by Dawn, Penny
"Your first?"
"Third.” Now why did she say that?
"Congratulations.” He offered a tan hand, a red scrape at the base of his middle knuckle. “I'm Luke."
She slid her hand into his firm grasp. “Kimberley."
"Let's take a walk. You want to?"
Of all the things she wanted to do with this man—was she crazy? She didn't even know him!—walking was among the most innocent, but she shook her head. “I should go home."
He pulled away his hand—she probably should have released it already—and twisted his wedding band. “I'm not trying to pick you up. I'm married. Harmless.” He hitched his chin toward the rear exit of the club. “Come on."
As if he were the Pied Piper, she followed. Had she lost her mind?
"So, your third, huh?” He held open the door, and standing in the bright rays of sunshine, he looked like a savior carved into a cathedral wall.
"Third pregnancy, second child.” She exited into the tranquil April day, catching a whiff of peppermint and fabric softener in his wake.
He clucked his tongue and climbed over a split-rail fence into a thicket of prairie plants. “Sorry, miscarriage is rough. My wife and I never had to deal with that, but my sister Julie's had two. I can't imagine what you went through."
"Actually...” She bit her tongue. A perfect stranger—and perfect, he was, from his defined, muscled torso threatening to shred his threadbare T-shirt, to his long, sinewy legs—was hardly an appropriate sounding board for her regrets regarding Jason Devon's child.
"Where will you deliver?"
"Here. At Evanston Northwest.” She perched her backside onto the fence and swung her legs over it, taking his proffered hand for balance and holding onto him a few moments longer than necessary when she dropped down on the other side. Hot, strong hands. Heaven against her back, she'd bet.
"Good hospital.” He led her into a weaving of trees to a path. “When are you due?"
Geez, he walked fast. “Around Christmas."
"You're newly pregnant then."
"Just peed on the stick last week.” Great. She'd known the man for three minutes, and already he knew she peed.
"Are you going to breastfeed?"
"Excuse me?"
"Breastfeeding. My wife did it. Are you going to?"
Although her breasts’ activities were none of this man's business, her nipples hardened with his mentioning them. There was nothing sexual about breastfeeding an infant, but when she imagined Luke laving her with scrupulous patience, satisfaction pulsed through her. The image halted her in her tracks.
His mouth probably worked like mercury: burning, rising and falling.
A beam of sunlight shot directly through hundreds of leaves and into her line of sight. “What did you say your wife's name was?"
"I didn't, but...” In a liquid movement, he turned to face her. “...it's Diane."
She shaded her eyes with a hand, stared up at him, and smiled in return. “Did Diane want to breastfeed, or did you pressure her into doing it? I mean, not that it's any of my business, Luke, but I think it's important for a woman to choose."
"I love an expressive woman.” He cracked a smile. “We made the decision together."
Trees seemed to bend and whirl. She focused on the ground, but that spun, too.
"Easy.” He grasped her under the elbow, leading her deeper into the shade of the deciduous trees. “Have a seat.” He indicated the trunk of a fallen oak. Apparently, he knew this place well. Perhaps she was one of many women he'd led here. My God, she'd followed a serial adulterer.
"I run here,” he said, as if he sensed her speculation. “Usually on Sundays."
Nauseated, she nodded, hoping she wouldn't vomit. God, how embarrassing would it be to toss her cookies right at his feet?
"Have some water.” He brought his bottle to her lips, feeding her, massaging her arm where he held her. “Better?"
She wiped a dribble of water from her chin. “Fine."
He dropped to the forest floor before her and stretched, back to the ground, as if lying upon a raft on calm waters. The memory of Jason floating alongside her on Cedar Lake entered her mind. She attempted to blink the picture away, but, for the moment, Luke and Jason were one and the same. Comforting. Familiar.
"Too early for morning sickness, isn't it?” Luke asked.
"What?” She flinched from her meditation. “Yes. Mine usually begins at seven weeks and ends with the birth of a baby.” Or the termination of such. “I'm just tired."
"Take a nap."
"And I haven't eaten in a while."
"Since when?"
The circumstances surrounding her recent fasting spun to the forefront of her mind: Brennan didn't come home with the dinner he'd promised last night. He was too ill to entertain Allison this morning, thus leaving little time for Kimberley to grab even a piece of fruit. His love affair with the fast lane had beaten out her pregnant appetite. Quite a feat. “Lunch yesterday."
"You know...” He yawned and sat up, looking her straight in the eyes. “I've never understood this crazy obsession with weight gain every pregnant woman seems to have."
"Evidently, no doctor has ever said ‘watch your eating,’ while probing two fingers to gauge the softness of your cervix."
"Touché.” Again, his smile gleamed. “The only thing any doctor's going to probe of mine is my brain. And I'm not too crazy about that prospect either.” He cleared his throat and his brow furrowed.
If he were on the witness stand, she would have recognized the expression as an invitation to spill information. She'd taken advantage of provocations such as this in the past. An occupational hazard, a cross all lawyers bear. But she resisted the urge to ask the next, most obvious question: Why are you seeing a shrink?
"Shame on your doctor,” Luke said. “Hell, I'd gain two hundred pounds if it meant having a healthy baby."
"So would I."
"Then eat. As much as you want, whenever you want. Think about why you aren't eating, and wave goodbye to the bias. That tiny reason in your womb's more important."
What a tender thing to say. Why couldn't her husband say things like that? Tears welled in her eyes, but hiding them would be of no use. Too weak to fight them and too defeated to care, she wiped a drop from her cheek. “I haven't eaten because my husband is cheating on me.” Did she just say that? To a stranger?
"Are you sure?” Luke dared to catch a tear on his finger. “Statistics show that one out of three husbands sleeps around during pregnancy, but I think expectant mothers assume their husbands cheat because sex becomes nonexistent."
Tears blurred her vision, but she locked her gaze on his intriguing mouth. “That's not it."
"It's true. I saw it on the Discovery Channel. You're figuring he has to get it somewhere, and since he's afraid to get it from you in this condition—"
"That's not the problem."
"Pregnancy gives women a pure and true glow. It isn't that your husband doesn't want you, believe me. But he sees you differently now, like the Virgin Mary maybe."
"That's an awfully personal inference. Who says I believe in the Virgin Mary anyway?"
"I'm just saying he's probably not cheating on you.” He leaned back on his elbows and yanked a leaf off a wild, green vine. “I know a beautiful woman when I see one.” He shrugged and sipped his water. “He isn't cheating on you."
Had this headache pained her all morning? She pressed her fingers to her temples. Did he just tell her he thought she was ... beautiful? She'd been cute, she'd been good-looking, but she'd never been pretty, and she'd certainly never been beautiful before. “I beg your pardon?"
"You're a beautiful woman,” he said. “Your husband isn't cheating on you."
"My husband may not be getting blowjobs from his secretary, but he's still cheating on me."
"Did you say blowjobs? Can you say it again?"
"I should go."
"No, really. I kind of like the way you say it. I a
lways wish my wife would set an alarm for herself and wake me with the ultimate blowjob."
"That's hardly any business of mine."
"I wouldn't mind waking up in the morning with a soft tongue treating me right. Have you ever wakened your husband that way?"
"And that's hardly any business of yours. Thanks for the walk, but I have to—"
His grip on her wrist sustained her. “I'm sorry if I offended you."
Her skin tingled beneath his touch, and the concern in his gaze stirred butterflies in her stomach. “I'm sorry I mentioned it.” She ought to learn not to start things she couldn't finish—like applying to UIC, like raising the subject of oral sex with a beautiful stranger.
"I have places to go, too. And a dog in the cab of my truck. Stay. At least until you stop crying."
She wiped more tears from her cheeks. He stared at her. Not in a way that made her uncomfortable, but with concern. He wanted her to stay. Not for him, but for her. “What kind of dog do you have?"
"A golden retriever. Do you like dogs?"
She straddled the oak and lay with her back against the eroding bark. “I had a beagle growing up, until my sister Maura backed over him in the driveway."
"That's terrible. I'm sorry."
"It's okay. I think it was an accident."
"You think it was?"
"Probably. Anyway, I haven't been able to get close to a dog since."
"I'm sorry."
She shrugged. “It was a long time ago, nothing compared to what I deal with these days."
He reached for her and fingered a frizzy flyaway at her temple. Soon, two of his fingers massaged her scalp as he tucked the tendril away. She tensed initially, but soon sank into the comfort of his hand in her hair.
"Why don't you tell me why you think your husband's cheating on you?” He withdrew, leaving her both yearning for tender contact and relieved she wouldn't have to fight it.
She took a deep a breath. “He has an addictive personality. Nothing's ever enough—not a forty-hour work week, not one glass of whiskey."
"I'm sorry."
"Everything he does, he does in excess, be it entertaining his friends, or wagering obscene amounts at riverboat casinos. He may not be sleeping around—then again, what do I know? He's gone all the time—but he feeds his addictions instead of coming home to me. It's the same concept as buying a gift for another woman. On the surface, it's harmless, but a committed man simply should not do such things, am I right?"
He nodded. “I spend as much time as possible at home."
"My husband likes a good time. Three thousand dollars later, he's spent neither one minute nor one red cent on me, but I get to deal with the sloppy mess after the party."
She exhaled slowly. “I wish he were addicted to me."
CHAPTER 2
What had she been thinking, spending three hours alone in a forest preserve with Luke, airing her dirty laundry? She'd done less intelligent things, but not many. At nearly one o'clock—she was so late!—she stood in the shower at the club, too distracted to devise an excuse for her tardiness.
Oh, those hands, that smile. The craving between her legs. She had to see him again. But how? When? They could continue to meet at the club. Just to talk. Just to feel special together, assuming he felt as interested around her as she'd felt around him. So special.
But how would she explain her delay today? Brennan wouldn't believe she could exercise for three hours straight, and even if he would, he'd berate her for overdoing it during pregnancy. No, she needed an excuse, an alibi.
She went to the law library maybe? No, he'd only chastise her for pursuing the life she'd left behind.
She went shopping? For what? She didn't need anything.
She'd spent the past few hours at the Jasmine Vine, stuffing her face with whole-grain muffins? He'd buy that one, but she was still so hungry ... Hungry for a married breastfeeding advocate she barely knew.
She'd lost her mind.
It was a harmless, albeit inappropriate, conversation. Her condition aside, Luke was married with two children. It wasn't as if he'd come on to her. But, with thoughts of his hand in her hair, a yearning surged within her, the likes of which she hadn't felt in years. His naked body belonged against hers, his mouth at her inner thigh, his hands wherever he damn well wanted to put them.
In two hours, five couples would file into her house. She didn't have time to contemplate grinding the handle of her bath brush deep between her legs, but the need, the desire, was too intense to ignore. His gorgeous mouth, with pouting lips and white, white teeth, and that darting pink tongue ... Addicted, and she'd yet to taste a morsel of the sure-to-be tasty man.
Her clitoris swelled and tingled madly. She shirred her plump thighs together, stimulating the tender, private tissue just so. Would Luke watch a “pure and true” woman satisfy herself? Would he ask her to touch herself, request penetration, bury his fingers alongside hers?
She imagined him rolling her clit between his thick fingers, while his thumb probed her in rhythmic jabs, his tongue lapping against her nipples, sucking, biting.
The broad handle of her bath brush threatened to penetrate her, but, at the last second, she dropped it to the floor, unable to settle for plastic when she wanted the real thing. God, she'd give anything to make love with an attentive man, a man unafraid of spending his time with her, a man wanting badly to please her.
Out of breath and still in need of release, she leaned against the communal tile in the shower stall, forgetting for a moment about all the bodies that had pressed against it that morning. What was happening to her? Luke had innocently brushed a hair from her forehead, and suddenly, she needed his touch. Needed it the way she needed air to breathe.
Better to forget him before she was in over her head.
She turned off the water and wrapped herself in a bath towel from home. The club offered towel service, but Kimberley and women of her economic status always brought their own. The only guaranteed, freshly laundered linens were those Elsie folded in the upstairs laundry room.
She dressed at her locker.
Applied cosmetics at a less-than-pristine vanity.
Blow dried and styled her hair.
She dug through her cosmetics case for caramel apple nail polish, the perfect alibi. As a back-up plan, before her grant for college came through, she'd learned the art of manicuring. And she was good, better than most professionals. Until her belly swelled, she'd refuse to pay for nail treatment, but Brennan didn't have to know that.
* * * *
"Dad?” Caleb used his aluminum bat like a cane, wandering toward the backstop at the park. “Are you leaving us again?"
Luke reached over Derby, who sauntered between them, and tapped his son's cap. “Why would you ask something like that?"
"Mom says it's just a matter of time before you go again.” The bat clinked against the gravel once to two of Luke's heartbeats. “She says you're like your dad."
Clink, beat, beat. Clink, beat, beat reverberated in his ears. Anger seared in his gut like a chemical reaction in a test tube, but aside from the grinding of his teeth, he quickly hid it for his boy's sake. “Mom said that?"
"Is it true?"
"Let's get something straight.” When he crouched beside him, Caleb stood above his eye level. He was growing taller every day. Time flew, and Luke knew, one day he'd wake up, and his eight-year-old would be earning a paycheck. As if Derby sensed a long discussion, he plopped to the ground and assumed his favorite sleeping position.
Caleb shifted toward Luke, kicking at dust. “Is it true?"
"I never leave you, got it?"
"Mom says when you leave her, you leave all of us."
Despite the humidity in the air, his throat felt dry, as if stuffed with cotton. He coughed and licked his lips, searching the horizon for the answer to this dilemma, but he knew no perfect words existed to soothe a child in constant fear of his parents’ parting. “Is that what you think? You think I'd leave yo
u?"
Caleb shrugged, tapping the bat into a patch of amber pea gravel. Clink, clink, clink. “You don't live at home anymore when you go."
"No, but not because I don't want to. Caleb...” Luke removed the bat from his son's grasp. It was impossible to think amid the noise. “Adults don't always agree on important things, Caleb. And when Mom and I don't agree, it's hard to live together, but I never leave you. I never want to live without you. I'm always going to be your dad, always going to be there."
