Читать книгу The Bachelor's Baby Surprise - Teri Wilson, Teri Wilson - Страница 9

Chapter One

“Come quickly... I am tasting stars.”

—Dom Pérignon, at his first sip of champagne

Evangeline Holly was no stranger to guilty pleasures.

Like Audrey Hepburn, she had a fondness for a nice creamy chocolate cake. In fact, she was on a first-name basis with most everyone at Magnolia Bakery’s Bleecker Street location in Greenwich Village.

She was also currently housing not just one, but two special-needs Cavalier King Charles spaniels in her very tiny, very non-pet-friendly apartment. So yeah. She had her vices.

But she also knew where and when to draw the line. Evangeline knew her limits. And for her, those limits included two noteworthy things she’d never once indulged in—bad wine and one-night stands.

Until now.

Her head throbbed. She dragged her eyelids open, and the first thing her gaze landed on was her pair of dogs snoring madly atop a man’s Armani suit jacket that had been discarded on the bedroom floor. Beside it, a pair of trousers and a crisp white Oxford shirt rested in a heap.

Okay then.

She closed her eyes and reminded herself that there wasn’t anything inherently wrong with cheap wine or casual sex. It was just that growing up on a vineyard in Upstate New York simply precluded her from experiencing the former. If she was a wine snob, she’d at least come by it honestly.

As for the latter...

Chalk that up to being involved in a devoted, monogamous relationship with the same man for most of her adult life. Also, no one actually had time for intimacy these days, did they? Evangeline had never quite believed everyone was spending as much time in bed as they cheekily hinted at.

She opened her eyes again. Early morning sunlight glinted off the pair of cuff links on her nightstand. There were cuff links on her nightstand. Cuff links from Tiffany & Co., but still.

She’d been wrong about everything. So. Very. Wrong.

Most notably the assumption that her relationship was in any way devoted. Or monogamous. On her end, yes. On Jeremy’s, not so much. Apparently, he’d been spending plenty of time in bed...with his sous chef. Not Evangeline.

She’d been enlightened three days ago. It was startling how much could change in three measly days. She’d lost her boyfriend. She’d lost her job. Basic truths she’d believed about her life had gone right out the window.

As had Evangeline’s previous avoidance of certain weaknesses.

The pounding in her head was a testament that she’d broken her no bad wine rule the night before. The evidence of her first-ever one-night stand was far more tangible—from the clothes and the cuff links to the startlingly attractive man lying beside her with his eyes closed, dressed in nothing but her nicest bedsheets.

“Good morning.” He spoke without opening his eyes, as if he could sense her staring at him. His voice was delicious, low and unfamiliar. Not at all like Jeremy’s.

“Um.” She swallowed. What had she been thinking? She’d brought a complete stranger back to her apartment, and here he was. Naked in her bed.

She blamed Jeremy. This was 90 percent his fault. The other ten percent of the blame fell squarely on the shoulders of the pinot grigio she could still taste in the back of her throat. Pinot grigio, for God’s sake.

“Good morning,” she finally said, even though nothing about it seemed good.

She didn’t know what to say or how to act. She wasn’t even sure where to look, although she couldn’t seem to force her gaze away from the owner of the cuff links. He stretched and rolled onto his back, giving her an eyeful of taut male skin and finely sculpted abdominal muscles.

Her throat grew dry. Where on earth had she found this beautiful person? And how had she summoned up the nerve to flirt with him? Flirting must have happened at some point for him to end up here, right?

Jeremy’s voice rose up from the pinot-drenched fog in her mind. Of course I’ve been sleeping around. What did you expect? You’re not exactly a sexual person, Evangeline. I just need more. Most people need more.

So that’s how she’d found the courage. When your boyfriend insinuated you were terrible in bed, you either curled up into a ball or went about proving him wrong. Two days in the fetal position had been more than enough.

The sound of a deeply male throat clearing dragged her back to the present.

Evangeline’s gaze flitted from the stranger’s trim waist to his drowsy half grin. He’d caught her ogling him. Perfect.

Her face went hot. “Look, um...”

“Ryan,” he said, tucking his arms behind his head, causing the sheet to dip even lower.

Don’t look. Do. Not.

She looked, and a sultry warmth washed over her, settling in the very same areas that Jeremy had called dead just three days prior.

“Right.” She bit her lip and met his gaze again. “Ryan. I knew that.”

“I believe you.” He winked. Clearly he didn’t, even though Ryan had been the first name that came to her once she’d spotted the RW engraved on his cuff links. “Eve.”

Eve?

No one had ever called her Eve. Always Evangeline.

She remembered hearing somewhere that Eve meant living. She tried not to think too hard about that while there was a naked man named Ryan with the body of a Greek god stretched out beside her. “Anyway, Ryan, what I’m trying to say is that I don’t typically do this sort of thing.”

“Yes, I know. You mentioned that last night. A couple of times, actually.” He rested a warm hand on her upper thigh and gave her a smile that seemed a bit sad around the edges. Bittersweet.

She felt oddly transparent, as if the man in her bed knew more about her than was possible after only a handful of hours together. Her thigh was suddenly awash in goose bumps.

“Good. So long as we’re clear—this was a one-night affair. A mistake, probably. I don’t expect you to ask for my number or anything.” She slid her leg out of reach, tucking it beneath the covers.

His smile faded. The dimples which had been barely visible beneath the layer of scruff on his chiseled jaw disappeared entirely. “A mistake?”

She nodded, because of course it had been a mistake.

A man was the very last thing she needed, even for one night. Particularly this man, whose hands she couldn’t look at without imagining them on her skin. And whose mouth made her want to linger in bed and revisit the most wicked portions of the previous evening. “Good grief, how much wine did I have last night?”

She clamped her mouth closed. God, had she actually asked that question out loud?

“Quite a bit.” Ryan’s frown deepened. She couldn’t stop saying his name in her head. Ryan. Ryan. Ryan. “Although you didn’t seem drunk. Not even tipsy. Should I be apologizing right now? Something tells me I should.”

Another perk of having a vineyard in your childhood backyard—an incredibly high tolerance. For wine, at least. Even on the rare occasion when she drank enough to feel like she’d overindulged, it never showed.

“You have nothing to apologize for. Truly.” Memories flitted through her consciousness. The taste of him. The feel of him. The weight of him on top of her as he’d pushed himself inside.

It had been exactly what she’d wanted.

Exquisite.

A shiver coursed through her, and she leaped out of the bed to prevent herself from reaching for him again.

Ryan’s gaze settled on her, and she felt it as keenly as if it were a caress. Her thoughts screamed. Ryan. Ryan. Ryan. She’d cried out his name last night, hadn’t she?

Oh God.

She crossed her arms, and his gaze drifted lower, lingering on her bare breasts. She was every bit as naked as he was, which made perfect sense, given the situation. She’d just been so preoccupied with his nakedness that she hadn’t noticed her own.

“What if I wanted to ask for your number?” he said, making no move whatsoever to evacuate her bed.

How long was he planning on staying? Did Ryan not realize how one-night stands worked?

Ryan. Ryan. Ryan.

Evangeline had repeated the name to herself so many times now that it no longer made sense. She wondered what the W on the cuff links stood for, but she didn’t dare ask. If she knew his full name, she might be tempted to look him up later in another moment of weakness.

Not happening.

She grabbed the quilt off the end of the bed, wrapped it around herself and shook her head. “You don’t want my number.”

A muscle flicked in his jaw. “I’m certain I do.”

“No.” She shook her head even harder. “You don’t.”

If he knew the first thing about her situation, he’d run for the hills. She wouldn’t blame him in the slightest.

“Then I must be an idiot,” he said.

Did he have to be so charming? He probably couldn’t help it. It was probably part of his genetic makeup, like the abs. And the voice. And the fathomless blue of his eyes.

Evangeline had never seen eyes quite so blue.

She averted her gaze from them.

“Honestly, you don’t need to do this. Everything’s fine. I’m fine. This was—” Just what I needed. She swallowed around the lump that had formed in her throat, seemingly out of nowhere “—fun.”

“Fun,” he echoed.

The word sounded oddly hollow, and Evangeline instantly wanted to take it back. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from telling him the whole truth—that she was lost; she’d been lost for a very long time and that the real reason she never did this sort of thing was because it scared the life out of her.

Intimacy, in all its forms, involved a level of vulnerability that she couldn’t quite handle. She thought Jeremy had understood that about her. Wrong again.

“Here you go, then.” She bent to retrieve his abandoned shirt and trousers and handed them to him. When his fingertips brushed against hers, the lump in her throat doubled in size.

Leave. Please, leave.

He climbed out of the bed and started to get dressed. Thank goodness.

She glanced at the floor, where Olive and Bee were still sound asleep on top of Ryan’s suit jacket. Olive’s paws twitched. She was chasing rabbits in her sleep again.

Evangeline tugged gently on the wool Armani, trying her hardest to slip it out from beneath the sleeping dogs unnoticed. Like the old magician’s tablecloth trick.

No such luck. Bee was completely deaf, therefore extremely sensitive to movement. She woke with a start, pawing at Evangeline’s shins. Olive let out a squeaky dog yawn and hopped onto the bed, where she stood and stared at Ryan while he zipped up his pants.

He glanced up, spotted Olive watching him and then reached to scratch behind her ears.

“Pet her from the left side. She can’t see out of her right eye, so you might startle her,” Evangeline said.

He followed her advice. The little Cavalier’s tail wagged furiously. Bee scrambled up onto the bed to join in the fun.

“Sweet dogs,” Ryan said, and Evangeline’s heart gave a little tug.

He somehow managed to look even more attractive, surrounded by adorable dogs. Because of course.

“Thank you. They technically belong to my grandfather, but he recently moved into an extended care facility, so they live here now.” Why was she telling him this?

“I’m sorry to hear that.” His voice went as soft as velvet, like he really meant it.

If he didn’t leave soon, she’d probably offer to cook him breakfast.

“Here.” She shoved his suit jacket at him. Every inch of it was covered in dog hair.

He pretended not to notice and slid it on, anyway. And that small act of kindness was almost more than she could bear. Maybe last night hadn’t been a mistake after all. Maybe the mistake was happening right now.

Maybe she shouldn’t be in such a hurry to let him go.

“Goodbye, then,” she said in as firm a voice as she could manage.

He came around the bed, and when he was an arm’s length away, he lifted his hand as if to cup her face. She took a tiny backward step.

His hand fell to his side. “Goodbye, Eve.”

And then he was gone.

* * *

Ryan Wilde stood outside Eve’s apartment and watched as the door shut in his face.

Well, he thought, that was different.

He’d never been so summarily tossed out of a woman’s bed before. Then again, he typically didn’t make a habit out of bedding women he didn’t actually know.

Especially lately.

Ryan’s love life had been rather complicated in recent weeks, thanks to the New York Times. He’d been doing his best to avoid romantic entanglements altogether.

He walked down the hall, making his way to the building’s front steps and pulled his cell phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket—which looked more like a fur coat at the moment—and rang the Bennington Hotel’s driver.

The chauffeur answered on the first ring. “Mr. Wilde, how can I help you?”

Ryan didn’t often take advantage of the more luxurious perks that came with being chief financial officer of the Bennington, but having a driver on standby was nice at a time like this. He glanced up and down the picturesque street. The sun was just coming up, bathing the neighborhood brownstones in soft winter hues of violet and blue. The snowy sidewalks were empty, save for an older man opening up the newsstand on the corner. “Are you free to come pick me up in the Village?”

He was, of course. Who needed a limo this time of day?

Ryan gave the driver his location, then pocketed his phone again. He rubbed his hands together. His breath was a visible puff of vapor in the crisp air. What the hell had he done with his coat?

He lifted his gaze to the row of windows on the third floor, trying to guess which one was Eve’s. He wished he’d left his Burberry trench up there so he’d have a legitimate excuse to see her again, but he hadn’t. He’d left it on the back of a chair at the wine bar the night before—forgotten, completely—right around the time he’d spotted Eve across the room, brandishing a butcher knife.

It had been one of the most bizarre things he’d ever seen. She’d grabbed a bottle of champagne and before he’d been able to process what he was seeing, she severed the neck of the bottle with the knife. Sliced it clean off, just below the cork. It made a loud popping sound, and she’d stood there with a quiet smile on her face while bubbles spilled down her arm. The group of people at her table cheered. All men, he’d noticed.

She wasn’t on a date, though, from what he could tell. The table was piled with note cards, as if they were some kind of study group.

Note cards. In the middle of a wine bar on Friday night.

“That was quite the party trick,” Ryan had said after he’d abandoned his coat, his drink and the trio of business associates he’d been meeting with.

He’d had to talk to her. Had to.

For the better part of a week, he’d been avoiding every marriage-minded single woman in Manhattan. But the knife-wielding goddess had gotten under his skin instantly. He wasn’t even sure why.

Yes, she was pretty. More than pretty, actually. Beautiful, with full red lips and long, spun-gold hair—the kind of hair that made him hard just thinking about what it would feel like sliding through his fingers.

But it had been more than her looks that had him spellbound from all the way across the crowded room. He’d felt an inexplicable pull deep in his chest when he looked at her. And as he came closer, there’d been something else. She’d had secrets in her eyes.

“It’s not a party trick,” she’d said, looking him up and down. A scarlet flush made its way up her porcelain face. “It’s called sabering.”

She’d gone on to explain that French cavalry officers had used their swords in a similar manner to open champagne during the Napoleonic Wars. Which didn’t explain in the slightest why she was doing it in a wine bar on the Upper West Side, but Ryan hadn’t cared.

It had fascinated him. She’d fascinated him...

Fascinated him enough that he very purposefully neglected to mention his last name.

A car rounded the corner. Ryan turned in the direction of the sound of tires crunching on packed snow, but it wasn’t the Bennington limo. Where was the damned thing? He was freezing.

He bowed his head against the wind and walked toward the newsstand, hoping the old man could sell him some coffee.

He felt bad about the name thing, even now. Even after she’d shown him the door within minutes of waking up in her bed. It wasn’t as if he’d lied to her. He’d just left off his surname.

Call me Ryan.

Thinking about that made him wince. It made him sound like a player, when in actuality, he was anything but.

That was the big irony of his current situation. Practically overnight, and through no fault of his own, he’d developed a reputation. A reputation that had no basis in reality.

It had been a relief when he realized Eve had no idea who he was.

Eve, with her butcher knife and lovely head full of history.

“Excuse me,” he said.

The man behind the newsstand looked up. “Yeah?”

“Have you got any coffee back there?”

The man nodded. “Sure do. Extra hot.”

“Perfect.” Ryan opened his wallet and removed a few bills. As he handed the old man the money, his gaze snagged on a magazine.

Gotham. But the title didn’t matter. It was the image on the magazine’s cover that gave him pause.

A man’s face.

His face.

If Evangeline Holly hadn’t known who he was last night, she would now.