her all blown up and looking like a balloon; she wasn't that sure that she fancied it much herself, wearing clothes that resembled tents, and trying to keep cool during those hot summer months and the final stage of her pregnancy.
    October.
    He—she—it— he, it was easier to think of the baby as a he. He would have to be dark-haired—how else could it be with two such dark-haired parents? If her mother couldn't manage to inject any of her fairness into Clea, then this poor soul had little chance of receiving any of his grandmother's fairer beauty.
    She had her mother's eyes, though, Clea mused. Big lavender-blue eyes on a baby boy with Max's strong, sturdy build ...
    On a muffled sob, Clea grabbed up her coat and bag and rushed for the door.
     
    The phone began ringing as she was preparing herself