Читать книгу Expecting a Bolton Baby - Sarah M. Anderson - Страница 9

Three

As Bobby set down the plates, the coffeemaker beeped. He hoped the coffee would be okay. His sister-in-law, Josey, hadn’t been able to touch the stuff when she’d been pregnant. The smell had bothered her.

It wasn’t until he was carrying the cups to the table that he realized what Stella was doing.

Holding the photo. Studying the photo.

“This is...us,” she said in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper.

Immediately, Bobby knew why Stella was here. It wasn’t just that she was pregnant, although that was a huge part of it. That one word was why she was here. To see if there were an us.

Damn.

If this were a normal negotiation, Bobby would do whatever it took to give Stella what she wanted. But...us?

She hadn’t wanted an us. She’d made that blisteringly clear with her “don’t call me, I won’t call you” attitude. And once he knew who she was, he couldn’t really blame her. If David Caine were his father, he’d do everything in his power to avoid irritating the man. Bobby had abided by her wishes. He’d not taken her out to lunch the next day, not tracked her down in the past two months.

He should have. If he’d had any idea she was pregnant, he would have. He fought the urge to drop everything and pull her into his arms. Again. The pull to protect her was overwhelming. But then, the pull to track her down had been, too.

This—the pregnancy, his need for her—was a problem.

He did not have time to drop everything and start playing house with anyone, let alone Stella Caine. Maybe in a few years, sure. The resort would be turning a profit, he’d have his penthouse apartment...then he might like to have someone in his bed who set his blood racing and made him laugh. But now?

So he did the next best thing. He told her only part of the truth.

“I get snapshots of all the celebrities I meet. I have a whole wall of them at the shop.” All true. Nothing wrong with anything he’d just said. “It’s good for our brand image—creates desirability.” When she didn’t say anything, he felt compelled to keep talking. “It’s a good shot.”

It was. Bobby had his arm around Stella’s waist, but she had her back turned to the camera, revealing that swath of creamy skin left bare by the backless dress. She looked at the camera over her shoulder, a wicked pixie grin on her face. Her eyes bright, her hands rested on Bobby’s chest.

What the camera didn’t show was that, seconds before the paparazzi had snapped the photo, Bobby had been kissing her in that delicate spot right beneath her ear. The photo also didn’t show them bailing on the club entirely about twenty minutes later. But he remembered those things every time he looked at the photo.

Stella touched the glass with the tip of her finger. “Why is it here, then?”

“Excuse me?”

Stella leveled those beautiful eyes at him. “It’s been eight weeks. You haven’t hung it yet.”

“I really haven’t gotten into the shop much.”

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth, either. Because the truth was, every time he looked at Stella’s bright eyes, he remembered the feeling of her lithe body in his arms, the way she’d lowered herself onto him with a ferocity that had blown his mind, the way she’d curled into his chest after the first time, her wicked grin all the more wicked with sated knowledge.

It should have been just sex. Great sex, but just sex. However, in the course of one evening, he’d found himself matching wits with a cultured, refined woman who subtly pushed his boundaries while she made him laugh. He’d been with a lot of women, but none had made him feel like Stella had. It was something he couldn’t quite explain, not even to himself. When he was with another woman—any other woman, now that he thought about it—they were there to have a good time, but also...because he could offer them something—a little PR, another good tweet. But Stella hadn’t been interested in mutual promotion and satisfaction. She’d been interested in him.

If he’d hung the photo on the wall in the shop, mixed in with all the other photos of famous people—some of whom he’d also slept with—then that would have meant that she was just like all the rest of them.

And she wasn’t.

“Dinner’s getting cold,” was all he could say.

He held her chair for her. By the time he’d settled into his own chair, close enough to touch her, she was half done with the omelet. “This is excellent,” she told him after she washed down another bite with coffee.

“Glad you liked it. Have you had a lot of morning sickness?”

Still chewing, she shrugged. “Some. The flight out...” She grimaced, her hand fluttering over her waist.

He nodded in sympathy. “Have you seen a doctor?”

She paused, as if she wanted to retreat behind that icy silence she’d first confronted him with. Then her shoulders relaxed. The bacon seemed to help. “Yes, two weeks ago. I’m eight weeks along, due on June 24.”

A date—even one in the middle of next year—was something concrete and real. All he could do was stare at his coffee as he repeated the date in his head. June 24. The date he’d be a father.

This was really happening.

“What do you want?”

It wasn’t until the words were out that he realized he’d said them.

They were the wrong words—too much of an ultimatum—but he couldn’t take them back. He’d spent approximately seven total hours in the company of Stella Caine. Seven hours wasn’t long enough to base the rest of his life on.

Plus, she was David Caine’s daughter. All of Bobby’s plans—the television show, the destination resort, the chance to finally prove himself to his family? David Caine could change all of that, if he saw fit. This wasn’t just about Bobby and Stella. This was something that affected the entire Bolton family.

He felt the icy wall Stella put up between them even before she set down her fork. She stood and walked across the room, the distance between them growing.

“It’s not about what I want, not anymore.” She looked out the patio door that led to a small balcony. “I won’t complain about the lot I’ve drawn, but if I have this child, I need certain assurances about her future.”

If.

So maybe Bobby wasn’t ready to be a father. He might never actually be ready.

But he was a Bolton, by God, and there was one thing the Bolton men valued above all else—family. His father had married his mother when they were both seventeen, after Mom had gotten pregnant with Billy. Through the ups and downs of twenty-five years of marriage and motorcycles, the family had always come first.

If Bobby was going to be a father to Stella’s child, then she was already family. For it to be any other way was unthinkable. Stella was giving him a chance to do the right thing here. He just had to man up and...

Marry her.

Make sure the baby was a Bolton, through and through.

This realization hit him harder than any punch ever had. Honest to God, his knees went weak and his vision blurred. Married. Oh, hell.

Stella was still staring out the window, thankfully. She hadn’t seen his reaction. But she was probably expecting a reasonable response.

“What kind of assurances?”

He saw her reflection in the glass take a deep breath, but that was the only outward sign of her mental state. Otherwise, she was an unreadable wall.

“I will not have a child who is used as a pawn or a child who is not loved by her father. I’d rather she never know you exist than that she live life knowing she wasn’t wanted.”

That statement hung out there, practically icing over the glass with its frostiness. Something in the way she said it hit Bobby in a different way.

David Caine was world famous for being conservative—a staunch proponent of abstinence-only education, marriage between one man and one woman and no abortions—not even in cases of rape or incest. He believed in these rules and others so that when Bobby had signed on the dotted line for The Bolton Biker Boys, he’d also agreed to an extensive morals clause. David Caine believed there was such a thing as bad publicity, apparently, and he enforced a strict rule of law on what constituted “bad publicity.” Which included almost everything that would land a man on TMZ or any other gossip site.

Which included getting his daughter pregnant out of wedlock.

Not that this particular situation was outlined in the contract, but Bobby had a feeling David Caine would do a whole lot more than just terminate Bobby’s contract with FreeFall TV. He thought of Mickey, who still had Bobby’s Glock. Hell, he’d be lucky if David Caine didn’t terminate him, period.

He didn’t like the distance she’d put between them, the cold words she’d just said. It wasn’t as if he wanted her sobbing and hysterical, but this detachment? No. He wasn’t having any of it.

So they barely knew each other. So this development could blow all of his carefully laid plans to bits, probably hers, as well. That didn’t change the facts—they’d met, felt an instant chemistry and followed up on it. He hadn’t been able to hang her picture on the wall with all the others.

He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her.

No, the one thing he knew was that she’d been wrong in the back of her car, when she’d kissed him instead of giving him her number and told him it was better this way.

Her way was not better.

Time to try it his way.

He went to her, folded her into his arms and kissed the spot on the back of her neck.

Her skin was cool against his lips, her body ramrod stiff in his arms. She was going to fight him on this, fight to maintain her icy detachment. I don’t think so, he thought as he kissed his way around her neck until he got to that special spot, the one just below her ear, half hidden by a silver earring. When he traced the area with his tongue, she shuddered.

For a brief moment, her back arched. Her bottom pushed against him. Yes, he thought. Unleash that energy on me.

But then she pulled away from him and said, “Stop.”

Bobby froze. But he didn’t let her go. Instead, he held her even tighter, hoping the steel would leave her body. He let his hands skim over her body until they rested on her stomach. Between the leather bodice of her dress and the fact that she wasn’t very far along, he would never have guessed she was pregnant. But if she’d already seen a doctor, then it was a fact.

He felt the smooth plane of her body—a body that held his child. “Is that what you want? This baby to never know my name? To never know that I loved her?”

She sucked in a hard breath, as if Bobby had slapped her. “This isn’t about what I want,” she said again. But she didn’t sound as if she believed it. “This is about what’s best for everyone involved.”

Damn it, he was done with her forced detachment. They weren’t discussing stock options or a merger or whatever she and her father talked about around the dinner table. This was a life—a baby-to-be—theirs.

Careful not to hurt her, he turned her in his arms as he backed her up against the glass doors. Although she moved, her body was not the soft, welcoming thing he dreamed of at night.

She refused to meet his gaze, though, so once he had her secure, he lifted her chin until she looked him in the eyes. No mistaking it this time—she was terrified of what he might say. “I don’t care what ‘everyone’ thinks is best. I only care about what you want.”

He saw the doubt flash over her eyes right before she shut them. “It’s better this way.”

She sounded as though she was on the verge of tears, but Bobby didn’t care. He wanted to know that she cared—one way or the other.

“Better for who?”

He kissed her, just a touch of two lips.

Just a promise.

Then, in a flash, the cold steel melted from her body. She laced her arms around his neck and pulled him down as her mouth opened, her tongue hesitantly tracing his lips.

He couldn’t deny it. He needed her.

He hadn’t really stopped needing her, not since that night two months ago. She hadn’t been far from his mind, despite the long hours and the crazy schedule and the determination that everything would be perfect.

As she warmed against him, his body responded. For every degree she softened, he got that much harder, that much hotter, until his skin was on fire, desperate to feel hers against him.

It had not been an accident, the first time. The chemistry between them was electric, shocking him again with how strong it was. He wanted to bury himself in her body, to feel the force of her desire unleashed on him again.

Except he had no idea how to get her out of this dress.

He pulled back. Desire warmed her features and she looked up at him through thick black eyelashes. Oh, yeah, that was the woman he’d lost himself in two months ago—sensual, witty, aware of the power she held over him and not afraid to give him a little power over her.

God, he was so glad she was here. He wanted to keep her here—if he didn’t, she might slip away from him and he didn’t think he could handle that a second time.

He kissed her again, letting his tongue trace her lips—tasting what he’d missed. He’d missed her in a way that didn’t make a damn bit of sense. He never got involved. He’d never wanted a relationship—certainly had never wanted to be a father.

But something about her...

Her cell phone chirped from somewhere on the other side of the room. “Sorry,” she murmured as she moved away from him. “Mickey.”

Yeah, he’d sort of forgotten about the leprechaun.

Stella retrieved her cell phone from her coat pocket. “Yes? Yes. No.”

Bobby couldn’t hear both sides of the conversation, but he could guess. Mickey was somewhere nearby, waiting for the word to come in, shoot Bobby in the knee and swoop Stella away. Okay, so maybe he wouldn’t shoot Bobby—but he was here for Stella, one way or the other.

Bobby wasn’t ready for her to leave just yet.

He approached her, hand out for her phone. “May I?”

The look she gave him was almost comical—doubtful and confused and cold and yet still very much tinged with the desire that had reddened her lips.

“I just want to talk to him for a minute.”

“Yes—he’s here. He wants to talk.” Then she handed Bobby the phone.

“Keeping yer cool up there, laddie?”

Bobby gritted out a smile. “We’re doing well, thanks for asking. I’ve been thinking. I don’t know where Stella is staying, but if she’s coming and going at a hotel, the media might pick up on that. They might try to make a story out of it.”

“Is that so,” Mickey said in such a way that Bobby turned to glance out the patio doors, just to make sure the man wasn’t sitting on his small deck, weapon drawn.

“Yes. Perhaps it would be better for Stella’s long-term well-being if she stayed in a more secure location, at least through the weekend.”

Stella gave him a look—one eyebrow raised, lips pursed—that only made him want to kiss her again.

“Are ye speaking the queen’s English?”

Bobby grinned at Stella. “I think you should stay here for the weekend.”

“What?” Stella said.

“What?” Mickey echoed in his ear.

Bobby ignored Mickey. “Stay here with me,” he said to Stella. “Just until we can decide what’s best for everyone involved.”

“Oh.” Stella’s eyes were as wide as the moon.

“Saints help us all, that part I understood,” Mickey muttered. “Let me talk to me girl again.”

That last bit—me girl—struck Bobby as odd, but he didn’t press the issue. What Mickey needed in this negotiation was to know that he had fulfilled his duty to protect Stella. Anything Bobby did that cast doubt on her well-being was, more than likely, a permanent black mark against him.

“Absolutely.” He handed the phone back over, but he didn’t move out of earshot. Instead, he reached down and took Stella’s free hand in his.

“No, I didn’t—but it’s okay. Yes. Yes. If you think it’ll be all right...” She squeezed Bobby’s hand. “Fine.” She ended the call. “He’ll be by with my things.” The nervous look stole over her face again.

Bobby understood. After all, she’d just agreed to what had the potential to be a highly intimate weekend with someone who was little more than a stranger. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“I don’t want to put you out.”

But he could see by the look on her face that she was pleased he wasn’t pinning her against a wall and giving her no choice. Sort of like he’d done about ten minutes ago. And a lot like he wanted to do right now.

“It’s not a problem. But there’s still a lot we need to talk about. Right now, I only know a few things. I know that I met you eight weeks ago, that there was something between us—something good. I know that I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind since then. I know that I’m glad to see you. I know that your father doesn’t know where you are and that we both want to keep it that way until we have a plan. I know you sew and make your own lace. But beyond that—”

He leaned forward, brushing the sharp angle of hair away from her cheekbone, marveling at the pale blush that sprang up wherever his fingertips touched. She could pretend that she was some sort of ice princess, but he knew better. Buried beneath her cold detachment was a woman whose blood ran as hot as his did.

“Beyond that, I don’t know you like I need to. That’s what I want to work on this weekend.”

This time, she didn’t look away, didn’t close her eyes. She met his gaze straight on. “What if it takes more than a weekend?”

If the baby was his, then they had all the time in the world. For Bolton men, family came first. Family was everything. Of course, he hadn’t quite figured out how that was going to work while he built a resort, produced a reality show and helped run a company.

That’s why he needed the weekend. That, and he wanted to keep her as close to him as possible.

He grinned and was rewarded with a smile that got so, so close to wicked. “Then we’ll make a damn good start.”