Читать книгу For Their Baby - Kathleen O'Brien - Страница 9

Eight weeks later

BY THE TIME the Brantley deposition was over, David Gerard couldn’t see anything but January’s darkness outside his law office window, and he was tired. Not just go-to-bed-early tired. The kind of disgusted bone-weariness that made people burn their houses, move to Costa Rica and spend the rest of their lives drinking piña coladas out of conch shells.

Unfortunately, he’d promised to take Marta Digiorno, a friend who also happened to be an attorney, out to dinner. They’d been circling the idea of dating for the past few weeks, though he wasn’t crazy about mixing the courthouse with pleasure. Tonight would be a trial balloon. Not quite a date, but not completely business, either.

“Do you think Barker and King will settle?” Marta stuffed file folders into the pocket of her briefcase, then sat on the edge of his desk and smiled. Amazingly, she didn’t look an iota less crisp and professional than she had at eight this morning, when they’d passed in the hall, each heading into the courthouse to take separate depositions.

She had a good legal mind, and David answered the question honestly. The chauvinistic weasels at Barker and King, Inc., had clearly discriminated against his client, a former employee who had been let go because she got pregnant.

“They should settle,” he said. “But they might not. They know the case is pro bono. They might think they can stonewall until we get tired of paying out of our own pockets.”

“Watch your pronouns,” she said, cocking one graceful eyebrow. “I’m not representing anyone for free. You’re the bleeding heart around here. So, any chance your heart feels sorry enough for a fellow lawyer to rub her tired feet?”

She kicked off her high heels and rested her left foot on his thigh.

Okay, that certainly shifted the evening squarely into the personal column. He hesitated, then decided he was being a fool. It had been two months since he’d had a date. Longer, really, because that Bahamas madness didn’t really qualify as a date.

Still…eight weeks since his vacation, when for the first time in his boring, Mr. Nice Guy life, he’d been propositioned by two women in one night. Not his usual style, not by a long shot. And sadly, not as exciting as people might think. Kind of foolish, actually, and, in the end, oddly depressing. Another prepubescent dream busted.

Anyhow, the green-haired bartender and her trashy friend, whom he’d tossed out of the cottage in about ten seconds without wasting much time on tact, were history. Belle Carson, who had been happily married eight weeks now, too, was also history.

Marta was smart, classy, witty and obviously interested. And she was here. So what was he waiting for?

Nothing. He nestled her heel in one hand and began flexing her long, slim toes with the other.

She leaned back, palms down on his desk, and let her eyes drift shut. “Mmm,” she said in a low purr. “Nice.”

A sudden commotion in the outer office stilled his hands. He glanced toward the closed door, not alarmed but curious. It was at least eight o’clock. He didn’t have any appointments tonight.

That is what his paralegal, Amanda, was clearly trying to tell someone. A woman, from the sound of it. A woman who was refusing to take no for an answer.

Within two seconds, his door flung open. A young female with crazy green curls stormed in, her eyes fiery and her head pushed forward, like a determined goose. Behind her, Amanda stood helplessly, hands up in defeat. “Miss—Miss, I told you Mr. Gerard is unavailable and—”

The young woman scowled over her shoulder at the paralegal. “And I told you I don’t care. What is it with you people? He’s not the president, for God’s sake!” Then she turned toward David, and he saw her face harden as she took in Marta lounging on the desk, her jacket on the chair, her foot cradled in David’s hands.

“Oh,” the newcomer said. “That kind of unavailable.”

David’s mind wasn’t working fast enough. He knew what he saw, or what he thought he saw, but it was so impossible his brain wouldn’t accept it. The hair was green, just like before. And the eyes…

He knew those eyes. And yet, how could it be? It couldn’t. It couldn’t be—

He’d called her “the green-haired bartender” in his mind so long he couldn’t, for a minute, remember her name.

Marta had already moved her foot and let her legs slide down, so he stood.

“Miss…” He took a breath. “Katie?”

But the instant he said it, he knew it was wrong. Not Katie. Kitty. Of course it was Kitty. In his mind, he could still see the white rectangle of her name tag, moving up and down as she panted…

What on earth was she doing here?

Her eyes narrowed. “Close,” she said icily. “Partial credit. It’s Kitty. Kitty Hemmings. You look surprised to see me. I guess this means none of your bodyguards called to give you a heads-up.”

“My what?”

“Your bodyguards. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all afternoon. But your receptionist, she’s not that friendly, is she? Neither is your housekeeper, for the record.”

She’d been to his house? Of course Bettina, who was a terrible snob, would have been rude to a visitor with green hair and…whatever that geometrically patterned green and pink sarong-like thing was supposed to be. Bettina was rude to him if he wore sweats or brought home fast food.

How had Kitty found his house? He hadn’t known her last name, and he wouldn’t have thought she knew his. In the end, though, how she’d found him was relatively unimportant. Relative, that is, to the real sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.

Why had she found him?

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Marta had slipped on her shoes, and she’d put on her game face, too. As he’d just been observing, Marta was smart as hell. She clearly knew something wasn’t right about this scene.

Half a dozen explanations raced through his head. Could Kitty need a job, a recommendation, a lawyer? Surely not. People didn’t expect their one-night stands to give them career references. His shoulder muscles tightened. Crap—had he picked up a stalker?

Or was she bringing bad news? An STD? He always, always used condoms. Blackmail? God help him, she wasn’t underage, was she? She looked mid-twenties, but you never knew these days. He’d assumed the bar wouldn’t employ anyone…

But assumptions could be lethal. Any good lawyer knew that.

“Of course. Kitty.” Years of poker-faced negotiations saved him from revealing the chill that ran through his veins. “How can I help you?”

It sounded stilted, almost rude. He saw her recoil slightly. But what the hell had she expected? Whatever he’d briefly, brainlessly, believed might be going on between them that night—he’d been wrong. He’d just been her flavor du jour, a tourist novelty to be shared with her horny girlfriends. Fine. He was a grown man. No one had held a gun to his head. No big deal.

But with that kind of cheap treat, no one came back for seconds.

“How can I help you?” he repeated. He didn’t change his tone.

“We need to talk,” she said flatly. Her gaze slid to Marta. “Alone.”

The other lawyer didn’t budge.

He touched Marta’s shoulder. “The reservations are for eight-thirty. If you go ahead now, we won’t lose the table. I’m sure this won’t take long. I can meet you at the restaurant.”

A frown line bisected Marta’s perfect, pale forehead. “David, it might be better if—”

“It’s fine.” He smiled. He hoped he was right. “I’ll meet you there.”

Marta nodded, though she didn’t look convinced. The room rang with silence as she gathered up her briefcase and her coat. She moved to the door, then turned.

She looked at David. “I’ll mention to security that you’re still in the office.”

“Oh, brother.” Kitty dropped her purse on the desk and crossed her arms. “He’s twice my size, and I’m not packing heat.” She glared at David. “But if you’re afraid to be alone with me, I’d be happy to have a group discussion. Invite security. Hey, invite everybody. The alone part was for your benefit, not mine.”

“It’s fine,” he said again, giving Marta a straight look. “Really.”

Marta knew he meant it. She slipped through the door, shutting it behind her.

And then he and Kitty were alone. With Marta gone, he was much more aware of her, of her deep, island tan and a scent with a hint of strawberry. For a minute, he could smell that little beachside bar again. Salt in the air, lemons and limes and kiwi fruit, an undercurrent of barbeque smoke.

She glanced around, and her frown deepened. “Nice office,” she said cryptically.

Did that mean she was surprised? By what? How dull it was? By the decorator-chosen beiges, the bland paintings that even Belle, who was ten times as conservative as Kitty, had hated? Had he seemed more interesting in the Bahamas?

Or was she surprised by how luxurious it was? Half his clients were pro bono, but the other half required impressing. So the decorator had hauled in solid mahogany paneling, carpet like velvet air, a marble bust of Thomas Jefferson for the corner. If Kitty had come for blackmail, this probably looked like the jackpot.

But something in him couldn’t believe that. What blackmail could possibly stick? He wasn’t married, and the sex had been consensual. Even if she’d caught the whole thing on tape, up to and including the second offer from her friend, he’d be nothing worse than embarrassed. Lunches at the University Club would be awkward for a while, with everyone asking why he’d turned down Lady Number Two, but he’d survive.

He watched Kitty as she roamed the room, proving it didn’t intimidate her. She even gave Jefferson an affectionate tap on the nose. But the gesture didn’t ring true. Her body looked tight, as if she were nervous, but hell-bent on hiding it. He wondered how rude Bettina had actually been. Or Amanda. Both women had maternal streaks where he was concerned.

He felt like a blind man playing a game of chess, aware of all the possible strategies, but unable to see the full board. He had no idea what her ultimate gambit was. Surely a polite neutrality was the best first move. No need to assume the worst.

“Would you like to sit down?”

Kitty turned. Her green eyes were bright, sparkling under the overhead fixture. Anger? Or tears?

“No. Thank you.” A hint of a smile played at her full mouth, and it wasn’t a reassuring look. “You might want to, though.”

Ah. Not good news, then. Of course not.

“Thanks for the warning.” He tilted his lips in an equally mirthless smile. “I think perhaps you’d better get to the point.”

“So you can make your reservations? So you can meet your date?” She glanced toward the door. “Is she your girlfriend?”

“I don’t see that my relationship with Marta is relevant.”

“How serious is this relationship? Was she your girlfriend when you…eight weeks ago?”

“Again,” he said, though he had to work to keep a patient tone, “I think you’ll need to establish the relevance before—”

“You want relevance?” She hadn’t ever unfolded her arms, and he saw her fingers tighten until the knuckles were white. “Okay, I’ll give you relevance.”

He waited. The room was so quiet he realized neither one of them was breathing. “I’m pregnant.”

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Kitty nursed a glass of ice water in the restaurant of her hotel, trying to occupy herself by mentally critiquing the bartender. Unfortunately, because the hotel was half empty and down on its luck, nothing much was happening except the occasional request for an after-work beer.

She’d considered booking a room somewhere glitzy—a fancy hotel that would show David Gerard she wasn’t someone who could be pushed around. But that idea had evaporated after a nanosecond. She didn’t have much left in her savings, and she had no idea whether David was the type who might tell her to go to hell, and take the baby with her. She had to hang on to every penny.

Still, she had to do something to take her mind off the fact that he and his lawyer would be here in about five minutes. She was determined not to spend the time second-guessing what they might say.

She needed, more than anything else, to stay calm.

But…how could she have been such an idiot? How could she have let herself end up in such a wretched mess? Everyone knew sex with strangers was dumb. Everyone knew condoms weren’t foolproof.

Everyone except Kitty Hemmings and David Gerard, apparently. She’d seen the shock in his eyes when she announced that she was pregnant. And then she’d seen the cynicism, the disdain, the quick up-and-down glance that said he thought she was lying.

If only she were.

The last thing in the world she wanted was to have a baby right now. With her life so up in the air, no roots under her feet. With a man she barely knew. A man who thought she was, at best, a little island tramp and, at worst, a sociopathic gold digger.

But she was going to have a baby, and it was his, and he’d have to come to terms with the idea, just as she’d had to.

The restaurant door opened, letting in a long rectangle of light briefly, then shutting it out again as it closed. David was here.

Her heart lurched a little, partly fear, partly just the same reaction any female would have to someone that good-looking. And of course he’d brought the tallest, best-dressed lawyer in San Francisco, doubling the intimidation factor.

She held up a hand to help them find her, although she knew her green hair was as good as a neon sign. David glanced at the other man, who slowly nodded, his gaze piercing even from ten yards away.

She felt a blush creep over her cheeks.

Temper, temper. Getting mad at David wasn’t just counterproductive—it was unfair. He hadn’t forced her to have sex that night. Far from it. She was honest enough to admit it had been entirely her idea.

And he certainly hadn’t poked holes into the condom. He was just as shocked and confused as she’d been when she found out a couple of weeks ago. By bringing a lawyer, he clearly just intended to protect himself. What was wrong with that?

In the end, wasn’t that what she was doing, too? The only difference was, she was also protecting her child.

“Kitty.” He had reached the table, and managed to summon up a smile. That was nice, anyhow.

“David.” She didn’t rise or hold out her hand because it felt wrong. Everything about this meeting felt wrong.

“Kitty, this is my attorney and friend, Colby Malone. He’s advising me today.”

Malone didn’t seem to have any scruples about the standard courtesies. He probably dealt with awkward situations every day. He held out his hand with such authority it didn’t occur to her not to take it. “Hello, Ms. Hemmings. I hope you don’t mind if I sit in on the meeting.”

She shook her head. “No, of course not. Whatever.”

Both men sat, and Kitty shifted her glass over, just for something to do with her hands. What a pair. Their pictures were probably in the dictionary, illustrating the phrase “looks like a million bucks.”

Malone smiled at her, his eyes cool but kind. “Ms. Hemmings, David is—”

“No.” David lifted his palm. “Colby, thanks, but…let me.”

Malone hesitated briefly, then leaned back in his chair, putting his elbows on the padded arms to signal his easy agreement. “Of course. Sorry.”

David cleared his throat, then began.

“Kitty, I—”

The waitress, of course, took that moment to come by. The men ignored the woman’s flirtatious blinks and calmly ordered coffee. Kitty decided to get an order of unbuttered toast. For the past few weeks, her stomach had been unsteady, not just in the mornings and not just when she was arranging the future of her unborn child. She’d always heard what a tough time her mother had with pregnancy, and apparently she’d inherited the problem.

In fact, it was when she puked on Sugarwater’s best beach bar customer that she’d lost her job.

“Kitty.” David turned to her one more time. “I want you to know, right from the beginning, that if this baby is mine I don’t intend to shirk responsibility.”

She pressed her hands together in her lap. “If?”

David was careful not to glance at Malone, though Kitty could see that the other lawyer was listening very carefully to this part. He looked as serene as ever, but Kitty could sense the spiked awareness. He was ready to intervene should David utter a syllable that wasn’t in the script.

“I have to assume you’ve come to me because you’re looking for some kind of financial commitment. And if the baby is mine, you’ll get one. I don’t walk away from my mistakes. But first I’m going to need indisputable proof that this is my mistake.”

Malone’s eyes flickered. He might as well have groaned out loud. He obviously knew, even if David didn’t, how damned rude that sounded.

She felt her throat tightening. “No, David. First you need to wrap your mind around the idea that this is a child, not a mistake. And then, you need to take your legalese baloney and—”

“Ms. Hemmings.” Malone smiled again. “I think what David is trying to say—”

“I know what he’s trying to say. He’s trying to say I’m such a tramp the baby could be anyone’s. But I’m not, and it isn’t.” She looked at David. “Unless…you don’t have me mixed up with Jill, do you? I was the first one.”

Neither man looked surprised. That hurt, because it killed her last real hope that Jill had been lying when she said she’d gone to see David after Kitty left. It destroyed the illusion that David hadn’t really slept with Jill, too, as if he’d booked a room at an amusement park of sex.

But he wasn’t even trying to deny that there had been a second whirl on the roller coaster that night. Her heart hardened a little, processing its disappointment.

The unruffled demeanor of both men also answered another question: whether David had shared all the dirty details with Malone. She wondered when David had told him. Just today, to prepare for the meeting with her? Or eight weeks ago, when David had arrived home from the Bahamas with a good tan and a great locker-room story?

“I’m perfectly clear about the two of you,” David answered coldly. “But I have no idea what you might have done before that night, or in the eight weeks since.”

She scowled, then leaned forward, her mouth open, her cheeks as hot as if he’d held a match to them. “I don’t—”

“Kitty, listen,” David said, forestalling her. “I can understand why you might think I’m a fool, because I certainly acted like one in the Bahamas. But I’m not. Before I accept…” He stopped, and for the first time he looked uncertain. “I need to establish beyond a doubt that the child is mine.”

Suddenly she was precariously close to tears. Damn these hormones. She blinked hard and narrowed her eyes.

“Well, we’d better find a way to establish that in a hurry. I lost my job because of this pregnancy, although of course they cooked up some other excuse. And I don’t have insurance. This pregnancy isn’t going to be easy. I’m Rh negative, but you’re probably not, which is a problem. My mother had two miscarriages, and my family has seen three sets of twins in the past three generations. I’m not a high-risk pregnancy, but it’s not exactly a cakewalk, either. So if you think I’m going to see some quack at some third-rate charity clinic, where God only knows—”

“Hey.” He put his hand over hers. It was the first physical contact since that night, and even through her anger she sensed the warm sizzle of skin against skin. She moved her hand up onto the table. She didn’t want his pity pats.

“Kitty, please,” he said. “Relax. It’s absurd for us to—”

She lifted her chin. “Too late,” she said. “This whole thing is absurd, and believe me, I know it. But, still, here it is.”

David shook his head, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with such an emotional female. Well, let him try being pregnant. Let him try being jobless and homeless, and counting pennies, and waking up in the night doubting yourself, wondering if your own child would be better off adopted…

“There’s a test we can have done right away,” he said.

She frowned. “It’s too early for an amniocentesis.”

“I know, but—”

Everyone fell silent as the waitress set down coffee and toast. Great. The kitchen had buttered the toast, though Kitty had made a point of asking for it dry. Little greasy yellow puddles glistened on the brown surface. Nausea twisted Kitty’s stomach. She swallowed hard and pushed the toast to the side, out of sight behind the silver coffee carafe.

When they were alone again, Malone took over, as if handling Kitty were a relay race, and the baton had been passed to give David a rest.

“The test David’s referring to is called CVS, which stands for Chorionic Villus Sampling. It’s quick—a week, maybe ten days at most for the results. If it’s done properly, through an obstetrician we mutually agree upon, David will accept the results as definitive.”

She looked from one man to the other, wondering if she could trust any of this. Was she being set up for some kind of fall?

She hadn’t researched Colby Malone, of course, since she hadn’t known whom David would consult. But she had used Google to research the heck out of David, and she hadn’t found anything squalid or dishonest. In fact, at worst, he appeared to have an over-active social conscience. All kinds of charity functions and do-gooder lawsuits, lots of sober interviews in boring, peer-reviewed journals.

So apparently the indiscriminate sex had been an aberration. What happens in the Bahamas, and all that.

She had pretty strong feelings about the importance of a father in a child’s life, but still. If David had turned out to be a true sleazeball, she would never have breathed a word to him about the baby. She’d work five jobs if she had to, rather than saddle her child with an untrustworthy, deadbeat dad.

But David clearly was, with the occasional lapse, a good guy. He had a right to know he was about to be a father, and he had an obligation to assume his half of the responsibility.

The two men waited, apparently patiently, for her answer. Malone never seemed to look anything but pleasantly confident, but David’s face was tight and wary. Suspicious. She wondered if he hoped she’d refuse to submit to the test—which he could take as proof that her accusation had been a con from the start.

She breathed through her mouth, so that she didn’t smell the coffee, which suddenly seemed too bitter.

She’d heard of this CVS thing, read about it somewhere, maybe, but she hadn’t paid enough attention. Why should she have? She’d never imagined it could matter to her. “Are there risks?”

Malone started to shrug, but David nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “The risks are very small, but I want you to understand completely. Colby brought some materials.”

Malone retrieved a colorful brochure from his briefcase. She took it from his outstretched hand, wondering where he’d picked it up on such short notice. Did his practice specialize in paternity suits or something?

She leafed through the brochure blindly, the words indecipherable through the haze in her brain.

“You don’t have to read it now,” David said. “Take your time. Obviously you can consult any physician you like while you make your decision, though, as Colby said, the test must be performed by someone we agree on. Colby has a few names to suggest.”

“Of course,” she said, and accepted Colby’s doctor list, printed on creamy, classy letterhead that said Diamante, Inc. Whatever that was.

The brochure was glossy and obviously expensive, as well. That meant the test wasn’t cheap. “Who will pay for this CVS test? I know you said you wouldn’t be drawn in before—”

“Since it’s in my interests to settle the problem definitively, one way or another, I’m willing to pay for it.” David waved the issue away, as if payment were sublimely unimportant.

And she knew, from her Google searches, that, to him, it was. A few hundred, a few grand, he’d never miss it.

Suddenly her anger surged back, full force. Well, bully for the big guy, to whom her pregnancy was the “problem.” The “mistake.” When he realized the baby really was his, he’d probably have Colby sue the condom company, and her child support checks would all come marked Trojan, Inc.

Jerk.

She slid the brochures into a neat stack, like folding a bad poker hand. She stood, pushing her chair back with a scrape that echoed through the nearly empty restaurant.

“Make the appointment,” she said. “I’ll be there.”