She twisted her head to look at him and said in a flat, calm voice, “I said I’m fine.”
“Aye,” he returned, “as am I. I don’t need a second one. You can have it.”
Something lit in her eyes swiftly and, Prentice thought, intoxicatingly, as it also lit her entire face.
Then she snapped (but softly), “For someone who knows the English language you don’t seem to comprehend it very well. I said, I’m fine.”
Prentice felt an odd sense of satisfaction at her irate response no matter if it was quietly irate and his anger fled instantly.
He smiled at her and replied casually, “All right. I’ll eat it.”
Her eyes fastened on his mouth, her face seeming dazed for a moment before they lifted to his and she gave him a look that indicated she thought he was mental.
He nearly laughed.
And he thought perhaps this time, considering he knew the rules and the score, her game might be fun.
She busied herself tidying the kitchen and making herself toast.
Prentice ate and watched her knowing this irritated her and enjoying that knowledge.
“You’re good with the kids,” he remarked and she didn’t reply.
She was back to ignoring him.
He instinctively knew somehow, this morning he’d gained some advantage in their game.
Therefore, he pressed, “Why didn’t you have any?”
Her body stilled, her hands fisted then he could have sworn she actually forced herself to relax before she answered.
“I can’t.”
“Sorry?” he queried.
The toast popped up, she snatched it, put it on a plate and walked to the counter. “I can’t have children.”
Prentice stared at her back.
She had millions of pounds. Millions of her own; inherited from her mother and to be inherited from her father when the bastard thankfully left this earth, and millions in the divorce settlement given to her by her bastard ex-husband.
She could easily afford to pay top notch fertility specialists, the best in the world.
Regardless of the fact that it was absolutely none of his business, he asked, “Have you seen a specialist?”
He watched her head move, slowly, gracefully, her ear dipping down toward her shoulder then her neck twisting to the side.
There was something poignant about this movement, poignant and distressing.
Prentice braced.
She turned to him, lifted her eyes and locked them with his.
“Ten,” she said shortly.
“Ten?” he replied, stunned by her earlier movement and therefore not comprehending her answer.
“Ten specialists in four different countries. Five years of tests. Five years of fertility medication and two rounds of IVF. All of which failed.” Prentice watched her talk, her expression carved from stone, a weight settled in his gut and this one was unpleasant. “I can’t conceive,” she finished.