Книга - Not Quite Married

Not Quite Married
Christine Rimmer


A BRAVO BABY BRINGS SECOND CHANCESIt was hard enough for Clara Bravo to face gorgeous Dalton Ames after he ended their idyllic fling. But confessing that she was pregnant took real guts! Oh, Clara didn't lack the fortitude to notify Dalton of his impending fatherhood. It was turning down the irresistible banker's proposal–just for their baby's sake–that she found difficult.Dalton pushed Clara away because he couldn't risk his heart again after his recent divorce – not because he didn't feel anything for the brunette beauty! When he discovered her pregnancy, Dalton was determined to create the picture-perfect home with the one woman he could never forget. Now, if only he could convince Clara that their family was forever…







She just stood there, staring up at Dalton as he took that last step that brought him up close and personal, and then put his warm, long-fingered hand over hers.

It felt good, his hand on hers. It felt really, really good.

“Um … here.” Clara’s voice kind of broke on the word. And then she slid her hand out from under his and clasped it, moving it to where she felt the kick. “Yeah.” She smiled in spite of herself. “That’s it.”

“I feel it,” he agreed as the baby poked at his palm, then poked again. He was watching their hands, all his attention on the movement beneath them. And then he lifted his gaze and met her eyes. His were the clearest, most beautiful blue right then. “Clara …” His voice was rougher now, even lower than usual.

She just stared up at him, still annoyed with him, and at the same time swept up in the moment, in the intimacy of it—their baby kicking, her hand over his. She should have glanced away.

But she didn’t.

The Bravos Of Justice Creek: Where bold hearts collide under Western skies


Not Quite Married

Christine Rimmer






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


CHRISTINE RIMMER came to her profession the long way around. She tried everything from acting to teaching to telephone sales. Now she’s finally found work that suits her perfectly. She insists she never had a problem keeping a job—she was merely gaining “life experience” for her future as a novelist. Christine lives with her family in Oregon. Visit her at www.christinerimmer.com (http://www.christinerimmer.com).


For Gail Chasan, because you are the very best!


Contents

Cover (#ud5ffdd0f-d231-550f-8139-4881ce8afe56)

Excerpt (#u2e25372f-af48-594f-a9a7-8b5b6d577e25)

Title Page (#ue1aa54ac-3543-56fa-9bf3-b2887f09283b)

About the Author (#uf28fad68-d087-5acf-932e-f00960ada665)

Dedication (#uf4bb1fc5-0ba9-5092-993e-d761752b004a)

Chapter One (#ulink_daac5494-2ee2-592b-b4fe-76c5e1c46154)

Chapter Two (#ulink_bd651565-afc9-592b-9345-fa9c1a7634ba)

Chapter Three (#ulink_1847e3ba-3e63-53f0-adfb-469835b093f1)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#ulink_490e7cd7-573e-5e65-b1a5-acaaa530ad40)

At five fifteen on a sunny April afternoon, Dalton Ames sat on a bench in a park near his Denver corporate offices and told himself he was making a big mistake.

He should have gotten some answers before he agreed to meet with her. He should have made her tell him why, exactly, she had contacted him out of the blue and just had to speak with him in person. Because, honestly. What good could possibly come of seeing her now?

None. He knew that.

And yet here he was, briefcase at his feet, stomach in knots. Waiting. Irresponsibly, illogically, ridiculously eager just for the sight of her.

It could go nowhere. He knew that. And yet...

His racing thoughts trailed away to nothing as he spotted her approaching: Clara Bravo, more adorable than ever in a long white dress and a short jean jacket. Clara, with her shining sable hair, her tempting mouth so quick to smile. But she wasn’t smiling now. Her expression was somber, her head tipped down.

Clara.

So beautiful.

And so very, very pregnant.

Seeing her so huge shocked him, though it shouldn’t have. The detective he’d hired to find her back in early December, months after their summer romance, had reported that she was pregnant and engaged to marry the baby’s father.

She glanced up and spotted him, those big eyes locking on him. Her soft mouth dropped open—and then snapped resolutely shut. She hesitated on the path, but then stiffened her spine and kept on coming.

He stood.

“Hello, Dalton.” Her wonderful, slightly husky voice broke on his name.

He nodded. “Clara.” His voice sounded calm. Reserved. It gave nothing away, which was as he’d intended. He took care not to glance down, not to ogle that big, round belly of hers. “It’s good to see you,” he lied.

It wasn’t good. It hurt to see her. Even big as a house with some other guy’s baby, she was much too appealing. He still wanted her. It turned a brutal knife inside him to have to look at her and know that she belonged to another man.

She lifted her left hand and nervously tucked a shining strand of dark brown hair behind her ear. No wedding ring. Odd.

And come on, it was too ridiculous, to pretend he didn’t notice that giant belly. Stiffly, he said, “I see congratulations are in order...”

She kept her head up, those brown eyes unwavering. “Let’s sit down, shall we?” Turning, she lowered herself to the bench, bracing an arm on the back of it to ease her way down.

He sank to the space beside her.

And then she drew in a big breath and started talking. Fast. “Please believe me. I don’t want anything from you. I only think it’s right that you know.”

“Know?” He stared at her and wondered what in the world she could be babbling about.

She bobbed her head in a frantic little nod. “Yes. You have a right to know.”

“Know what?” It came out as a threatening growl. He really needed to dial it back, but she...roused things in him. She made him feel things he didn’t want to feel. Gruffness was his natural defense against such dangerous emotions.

And then she said, “I...got pregnant on the island, when we were together last year. This is your baby, Dalton.”

His brain flickered, then reeled. “What did you just say?” He didn’t mean to bark at her. But he must have.

Because she gasped and slid to the edge of the bench, as far from him as she could get without actually jumping up and racing away. He had to actively resist the imperative to grab her and drag her back closer to him. She repeated slowly, with care. “I said, it’s your baby.”

“By God. Yes, you did.”

She pressed her lips together, sucked in a slow breath and aimed her chin high. “And, well, as you can see...” She put a hand on the hard, high swell of her belly. “I intend to keep this child, which is also your child.”

It hit him again, like a boot to the solar plexus. She was saying it was his baby.

And she wasn’t finished, either. “But of course I don’t expect you just to take my word for it. Should you want proof, I’ll be happy to cooperate with a paternity test as soon as the baby is born next month.” A pause. He continued rudely gaping at her as she stumbled on. “And then, um, again, if you want nothing to do with this child, I’m fine with that, I...” Her voice wavered. But then she cleared her throat and forged on, “You don’t have to worry about the baby’s welfare. I have a supportive family and a large network of friends. Financially, I’m doing very well. So, after today, I won’t bother you again. If you find you want to be involved, however much or little, well, that’s something I’m open to, as we go along.”

“As we...?” The ability to form a complete sentence seemed to have deserted him.

She rushed into the breach. “Um. Go along, yes. As we go along. I...look. I hate to do this to you.” The big eyes filled. She gritted her teeth, blinked the moisture away. “I know you made it very clear, when we said goodbye on the island, that it was over, that we had an agreement and you wanted to stick to it, that you didn’t want to see me anymore.”

His eyeballs were suddenly dry as a pair of sunbaked stones. He blinked. “What? Wait a minute. That’s not what I said. I said it wouldn’t work between us, that I would only—”

She whipped up a hand, palm out. “Look. Whatever. All I’m saying is I know this has to be a huge shock for you and I’m so sorry, for everything. For getting pregnant in the first place, although God knows, we were careful.” Her hand found her belly again. She lowered her head, shook it slowly back and forth. “I don’t know how it happened, honestly. But it did. And I know I should have told you sooner, so I’m sorry for not doing that, too. I’m sorry for...” Her head shot up. She threw up both hands and cried, “Well, for everything. I’m sorry if this messes up your life. I’m sorry, all right? Just...I don’t know. I’m not sure what else there is to say.”

There was a whole hell of a lot to say as far as he was concerned. “I thought you married the baby’s father in December.”

Those big eyes got even bigger. “How could you know that?”

Smooth, Ames. Real smooth. He was a banker, born, bred and raised, president and CEO of Ames Bank and Trust, which had been serving the people of Colorado for almost a century. They said he was distant and a little bit cold. But always fair and calm and in command. He didn’t feel in command right at the moment. Clearly, he wasn’t in command and could blurt out any damn thing if he didn’t get a grip.

He cast about for a good lie to tell her, but there really wasn’t one that had a chance of flying. So he loosened his tie and settled for the truth. “I hired a detective to find you.”

She gasped. “A detective?”

“That’s what I said, yes. The detective told me that you live in Justice Creek, that you were getting married a few days before Christmas—and that several different sources had informed him that you were pregnant by your groom, Ryan McKellan. I remembered Ryan, of course, remembered what you’d told me about him.” She made a soft, strangled sound, but then only gaped at him. He demanded, “You don’t remember?”

“Remember...what?”

“That you told me about your friend Ryan on the island. You mentioned him more than once.” Her best friend, she’d called the guy, twice. Both times she’d caught herself and blushed sweetly and said she was sorry for breaking their agreement to live in the moment and leave their “real” lives out of the time they were sharing. He’d shrugged and said she had nothing to apologize for, though really, he hadn’t enjoyed the way her expression softened with fondness when she said that other guy’s name. “That was kind of a shocker, to get the detective’s report and find out that you and your good buddy Ryan were a whole lot more than friends.”

“But we weren’t!” she insisted on a rising inflection. And then she pressed her hands to her soft cheeks, as if to cool their sudden heat. “I don’t get it. I... Oh, Dalton.” Now she looked hurt. She whispered on a torn sigh, “You put a detective on me?”

He felt like a complete jerk and muttered defensively, “I wanted to find you. It seemed the simplest way.”

Her soft lips trembled. “Wanted to find me, why?”

“I...couldn’t seem to make myself forget you.”

Her expression softened—but then, almost instantly, she stiffened again. “You’re serious? You couldn’t forget me?”

“No. I couldn’t.”

“But then what about your—?”

“Wait a minute.” He’d just realized he’d been feeling like a douche-bag when, come to think of it, he wasn’t any worse than she was. “How did you find me?”

“Well, I looked you up online and...” Her shoulders sagged. “All right. I see your point. You found me and I found you. What does it matter how? What does any of the rest of it matter?”

She had it right. It didn’t matter, not to him, anyway. The baby mattered. His baby.

The baby changed everything. He demanded, “So, what about your husband, Ryan? Does he know that the baby isn’t his?”

“He’s, um, not my husband.”

Could he have heard that right? “Not your—?”

“Not my husband. No. We decided not to go through with the wedding, after all.”

“You’re telling me you’re not married.” He tried to take in the enormity of that. All these months without a word from her, even though she was having his baby. Having his baby while planning to marry that other guy—and then not marrying that other guy, after all.

“Uh-uh. Being married just...isn’t who we are together, Ryan and me.”

“Together? You and he are together?” It came out in a dark, angry rumble.

“No, not together. Not in that way. We’re together in a friend way.”

“You live with him?”

“Of course not.” She looked insulted. “I said we’re friends.” He didn’t need to hear another word about the guy she’d almost married. But she told him more anyway. “Ryan hated the idea of the baby not having a dad.”

“Hold it. What are you saying? The baby damn well does have a dad. I’m the dad.”

“Yes, but...”

“What?”

“Dalton, you don’t have to get so angry.”

“I’m. Not. Angry.”

She stared at him, wearing a stricken look. He felt like the overbearing ass she no doubt considered him. And then she said, with measured calm, “I’m just saying he was only trying to help me, that’s all. But you’re right. Ryan isn’t the baby’s father. Because, well, you are.” And then, out of nowhere, she pushed herself to her feet. “And I think I’ve said what I came here to say.”

“Wait a minute.” He glared up at her. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t leave yet. We’re not through here. Sit back down.”

She ignored his command and pulled a card from the pocket of her jacket. “Here. Address, phone numbers. It’s all there. In case you... I mean, you know, should you choose to get in touch with me after this.”

“After this? But we’re not finished.”

“Maybe you’re not, Dalton. But I am. This wasn’t easy. I’ve had enough for one day and I want to go home.”

“But—”

“Please. Take the card.”

He felt at a disadvantage, sitting there while she hovered above him. So he stood. She shoved the card at him again. He gave in and took it. Not that he needed it. He knew where she lived and he had all her numbers. The detective had provided all that. And Dalton had held on to the information, though he’d told himself he would never make use of it.

They stared at each other. He needed to keep her there until he could manage to collect his scattered wits. But he just wasn’t dealing. His usually sharp mind felt dull as a rusty blade.

She said, “Well, goodbye, then.”

His knees feel strangely rubbery. A baby. It was his baby she was having. Not that other guy’s. His baby. And she wasn’t married, after all.

And for all those months, he hadn’t had a clue. Because she never bothered to tell him. Until now.

He couldn’t decide if he was furious with her—or just desperate to know that she and the baby were both all right. She did look a little tired. There were shadows beneath those amazing eyes.

He asked, “Are you okay? The baby...?”

“Fine. Truly. We’re both fine—and look. You just give me a call, anytime.”

“Give you a call,” he repeated numbly.

“Yeah. When—and if—you’re ready to, um, talk it over.”

“But didn’t I just say I want to talk it over now?”

She gave a fierce little shake of her head. “Not now. Uh-uh.”

“Why not?”

“I just...I need a little space, okay?”

“But—”

“I have to go, Dalton.”

And with that, she turned and left him standing there. He wanted to go after her, to grab her and pull her back. But he didn’t.

He just stood there by the bench, his mouth hanging open, watching her walk away.

* * *

Telling Dalton Ames that she was having his baby? Hardest thing Clara had ever done.

He’d seemed so angry. So stiff and pulled-together, wearing a gorgeous, perfectly tailored suit and Italian shoes, looking like the stuffed-shirt older brother of the amazing, tender, attentive man she’d known for those magical two weeks on the island. She’d barely kept herself from demanding, Who are you and what have you done with the Dalton I knew?

Twice during the drive home from Denver, Clara pulled off the road, certain she was about to throw up. The baby, not happy at all with the adrenaline cocktail surging through Mommy’s system, kept kicking her. Somehow, though, she managed to make it home to her sweet little blue, maroon-trimmed Victorian on Park Drive in Justice Creek without losing her lunch.

It was after seven when she walked in the door. She knew she should eat, so she heated up some leftovers, poured a glass of juice and forced down a few bites of yesterday’s chicken and a mouthful or two of seasoned rice. That was all she could take. She dumped the rest, rinsed the plate and stood at the sink staring out at her side yard, knowing she really, really needed to talk to a friend.

She’d kept it all to herself for much too long now. Even though her relationship with Dalton had been nothing but a foolish fantasy, it had only seemed right that she should face him, let him know that there would be a child and she was keeping it, before discussing the matter with anyone else.

So okay. She’d done what was right.

And now she needed support. She was calling in a good friend and telling all.

She considered calling Ryan. He’d been right there for her when she had no idea what to do next. He’d tried so hard to help her.

But come on. The last thing Rye needed now was her crying on his shoulder about some guy he’d never even met. Especially after everything she’d already put him through.

No. At a time like this, a woman needed a girlfriend. Her closest girlfriend.

So Clara called her favorite cousin Rory, aka Her Highness Aurora Bravo-Calabretti. Rory might be a Montedoran princess by birth, but at heart she was totally down-to-earth, someone you could trust with your deepest, saddest secrets. Rory lived with Ryan’s older brother, Walker, at Walker’s ranch, the Bar-N.

Once she’d made the call, Clara went out and sat on the front porch to wait.

Twenty minutes later, Rory pulled up to the curb. She jumped right out, ran around the front of her SUV and hurried up the front walk. “Clara? What is it, darling? Are you okay?”

Clara rose and held out her arms. Rory went into them. They hugged good and tight, Clara’s big belly pressed hard against Rory’s flat one, and Clara whispered, “Ice cream. Chocolate Chunk Gooey Brownie.”

Rory said, “I’m in.”

So Clara led her inside and dished up the treat. They sat at the breakfast nook table. They’d each polished off half a bowlful before Rory asked, “So?”

And Clara took another creamy, chunky chocolaty bite, savoring the goodness of it, getting another shot of the comfort a girl can only get from a killer dessert, before she confessed, “Today I told my baby’s father that he’s going to be a dad.”

Rory stopped with a bite of ice cream halfway to her mouth. She dropped the spoon back in her bowl. It clattered against the side. “Get off the phone.”

“I did. I really did.”

“Was it...?”

“Awful. It was awful. He was like some stranger. It was so bizarre. I kept wanting to ask him what he’d done with the man I knew—or thought I knew.”

Rory pushed back her chair and circled the table to kneel at Clara’s feet. “Give me your hands.” She took them and gave Clara’s fingers a comforting squeeze. “You are not only my favorite cousin in the whole world—you are the kindest, warmest, most supportive, loving friend around. Plus, you’re totally hot.”

Clara let out a laugh that sounded a lot like a sob. “Right. Just look at me. A human beach ball. Smokin’.”

“Pregnant or not, doesn’t matter. Either way, you are hot. If he treated you badly, it’s his loss. You have a big family and they all love you, not to mention a large number of good friends. You need to remember that you are not alone, that you only have to call, anytime, day or night, and I’m here—and so is everyone else who adores you.”

Clara shut her eyes for a minute. When she felt reasonably certain she wasn’t going to burst into tears, she said, “I love you.”

Rory squeezed her fingers again. “Love you, too. A lot.”

“Now, go finish your ice cream before it’s all melted.”

Rory rose and went back to her chair. They both ate more of the to-die-for dessert. Finally, Rory said, softly, “I have to ask...”

“Go ahead.” Clara gave her a wobbly little smile.

“I mean, is this it, then? Am I here because you’re finally going to tell me how it all happened?”

Clara pushed her bowl away. “Yeah. This is it.”

“Dear Lord. I need more ice cream. You?”

“I’ve had enough. But help yourself.”

So Rory got up and got more—including another giant scoop for Clara, who insisted she didn’t want it, but then picked up her spoon again and dug right in.

Rory said, “All right. I’m ready.”

Where to even begin? “Remember when I went on that two-week Caribbean vacation last August?”

Rory was nodding. “Of course. Your thirtieth birthday getaway. I kind of suspected it might have happened then.”

“You know how I was feeling then...”

“I remember. You were talking about burnout, that all you did was work. You really needed that vacation.”

Clara had opened her restaurant, the Library Café, almost six years before. The café was a success by any standards. And she’d put in a whole bunch of seven-day workweeks to make it so. “I wanted a little glamour and pampering, you know? I wanted to reward myself for a job well done.”

Rory suggested softly, “And maybe a little romance, too?”

“Oh, yeah. I had this fantasy that I might end up meeting someone amazing.”

“And indulging in a crazy, fabulous tropical affair?”

“Exactly.”

“And so your fantasy came true.”

Clara smiled, feeling wistful. “That’s right. I met him the first night. His name is Dalton. Dalton Ames. And just the sight of him—he’s tall and fit, with black hair and piercing blue eyes. I felt like the heroine of the juiciest romance novel you ever read. I mean, you know how I am. You joke that I’m hot and all. But come on.”

“Clara.” Rory licked her spoon. “You are hot. Accept it.”

Clara pulled her bowl back in front of her and took another melty, chocolaty, amazing bite. “ I don’t feel hot. I feel like I’m the solid one, the level-headed one. The family peacemaker. Guys tend to like me as a friend.”

“A hot friend.”

A snort of laughter escaped her. “Stop.”

“Seriously, Clara. I know whereof I speak.”

Clara purposely did not roll her eyes. “Anyway, when Dalton looked at me...I cannot tell you. It was like a sizzling shiver went all through me. He saw me as hot, I could see it in those heart-stopping baby blues of his. The sexual chemistry was immediate, unexpected—and like nothing in my life before. We danced and flirted. He said he was from Denver.”

“Ah. Both of you from Colorado.”

“Yeah.” Seriously, what an idiot she’d been. She ladled on a little irony. “Like it was meant to be.”

“Don’t make less of it,” Rory chided. “I can tell from the way you talk about him that it was beautiful and special, that you felt a real connection with him.”

“Ha.”

“Tell me the story, Clara—and stop judging yourself.”

Clara sighed. “He told me the trip was a getaway for him, that his work was demanding and he wanted a chance to live in the moment for a change.”

“Just like you.”

“Um-hmm. I told him that I was ready for an adventure, to live out a fantasy, to forget reality for a while. He said that sounded great to him.”

“Okay, now I’m wondering...”

‘What?”

“You weren’t suspicious that it was all just a little too perfect?”

Clara shrugged. “Yeah. But only a little. The resort was like a tropical fairy tale, the beaches pristine, miles and miles of gleaming white sands. Not a cloud in the sky and the ocean went on forever. It all seemed so magical. And then I met this dreamboat of a man. I was kind of swept away—but at least I did have sense enough to ask him if he had a wife at home.”

“Good for you. And?”

“He said he was recently divorced—and then he wanted to know if I had someone special. I told him there was no one. And then, feeling beautiful and wanted and thrilled to be getting a taste of exactly what I’d been dreaming of, I went to his suite with him and spent the night.”

“Bold.”

Even with all that had happened since then, the memory of that first night—of all the nights on the island—remained wonderfully sweet. “I thought so, yes. And it was the best, that night with him, better than anyone or any time before. In the morning, we agreed to spend the next two weeks together. We decided we would live completely in the now and not talk about our ‘real’ lives. And when the fantasy was over, we would go our separate ways.”

Rory was chewing her lower lip. “Reality always intrudes, though, doesn’t it?”

“Sadly, yeah,” Clara admitted. “But for two incredible, perfect weeks, we were lovers. We were open and tender and passionate with each other—in the moment only, I mean. Mostly, we managed to keep our real lives out of it. The sex was just beautiful. And we climbed a volcano, went parasailing and scuba diving. Even bungee jumping. At night, we danced under the stars by the light of the moon. By the end, I knew I was falling in love with him.”

Rory asked in a whisper, “Did you...tell him?”

Clara put her hand on her belly, rubbed it slowly and gently, feeling the love well up, the gratitude, in spite of everything. Her baby might not have a daddy. But she would be a good mother. Clara would make sure her child had a great start in life, with love and happiness to spare. “On the last night, I finally worked up the nerve. I told him I wanted to keep seeing him when we got back to Colorado...”

“Oh, my darling. And?”

“My fantasy crashed and burned.”

“Oh, no...”

“Yeah. He told me that he’d had a beautiful time with me and he would never forget me, but he would only mess things up if we tried to have more.”

“Mess things up? But why? I don’t get it.”

“He said it was different, that he was different, there with me, on the island. He said he wanted to remember me that way, remember us that way. That his marriage had ended not that long before, and it was his fault. And he wasn’t ready to try again. He didn’t think he’d ever be ready. He wanted to stick to the agreement we’d made.”

“That’s just so sad.”

“Believe me, I wanted to argue. I wanted to ask him why he couldn’t at least give it a try. But then, I was pretty much reeling that I’d put myself right out there for him—and gotten instant and total rejection. Plus, well, he was right that we did have an agreement. It wasn’t as if he owed it to me to change everything up just because I’d decided I wanted more. So I went home and tried to forget him. Unfortunately, a few weeks later, I realized I was having his baby. I agonized for another few weeks.”

“You should have called me. I would have come running.” At the time, Rory was still living in her family’s palace in Montedoro on the Cote d’Azur.

“I couldn’t. I felt that I should tell him, tell Dalton, first of all, before anyone else.”

“Well, fair enough. I can understand that.”

“So I started trying to figure out how best to reach him...” Clara stared out the breakfast nook window. It was already dark. All she saw was her own reflection, a reflection that blurred as pointless tears rose. She swallowed, hard, and brushed them away.

Rory got up again and circled the table. This time, she just stood by Clara’s chair, looping an arm around her shoulder, then smoothing her hair so that Clara gave in to the comfort she offered and rested her head against Rory’s side. “I take it you found him.”

“It wasn’t hard, really. A little searching online and I learned he was a big shot from a Denver banking family.”

“Wait. ‘Ames’ of Ames Bank and Trust?” There was a branch right there in town.

“That’s right.” Clara tipped her head up and caught Rory’s eye. “And the supposed ex-wife? Maybe not so ‘ex’...”

Rory gasped. “You’re kidding. He lied? He had a wife the whole time?”

“No. They had been divorced. But there were recent pictures of the ‘ex’ on his arm at some big charity event. She’s gorgeous, by the way. Beauty-queen gorgeous. Blond. Willowy. Perfect. In the pictures she was smiling at him in this teasing, intimate way. The gossipy article that went with the pictures hinted that maybe a remarriage was in the offing.”

Rory stroked her hair some more. “So that’s why you put off contacting him?”

“Yeah. I kind of lost heart, you know? I didn’t want to mess up his reunion with his ex—really, I didn’t want to deal with him at all by then.”

“Completely, one hundred percent understandable.”

“I decided there was no real rush to tell him about the baby. At that time, I wasn’t due for months and months.”

“I get that.”

“But then those months went by. I continued to put it off, kept avoiding the moment of truth when I would have to face him. And in the middle of that, there was all that frantic planning for the wedding to Ryan that ended up not happening. And, well, now it’s April and my due date is six weeks away. I couldn’t put it off anymore.”

“So you’ve done it. You’ve told him.”

“Yep.”

“And...what next?”

“What do you mean, what next?” Clara stiffened. “I’ve told him, that’s it.”

“But what does he plan to do now?”

“How would I know what he plans?” Clara pulled sharply away.

Rory took the hint and stepped back. Gently, she suggested, “Well, I was thinking he might want to—”

“I said I don’t know.” Clara got up, grabbed their empty bowls and carried them to the sink. “We didn’t get into any of that,” she added without turning.

Rory, still standing by the table, asked, “So you have no clue whether or not he wants to be involved with the baby?”

Clara put the bowls in the sink and flipped on the water. “It’s not like we had a real conversation. I told him that I was pregnant and that I didn’t expect anything from him. I gave him a card with my numbers on it, so he can contact me if he wants to. That was it.”

“But—”

“Look.” Clara left the water running and whirled on Rory. “How would I know what he’ll do next? Probably try to figure out a way to tell his wife that some woman he boinked last summer on Anguilla is having his baby.”

Rory marched over and flipped the water off. “Sweetheart.” She pulled Clara close. “It’s all right. You’ve done what you had to do and you were brave to do it. I’m not getting on you.”

Clara stiffened—and then let her defensiveness go and wrapped her arms good and tight around her cousin. “God. I hate this.”

“I know.” Rory gave her another good squeeze, then took her hand and led her past the breakfast nook to the sofa in the great room. They sat down together. Rory asked, “So he is remarried, then?”

“How would I know?”

“Well, you just mentioned him telling his wife about the baby.”

“I don’t know, all right? I’m just assuming he married her again, from what I read in that article.”

“Today, when you told him about the baby, did he say anything about a wife?”

“No.”

Rory offered gingerly, “So, then, maybe you’re jumping to conclusions a little, don’t you think?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters.”

“Not to me.” She wrapped her arms around her belly and her precious unborn child. “I don’t care what he does. He’s nothing to me.”

“Clara—”

“No. No, don’t do that, Rory. Don’t look at me like that, all tender and patient and sorry for me. I don’t need anyone feeling sorry for me. I’m fine.”

“I know you are. Darling, I love you and I can see how hard this has been—how hard this is for you, that’s all.”

Clara let out a moan. “Oh, Rory...”

“Come here. Come on.”

So Clara sagged against her cousin again. And Rory held her close and stroked her hair and whispered that it was going to be all right. Clara cried a little. And Rory dried her tears.

And Clara said, “I’ll probably never see the guy again, you know? And that’s okay. I can live with that. I don’t like it. It’s a long way from my fantasy of how things would go. It’s just...what it is. I’m having my baby and we’re going to be a family, the two of us. I have a whole lot to be thankful for in this life, people I can count on, people who have my back, a successful business and a beautiful home. I may not have a man to stand beside me. But I have everything else, and that’s plenty for me. I’ve done what I needed to do, told Dalton Ames about the baby. And now I’m going to buck the hell up and get on with my life.”

Rory left an hour later.

Clara went to bed and slept the whole night without waking up once. She felt...better. Calmer. More able to cope. She’d done what she needed to do; then she’d shared the whole long, sad story with someone she trusted, and she’d had a good cry over it.

Now, at last, she could move on.

Two days later, Dalton Ames knocked on her door.


Chapter Two (#ulink_0089c28c-51e7-59f0-8030-79933640c4ca)

It was a busy day at the café, with every table taken and customers lined up to get a seat.

The lunch rush went on and on. They turned the place over four times before things started easing off. Between eleven and three, Clara never sat down once. It was exhausting, especially in her pregnant state. Also, fabulous. More proof that the Library Café was a bona fide success.

After the rush, she had meetings with salespeople, scheduling and ordering to deal with, followed by a trip to the bank. It was almost six when she finally walked in her front door.

She headed straight for the shower, shedding clothes as she went. Twenty minutes later, barefoot in her softest, roomiest lounge pants and a giant pink shirt with Mama Needs Ice Cream printed across the front, she had a light dinner. Then she stretched out on the sofa to veg out with a little mindless television.

Her head had just hit the sofa pillow and she was pointing the remote at the flat-screen over the fireplace when the doorbell rang.

What now? She wasn’t expecting anyone, and her tired, pregnant body had zero desire to get up from the comfy sofa and walk all the way to front of the house.

However, she just happened to be one of those people who answered phones and doorbells automatically. It could be something important and you might as well deal with it now as later. So she put down the remote, dragged herself to her feet again, shuffled to the front door and pulled it wide.

And there he was. Dalton. As tall, dark and wonderful to look at as ever. In a suit even more beautiful and pricey-looking than the one he’d been wearing two days before.

Her hopeless heart gave a leap of ridiculous, giddy joy just at the sight of him. The rotten SOB.

He said, “Hello, Clara.” And those eyes, which were a deep crystal blue surely not found in nature, swept from the top of her head down over her giant pink shirt all the way to her bare feet—and back up again.

And she said, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“May I come in?” Stiff. Cool. So completely unlike the man she’d once been idiot enough to think she loved. “We need to talk.”

Oh, did they? She braced a shoulder against the doorframe and folded her arms on top of her baby bump. “About what, exactly?”

He looked vaguely pained. “Not on your doorstep. Please.” It came out more like a command than a request.

She stayed right where she was and just stared at him for a long, hostile moment. “I thought I gave you all my phone numbers.”

“You did.”

“Then why didn’t you call? A little fair warning isn’t that much to ask.”

“I apologize.”

“You don’t sound sorry in the least.”

The blue gaze swept over her again, rousing a thoroughly uncalled-for shiver of excitement. “Let me in, Clara.”

Oh, she was so tempted to shut the door in his face. Because she was tired and her feet hurt and there was a really good tearjerker on Lifetime.

She didn’t want to deal with this. Not now.

Not ever, really.

But she and the stranger on her front porch had made a baby together. And the baby trumped everything: including her burning desire never to have to see his face again.

With elaborate disinterest, she dropped her crossed arms and stepped away from the door. “By all means. Come on in.”

Giving her no opportunity to change her mind, he stepped right over the threshold and into her private space. She blinked and looked up at him and couldn’t believe this was happening.

“Nice house,” he said, his fine lips curling upward a fraction at the corners.

“Thanks. This way.” She took him through her formal dining room to the combination kitchen, breakfast nook and great room at the back. Stopping at the long kitchen island, she turned to him. “Do you want coffee or something?”

“No, thanks.”

“Well, all right, then. Have a seat.” She gestured at the sitting area across the room.

He went on past her, all the way to the wing chair next to the sofa, but he didn’t sit down. For a moment, she hovered there at the end of the island, reluctant to get closer to him.

Dread curled through her. He wore the strangest look on his face, and a great stillness seemed to surround him. The moment felt huge, suddenly.

What in the world did he plan to say to her? Something awful, probably, judging by the seriousness and intensity of his expression.

Reluctantly, she approached him. He simply waited, watching her come.

She stopped a couple of feet from him. “Aren’t you...going to sit down?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t sit. Instead he reached for her hand.

The move surprised her enough that she didn’t jerk away. His fingers closed over hers, warm. Firm. So well remembered. Tears scalded the back of her throat. She pressed her lips together and swallowed them down. “What?”

And just like that, he lifted his other hand and slid a beautiful diamond ring on her finger.

She gasped and gaped down at it, a giant marquise-cut central stone, surrounded by twin rows of glittering smaller stones, more diamonds along the double band.

“Marry me, Clara. Right away. You can move to Denver and we’ll work this out. We’ll make a family for our child.”

She gaped down at that sparkling, perfect, beautiful ring. And then, slowly, her breath all tangled and hot in the base of her throat, she lifted her head and looked at him.

The really terrible, awful thing was, somewhere inside herself, she longed to throw her arms around him and shout yes!

And that made her furious—at herself, as much as at him.

Because who was he, anyway? When he touched her, she felt the thrill, yes. Her body seemed to know him. But her mind and her confused, aching heart?

Uh-uh. No. She didn’t know this man at all.

She pulled her fingers free of his grip and took off the ring. “No, Dalton.”

“Clara...”

“Take it. I mean it.” He shook his head. But he did hold out his hand. She dropped that gorgeous thing into his palm. “No way am I marrying you, let alone moving to Denver. Justice Creek is my home. I have my family, my friends and my very successful business here, so this is where I plan to stay.”

“Listen to me, I—”

“Stop.”

Miraculously, he did.

“We need to get straight on something here right from the start,” she said.

He eyed her sideways as he dropped the ring into his jacket pocket. And then he asked carefully in that voice of his that was so gallingly manly and deep, “By all means. Let’s get it straight. Whatever the hell it is.”

“Are you married or not?”

“Excuse me?” He gazed at her as though he had his doubts as to her sanity. “Married? Me?”

“That’s right. Do you have a wife?”

The blue eyes, impossibly, got even bluer and that square jaw went to rock. “Of course not. I’m divorced, and have been since before the island. And I know that you know this. I told you myself.”

She had to get away, get some distance from him. So she turned and marched over to the fireplace. Better. She straightened her shoulders and turned to face him again. “Look. I saw you, okay? I saw pictures of you online, with your supposedly ex-wife on your arm at some fancy party. The two of you were looking very chummy.”

“Chummy? Astrid and I are not the least bit chummy.”

“You looked pretty damn chummy to me.”

“Astrid is a lovely woman. She’s active in her community, doing what she can to help disadvantaged children and victims of natural catastrophes and such. Occasionally she asks me to support her various causes. I’m happy to help. Once or twice, I’ve acted as her escort.”

“Well, isn’t that civilized?”

“Yes, it is, as a matter of fact. Is there something wrong with being civilized?”

She decided not to answer that one. “There was talk about the two of you getting married again.”

“Talk? Who said that?”

“I don’t know who. It was just...somewhere online, is all.”

“And you always believe everything you read somewhere online?” His eyes were practically shooting sparks.

Ha. As though he were the one who’d been shabbily treated. She wrapped her arms around herself again as she had at the door and held her ground. “Just answer the question. Are you married or not?”

“No.”

“Are you dating your ex-wife?”

“No. I told you, we’re on good terms, Astrid and I. But the marriage is over and it has been since before you and I were together on the island—as I made perfectly clear the first night that we met.”

A small but definite humph escaped her, a sound she honestly hadn’t meant to make.

“I heard that,” he muttered darkly. “And what do you want from me? There is absolutely nothing going on between Astrid and me. We’re cordial. And we’re civil with each other and when she wants help with one of her causes, I do what I can.”

She knew it was petty of her, but she couldn’t resist remarking, “And if I believe that, maybe you’ve got a bridge you want to sell me?”

He regarded her, those laser-blue eyes boring twin holes right through her. “You think I’m lying to you? You think I would come here and ask you to marry me if I was already married?”

Okay, maybe he had a teeny-weeny point there. She tried to dial it back a notch. “You didn’t exactly ask me, Dalton. You told me.” It came out sounding plaintive and she couldn’t decide which was worse: being a raving bitch or coming off as pitiful.

He demanded, “Do you think I’m lying to you?”

“I...” She gave up all pretense of angry defiance, dropping her arms away from her body, letting out a low, sad sigh. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything—not about you. Not really. On the island, you were...like someone else entirely, completely different from how you are now. It’s very disorienting.”

He looked almost stricken. For about half a second. But then his jaw hardened again and his eyes narrowed. “I think you should call Astrid and ask her if there’s anything going on between her and me.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Excuse me. Did you just say I should call your ex-wife?”

“That is exactly what I said.”

“Not. Going. To. Happen.”

“Why not? Afraid to find out I’m not a lying, cheating would-be bigamist, after all?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you will call Astrid.”

“Hello. Are you there, Dalton?”

“That’s a ridiculous question.”

“Just trying to be absolutely sure you can hear me.”

“Of course I can hear you.”

“Good. The last thing I’m up for is a little chat with your wife.”

“Ex-wife,” he curtly clarified. And then he lifted a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. Was he getting a headache? She certainly was. “All right,” he said. “This has not gone well. I need to regroup and come up with another plan to get through to you.”

“Get through to me about what? Because, honestly, Dalton. Two strangers getting married is not any kind of viable solution to anything.”

“We’ve lost months because you read something on the internet and jumped to conclusions.”

“Don’t forget that you put a detective on me.”

“...And learned that you were getting married.”

“But I didn’t get married.”

“Which I didn’t find out until Tuesday when you finally came and talked to me. The heart of the matter is you should have come to me earlier.”

She clucked her tongue. “Fascinating analysis of the situation. Also totally unfair. Why would I want to come to you? You made it way clear on the island that you were done with me.”

“I wasn’t done with you.”

“It certainly sounded like it to me.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose again. “It was different on the island. I was different.”

“I’ll say.”

“I didn’t want to ruin something beautiful and I was afraid that if we continued when we returned home, it would all go to hell.”

“So you’re saying that on the island you were pretending to be someone you’re not.”

“No, I’m...” He stopped himself, glanced away, and then said, way too quietly, “By God. You are the most infuriating woman.”

She started to feel a little bit bad about then. In his own overbearing way, he really was trying. And she wasn’t helping. Because he had hurt her and she just couldn’t trust him. And his proposal of marriage had actually tempted her—at the same time as it had made her want to beat him about the head and shoulders with a large, blunt object. As she tried to think of something to say that might get them on a better footing with each other, he pulled a phone from his pocket and poked at it repeatedly. Her cell, on the coffee table, pinged.

He put his phone away. “I’ve texted you her number.”

“Her, who?”

“Astrid. You have her number now. You can call her and she’ll be happy to tell you that she and I have no plans to remarry, that we are amicably and permanently divorced, that we are not dating or in any way romantically or sexually involved with each other.”

Now Clara was the one pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t need your ex-wife’s number.”

“I mean it. Call her. And once you’ve talked to her, call me. Because you and I are not done yet. Not by a long shot. Good night, Clara.”

And with that, he turned on his heel, crossed the great room, went through the kitchen and disappeared from sight. A moment later, she heard the front door open and close.

That motivated her.

Even hugely pregnant, Clara could move fast when she wanted to. She zipped through the kitchen and straight to the window in the dining room that looked out on her porch and front yard. She got there just in time to see him duck into the backseat of a limo.

A moment later, the limo slid away from the curb and drove off down the street.

“Astrid.” She scowled. “No way am I calling Astrid.”

* * *

And she didn’t call Astrid.

But in the days that followed, she did think about Dalton a lot. She felt guilty, actually, for the way she’d behaved that night—so bitchy and angry, ready for a fight.

The hard truth was she still had that thing for him—for both of him, actually. The wonderful man she’d known on the island. And the sexy stuffed shirt who’d shown up at her door out of nowhere with a ring in his pocket and the arrogant assumption that she would pack up her life and move to Denver because he told her to.

She needed to buck up and deal, to reach out to him again, and do a better job of it this time. In the end, he was her baby’s father and she had a duty to do what she could to encourage some kind of a coparenting relationship with him.

However, she didn’t deal. She put it off, just as she’d put off telling him about the baby in the first place. Every day that passed, she had less respect for herself and her own behavior.

That Sunday night, Ryan dropped by with a pizza from Romano’s, that great Italian place across the street from the bar he owned and ran. She got him a beer and they shared the pie and he told her about the new woman in his life, a gorgeous redhead with a great sense of humor. Clara said she couldn’t wait to meet her.

Ryan, who was tall and broad-shouldered with beautiful forest-green eyes and thick brown hair, gave her his killer smile. “Yeah, we’ll have to set something up...”

She knew by the way his voice trailed off that the redhead wouldn’t be around for long, which made her a little bit sad. Rye loved women. But he never stayed in a romantic relationship for very long.

After they ate the pizza, he hung around for a couple of hours. They made small talk and played Super Mario Kart 8 and she kept thinking that now was a good time to tell him she’d finally contacted the father of her baby, a good time to explain that she’d gotten pregnant during her Caribbean getaway last summer, that the baby’s father was a banker who lived in Denver and had proposed to her out of nowhere just three nights before.

But she didn’t tell Ryan any of that, even though he had been ready and willing to step in to marry her just months before. When Rye asked her if she had something on her mind, she just said she was feeling stressed, that was all, what with the baby coming soon and the restaurant keeping her so busy.

Rye’s brow furrowed. “But I thought you were feeling good about Renée running things when the baby comes.” Renée Beauchamp was her head waitress and manager.

She rushed to reassure him. “Renée is a godsend and already she’s handling a lot of extra stuff for me. It’s going to be fine, I know it. I just worry is all.”

“You need anything, you know to call me.”

She thanked him and told him he was amazing and promised that yes, she would totally take advantage of his friendship if she needed to.

But she failed to say a word about the father of her baby.

The next night, Dalton called. “Astrid tells me you haven’t gotten in touch with her yet.”

I need to get along with him, she thought. She said, “How many times do I have to tell you that I have no intention of calling your wife?”

“Ex-wife,” he corrected in a tone that said he was quickly losing patience with her. “You would know that by now, if you would only call Astrid.”

I need to get along with him. “I’m, um, thinking about it.”

“Think faster.”

“Har-har.”

“Last week, you said the baby was due in six weeks.”

“Yes. On the sixteenth of May.”

“Which is five weeks away now.”

“I may not be a banker, Dalton, but I do know how to count.”

“We don’t have much time.”

She pressed her lips together to keep from saying, Time for what?

And he went on, “I should be with you.”

Okay, that sounded kind of sweet. She tried to think of something nice and helpful and conciliatory to say.

But before she could come up with anything, he said, “You could have the baby any time now. What if I’m not there?”

She had never expected him to be there, so she had no idea what to say to that.

And then he said, “Are you still on the line, Clara?”

“Yes.”

“Call Astrid. I mean it.”

And then he hung up.

And she did not call Astrid. But she was thinking about it. A lot.

The next weekend, Rory and Walker, Ryan’s brother, had a little party out at the Bar-N, their ranch. Clara went. So did Ryan and a bunch of their mutual friends and Clara’s sisters and three of her brothers.

Rory took her aside and asked her how she was doing, how it was working out with Dalton. And Clara was vague and unhelpful in her answers, causing Rory to ask if she was all right.

Clara lied with a big, fat smile and said she was doing just fine and no, she hadn’t told Ryan about Dalton yet. She hadn’t told anybody, she confessed.

“I will,” she promised her favorite cousin and dear friend. “Soon...”

Sunday night, Dalton called again.

It was just more of the same. He told her get in touch with Astrid and she said again that she was giving it some thought.

“Four weeks left until the baby comes,” he said bleakly. “This is wrong, what you’re doing, Clara. It’s wrong and you know it.”

And, well, after she hung up, she felt really depressed. Mostly because he was pretty much right.

So she did it. She called Astrid.

Dalton’s wife—all right, all right, ex-wife—answered the phone on the first ring and sounded quite nice, actually. She said that yes, she would be happy to meet with Clara at Clara’s convenience.

“Will you come to the house?” Astrid asked. “We can chat in private, just the two of us.”

Clara took down Astrid’s address and said she would be there at two the next afternoon. Then she called Renée, who said that she would have no problem handling the restaurant tomorrow without her.

But of course, Clara went in anyway. She might be about to have a baby, but the café was her first baby. She didn’t like deserting her business or her staff with hardly any warning. And it turned out to be another busy day, so she was glad she’d gone in—and hated to just walk out on the lunch rush.

But Renée reassured her and sent her on her way, adding that she really ought to start cutting back on her hours. She was about to have a baby, and she needed to take better care of herself.

Clara promised she was fine. And then wondered the whole drive to Denver why she was even going to meet Astrid. She didn’t really believe that Dalton was still married to—or even dating—his ex. He’d been right that she’d totally jumped to conclusions.

And now she was too proud to give it up and admit that she’d been wrong.

Astrid lived in an exclusive gated community. And she was every bit as beautiful as the pictures Clara had seen online. She congratulated Clara on her upcoming motherhood and Clara wondered if she knew that the baby was Dalton’s.

Astrid led Clara into her beautiful home and served her a delicious late lunch of penne pasta with fennel sausage, broccoli, garlic cream and grana padano cheese.

As they enjoyed the wonderful food, Clara went ahead and admitted, “This is Dalton’s baby.”

Astrid nodded. “I had a feeling that might be the case. I...wish you both the very best.”

What to say to that? “Thank you.”

Astrid confirmed what Dalton had already told Clara, that Dalton had occasionally helped her with her causes and served as her escort at a couple of events. “But that was months ago. I’m actually seeing someone now. Someone very special.” A slight, tender sort of smile curved her perfect lips. “Dalton and I are not getting back together. The marriage is over. It’s been over for a long time.”

“What went wrong?” Clara dared to ask.

Astrid only shook her head. “It’s never a good idea to ask the ex what went wrong. You should take it up with Dalton.”

Clara could hardly picture herself taking anything up with Dalton. But she only nodded and agreed that yes, he was the one she ought to ask about that.

She left Astrid’s house at a little after four and fought rush-hour traffic until she finally got north of the metro area. All the way home, she stewed over how she needed to get straight with Dalton. She needed to start working with him instead of avoiding him; they needed to begin to adjust to their roles as parents of the same child.

At home, she dug her phone out of her purse, dropped the purse on the hall table and carried the phone through to the great room, where she sank to the sofa and kicked off her shoes. With a tired sigh, she let her head drop to the sofa back.

Dalton. She needed to make peace with him for the sake of the baby. But she hated that she was still attracted to him, even though he’d turned out to be nothing like the man she’d fallen for on the island.

Plus, hello. Extremely pregnant, big as a cow. And tired. Tired to the bone. She just couldn’t talk to him right then.

And she wouldn’t.

Tomorrow. Yeah. She’d get a good night’s rest and call him in the morning.

The phone rang in her hand.

Dalton Ames, read the display. She put the damn thing to her ear. “What?”

“Astrid tells me you went to see her.”

She stifled another groan. “Yes, Dalton. Astrid has set me straight.”

“Good. Let me take you to dinner tonight.”

She cradled her enormous belly with her free hand and sighed. “I’m eight months pregnant, Dalton. I just drove five hours round-trip to and from Castle Pines Village.”

“You should have called me. I would have sent a car.”

“The point is, I’m not going anywhere this evening but to bed.”

Dead silence. Then, “My God, Clara. Are you all right?”

She wasn’t, not really. She felt torn in two. But she was much too tired to do anything about that at the moment. “Dalton, we’ll talk, I promise.”

“When?”

“Soon. I really have to go.”

“I’ll be there by nine at the latest.”

“What? Here? No. Why?”

“I want to see for myself that you’re all right.”

Clara gathered every last ounce of will and determination she had left and she told him, “Don’t you dare, Dalton. You had better not knock on my door tonight.”

More silence. Finally, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

She wasn’t, as a matter of fact. But no way was she telling him that. “Yes. I’m fine.”

“Get some rest, Clara.”

“That is exactly what I plan to do.”

He said good-night then. She breathed a careful sigh of relief as she hung up the phone. Then she dragged her poor, tired body up off the sofa and into her bedroom, where she fell into bed.

In spite of her exhaustion, she didn’t sleep well.

In the morning, she considered taking the day off. But that seemed wrong, after cutting out on her crew the day before.

So she pulled herself together, threw on a comfy blue dress with a handkerchief hem and a sturdy pair of flat-heeled sandals. She gathered her hair up into a scraggly ponytail and went in—and found Dalton there, sitting at a window table, sipping coffee and eating a Tuscan omelet. At the sight of him, in yet another of those beautiful tailor-made suits of his, looking fresh and rested and ready to get right to work bossing her around, her heart actually seemed to skip a beat.

Seriously?

What was the problem with her heart, anyway? It had no business skipping beats over him. She was as big as a barn and her ankles were swollen. The last thing she needed now was to get all excited over the guy who’d gotten her into this condition in the first place.

Some people’s hearts just never learned.

Through a monumental effort of sheer will, she put on her calmest expression and toddled over to deal with him.

The first words out of his mouth were “You look terrible.”

As if that was news to her. Of course she looked terrible. She was beat. Just completely exhausted from the constant, months-long strain of this whole situation.

And her restaurant was packed, as usual. Which was a good thing—except that all of her customers seemed to be staring at her and the big, handsome man in the great suit who gazed up at her critically, as though he, and only he, knew what was good for her.

Wonderful. Just what she needed. The whole town up in her business all over again, the way they were when she almost married Ryan.

And then he did something even more annoying than telling her she looked like crap: he actually put on a smile. And damned if that smile didn’t tug at her silly heartstrings.

“I like your café.” The blue gaze scanned the two-story wall of bookshelves that gave the café its name. He took in the tan-and-coffee-colored walls hung with art by local artists. He glanced approvingly at the many windows, most with mountain views. He nodded at the cast-iron spiral staircase in the center of the room, which led up to a second dining room open to the floor below. “It’s beautiful, Clara. And the food is excellent.”

“Thank you,” she said with careful control, keeping her voice just loud enough to be heard by him and him alone. “Tell you what, why don’t you join me in my office when you’re finished eating? We can speak privately. It’s through that arch on the right as you’re facing the counter.”

He frowned up at her. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Why are you always asking me that?” She spoke through clenched teeth.

“Because you look like you’re about to fall over.”

She lifted a hand and smoothed her scraped-back hair. “I’m just fine, thank you. My office, then?”

“I’ll be right there.”

“No hurry. Take your time.” Take forever. Please.

He nodded and picked up his fork again. She seized the moment and made her escape. Head high, giant belly leading the way, she turned for the back rooms.

In her office, she shut the door, sagged against it and stared blindly at the tiny window high on the back wall that looked out on the alley. Really, she didn’t feel well.

Her hands were chilly; her forehead was sweating. Her stomach churned and her overworked heart pounded away like a herd of wild mustangs trapped inside her chest.

What did he want from her?

To break her heart all over again?

For the past eight months, her previously well-ordered life had veered right off the rails into Crazyland. Her life had been one giant, tangled ball of anxiety and upheaval for way, way too long.

Logically, she knew that it wasn’t Dalton’s fault, that they’d had an agreement on the island and she was the one who’d wanted to make it more than it was. But in her heart, she blamed him. For not being there. For not wanting her more, for not being the perfect man she’d let herself imagine he was.

A tap on the door.

Time to face him again.

She pressed cold fingers to her hot, itchy eyelids and dragged herself up straight.

“Clara?” His voice, from the other side of the door. Gentle, for once. Maybe even a little concerned.

She didn’t need or want his concern. “Yes. Yes, all right.” She pulled the door wide.

And there he was, looking so good she wanted to break down and cry. He couldn’t get away from her fast enough on the island. And now, since she’d told him about the baby, she couldn’t get rid of him.

It was all so very confusing.

She opened her mouth to tell him...what?

She didn’t even know what to say to him.

And then it turned out it didn’t matter that she couldn’t think of what to say. Because before she could get a word out, she fainted dead away.


Chapter Three (#ulink_f232520c-efde-553f-b917-4bd9ee36fd5b)

“Clara?” Dalton watched in horror as her eyes rolled back in her head and she swayed toward him.

Her face had gone dead white; her forehead and upper lip bloomed with sweat. He caught her automatically as her knees buckled, her body folding in over her big belly, gravity dragging her to the floor.

Stunned, he stared down at the top of her head. She was limp as a rag doll, out cold.

He knew terror then. Stark, raw terror. “Clara, my God...”

No response. She sagged in his arms.

Bracing one arm at her back, he bent to get her behind the knees with the other before she could slither from his grip. Then, hoisting her high against his chest, he carried her over to the gray velvet love seat under the window and carefully lowered her down onto it.

“Clara...” he whispered, and put his hand to her damp forehead. No fever. If anything, her soft skin was too cool. The scent of her drifted to him. Sweet as ever. He wanted to touch her stomach, to somehow reassure her and the baby within her that everything was going to be okay, that he would make it so.

But before he could move his hand from her forehead to her belly, she stirred and moaned. Her eyelids fluttered open.

“What am I...? Dalton?” She put her palm to her stomach—just as he’d wanted to do—and looked down the length of her own body, frowning. “How did I...?”

“You fainted.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and punched in 911.

She tried to sit up. “Listen, I—”

“Don’t.” He clasped her shoulder. “Stay down.”

“But I...”

“Shh. Rest.”

Wonder of wonders, she settled against the cushions with a long, weary sigh, lifting the back of her hand to cover her eyes.

The 911 dispatcher answered, “What is your emergency?”

“I need an ambulance at the Library Café.”

The dispatcher started in with her series of questions.

Simultaneously, Clara gasped and dropped her hand away from her eyes. She glared at him accusingly. “An ambulance? I don’t need—”

He put a finger to his lips and shook his head. It worked. She actually fell silent, though she did continue to glare at him as he rattled off answers to the questions coming at him from the other end of the line.

When the dispatcher let him go, he stuck his phone back in his pocket. “They’ll be here within five minutes.”

She had her hand over her eyes again and she grumbled, “I agree I should see my doctor, but an ambulance is overkill.”

“Have you ever fainted before?”

“Never in my life.”

“Think of the baby, then, and humor me. You’re going to the hospital.”

She made a low, unhappy sound. “If I’d known you were this controlling, I never would have had sex with you.”

He almost laughed. “Too late now—give me your doctor’s number. I’ll call his office and get him to meet us there.”

“Us?” she groused. “I’m guessing that means you’re coming, too?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Fabulous. And it’s her office.”

“The number, Clara.”

Another tired sigh. “My cell. In my purse, second desk drawer.”

“If I leave your side, will you promise to stay where you are?”

“Overbearing,” she muttered. “Impossible...”

“Answer the question.”

“Yes. All right. I’ll stay right here.”

So he went and got her shoulder bag from the drawer.

“Phone in the side pocket,” she said. “Dr. Kapur.”

He made the call. “All set. She’ll meet you there,” he said as he tucked the phone back where he’d found it.

The sound of a siren swelled in the distance, coming their way.

Clara was gently stroking her stomach. “You told them to pull around into the parking lot, didn’t you?”

“That’s right. Closest exit from here.”

“I will try to be grateful that at least I don’t have to be carried flat on my back through my own busy restaurant.”

* * *

Clara knew she probably shouldn’t have given in and let Dalton take over. She should be strong and sure and independent.

She was strong and sure and independent. Just not right at that particular moment.

The paramedics—both of whom she’d known since elementary school—arrived. By then, Renée and half the kitchen staff had realized something was wrong. They crowded in behind the med techs, making worried noises, wanting to know if she was all right.

Dalton herded them back out again, explaining as he went that she had fainted, that they were taking her to Justice Creek General, that there was nothing to worry about, her doctor would take good care of her and she would be fine.

He sounded so wonderfully confident and certain that Clara found herself feeling reassured. Of course she would be all right—and the baby, as well. There was nothing wrong with her that a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure.

Roberta and Sal, the two med techs, finished taking her vital signs. They transferred her to a stretcher and carried her out to the parking lot in back.

Dalton came out with her. “I’ll meet you at the hospital,” he promised.

“Not necessary,” she said. “I’ll be fine.” And then she waited for his answer, a thoroughly annoying little ball of dread in the pit of her stomach, that he would say, All right, then. Good luck with that, and be on his way.

But what he did say was “You won’t get rid of me that easily,” in a voice that seemed somehow both tender and gruff.

She barely kept herself from flashing him a trembling, grateful smile. “Oh, all right.” She played it grumpy and ill-tempered for all she was worth. “Suit yourself.”

“I will, don’t worry.”

“My purse...”

“I’ll bring it,” he promised.

The techs, Sal and Roberta, loaded her into the ambulance. Sal got in with her, while Roberta went around to get in behind the wheel. Dalton was still standing there, outside the doors, when Sal pulled them shut.

* * *

At Justice Creek General, they transferred her to a wheelchair, rolled her into one of the little triage cubicles, lifted her up onto the bed in there and hooked her to an IV. Fluids, they said, to make sure she was hydrated.

They’d just left her alone when Dalton walked in. “How are you doing?”

She was ridiculously glad to see his stern, handsome face. You’d think it had been years since she’d seen him—rather than twenty minutes, tops. “I’m getting hydrated.”

“Excellent.” He settled into one of the two molded plastic chairs.

“I think this is overkill,” she grumbled, heavy on the attitude, which helped to remind her that she wasn’t going to count on him.

“You’ve said that before.”

“What about the bank? Aren’t they expecting you eventually today?”

He flashed her a cool, oh-so-confident glance. “I’ve called my assistant and rearranged my schedule.”

“Are you sure you should do that?”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Perks of being the boss. No one’s going to give me a hard time about taking a personal day.”

“Ah.” So, okay. He was staying. What else was there to say?

Nothing, apparently. He got out his smartphone and started poking at it. She stared up at the ceiling for a while, until her eyes drifted shut.

She realized she’d been snoozing when a giant, muscular guy with coffee-dark skin and dreadlocks came in to draw blood. Then a nurse came in and went over her medical history with her. After that, she dozed some more.

Eventually, she had to ask for the ladies’ room. A blonde in purple scrubs pointed the way. She wheeled an IV pole with her when she went and reminded herself to count her blessings: at least Dalton hadn’t insisted on going in there with her.

Back in the little room with him, she waited some more. She slept a little and felt generally mind-numbingly bored. Through all that, he remained, sitting there so calmly, now and then taking out his phone and checking things on it. She would have thought a high-powered control freak like what he’d turned out to be would be climbing the walls with all the endless waiting. But he took it in stride.

At half past eleven, Dr. Kapur showed up. Clara told her what had happened. Dr. Kapur left the room so that Clara could put on a paper gown. Dalton went out with her. The doctor came back in alone for the examination and Clara wondered if maybe Dalton had gone.

It was for the best, she decided. He didn’t need to hang around for this. She was fine on her own.

But then he came right back in to hear the doctor’s conclusions.

“Your baby seems to be doing well, no signs of fetal distress,” Dr. Kapur said with a reassuring smile, gazing steadily at Clara—and then turning to share that smile with Dalton.

He’s told my doctor that he’s the father, Clara realized. And somehow, knowing he’d done that both pissed her off—and made her feel like crying. With a little bit of warm fuzziness thrown in for good measure.

Dr. Kapur continued. “But you’ve been pushing too hard, I think. You’re dehydrated and you need rest. To start, I’m going to keep you overnight for observation and then tomorrow we’ll decide where to go from here.”

Clara longed to argue that she was fine and where she wanted to go was home. But if her doctor thought she needed to stay, so be it.

Then they put her in another wheelchair and rolled her to a regular room.

Once they’d had her change into a very ugly pink floral hospital gown—Dalton left the room for that, which she truly appreciated—and made her comfortable in the bed, they offered her lunch. They fed Dalton, too.

After the meal, she tried to get up and get her purse, which Dalton had stuck in the locker across the room.

“Stay in bed,” he commanded, rising to loom over her. And then his dark eyebrows drew together. “Or do you need to use the bathroom?”

“I want my phone.”

“Why?”

“I need to make a few calls.”

“You should rest.”

She only glared at him until he gave in and went and got it for her. She called Renée and said she was fine, but they were keeping her overnight, which meant she most likely wouldn’t be in tomorrow—or if so, not until after the breakfast rush. Renée reassured her that things were under control and told her to take all the time she needed. They said goodbye and Clara started to autodial Rory.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he said in a low and gentle tone that still, to her, managed to sound overbearing and superior.

“I am resting. And also making a few necessary calls.”

“You just told your manager that you would be in tomorrow,” he accused.

“No, I said I probably wouldn’t be in. If you’re going to eavesdrop on my conversations, you should listen more closely.”

“There’s no ‘probably’ involved here. You’re not going in tomorrow.”

“We’ll find out about that tomorrow. The decision will be made between me and my doctor.”

“You passed out, Clara. You’ve let yourself get dehydrated.” He cast a baleful look at the bag of clear fluid hanging next to the bed and still connected to the back of her hand. “You need rest. And I’m going to see that you get what you need.”

“Tell me, Dalton. Just when did you become the boss of me?”

He didn’t even have the grace to take a little time to think about it, but shot right back with “This morning. You remember this morning, when you fainted in my arms? That was when I realized that someone has to take care of you or you’re just going to keep on pushing yourself until you do real damage to yourself or the baby.”

Was there even a smidge of truth in any of that? Well, okay. Maybe a little. A very, very little.

And what did he mean, take care of her? He made it sound as if she had become some ongoing project. Surely he wouldn’t be hanging around for that long. He would have to go home to Denver and his banking empire at some point—like in the next hour or two.

Wouldn’t he?

He was glaring at her. She glared right back at him and said with admirable composure, “Here’s a hint. Your attitude needs some serious adjusting, because as of now, I’m not finding being around you the least bit restful.”

He actually blinked. And then he allowed gruffly, “You’re right. I’m upsetting you. I apologize. Will you please put the phone away and settle down?”

The thing was, he looked so sincere in his pompous sort of way. And even if she didn’t want to let herself start to depend on him, she couldn’t help appreciating that he was doing everything he could to look after her.

It was way too little too late. But that was almost as much her fault as his. She’d jumped to conclusions and thought he was married. He’d hired a detective and found out she was getting married. And neither of them had bothered to clear up the misunderstandings until months and months had passed.

Now he’d started to look worried. “I do apologize,” he said again. “I mean that.”

She gave in and muttered, “Apology accepted.” And then put up her forefinger. “One more call. And then I’ll lie back and relax. Promise.”

He shook his head, looking all stuffy and put-upon—but then he shrugged.

She went with the shrug and autodialed Rory, told her about fainting at the café and being stuck in the hospital for observation overnight. After Rory finished saying all the right things about how she was there if Clara needed her and please to take it easy, Clara told her about the really hideously ugly hospital gown she was wearing.

Rory knew right away what she wanted. “I’ll go by the house, get whatever you need and bring it right over there.” Rory had a key to the house, just as Clara had a key to Rory and Walker’s place at the ranch. “You’re at General, right?”

“I’m at General, yes. And here we have yet another reason why you’re my favorite cousin in the whole world. You know what I want without my even having to tell you.”

“Back at you. Let me get a pencil...”

Clara told Rory what to get and Rory wrote it down.

And then Rory said, “I’ll be there. An hour, max.”

They said goodbye. Clara set the phone on the rolling hospital bed table thingy and felt better about everything.

Dalton was watching her, wearing a softer expression than usual, an expression that reminded her of the Dalton she’d known on the island. Which made her feel somehow a little less good about things. Where had that Dalton gone?

He asked, “Was that the cousin who’s a princess, the one who’d planned to live in Colorado someday?”

Had she told him about Rory? “Yes, and now she does live here in Colorado—and how did you know that?”

“You told me on the island.”

“I did? But we didn’t talk about our real lives...” Sadness wrapped around her heart—a glowing kind of sadness. It had been a beautiful two weeks.

A smile twitched at one corner of his way-too-sexy mouth. “We had an agreement not to talk about our real lives, but you didn’t keep it.”

“No,” she admitted. “I guess I didn’t.”

“You were careful about the basics. You never mentioned Justice Creek or that you own a café. But you talked about your family and your friends. All those random things you told me made it a lot easier for that private investigator I hired to find you.”

“You were more careful than I was.” At his nod, she went on. “I had your name, that you lived in Denver and that you were divorced. Luckily, you’re a big shot, so it wasn’t that hard to find you myself once I put my mind to it.”

“To find me and then decide I was remarried and not bother to get in touch with me until three weeks ago.”

“The important thing is, I did get in touch with you.”

“Finally.”

She looked at him dead-on. “Do you really want to go there right now, while I’m resting?”

Those blue eyes were on her, so focused, so determined. “No. You’re right. I don’t.”

She shoved at her ponytail, which had sagged rather sadly and would be coming completely undone any minute now. “May I have my purse, please?” He got right up and brought it to her. “Thank you.” He sat down again. She foraged around in the central compartment until she found her brush. And then she redid the ponytail, brushing it up and into her fist, then twisting the elastic back into place. “There. Much better.”

He got up again and put the purse back in the locker. He was just shutting the metal door when the baby kicked her a good one.

“Ouch!”

He turned, fast, looking freaked. “Clara! What?”

She laughed and rubbed the spot. “It’s just the baby. She’s a kicker.”

He came to her side. “She?”

She started to grab his hand and put it where he’d feel the next one—and then hesitated, suddenly self-conscious, a little embarrassed.

Which was silly. She’d let complete strangers touch her tummy. Yeah, okay, the guy had done a number on her heart. But he was the father. And he was trying. She nodded, pushed the covers out of the way, took his hand and put it on the side swell of her stomach. The baby promptly kicked her again. She winced. “There. Feel it?”

“I do.” He had that look, a look of wonder, of awe. It made her almost start to love him a little again, in spite of everything—scratch that. Like. It made her like him a little. Those blue eyes were shining. “By God, I feel it. I do.”

She laughed again and held his hand as he pressed his big, warm palm to the side of her belly. Another kick. She chuckled. And Dalton made a low, marveling sound. His hand felt so strong, long fingers spread, against the side of her belly.

And then her gaze went to his. They just stared at each other. With zero animosity. Only shared delight.

He asked, “A girl, you said?”

“Yes. I had an ultrasound.”

“A girl,” he repeated, as if he’d never heard anything more miraculous in his life. “I never thought...”

“What?”

He looked faintly abashed. She found that way too charming. “I don’t know,” he said almost shyly. “A girl, that’s all. A little girl. What do you think of that?” It wasn’t really a question. More an exclamation along the lines of Isn’t that awesome? Or How completely cool.

Clara watched his face and remembered the sweet, passionate, caring man she’d fallen in love with. Why was he hiding from her? Where had he gone?

She was actually considering asking him, when her half sisters Jody and Nell appeared in the open door to the hallway.

He must have caught the shift in her gaze. Pulling his hand away, breaking that tenuous connection, he turned toward the door.

* * *

Rocked to the core by the feel of his daughter’s tiny foot poking against his palm, Dalton turned to the two women standing in the doorway. One was conventionally pretty, with light brown hair and a big vase full of flowers in her hands. The other? An auburn-haired stunner, in a short, tight dress, she wore boots straight out of a Sons of Anarchy episode and had brightly colored tattoos from shoulder to elbow down her shapely left arm.

The family resemblance was clear—between the two women in the doorway and the woman in the bed behind him. Sisters, probably. On the island, Clara had told him she had two half sisters and one full sister. Plus, there was someone named Tracy, wasn’t there? Tracy had come to live with Clara’s mother’s family, been raised as one of them, after her parents died tragically in a fire.

“Jody. Nell,” Clara greeted the two with real warmth in her voice. “Come in, come in. Did Rory call you?”

The tattooed stunner came first. The one with the flowers, following close behind, said, “Roberta Carver came in the shop an hour ago. She said she and Sal Healey carried you out of the café on a stretcher this morning.”

Clara groused, “Shouldn’t patient confidentiality apply to paramedics and ambulance drivers?”

“Not in Justice Creek, it doesn’t,” said the stunner.

Clara jumped right to denial. “This is not a big deal. I’m only here overnight. Just for observation. It’s nothing to worry about.”

Dalton considered stepping in and arguing the point. But before he made up his mind whether to say anything, Clara started in with the introductions. Jody was the one with the flowers and Nell the one in the biker boots. Clara gave the two women Dalton’s full name, but no explanation as to what he was doing there.





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/christine-rimmer/not-quite-married/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.