Книга - Expecting…And In Danger

Expecting...And In Danger
Eileen Wilks


HE WANTED HIS BABY….When he learned Charlotte Masters was pregnant with his child, Rafe Connelly moved mountains to find her–one step ahead of the killers who'd put a bounty on her head. Despite her protests, Rafe needed to keep Charlotte safe. For the sake of his unborn child, he'd do anything…even marry the woman who'd betrayed his family.SHE WANTED HIM….Oozing confidence and masculinity, Rafe was irresistible. Charlotte knew she could deny him nothing. Hadn't she already shed her prim facade and satisfied his every desire in a torrid night of pure pleasure? But she couldn't accept his proposal, for to a woman with secrets, Rafe was as dangerous as the killers at her heels….







AROUND CHI-TOWN

Breaking news! Charlotte Masters, the missing assistant to business tycoon Grant Connelly, is allegedly the target of a hit man. After being questioned by police for her role in the illegal doings at Connelly Corporation, Charlotte dodged the first hit attempt. But why the mysterious woman declined police protection is anyone’s guess. Does this reportedly “honest woman” have something to hide? And Ms. Masters may not be the only one on the run—rumor has it she’s pregnant, so where’s the baby’s dad?

Missing son Rafe Connelly has returned to Chicago to help solve the family’s troubles. The renowned computer whiz is looking into technological tampering at Connelly Corporation. But it may be too late to stem the tide at the beloved Chicago institution. With its flood of troubles, the Connellys may need more than Rafe’s genius to keep them afloat.




Dear Reader,

Wondering what to put on your holiday wish list? How about six passionate, powerful and provocative new love stories from Silhouette Desire!

This month, bestselling author Barbara Boswell returns to Desire with our MAN OF THE MONTH, SD #1471, All in the Game, featuring a TV reality-show contestant who rekindles an off-screen romance with the chief cameraman while her identical twin wonders what’s going on.

In SD #1472, Expecting…and In Danger by Eileen Wilks, a Connelly hero tries to protect and win the trust of a secretive, pregnant lover. It’s the latest episode in the DYNASTIES: THE CONNELLYS series—the saga of a wealthy Chicago-based clan.

A desert prince loses his heart to a feisty intern in SD #1473, Delaney’s Desert Sheikh by award-winning author Brenda Jackson. This title marks Jackson’s debut as a Desire author. In SD #1474, Taming the Prince by Elizabeth Bevarly, a blue-collar bachelor trades his hard hat for a crown…and a wedding ring? This is the second Desire installment in the exciting CROWN AND GLORY series.

Matchmaking relatives unite an unlikely couple in SD #1475, A Lawman in Her Stocking by Kathie DeNosky. And SD #1476, Do You Take This Enemy? by reader favorite Sara Orwig, is a marriage-of-convenience story featuring a pregnant heroine whose groom is from a feuding family. This title is the first in Orwig’s compelling STALLION PASS miniseries.

Make sure you get all six of Silhouette Desire’s hot November romances.

Enjoy!






Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire




Expecting…and in Danger

Eileen Wilks







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




EILEEN WILKS


is a fifth-generation Texan. Her great-great-grandmother came to Texas in a covered wagon shortly after the end of the Civil War—excuse us, the War Between the States. But she’s not a full-blooded Texan. Right after another war, her Texan father fell for a Yankee woman. This obviously mismatched pair proceeded to travel to nine cities in three countries in the first twenty years of their marriage, raising two kids and innumerable dogs and cats along the way. For the next twenty years they stayed put, back home in Texas again—and still together.

Eileen figures her professional career matches her nomadic upbringing, since she’s tried everything from drafting to a brief stint as a ranch hand—raising two children and any number of cats and dogs along the way. Not until she started writing did she “stay put,” because that’s when she knew she’d come home. Readers can write to her at P.O. Box 4612, Midland, TX 79704-4612.









MEET THE CONNELLYS

Meet the Connellys of Chicago—wealthy, powerful and rocked by scandal, betrayal…and passion!

Who’s Who in

EXPECTING…AND IN DANGER



Rafe Connelly—The hotshot computer whiz turned daddy-to-be wants it all—security, success, family. But is he using the woman to get the baby…or the baby to get the woman?

Charlotte Masters—The prim and prissy assistant finds herself on the run, pregnant and alone. How long can she deny her heart…and keep her secrets?

Lucas Starwind—For this remaining P.I. on the Connelly case, it’s all about determination, prestige and honor…. Or is it really about revenge?










Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue




One


The Windy City was living up to its name the second time someone tried to kill her.

At least Charlotte thought they’d tried to kill her. Sprawled across the hood of a parked car, with panic pounding in her chest, her hip throbbing, her calf burning and her coat flapping in the wind, she couldn’t be sure. Maybe the driver simply hadn’t seen her.

“You all right, lady?”

She stirred and looked up at the concerned face of a tall black man with a gold ring in his nose, another in his eyebrow, a leather jacket and a Cubs cap on his apparently bald head. Several others had stopped on the busy sidewalk to stare and exclaim. She caught snatches of conversation—“Crazy drivers!” and “Must have been drunk…” and “Where’s a cop when you need one?”

Not here, thank goodness. The last thing she needed was to draw the attention of the police.

“I’m fine,” she said to the concerned and the curious. “Thank you for asking.” She pulled herself together mentally as she climbed off the car. Her knees weren’t sure of themselves, but after sorting through her aches, she concluded she wasn’t badly hurt. The car had missed her, after all. Thanks to the wind.

Charlotte had been crossing the street—with the light, of course. She always crossed with the light. She’d finished her bagel two blocks back and had been holding on to the sack, which was destined for the next trash can. A strong gust had grabbed it right out of her hand. She’d turned, meaning to chase it down so she could dispose of it properly…and saw the car.

It had been headed right for her in spite of the red light that should have protected her. It had even seemed to speed up in that split second between the instant she’d seen it and the next, when her body had taken over, hurling her out of its path.

But maybe that was paranoia speaking. Although it wasn’t really paranoia, was it, if there truly were people out to get you?

“You sure you’re okay?” the man in the Cubs cap and nose ring asked. A hefty woman advised her to call the police; another suggested she go to the hospital; someone else thought she should get a lawyer, though what she’d do with one, he didn’t say. Charlotte took a moment to assure them again that she was fine, though she grimaced over the ruined panty hose—four-ninety-five a pair, dammit—and the trickle of blood running down her leg.

She put a hand protectively on her stomach. A little wiggle inside assured her that all was well, and she drew a deep, relieved breath.

Her backpack. Oh, Lord, she couldn’t afford to lose that. Where—? Kneeling, she spotted it halfway under the car and dragged it out. Her arms felt like overcooked spaghetti.

“Hey, you want me to call someone to come get you?” It was the Cubs fan.

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.” Standing with the backpack slung over her shoulder was a good deal harder than it should have been. Her knees weren’t in much better shape than her spaghetti arms.

Surely it had been a freak accident.

“Better sit down a minute. You’re pale as a ghost. Bleeding, too.”

Irritation threatened to swamp good manners. She hated being fussed over. “I’m always pale. I’ll take care of the scrapes at work.”

“You got far to go?”

“Just up the block, at Hole-in-the-Wall.”

He cast a dubious glance that way, which she perfectly understood. The restaurant was aptly named, an eyesore in an area that had once been solidly blue collar, but was skidding rapidly downhill. The neighborhood was seedy, a little trashy, not quite a slum…everything she’d fought so hard to leave behind.

“You ain’t up to working yet,” he informed her with that particular male brand of arrogance that scraped on her pride like fingernails on a chalkboard.

“I appreciate your concern, but it isn’t necessary.” She started limping down the sidewalk, hoping he would get the hint and go about his own business.

It didn’t work. He kept pace with her. “Don’t trip over your ego, sister. I’m not hitting on you. Don’t care for teeny, tiny blondes with big mouths.” He shook his head. “You sure talk fancy for someone who works at the Hole.”

Her unwanted escort had a pleasant tenor voice with surprising resonance. “Do you sing?”

He gave her a startled glance. “Why?”

She sighed. Most of the time she managed to keep her unruly tongue under control, but every now and then it flew free. “I wasn’t hitting on you, either. I don’t care for bossy males. Your voice reminded me of a tenor I heard sing ‘Ness’un Dorma.’”

“You listen to opera, but you work at Hole-in-the-Wall?”

“You recognize an aria from Turandot, but you poke holes in your body?”

“Smart-mouthed, too,” he observed. “Why you working at the Hole?”

“For my sins.” Which was all too literally true. But she was going to get things straightened out soon, she promised herself for the fortieth time. Somehow.

They’d arrived at the steps that led down to the kitchen. She thanked her escort as politely as she could manage, hobbled down and pushed the door open.

The kitchen was a long, narrow, crowded room. The cook, a stringy old man with limited notions of personal hygiene, gave her a sour look. “Better get moving. Zeno’s in a bad mood.”

“How can you tell?”

He snorted. “You go right ahead and smart off to him today like you been doin’. You’ll see.” He went back to flipping hamburger patties.

Charlotte hobbled to the cubbyhole where employees could leave their things. Dammit, she really did need to mind her tongue. She needed this job, and the Hole—for all its obvious drawbacks—did have three things in its favor. First, it was within walking distance of the cupboard-size apartment she’d found. Second, Zeno was allergic to cigarette smoke, so the entire place was smoke-free. Third, he was sloppy about paperwork and regulations—a definite drawback in terms of health and safety regulations, but a plus for her personally. He hadn’t called any of the bogus references she’d listed on her application, and he didn’t question her social security card—a good thing, since the number wasn’t hers.

A man who was running a bookie operation out of his restaurant really ought to be more scrupulous about following the rules in his legitimate business, she thought as she slung her backpack under the table. She pulled off her coat, giving the shabby, shapeless brown material a look of distaste as she hung it on a hook. Best not to think about the beautiful new cream-colored wool coat hanging in the closet in her apartment—her old apartment.

The rent was paid up until the first. They won’t have sold her things yet, she told herself. Maybe she would still be able to get them back.

“You’re late,” a deep voice growled from the doorway. “Shift starts at five, not whenever you get around to showing up.”

She jumped, scowled and looked at the doorway. Zeno stood there glowering at her. He was a man who could glower well. The paunch, thick eyebrows and bristly jowls gave him a head start in the mean-and-nasty sweepstakes.

Watch what you say, she reminded herself, and reached for the dusty first aid box on the top shelf. “A car nearly ran me down at the light.”

“Late’s late. It happens again, you’re out of here.”

“I would have been a lot later if the car had hit me.” She gave the cap on the peroxide bottle an angry twist. “And yes, I’m all right, thank you so much for asking.”

“If you’re all right, you can get your butt out there and take orders.”

“As soon as I’ve wiped the blood off. I’m pretty sure it’s a health code violation for me to bleed on the customers.” Stop that, she told herself. Zeno was not the kind of tyrant who admired those who stood up to him. He preferred quivering timidity. She pressed her lips together and began to clean the long scrape on her calf.

“Maybe I didn’t explain when I hired you. I hate attitude. What I like is ‘yes, sir, no, sir, right away, sir.’ Got that, you stupid— What the hell do you want?” He turned on the waitress who’d come up behind him, a doe-eyed young woman named Nikki—“with two k’s and an i,” she’d told Charlotte when they were introduced. Like Charlotte, she was blond. All of Zeno’s waitresses were blond. Nikki was the kind the jokes were made for, though.

“Mr. Jones wants to talk to you,” Nikki said nervously. “Table twelve.”

“Why the hell didn’t you say so? And you, Madame Attitude—” he jabbed a thick finger in her direction “—you’ve got five minutes to get out on the floor, or you’re fired.”

She tried to make herself say “yes, sir,” but the words wouldn’t come out. She’d said them to her former boss a thousand times, said them easily, naturally. Because he was a man who deserved her respect. Her throat closed up. Grant Connelly wouldn’t care about her respect. Not now. Not after what she’d done.

She managed to nod stiffly. Zeno gave her one last glare and stomped off. Charlotte threw the bloody swab in the trash.

“What happened to you, anyway?” Nikki asked, her eyes big.

“I had a little accident on the way here. Stand in the doorway so no one comes in, would you?” She had no doubt Zeno had meant what he said about firing her if she wasn’t on the floor in five minutes. Her panty hose would have to come off right here. Charlotte grimaced, but accepted necessity.

Nikki obligingly stood in the center of the narrow doorway while Charlotte took off her shoes, then reached up under her skirt to pull down the ruined panty hose. Her legs were going to freeze on the walk back to her overpriced cupboard when her shift was over…but cold legs were the least of her problems.

“Zeno’s sure on a tear. You’d better put your apron on.”

“It’s pink.” She pitched the panty hose in the trash, fumbled her shoes on and grabbed her order book. “I don’t do pink.”

“We’re supposed to wear the aprons.”

“I know.” Nikki wasn’t a bad sort—a bit dim, and with all the backbone of cotton candy, but nice enough. Charlotte found a smile for her. “Come on, let’s get on the floor before I’m fired.” She moved out into the kitchen, Nikki trailing behind.

“I guess you’re worried that the baby will show if you tie the apron around your waist, huh?”

She froze. “I don’t… What are you talking about?”

“Oh, c’mon. I mean, you’re not showing much, but there’s that little bulge, isn’t there? And when Serena sneaks a smoke in the kitchen, you turn green. My sister Adrienne was the same way when she was carrying my nephew.”

Charlotte got her breath back, but couldn’t make herself turn around. “Zeno’s allergic to cigarette smoke, and I’m pretty sure he isn’t pregnant.”

Nikki giggled. “If he was, he’d be having triplets, wouldn’t he? How far along are you?”

Sighing, Charlotte turned around. Her cover had been blown by a pink apron. “Five months. Please, if Zeno finds out, he’ll—”

“As if I would! Tell Zeno? What kind of person do you think I am?”

“Sorry. I can’t help worrying. I need this job.”

“Then we’d better get moving.” Nikki gave her a gentle shove and they headed for the stairs at the back of the kitchen. The restaurant’s seating was on ground level, the kitchen in the basement. She’d be going up and down those steps a hundred times tonight.

“I guess it’s scary when you’re on your own,” Nikki said. “Did the father walk out on you?”

Was flying to the other side of the country the same as walking out? Maybe not, since he didn’t know about the baby. All at once Charlotte was dead tired. Everything was wrong, and she couldn’t seem to make any of it come right again.

Not everything, she reminded herself. At least she knew Brad was safe. Probably. As long as no one knew where he was. “We shouldn’t talk about this here,” she said. “Maybe you won’t say anything, but if someone overheard…”

“Like that Serena.” She nodded, making her platinum curls bob. “She’d split on you in a second. Good thing she never looks past her mirror.”

Charlotte pushed open the swinging door. “True. Which station do I have tonight?”

“Four. Serena’s on two, I’ve got one, and—hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She hoped. “The tall guy with the shaved head and Cubs cap in my station. The one talking on a cell phone. Have you seen him in here before?”

Nikki cocked her head. “Don’t think so. Why?”

Idiot. Why had she told him where she worked? “He said he didn’t like teensy blondes,” she muttered.

“Who, that guy? He’s kinda cute.” She cocked her head and smiled. “Maybe he likes tall blondes.”

Had it been coincidence that he’d been there when the car nearly ran her down? He’d seemed nice, in a rude sort of way. But he’d insisted on walking with her, and now here he was…. Panic flared. She didn’t know what to do, whether she should run or stay. Charlotte took a deep breath.

She had her backpack. If she had to—if he seemed too interested, or acted funny—she could be out the back door in a flash. “Want to swap stations? You could find out if he likes tall blondes better than dinky ones like me.”

For the next half hour she tried to keep busy. But her nerves were jumping, and each minute jerked into the next in a painfully slow way. Her admirer—if that’s what he was—didn’t make any effort to talk to her. So why was he here? He wasn’t a regular, and he hadn’t spoken to Zeno, so he wasn’t here to bet on the horses, or whatever.

Finally she couldn’t stand it anymore. After delivering a French dip, a pastrami on rye and two hamburgers to the third table in her station, she went up to Mr. Cubs Cap.

“Okay,” she said, trying to ignore the way her heart was pounding. “I want to know why you followed me here.”

“Didn’t.” He pounded on the bottom of his ketchup bottle. “Your ego’s showing again, sister. I was here, I was hungry, I decided to eat. Hey, you think you could get me some more ketchup? This one’s about dry.”

Automatically she took the bottle he held out. “I don’t believe you.”

“And I don’t care. You going to get me some ketchup or not?”

A hand landed heavily on her shoulder. “Never mind, Dix. I’ll take it from here.”

In her dreams Charlotte had sometimes plummeted in an out-of-control elevator. That was what this felt like now—the stomach-dropping second of disbelief sliding into greasy fear and guilt. And, God help her, mixing with the swift kick of desire.

Her eyes closed. “Rafe,” she whispered.

“Got it in one.” His voice was cordial—and achingly familiar. His grip on her shoulder was tight. “I guess that means you haven’t forgotten me entirely, even if a few other things have slipped your mind.”

Slowly she turned. His hand fell away.

His trench coat was long, black and leather. His jeans had probably come from a discount store, but the dark blue shirt would be the finest Egyptian cotton because Rafe liked the way it felt. He’d told her that once. His wavy brown hair was too long, as usual, wild and shaggy. It looked as if the wind had been playing with it.

Or a woman. That, too, would be as usual.

He doesn’t belong here, she thought with a rising sense of panic. He wasn’t supposed to be here, not in a place like this. He was too blasted perfect for a place like this.

The thought gave her courage. Maybe it was a fool’s version, born of anger and untainted by common sense, but she’d take what she could get. She straightened her shoulders. “I suppose you want to talk to me, but it will have to wait until my shift is over.”

“No,” he said slowly. “I don’t think it will.” He took her hand and started for the door, dragging her with him.

“Rafe.” She tried to pull her hand free. “Have you lost your mind? I can’t go with you now.”

“Sure you can.” He didn’t slow as he wove through the crowded tables.

People were staring. She set her feet firmly so he couldn’t keep tugging her along like a reluctant puppy, and for a moment it worked. He gave her a hard look over his shoulder and a sharp jerk on the hand imprisoned in his.

She nearly toppled. It was either stumble after him or fall to the floor. He dragged her another few steps. “Dammit, you’re going to get me fired!”

“Do you think I give a flying—”

“What the hell is going on here?” Zeno planted himself in front of Rafe, glower firmly in place.

Charlotte had never imagined she would see Zeno in the light of a savior. “This idiot is dragging me out the door!”

“I don’t want any trouble here,” Zeno said, sparing her a condemning glance, as if it were all her fault this madman was trying to abduct her. “Whatever your problem with her is, you’ll have to settle things when she’s not working.”

“She won’t be working for you anymore after tonight,” Rafe informed him calmly.

“Yes, I will.” She gave one more hard tug, but only succeeded in hurting her wrist.

Rafe went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “She shouldn’t be working here now, not in her condition.”

“What condition?” Zeno demanded.

Don’t tell him, Charlotte chanted mentally. Don’t tell him, please…

Rafe’s eyebrows lifted. “You didn’t know that she’s pregnant?”

“She’s what?” Zeno rounded on her. “Why, you lying little bitch. Is that why you’ve been wearing those puke-ugly sweaters?” He grabbed the hem of her sweater, pulled it tight, and put his hand on the bulge of her stomach.

Rafe dropped her hand. And swung once, clean, short and sharp, his fist connecting with Zeno’s jaw with a solid thunk. The older man’s eyes opened wide in amazement just before he collapsed.

Rafe rubbed his fist. “No touching,” he growled. Then he grabbed Charlotte’s hand and towed her out of there.




Two


“Have you lost your mind?” she shrieked as he dragged her out the door. “You just punched out my boss!”

“Something tells me he isn’t your boss anymore.”

It was fully dark now—as dark as this corner of the city ever got, at least. The air was cold, the night punctuated with horns and headlights. Neon draped its tawdry glitter over buildings, cars and faces. Those faces were fewer than before and their owners moved more slowly, the ones in groups laughing too loudly, those alone wary and watchful. Or simply empty. The women’s skirts were shorter, their lips brighter red. And none of the night people crowding the sidewalk seemed inclined to take exception to the man in a black leather trench coat who bullied his way through them, or the way he dragged his unwilling victim along.

She tried again to reason with Rafe. “It’s cold. My coat…my things…you have to let me get my things.” Her backpack, especially. She couldn’t lose it.

“My car’s just up the block. The heater works.”

“You can’t just drag me off this way! It—it’s illegal.”

“Yeah?” He stopped and turned so abruptly she plowed into him.

She landed with her free hand bracing her against his chest, preventing her from falling up against him, body to body. The leather coat was cool and supple beneath her hand. His chest was hard. So were his eyes, and the sarcastic curl of his lips wasn’t a smile. She remembered the feel of that mouth on her and hastily pulled back.

“If you think I’m doing something illegal, you should yell for a cop.” The curl grew into a sneer when she remained silent. “That’s what I thought. Come on.”

How Rafe had managed to find a parking spot right where he needed one, she didn’t know. It was typical of the man, though. Luck, skill, karma—whatever force you credited, Rafe had more of it than any one man should. He had everything, from wealth and good looks to a successful career and a loving family. He should have been spoiled, shallow, dull. He wasn’t. He was fascinating. Unaffected, unconventional, outgoing, generous.

The man’s sheer perfection was the most irritating thing about him.

The hubcaps were still on his car, she noted as he shifted his grip to her arm and unlocked the door. But the car itself was not what Rafe Connelly was supposed to drive. He ought to have a dangerous, low-slung sports car, not a dark blue domestic sedan.

That was the second most irritating thing about Rafe—he never did what you expected him to do.

“Get in,” he ordered as he swung the door open.

She sighed and did it. There was no point in arguing. He’d already gotten her fired, so she had little left to lose. They might as well get this over with. It wasn’t going to be pleasant. She knew that. But she’d made it through a lot of life’s unpleasant moments. She’d get through this one, too.

His car might not be the sports car that fit her image of him, but it was new and expensive. And familiar. She passed a hand over the cool leather of the seat and tried not to think about the only other time she’d ridden in Rafe’s car.

He slid behind the steering wheel, slammed his door and started the engine. Sound poured from the speakers—some kind of rock with screaming guitars, lots of bass and a pounding beat. Cold air poured from the vents. No doubt his car did have a great heater, but the engine wasn’t warm yet. She shivered and hugged herself for warmth.

With a flick of his wrist, he cut the stereo off. Silence fell. He glanced at her, grimaced, flung his door open again in defiance of the traffic, got out and shrugged off his coat. He tossed it at her and climbed back in without saying a word.

Charlotte drew the coat over her like a blanket. The lining held the heat from his body, and the warmth released scents that drifted up to tease her. Leather and man and memories… How unpredictable he was. First he dragged her along willy-nilly, then he gave her the coat off his back.

His voice was quiet. “It’s mine, isn’t it?”

He wasn’t talking about the coat. Charlotte closed her eyes, but that petty escape didn’t help. He was here, he was asking, and she had to face both him and the facts. “Yes.”

He smacked the steering wheel with his fist. Hard.

She jumped.

“Did it at any point occur to you that I’d want to know? That I had the right to know?”

“I was going to tell you. When—when I could.”

“And when would that have been? When my son graduated from high school, were you going to send me an announcement? Maybe hit me up for college tuition?”

She looked down. Beneath the enveloping coat, her hands were clasped tightly together. “It might be a girl,” she muttered.

“What?”

Her head came up. She scowled at him. “It might be your daughter who graduates, not your son.”

“Girl, boy, what does it matter? The point is, you’re carrying my child. So of course you ran off and took a job at a dive so you could live hand-to-mouth, stay on your feet for hours, then walk home late at night. In this neighborhood.”

Her mouth twisted in bitter humor. She’d grown up in neighborhoods like this one. “I can take care of myself.”

“And one helluva job you’ve done of it, too. Considering that the mob is gunning for you.”

She swallowed and didn’t reply.

“Damn shame the way things worked out for you.” He turned in his seat, leaning against the door so he could survey her. His hand tapped the back of the seat in a quick, restless rhythm. “Selling out my father should have netted you a nice chunk of change, but you’ve ended up on the bottom of the food chain, haven’t you?” He shook his head in mocking sympathy. “You should be more selective about your business partners in the future.”

“It wasn’t like that,” she said, low-voiced.

“No? You want to tell me what it was like, then?”

Her lips felt stiff, numb. She’d known this would be unpleasant, but she hadn’t realized how bad it would be. She hadn’t known he would assume she’d done it for money.

But why wouldn’t he? It was absurd for her to believe he should have known better. Illogical. “I told the police. That’s why there’s a contract on my life.”

He sighed and his hand stopped its restless tapping. For a long moment he didn’t say anything. He just looked at her.

She tilted her chin up and looked right back at him. And found herself caught, trapped in the fascinating topography of his face.

His eyes were so deep-set the lids hardly showed. In this light his eyes looked black, as dark as the thick slash of his eyebrows, which were much darker than the medium brown of his shaggy hair. His beard, too, grew in dark, and there was a rakish trace of stubble on his cheeks tonight. His nose was straight and perfect, with that fascinating little dip beneath that inevitably led her eyes to his mouth. Oh, that mouth…it was a mouth made for smiles and kisses, the upper lip a perfect match for the lower. But it was entirely too sensual for the aristocratic nose, too wide for his narrow face, too frivolous for those dark eyes.

Rafe was composed of too many unmatched pieces. His parts shouldn’t have added up to such an enticing whole, and she resented mightily that they did.

One corner of that enticing mouth kicked up. “You’d stare down a cat, wouldn’t you?” He ran a hand over his head, further messing his hair. “Dix said someone nearly ran you down this evening.”

Dix? Oh. Her surly Good Samaritan. “The man in the Cubs cap. He called you. He’s working for you.”

“Dix is a friend, but yeah, he’s been working for me.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Helping me find you. I’ve been trying to do that for months.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes. You tried so hard.”

“I called. You never called back.”

“How could I forget? A month after climbing out of my bed, you did get around to leaving a message on my answering machine.”

“I was out of town. You knew I had to leave the next morning. And I left several messages, dammit, not just one!”

Eventually, yes. He’d called three times. It had been too little, too late. “If you’d really wanted to talk to me, you knew where I was—until last month, at least.”

“Yeah.” His voice was flat. “Right there in my father’s office, pretending to be his loyal assistant while you sold him out to the Kellys.”

“So I’m slime.” She stared straight ahead, determined not to cry. “You’d decided I wasn’t worth the trouble long before you found out what I’d done.”

He shifted, looking away. “It wasn’t like that.”

Right. She didn’t want to hear whatever version of “you’re just not my type” he’d cooked up to explain himself. She knew very well how little they had in common, aside from some combustible hormones. She’d known it all along.

And still she’d made a fool of herself with him. Tension knotted her jaw and neck. She took a deep breath, trying to relax those muscles. It didn’t help. “How did you find me?”

“You used your mother’s social security number at that dive I just rescued you from.”

“Rescue? Is that what you want to call it?” Temper warmed her. She shoved his coat down into her lap. “And how would you know what number I used?”

He shrugged. “Dix can find pretty much anything that’s in any computer file, anywhere.”

“He’s a hacker, you mean.” She shook her head. Rafe never made sense. Why would a computer systems analyst who specialized in corporate security have a hacker friend?

“One of the best. I asked him to check the social security records of the family members listed in your personnel file at Connelly Corporation. Earnings have been recently reported under your mother’s number—pretty amazing, considering she passed away nine years ago.”

If Rafe could track her that way, so could others. Suddenly she wasn’t warm anymore. “Maybe I’d better not go back to my apartment.” That made two apartments she’d had to abandon.

“Congratulations. That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said tonight.”

But where would she go? She had only her tip money in her pocket; the rest was in her backpack, back at Hole-in-the-Wall. She needed to go back and get it, but two hundred and thirteen dollars wouldn’t go far.

God. She was practically a street person. She knew what she had to do, but she hated it. Hated it. “I don’t like to ask,” she said, her throat tight, “but could you loan me some money? I don’t have enough to get another place to stay.”

Rafe didn’t think he’d ever been this angry. Or this scared. He didn’t like either feeling, but he especially hated the cramped, cold feeling in his chest he got when he thought about how close she had come to being hit by that car earlier.

Hell, he thought, dragging a hand through his hair. At the moment, he didn’t like much of anything—not her, not himself and for damned sure not what he had to do about their situation.

There was one small consolation. She wasn’t going to like the next part, either. “No, I won’t loan you any damned money.” He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.

Her voice stopped just short of shrill. “What are you doing?”

“I used to think you were fairly bright. Figure it out.”

Good thing he’d kept an eye on her as well as the traffic. He managed to snag her arm and jerk her back before she could get the door open. “Uh-uh. Jumping out of a moving vehicle is not allowed.”

He let go of her arm, but continued to divide his attention between her and the road. She might try it again when they stopped for a light. “Put your seat belt on.”

Already she was taking deep breaths, getting herself back under control. Dammit. He wished he didn’t enjoy it so much when she ruffled up like an outraged hen then carefully smoothed each bristly feather back into place. Perverse of him, and showed a sad lack of judgment. The woman was a liar and a crook, or at least in the pay of crooks. She’d betrayed his father. He needed to remember that.

“Rafe, I have to get my backpack before it’s stolen,” she said in that reasonable tone that always made him want to unbutton something. Not that she had any buttons showing right now, but she used to wear a lot of prim, buttoned-to-the-throat silk blouses to work. No doubt she’d thought covering everything up would keep the men she worked with from turning into ravening beasts.

Foolish of her. But Rafe had figured out long ago that most women had no idea how little it took to turn a man’s thoughts to sex. Her prim blouses had just made him notice the way the silk shined and shifted over those soft, round, gorgeous breasts…breasts whose shape and texture he knew now.

He shook his head and tried to banish the memory. “Forget your backpack. I’ll buy you another one.”

“I don’t want you to buy me anything. I want my backpack.”

He eased to a stop at the light. “Listen, Charlie, someone tried to kill you on the way to your job. You can’t go back there.”

“Don’t call me Charlie.”

Her rebuke was automatic, he felt sure. As automatic as the way the nickname had slipped out. How many times had he called her that in the past two years, since she took over as his father’s executive assistant?

He’d called her Charlie when he’d come inside her, too.

“All right, Charlotte,” he said, hating the name and halfway hating her, too. “Put your seat belt on. It’s not safe for the baby if you ride without one, and I’m not letting you make any escape attempts.”

She scowled, scooped his coat out of her lap and twisted around to deposit it in the back seat. Either she was warm enough now, or she didn’t want anything of his touching her. Or she didn’t want anything slowing her down when she made her break for freedom. He tapped the steering wheel with one hand, ready to grab her with the other.

“Rafe, I agreed to talk with you. I did not agree to be abducted.”

“Tough. You haven’t done such a great job of protecting yourself and our baby, so I’m taking over.”

“If you’re thinking about—about the incident today, it may not mean anything. Heaven knows Chicago has plenty of bad drivers.”

“I’ve always admired that tidy brain of yours. I wonder why you aren’t using it. Maybe you don’t think I can use my brain. Yeah, that’s probably it. You think you can persuade me there’s no connection between people trying to run over you, and people shooting at you.” The light changed and he accelerated. “That’s too much of a stretch for me, I’m afraid.”

Her hands made small, frustrated fists in her lap. “Take me back to Hole-in-the-Wall.”

“No.”

Her tongue darted out nervously to lick her lips. “If you’re thinking of taking me to the police, please don’t. The other time—when I was shot at—that happened as I was leaving police headquarters. I think someone in the department tipped them off. I don’t want to go in a safe house. I don’t think I’d be safe.”

“Amazing. We agree about something. Now put your seat belt on, or I’ll reach over and put it on you.” For a supposedly sensible woman, she sure wasn’t paying attention to sensible precautions. “My apartment’s in the Buck-town area. We’ll probably run across any number of bad drivers on the way there.”

“Your what? No.” She shook her head so hard her hair flew into her face. “No, I am not going to your apartment.”

“You don’t have any choice. God knows I don’t have much choice, either.” He took a deep breath. Might as well get it said. “You’re carrying my baby. We’ll get married.”

“That’s not funny.”

He gave a short bark of laughter. “You think I’m joking? If so, the joke’s on me.” Humor faded, settling into grim determination. “I hope you don’t have your heart set on a big wedding, because we can’t go that route. We’d be issuing an invitation to the hit man along with the guests. He’s been remarkably unlucky so far, but we can’t count on his bad luck continuing.”

She looked stunned—and not with joy, either. At least she wasn’t trying to leap out of the moving car.

“No comment? Good. We’ll get the blood tests tomorrow.”

“You don’t want to marry me!” she burst out. “You don’t want to get married at all.” She rubbed the back of her neck as if her head might be hurting. “If this is some kind of noble gesture, all right, then. You’ve made it. I hereby let you off the hook.”

“I want my child.”

She closed her eyes, sighed and leaned her head against the headrest. “I want you to be part of the baby’s life. You don’t have to marry me for that.”

“I don’t want a weekend now and then. I want my child. I want it all—3:00 a.m. feedings and diaper rash, school dances and college entrance exams.” He shook his head. “Weird, isn’t it? I had no idea I’d feel this way, so I can’t blame you for being surprised. But there it is. I want to be a full-time daddy, so we have to get married.”

The hand that had been rubbing her neck fell into her lap. “And if I refuse to marry you, what will you do? Will you try to take the baby away from me?”

He shot her an irritated glance. “You think I’m some kind of monster? The last thing I want is a custody battle. That’s why I’m proposing. Look, you need me.”

“I don’t need anyone. And you don’t want me. I mean, you don’t want to marry me.”

His eyebrows lifted. Did she think he didn’t want her now? Wrong, but interesting. Maybe useful. “You’re right about me not wanting to get married. I don’t. But I wasn’t raised to duck my responsibilities.” Of course, his parents hadn’t raised him to have unprotected sex, either. He still didn’t understand how he could have been that careless.

He realized he was scowling and tried to lighten up. “If you’re worried about the sex part, don’t. We can make things work out there just fine.”

Her stony expression suggested just the opposite. “I don’t suppose it’s necessary for you to actually like a woman to go to bed with her. I’m a little pickier. I’m not marrying a man who despises me.”

He hadn’t expected this to be easy. Charlie was nothing if not stubborn. “Whether you like it or not, you do need me right now. You’re running from some pretty big bad guys, and you lack the resources to do it right. If I could find you at that dive, they can, too. It looks as if they already have.”

She chewed on her lip. It was a small enough sign of nerves, but welcome. He was getting to her. Good.

Rafe switched tactics slightly. Let her think she’d won a compromise from him. Women were crazy about compromises. “Look, you don’t have to say yes or no about marriage right away. Stay at my place, though. Let me protect you. Don’t endanger my baby out of pride.”

Silence descended for long moments.

“All right,” she said abruptly. “I won’t marry you, but I’ll stay in your apartment for now.”

It was more than he’d expected from her this quickly. He frowned, chewing over her capitulation in his mind. Maybe she was a lot more scared than she’d admitted—but there was no point in asking her. You could put Charlie in a cage of tigers and she’d insist she was fine. Or else she had some plan in mind. Something devious.

It was probably a sign of depravity that he was looking forward to figuring out her scheme. And stopping her.

Rafe considered himself a simple man. Computers were the one place he enjoyed knots and puzzles. He worked hard because he liked his work, and, he admitted, because he had his share of Connelly ambition. He played hard, too, when he was in the mood, but he also relaxed just as completely. He got more complexity than he needed from his big, maddening, high-profile family. When it came to his personal life, he kept things simple.

So how had he ended up in such a messy relationship with such a complicated woman?

There were her breasts, of course. He stole a sideways glance at her. Truly excellent breasts—not especially large, but beautifully shaped. And Charlie was great fun to tease—she always rose to his bait, but not always in the way he expected. She gave as good as she got, too. But while great breasts and teasing might account for his initial interest, they didn’t explain why he’d taken her to bed the second he’d had the chance. Not when he’d known—dammit, he’d known—that she was a regular porcupine of complications.

She fascinated him. She was so charmingly tidy yet mysterious, keeping her private self tucked out of sight. He supposed a woman like Charlie needed to keep her externals orderly in order to cope with her complicated interior.

Yet in spite of her reserve he’d thought he knew her. Not all of her, maybe, but enough to like her. To trust her. Hell, his father had trusted her, and Grant Connelly was rarely wrong about that sort of thing.

Why had she done it? Why had she betrayed his father’s trust?

He knew damned little. Last Christmas his oldest brother, Daniel, had surprised everyone, including himself, by becoming the heir to the throne of Altaria, the tiny Mediterranean country their mother hailed from. Almost immediately, someone had tried to kill him. Grant Connelly had hired a pair of private detectives—Lucas Starwind and Tom Reynolds—to look into the matter, but neither they nor the police had made much headway. They knew the attempt had been carried out by a pro, and that it was related to Daniel’s new royal status. And that was about all they knew.

In May the Connelly Corporation computers had suffered a major crash. No surprise there. Rafe had been urging his father to upgrade his system for the past two years. At the time, Rafe had been involved with a big project in Phoenix. There had been no way he could take on another job. Charlie had suggested a technician who was familiar with the system and programs used at the corporation, and the tech seemed to have fixed things easily.

He’d fixed things, all right.

There had been no reason to suspect a link between a computer crash and the assassination attempt on Daniel. Not until last month. A connection had turned up then—a dead man.

Someone had murdered Tom Reynolds, one of the private detectives investigating the Connelly troubles. His body had been found in the alley behind the office of the computer tech who had restored the Connelly Corporation’s system after the crash. And shortly before he was killed, Reynolds had called Grant to suggest that the corporate computer system needed to be checked out.

The technician himself had disappeared.

Charlie was the link between the tech and Connelly Corporation, and the police had picked up her up for questioning. At first she’d refused to talk in spite of the fact that Grant Connelly didn’t want charges pressed against her. Then, as she was leaving police headquarters, someone had nearly managed to put a bullet between her eyes.

She’d talked after that—and then she’d vanished. Rafe couldn’t find out much about what she’d told the police. They were being disgustingly closemouthed on that subject. All he knew was that Angie Donahue, the mother of his half-brother Seth, had somehow persuaded Charlie to use that particular technician.

And Angie Donahue was connected to the Kelly crime family.

Now there was a price on Charlie’s head.

It all added up to one big, deadly mess. Rafe had canceled his next job, finished up the last one and flown home as soon as he could. Ever since, he’d been trying to find out what the tech had done to the corporate computers—when he wasn’t trying to find Charlie.

City lights streamed past the windows on one side. On the other side the vast darkness of Lake Michigan was blocked by hotels and office buildings, with an occasional empty space giving a glimpse of the lake, spotted here and there by the running lights of freighters.

He glanced at the woman beside him. She was staring out the windshield as if she’d forgotten he existed. She’d been silent a long time. Dammit, he just knew she was coming up with new complications for him to sort out. “Does it move sometimes?” he asked abruptly.

“What?” She turned toward him, her eyes blank, as if she’d been far away.

“The baby. Do you feel it moving sometimes?”

“Oh.” Her hand pressed her stomach, the fingers spreading as if she already had a big belly to support instead of a little bulge. A smile slipped over her face, changing it, making her look softer than he’d ever seen her. “Yes. She or he is asleep right now, I think, but I’ve been feeling movement for about a month now. It feels…” She shook her head, her expression full of wonder. “I don’t know how to say it.”

“It’s a good feeling, though? It doesn’t hurt or anything?”

Her glance was almost shy. She nodded. “It’s good.”

“Will you tell me the next time you feel it move? I’d sort of like to feel it, too.”

Her cheeks flushed and she tucked her chin down as if he’d asked for something intensely personal. “I guess so.”

“Good.” He thought a minute. Maybe agreeing to let him share the baby before it was born was an intimacy she hadn’t planned on. So he added, “Thank you.”

She nodded and fell silent again.

Oh, she was going to make things difficult, he knew. She probably couldn’t help it—she was a difficult woman. But he had some complications of his own in mind for her.

Charlie didn’t want to marry him, but she had to. For her sake, his sake, and most of all for the sake of the life she was carrying. So he’d persuade her. Rafe knew just how to go about that—the same way he’d gotten himself into this mess.

He’d seduce her.




Three


Charlotte hadn’t known what to expect of Rafe’s apartment. She’d been pretty sure it wouldn’t resemble his parents’ home on Lake Shore Drive. Grant and Emma Connelly lived in a Georgian-style manor furnished in antiques and elegance, with landscaped grounds that included an ornamental pool and a boxwood maze. It was altogether gracious and tasteful, not to mention intimidatingly rich.

But Rafe wouldn’t be interested in gracious or traditional. He was fond of the casual, the eclectic, the downright odd. So she hadn’t been surprised when they’d arrived at a converted office building in an area that was as much commercial as residential. But still…

Whatever she’d unconsciously expected, she thought as she stood in the middle of Rafe’s living space, this wasn’t it. She rubbed the back of her head, where the threatened headache had settled, and turned in a slow circle, taking it all in.

Except for the kitchen, the entire downstairs was one big room. The floor was wooden, the ceiling high, the colors bold. Furniture and floor treatments rather than walls defined the spaces. A change from wood to tile marked the dining area, which was anchored by an enormous painting of a jester, complete with whimsical hat, tasseled costume and airborne balls of many colors.

A sectional sofa in glowing apricot created an L-shaped conversational area in front of a fireplace. The fireplace itself was modern and white; the wall that held it had been painted deep blue. That same wall also held bookshelves, three windows, a stereo and a huge-screen TV. Facing the TV were cushy chairs upholstered in green and yellow and purple. A hammock swung gently in front of the single big window on the right-hand wall. Next to it was an iron staircase flanked by a stunning wooden statue of a nude woman.

“You have a strange look on your face,” he said. “If you don’t like the place, blame my sister Alexandra. She picked out most of the furniture.”

She stopped looking at Rafe’s things and looked at Rafe. He stood in the middle of all that color, looking dark and dangerous and out of place in his beard stubble and shaggy hair. In this light, the color of his eyes wasn’t black, but blue—dark blue, like a stormy sky. “There’s a tie on your chandelier,” she said.

He glanced up, surprised. “So there is.”

A bubble of laughter rose in spite of her aching head. She turned away, fighting a smile. The room was classy, expensive, extravagant—and extravagantly messy. Things were everywhere they didn’t belong. Books, magazines, newspapers, clothing. A guitar. Two big, thoroughly dead plants. Computer parts were strewn across the glass-topped dining table, along with more papers, a pair of socks and a tool chest. The leather coat he’d loaned her was tossed across a low hassock. The wooden nude by the stairs wore a plastic lei and a Cubs cap.

She found the clutter oddly endearing. Rafe had always seemed like too much of a good thing—too sexy, too rich, too confident. His bright, sloppy apartment made him more human. Something warmed and softened inside her.

He sighed. “It’s a mess, isn’t it?”

“Ah…” She hunted for something tactful to say, but came up empty and settled for honesty. “Yes.”

“Messy doesn’t bother me, but you like things tidy. I’ll see what I can do tomorrow.” He glanced around, frowning as if he wasn’t at all sure what that might be. “It is clean. You don’t have to worry about that. Doreen comes at least once a week when I’m in town, and the woman is a demon on dirt. She’ll clean anything that doesn’t get out of her way. Nearly vacuumed me once when I was taking a nap, but fortunately I woke up in time.”

Oh, the smile was winning, damn him. She bent to straighten a leaning pile of newspapers. “Were you napping in the hammock?”

“It’s a restful spot. You don’t need to do that.”

“I can’t help myself. What’s behind the red wall?”

“The kitchen. There’s also a half bath down here. The full bath is upstairs, along with my bedroom and office.”

“And the guest room? Where I’ll be staying—is that upstairs or down?”

“Ah…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “There isn’t exactly a guest room. I used that for my office.”

Temper made her head pound. “If you think I’m going to climb into your bed—”

“You’ll be there alone…if that’s what you want.”

She refused to dignify that bit of blatant provocation with a reply. Turning, she headed for the stairs.

The rooms upstairs were smaller than down, but still much larger than the living room of her old apartment. A glance through the first open door revealed a room that was mostly high-tech office, though piles of papers and odds and ends of workout equipment hid some of the computer paraphernalia.

A glance through the opposite doorway made her smile and step inside.

His bathroom was long and narrow, walled in cobalt-blue tile, with gleaming white fixtures and a large shower stall bricked in glass blocks. That long wash of blue ended at a square, step-up tub deep enough to drown in. “Oh, my.” She went straight for the tub. “I think I’m in love.”

Rafe stood in the doorway. “Who would have thought it? The efficient Ms. Masters is a closet sybarite.”

“Just a bathtub sybarite.” And Rafe had her dream bathroom. She sighed in pleasure and envy and glanced over her shoulder. “So why are the towels hung up instead of dumped on the floor?”

“Childhood trauma. My mother was fierce on the subject of damp towels left on the floor. You want to take a bath before we eat? It might help that headache you’ve been nursing.”

Her eyebrows twitched in surprise. “How did you know I’ve got a headache?”

“I’m psychic. And you’re rubbing your head again.”

She blinked and dropped her hand self-consciously.

His grin flashed. “Come on. I’ll get you something to change into.” He vanished into the short hall, his voice reaching her easily. “I’ll fix dinner while you soak. Steaks okay?”

“Don’t go to any trouble.” She followed, confused by his shifting moods and wondering about the condition of his kitchen, given what she’d seen of the rest of the place. “Sandwiches or takeout would be…” Speech and feet both drifted to a halt when she reached his bedroom.

At first all she saw was the bed—huge, unmade, with tousled sheets, scattered pillows, and the comforter dragging the floor at one corner. It looked much the way her bed had on one morning five months ago.

Had someone shared that bed with him recently?

He spoke, drawing her attention to his amused face. “Don’t worry. The mere sight of a bed won’t make me pounce on you.”

“Why bother?” she muttered. “Been there, done that.” As soon as the words were out, she cursed her slippery tongue. “I didn’t say that.”

“Yes, you did. You’re thinking of the last time we were in a bedroom together.”

“No.” Memories pressed at her, an insistent thrust of heat and haste and impulse. The flavor of his mouth. The feel of his hands, quick and demanding. And her own dizzy need rising to meet those demands. “Not at all.”

“I am. I’m remembering the way you taste when your pulse is pounding here.” He lifted a hand and touched his own throat beneath the jaw.

Her own hand lifted involuntarily, mirroring his gesture, and quickly dropped. Her pulse was pounding. Dammit. “I don’t care to wander down memory lane tonight. I’d rather wash the grime off.”

“Why do I like that cool, sarcastic mouth of yours so much?” He shook his head. “Hell if know.”

His lips were smiling. His eyes weren’t. They were dark, intent. Hot. Oh, she knew that expression, was as fascinated by it tonight as she had been five months ago. As fascinated as birds are said to be by the gaze of a snake. That’s superstition, she told herself. And couldn’t keep from falling back a step when he moved toward her.

His smile widened. “Your nightie,” he said, and held out what she only then noticed he held—an old sweat suit. “I told you I wouldn’t pounce, but if you get the urge, feel free to jump on me.”

“In your dreams.”

His mouth still curved in that infuriating, knowing smile. “Oh, you have been, Charlie. You have been.”

Her mouth went dry. Something fluttered in her chest—something too much like yearning. She snatched the clothes from him and escaped with as much dignity as possible.



The air was warm and moist, the water warmer and soothing. Her hair smelled of almonds from Rafe’s shampoo. Charlotte lathered her left leg, then drew the razor along her calf.

This bathroom might have been conjured out of one of her private fantasies. Oh, admit it, she thought. The entire apartment seemed to belong in one of her daydreams, not her real life.

Except for the mess. Her mouth curved. She’d never pictured her dream apartment with so many piles of misplaced objects. Or a hammock. But the expensive furnishings, the artful use of color and space, the curving iron staircase and fireplace and beautiful rugs—she’d dreamed of a place like this, possessions like these, for years.

Charlotte had a hunger for nice things. A product of my deprived childhood, she thought with bitter humor, dipping her leg beneath the water to rinse. It wasn’t a quality she admired in herself, but she accepted it. Possessions would probably always matter a little too much to her.

She leaned against the back of the tub. Had he really dreamed of her?

It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter, she told herself fiercely. She knew better than to confuse fantasy with reality. Maybe he had dreamed of her. They’d been incredibly good together in bed. But dreams weren’t a guide for real life, and great sex wasn’t a basis for a marriage.

In dreams, she thought, her eyes drifting closed, anything could happen.

Someone rolled over inside her.

Her hand went to her stomach. It amazed her every time, this motion created by another being right inside her body. Would she grow used to the sensation in the next four months? Would she be more grouchy than awed when the baby was bigger and woke her up at night, kicking?

She smiled. She didn’t think so. Much to her surprise, she loved being pregnant. Oh, at first she’d been scared and nauseous, appalled that this could happen to her, that she could have been so irresponsible. But the first time the baby had moved…she rubbed her middle, smiling, her eyes still closed. Now she even liked the way her body was expanding, the solid shape the baby made inside her. After being alone in her body all her life, she couldn’t stop marveling at being two instead of one.

Funny. She’d never dreamed about being pregnant, yet now that she was, she loved it. Her fantasies had usually revolved around success in some form. Stock options. A well-fed 401K. Beautiful things of all sorts, from handmade quilts to designer suits to a hopeless craving she’d suffered from for months for an antique rolltop desk.

Though there had been another dream…. No, that was too important a word for her foolishness. A silly fantasy, that was all it had been. It had seemed harmless. She’d worked at the Connelly Corporation for three years and as Grant’s assistant for two, and Rafe had never asked her out. She’d been sure he never would, sure her longing would go safely unrequited…until the night five months ago when the Connellys had held a barbecue at their lakeside cottage.

She’d gone there to get Grant’s signature on a contract. And Rafe, damn his observant eyes, had realized something was bothering her. Grabbing at the first excuse that had come to mind, she’d claimed to be ill. Big mistake. Grant had refused to hear of her driving back to work. He’d refused to hear of her driving at all.

Rafe had offered to take her home. And she, foolish dreamer that she’d been, hadn’t protested nearly enough….

One night in May

“So what’s wrong?” Rafe asked as they headed back to the city on Lake Shore Drive.

“Just a bug, I guess.” Outside, the air was dreamy with dusk. To their left, the vast waters of Lake Michigan were turning gray and secretive in the fading light. There were secrets inside the car, too. They pressed on Charlotte, weighed her down, made her want to be anywhere but here, with this man.

She leaned her head against the headrest and tried to relax. The ride was smooth and quiet, the leather seats absurdly comfortable. But the tension vibrating inside her wouldn’t let go. “I’d pictured you with a sporty little two-seater.”

“If I get the urge to travel with my knees jammed up to my chest, I fly economy class. No need to buy a car that does that for me.”

A smile tugged at her mouth. Rafe had a way of making her smile, making her angry, making her feel all sorts of things she didn’t want to feel. “I’ll bet you’ve never flown economy in your life.”

“You’d lose.” He signaled and slowed the car. “I don’t think you’re sick.”

She sat up straight. “What a strange thing to say. Unless your ego is crowding out your brain, and you think I lured you away from the party to have my wicked way with you.”

He chuckled. “Don’t I wish. No, you did your best to get out of accepting a ride. You’ve got an annoyingly large independent streak, Charlie.”

“My name is Charlotte,” she corrected him automatically, looking down at her lap. Her fingers rested there calmly enough, but inside she was rattling like a poorly tuned engine. There was a giddy intimacy in riding in Rafe’s car, alone with him as darkness eased up on the city. But this pull she felt was the last thing she needed right now. It distracted her. She needed to be thinking about how to find out what that tech had done so she could undo it, not about the way Rafe’s forearms looked with his sleeves rolled up.

He glanced at her, his grin flashing. “Nervous about being alone with me?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“If Dad hadn’t been there to bully you, you’d never have gotten in this car with me.”

“Your father doesn’t bully. He’s been very good to me.” And in return, she’d betrayed him. But what else could she have done? Oh, Brad, she thought, miserable in her love and guilt. Somehow she would make things right again. If she had to go to the office every weekend, she’d make things right.

For everyone else, a little voice inside whispered. She might be able to put things right for others, but her own dreams were forever spoiled. There never had been any chance of a future for her and Rafe, she reminded that whispery voice. They were too different. Besides, he liked to tease, he liked to flirt, but he’d had three years to fall for her, if he was going to.

Obviously he wasn’t.

She kept her eyes closed, faking the sleep her unquiet mind wouldn’t allow. Rafe either believed she’d dozed off or was willing to let the conversation drift to an end. Neither of them had spoken for perhaps fifteen minutes when he broke the silence. “Here we are.”

She straightened, frowning as he pulled to a stop. “Where are we?”

“A couple blocks from a great Italian restaurant.” He turned off the engine, got out and came around to her side. She remained where she was, flustered and angry. When he opened her door she said, “I’m not in the mood for a kidnapping.”

“This isn’t a kidnapping. I’m taking you to dinner.”

“I don’t recall being asked.”

“If I’d asked, you’d have said no. Look, Charlie, you’re not sick. You just said that because you didn’t want to talk about whatever has you upset. Man problems, probably. But I’m not a bad listener. You might try not holding everything in, see if it helps.”

Oh, yes, he was just the person for her to confide in. You see, gangsters forced me to let them do something to the computers at your family’s corporation….

“No,” she said firmly. “Thank you, but no. I’ll be fine.”

He nodded. “That’s what I thought. You look like a woman in need of a good cry, but you aren’t about to let your hair down and take advantage of my broad, manly shoulders, are you? So I decided to feed you instead. Tony makes great lasagna.”

To her alarm, the quivering inside threatened to spill outside. She bit her lip to keep it steady. “I’m sure you know a lot about women, but I don’t think you know much about the therapeutic effects of a good cry.”

“I’ve got sisters.” He heaved a huge sigh. “Lord, do I have sisters.”

“Three sisters might make you seem like a poor, outnumbered male if you didn’t also have five brothers.”

“Seven brothers now.”

Of course. She felt like a fool for forgetting. Rafe had grown up with five brothers, including a half brother, but last month the family had learned of two more Connelly men—twins, the product of a youthful affair of Grant’s that had taken place before he married Emma.

A discovery like that might have torn another family apart. Not the Connellys. Oh, there had been some turmoil. She’d heard raised voices in Grant’s office a couple of times, but that sort of thing happened from time to time anyway, and meant little. The Connellys were stubborn, strong-minded people, every one of them. Sometimes they were angry and loud. But the storms came and went, leaving the family still solid. United.

What would it be like to have such a family? So many, and so close. There would always be someone to listen, to help if you needed it…. The squeeze of something horribly close to self-pity made her voice sharper than she intended. “You prove my point. Testosterone seven, estrogen three. The testosterone count wins.”

“Come on. You’ve met my sisters. Can you really believe any of us poor males ever wins?”

She chuckled in spite of herself.

“That’s better.” He reached in and took her hand. “Come on, Charlie. Eat. You’ll feel better. If you’re good, I’ll even spring for tiramisu.”



Charlotte lay in the cooling water, remembering the crowded little restaurant, the wobbly table covered by a cheap vinyl tablecloth and the incredible lasagna. They’d shared a bottle of wine while they talked, teased and argued. And she’d forgotten to worry. Or maybe she’d willfully shoved worry aside, seizing the chance to feel good with both hands, like a greedy child.

Rafe had taken her home. He’d insisted on walking her up to her apartment. At her door he’d kissed her…and all those dreams, all those foolish, impractical dreams had blazed to life along with her body.

She remembered the look in his eyes when he’d lifted his head. The way she’d felt when his hand sifted through her hair. His hand hadn’t been entirely steady, and she’d let herself hope. For a moment hope had bloomed in her, bright and mute as sunrise.

Maybe he’d seen it in her eyes, because she remembered very clearly what he’d said. “I want to come in, Charlie. I want to be with you. But we need to be clear with each other.” That gentle hand had cradled her head, his thumb spread to stroke her temple. “No expectations beyond what we can give each other tonight.”

She’d let him in. Even as those silent hopes died, she’d let him in, wanting passion and memories, craving whatever temporary oblivion he might bring her.

Rafe had been a skilled lover, and a greedy one. And he’d left before sunrise. She’d pretended to sleep while he found his clothes in the dark. Even when he’d bent over her and his lips had brushed her cheek, she’d faked sleep, afraid that if she spoke, if she did anything to acknowledge his leaving, she would embarrass them both.

No expectations. He’d wanted to be with her, but once had been enough.

She sighed once and stood, reaching for one of the thick, oversize towels. He had at least left her a note. She’d burned it.

The blasted towel smelled like him. She made a face and rubbed herself dry briskly. None of that, she told her excitable hormones. Since the night when she’d tumbled into bed with him so easily, she’d done a much better job of shutting out foolish dreams. In fact, she hardly dreamed at all anymore.




Four


Rafe was using his favorite knife on a fresh shitake mushroom when he heard Charlie coming down the iron staircase. She’d spent an ungodly amount of time in the bathroom, but he’d expected that. He’d once asked his sister Maggie what women did in bathtubs that took so long. She’d given him one of those “I Am Woman” superior looks and told him he wouldn’t understand.

Women and bathtubs. He shook his head and got the steaks out of the refrigerator, where they’d been marinating. The broiler was already hot. He was forking the steaks onto the broiler pan when she spoke.

“You’re cooking!”

“I said I would.”

“No, I mean really cooking. I smell herbs—oregano?—and you’re cutting up vegetables.”

“Vegetables for the salad, oregano and rosemary in the marinade for the steaks.” He closed the oven door and glanced at her. Then paused, startled. “Your hair is curly.”

Her hand lifted self-consciously to touch the damp curls. “I couldn’t find a blow-dryer, so I towel-dried it.”

“I don’t have one.” He couldn’t stop staring. She looked so pretty with her face all warm and pink from her bath and her hair all messy with curls. His sweats pretty much swallowed her, of course. She’d rolled up the sleeves and the pant legs several times. “You always wear your hair all smoothed out.” He shook his head. “It looks nice smooth, but I like it like this. Curly and a little wild.”

“I like it smooth.” She wandered around, inspecting his kitchen with a small, worried vee between her eyebrows. “I had no idea you knew how to cook. Your kitchen—” She waved one hand at the counter. “Everything’s clean. Not just wiped-down clean, but put-away clean. The rest of your place is a mess, but the kitchen is neat. And you’ve got enough pots hanging in the pot rack to open a kitchen supply store.”





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