Читать книгу Baby, I'm Yours - Catherine Mann - Страница 8

With lightning reflexes gained from years of dodging potentially lethal horse kicks, Vic shot out of his chair. He scooped Claire up before she hit the hardwood floor.

He bent on one knee, Claire cradled to his chest where his heart pumped. Too fast. Warm and soft, she sagged against him, with dark circles under her eyes. Her head lolled on his shoulder.

“Claire? Talk to me.” What if she was actually sick? He pressed two fingers to her throat and found a steady pulse.

Thank God.

She sighed and snuggled closer, her eyes closed while chairs scraped back throughout the dining room. Footsteps vibrated the floor. Overhead lights dimmed as curious patrons circled, not that he could see anything other than Claire’s pale face at the moment.

Why couldn’t there have been a doctor in today’s diners? His medical training wasn’t worth jack at the moment.

The mass parted as a wiry woman pushed through with a nervous energy that rivaled a hummingbird on Mountain Dew. Claire’s sister Starr fluttered to a stop.

“Move on over, people, and let her breathe.” Not a soul dared disobey the scrappy five feet of frenetic will and wildly escaping hair. “What happened?”

“I have no idea. She just keeled over.” And shaved at least two years off his life. His heart hadn’t slammed this hard against his ribs when he’d jumped a fence to avoid getting gored by an angry, recently castrated bull. “She doesn’t seem to be hurt. I caught her before she hit the floor.”

Starr nodded, rising. “Good. Good. Now put all those hard-working muscles to good use and let’s move her someplace quiet while we decide whether to call EMS.”

Vic gathered Claire more securely in his arms and stood, unable to resist savoring the soft swell of her breasts against his chest, the flowery scent of her hair. And had he mentioned the swell of her breasts against his chest? Of course, Claire would likely clock him with a frying pan when she woke up.

If she woke up.

Concern cranked into high gear. He knew all too well how fragile life could be. In some distant part of his brain, Vic heard Bo speaking to him, but couldn’t concentrate on anything more than Claire in his arms.

He charged around tables after Starr into the hall where waiting patrons gaped. Starr unhooked the golden rope across the stairway that kept guests from going up to the private apartment and waved him past.

Turning sideways, he sprinted up the hardwood steps to the landing and up again. Whitewashed walls gave way to faded wallpaper with cabbage roses. Claire had talked about her plans for stripping the paper in her never-ending task of renovating the house. She worked too hard. Who looked out for her?

He shut down the thought, along with others stinging him with how much this place resembled the family house he’d sold in North Dakota. Not that they actually looked alike, this one full of old southern class and his eked in prairie starkness.

But the air of home, he recognized well.

At the top of the stairs, Vic reached to open the hall door leading to the living quarters, never loosening his hold on Claire. Scents of home-cooked meals gave way to the fragrance of a hundred percent her.

Flowers, the purple kind. Lilacs maybe? The perfume she carried on her body. On her crisp fresh sheets. A scent she’d imprinted on his memory.

Vic turned to Starr a couple of steps behind him. “Where should we go?”

“She’ll be more comfortable on her bed.”

Pivoting on his heel, he charged through the sitting area, down the hall, to the first room on the left.

And froze.

He shouldn’t know which door led to her bedroom. Heat crawled up the back of his neck. Aw, for Pete’s sake, thirty-nine was too old to blush.

He offered a belated questioning look to Starr. “Uh, is this it?”

Starr cocked her head to the side. The heat along his neck flamed a little hotter. Busted.

Since Starr lived in the carriage house out back and their other sister, Ashley, lived on campus at the College of Charleston neither of them had known about his weekend up here. Unless Claire had told them.

Starr’s eyes narrowed before concern returned to wipe away her unspoken question. She nodded, pushing the door wide. “In here.”

Memories nailed Vic. Dead on. Flattening all his defenses as surely as if he’d been the one to pitch onto the floor instead of Claire. Her mammoth four-poster bed loomed in front of him with all those gauzy things draped around the square bracket along the top. The open window rustled the filmy draping like some kind of bridal bower over her bed.

He’d spent the best seventy-two hours of his life with her there—and against that faded cabbage rose wallpaper, and on the stairs.

In his bass boat.

Behind him, Starr cleared her throat. He needed to get his head on straight and think about Claire. Carefully, he lowered her to the fluffy comforter.

Talk about reliving memories.

You’re in big trouble, champ.

Vic looked over his shoulder. “Could you get a glass of water for when she wakes up?”

Furrows wrinkled Starr’s forehead. “Good idea, and a cool cloth, too. Maybe a thermometer? I’ll be right back.”

Claire burrowed her face into the pillow as Starr’s footsteps faded down the hall. Relief kicked through him so strong he almost staggered back a step.

“Vic?” she mumbled in a sleepy voice too like the one that haunted his dreams.

“Yeah, Claire. It’s me.” He cleared his throat along with any thoughts of Claire’s waking-up voice. “You really gave us a scare down there, lady. Are you okay?”

He hoped so, because he needed to make tracks out of her place and away from her appeal before he landed next to her.

“Mmm.” She shifted onto her side toward him. “Now I am.”

Claire flung an arm over Vic’s shoulder and toppled him forward onto her bed.

Claire snuggled into her dream, fighting consciousness just a little longer. Tingles teased along her skin as she inhaled…man. Strong, warm man in her bed, heavy muscled arms and legs tangled with hers.

And not just any man.

The one she’d been dreaming of having right here beside her since the first day he’d sauntered up her walkway, taut butt, broad shoulders, so much man even her towering entry hall could barely contain him.

Vic’s pine-soap scent and steady heartbeat soothed her senses, mellowing and exciting her at the same time. She’d needed the support of his chest so much on that night. The first anniversary of Aunt Libby’s death had hit her hard, especially so close after the holidays. And she’d already been stressed out by the monied bigwigs drooling over her prime piece of waterfront property, pressuring her day in and day out to sell.

Vic’s steady friendship had meant a lot to her. How could she not turn to him? Comfort that night had shifted quickly to something more.

She nuzzled his neck. “Mmm. You smell so good.”

And she was so sleepy.

Vic coughed.

“Really good.” Her languid arms flopped around his shoulders to toy with his collar. “You feel good, too. Have I ever told you how hot your butt looks in jeans? And that faded patch in front makes me want to flatten my h—”

“Uh, Claire…”

“Yeah, Vic?” She slid a button free through warm cotton covering even warmer man.

“We need to stop.”

“Don’t wanna.”

His wry chuckle kissed her ears as seductively as his mouth had done a few months ago. “Well, me neither, but we have to.”

She didn’t want to think about her groaning bank account and repairs piling up faster than she could count them, not when a much-needed nap and a warm chest waited in this bed. She fought consciousness. For just a few seconds longer she wanted to abandon Claire-logic to the boundless possibilities of dreamland. “Why should we stop?”

“Because Starr is in the next room filling a glass of water for you. She’ll be walking through that door any second now.”

An icy shower of realization splashed her wide awake. This wasn’t a few months ago. This was now, with Vic on her purple comforter and totally unaware of a third little person with them.

Her eyes focused simultaneously with her thoughts.

Claire shoved Vic’s chest. She bolted upright just as he rolled off the mattress, work boots thumping on the braided rug as he launched to his feet.

She hitched the hem of her dress down past her knees. “What are you doing here? What am I doing here? How did we—? What were we—?”

“Stop.” He kept his voice low, glancing over his shoulder at the door before continuing, “You passed out downstairs.”

Memories flooded back of pitching toward the floor. Claire pressed a hand to her stomach to reassure herself life was still growing, safe, already fully seated within her heart.

Nothing seemed wrong. She just felt queasy, ops normal these days. “I passed out?”

Nodding, Vic rebuttoned his shirt. “I carried you up here afterward. Are you okay?”

No! She wanted to shout. I’m not okay at all. This baby left her excited and scared at once. No matter how many times she told herself she wasn’t a single seventeen-year-old like her mother, she still couldn’t stem fears of letting down her child.

And in the middle of all those fears rumbled a confused mishmash of emotions for the baby’s father tipping her world until she couldn’t see straight. Or maybe that was because all she could see was a broad set of shoulders and a gorgeous head of thick, sun-kissed hair that begged her fingers to smooth it.

Staring into eyes so blue they turned almost as purple as the lilacs on her windowsill, she wanted to tell him about their child now. She wanted him to be happy about the baby. She needed him to reassure her they would sort out reasonable plans for sharing custody.

And if by some fluke the once-bitten-twice-shy bachelor actually offered to marry her?

Not a chance. She’d been an obligation to so many people over the years. She wouldn’t put that grief on her baby.

But Aunt Libby’s old voice whispered in her mind that a mama would do anything for her child. Or was that her own mother’s voice she could barely remember anymore? A woman who’d even been willing to climb into a trucker’s cab on occasion to earn extra dollars for rent.

Claire swallowed down sympathetic tears that pooled closer to the surface these days. She’d stumbled on that tidbit of info about her mom when searching through Aunt Libby’s paperwork, which included a copy of Claire’s case file. All of which flooded her eyes with more tears for both mother figures in her life who had sacrificed so much for her.

Vic’s arm slid around her shoulders. “Claire, baby, are you all right?”

Omigod, she couldn’t think now, and she definitely couldn’t talk rationally. She blinked fast. Better to speak with Vic when her emotions were steadier…and when her sister wasn’t one room away.

Claire swung her legs over the side of the bed and willed the wisteria-vine pattern climbing her faded wallpaper to quit wiggling. “I’m fine. Thank you for carrying me up here so I wasn’t sprawled out there for all the customers to gawk at.”

“No problem. I just want to make sure you’re okay.” He pressed a hand to her forehead. “My specialty may be four-legged patients, but you don’t feel feverish.”

Uh-oh. He wanted a reason. She gripped his wrist and tried not to notice the steady pulse under her touch, the masculine bristle of hair sprinkled along his skin. His eyes met hers, held, the pulse throbbing under her fingers sped. Hers answered with a resounding ka-thump.

She dropped his hand. “Thanks for the medical assistance, Doctor Jansen, but this two-legged patient is only hungry. I skipped breakfast this morning.” And lunch. “With the extra catering jobs, I’m putting in additional hours. It must have caught up with me.”

He jammed his clenched fists in his faded jean pockets. “You should take better care of yourself.”

She knew that. Already she felt like a rotten mother, but she had such a tough time asking for help. She would—in another week. “I’ll be fine once I eat something.”

And kept it down.

“Even a farm vet like me can see you need a nap.”

“Tomorrow.” She slid off the edge of the bed to her feet. “I have too much to—”

The room tipped. Her stomach roiled. Before she could blink, Vic braced her shoulders and sat her on the bed. He gripped the back of her neck and eased her forward. She dropped her head between her knees. Her notepad thudded to the floor. She would retrieve it after she found air.

“Deep breaths. Slowly. It’s okay,” Vic’s voice soothed in time with his steady strokes along the back of her head and neck. Then along her shoulders. One hand on each side, he patted and braced her in case she fell forward again. “Keep breathing.”

She drew in air tinged with the scent of his soap and her magnolia trees outside. Long after her stomach settled, she stared at Vic’s work boots and feared what she would find if she looked up. Would he suspect? Hopefully he didn’t know anything about pregnant women.

What a stupid thought. Of course he did. His ex-wife had been pregnant once.

Slowly, Claire straightened, but she found nothing more than concern on his face. The wisteria plants on her wallpaper stayed blessedly still, although her face in the armoire mirror matched the leaves on the vines.

Vic kept both hands on her shoulders. She couldn’t seem to scavenge the words to tell him she no longer needed his support.

For just one weak moment, she let herself forget her fears about being a good mother, about holding strong against all the people clamoring to take her house away. Forget that even if she could stay in his arms, Vic had been burned in the past, too. Forget everything but the wonderful deep blue of his eyes as he searched her face.

Staccato footsteps sounded from the hall.

Vic dropped his hands in a flash and stepped back. He scooped her notepad off the floor and plopped it on her bedside table by a colored-glass bowl of rocks.

Inching off the bed, Claire grabbed the bedpost for support. She knew full well her shaky knees had more to do with Vic than his baby.

Starr blasted through the door, water glass, cloth, and thermometer in hand. “Oh good, you’re awake.” Her spiky heels clicked across the waxed wood floors. “Sorry it took me so long, but I couldn’t find the thermometer. And oh, uh, your medicine cabinet’s not quite as organized anymore.” She gasped for breath, setting everything on the bedside table. “You scared the spit out of me.”

“Sorry about that.” She reached for the glass and dutifully swallowed down two sips before setting it by her notepad and decorative rocks.

“And well you should be.” Her foster sister shoved her down onto the bed with a strength that would have surprised most people.

But not Claire. She knew her fireball sister better than that. Nobody tangled with Starr. Well, not anyone with sense. A cold cloth slapped across her forehead.

Vic leaned against the wall next to her armoire. “She hasn’t eaten today. Something about being too busy.”

Claire shot him a you traitor look, before smiling at her sister. “No need to take my temperature. I just need to grab a quick bite and I’ll be fine.”

Her nausea usually didn’t last past the afternoon. She’d tried to arrange her schedule for later shifts so she had mornings to lie in, but preparations for the baby shower tonight had skewed her schedule.

“Yeah, right.” Leaning, Starr creaked open the trunk at the foot of the bed and whipped out an extra pillow. She thunked it at the end of the mattress. “You’re going to put your feet up and sleep. I’ll bring you a sandwich in a minute.”

“But the—”

“Baby shower. I own a third of this place, you know. I can hostess an event on my own just like you do.”

But the cooking wasn’t Starr’s area of expertise. She managed the bar as well as handling the artsy side of decor and the gift shop, while accounting major Ashley had taken over the books.

Still, they did all help out with waitressing in a pinch.

Starr bustled to the window and closed the blinds. She left a few inches free at the bottom for the wind to slant through since the AC barely worked. “Ashley will be here in a few minutes. She and I can pull the rest together before tonight, and still watch over the restaurant.”

“But you don’t know what I’ve—”

“Good Lord, girl.” Starr swished to the door and flicked on the ceiling fan. “You’ve been making detailed lists for as long as I can remember. I’m sure you’ve got one around here somewhere. Just give it to me and I’ll take things from there.”

Claire patted her right apron pocket. Empty. But she always kept it there. Of course, she’d been distracted lately. She fished inside her left. Empty as well. Oh yeah, it had fallen out. “I know the last-minute list is here some—”

Vic slid the pad off her bedside table. “Is this it?”

He paused mid-reach, frowning. His eyes locked on the top sheet of paper. Claire followed his gaze…right…down…to his lunch selection bordered with baby bottles. Then he looked up. At her.

At her stomach.

His rugged face blanched as white as her bleached lace curtains gusting in the window. He knew. She didn’t even have to wonder. Her throat closed.

His paleness quickly shifted to something darker. Thank heavens her sister stood behind him. Anger stamped itself across his normally easygoing face and in his beautiful eyes. Who knew blue could turn to black?

She understood he had every right to be angry with her for not telling him sooner, but that didn’t stop the swell of disappointment. Silently, Vic dropped the pad on the bed and scratched a hand along his chest, right over his heart.

Claire yanked the little notebook up and ripped the top page off before passing the rest to Starr. “Here, this has a list of the last-minute errands.”

At least Starr seemed oblivious as she babbled nonstop. “Where did you put the guest list? I’ve already made the centerpieces and party favors. Does Ashley have the games, or did she already drop them off?”

Claire answered automatically, unable to drag her eyes from Vic’s face as it blanked of all expression. “On the computer. In the Shower section, folder marked Rena Price. And yes, Ashley has the games.”

Starr flipped through the notes. “What about the menu listed on your notepad? Where do I find everything?”

The notepaper crumpled in her fist. “Check the freezer, second from the top shelf, for the things I baked ahead and froze. The rest is in the pantry.”

“Labeled, I assume.”

“Of course.” Claire forced herself to swallow past the wad of regret in her throat. “I’m sorry,” she said, more to Vic than her sister.

Starr tossed a lightweight quilt over Claire’s legs. “Don’t apologize, hon. You pull more than your share living here while I hide out in the carriage house. I’ll be back in a second with a sandwich.”

Her foster sister stepped away to hook arms with Vic and began inching him out of her room with a knowing look that didn’t bode well for secrecy. “Thanks again for the muscle help.”

“Anytime.” Vic nodded. “Good-bye, Claire.”

His mouth might have said good-bye, but his determined eyes said clearly they’d be talking soon.

She hadn’t seen the last of him, Vic vowed.

Frustration fueled his feet as he charged down the front steps of the restaurant, across her yard toward the marina. He strode past the Beachcombers’ white wooden sign, seashells piled around the base in place of landscaping rocks. His gaze locked on home, his Catalina sailboat. His head still buzzed with numbing realization like the bees zipping through the blooming azalea bushes.

Claire was pregnant.

Vic slapped a mosquito snacking on his neck, the sting nowhere near as sharp as the one inside him. She’d lied. Lied in that message, and again every day after with her continued silence.

He’d been an idiot, especially today, in missing the signs. He’d attributed the fainting spell to exhaustion. When her face flooded with that telling shade of green, a flipping bullhorn had sounded in his head. But he’d ignored it even though he’d seen that nauseated hue on Sonya’s face a time or two—or five.

Then he’d seen the baby bottle border on Claire’s pad, followed by her guilty blush, and he couldn’t ignore the obvious any longer.

She was pregnant. He was going to be a father again, and the kid was his. He’d watched Claire’s house from the deck of his boat often enough to know she wasn’t dating anyone else.

Still, she’d known about the pregnancy for months and hadn’t said a word to him.

Vic thudded down the dock, water below him slapping the posts and the hulls of everything from ski boats to yachts. He closed in on his forty-two-footer, the Dakota-Rat. He’d wanted to name her Emma, but that seemed morbid at a time he’d vowed to get his act together.

Or so he’d thought.

He leaped from the dock to the bow. He should head inside and…what?

His feet stalled. Maybe he deserved her silence after the pathetic assurance he’d scrounged up during their broken-condom incident. Of course none of that mattered now if there was a child to consider.

A child.

Vic stopped by the wheel and grabbed the rail for support. His hand slid up to scratch his chest over his thudding pulse. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep himself from loving this kid. But man, he was scared. Flat-out terrified of placing his heart in chubby little hands again.

Apparently, the choice had been taken away from him.

Resting his elbows on the warm metal railing, he gazed across the water at Claire’s white clapboard house. The wraparound porch with hanging ferns swaying in the wind offered a welcoming vision he knew wasn’t meant for him.

He would leave her alone for her much-needed nap and the shower party thing. But before morning, he and Claire would have one very straightforward discussion. He’d had enough of Claire shuffling him aside.

Even though the thought of marriage knocked his sea legs out from under him, no way would he walk away from his child.