Morgan's Child

by Pamela Browning

  "I intend to make sure it is."

  "Now I know exactly how an oyster feels when accosted by a starfish," Kate said through tight lips as she pasted the label on the bottle.

  He looked blank, so she explained.

  "Sea stars prey on oysters by wrapping their arms around the oysters. The arms fasten to the oysters' shells with suckers."

  "And then what happens?"

  Kate shrugged. "The starfish pulls and pulls until the shell opens. The oyster can't hold out forever."

  "Is that the way you feel?" he probed, his eyes bright.

  "Yes," she said abruptly, but Morgan only smiled his slow smile, and for a moment Kate felt as if the blue of his eyes were blinding her. She was painfully aware of her body, its ovoid shape, its clumsiness.

  For a moment she longed to be thin again as she recalled the dream she'd had the previous night. It was one of the oddly erotic dreams she'd started having early in her pregnancy. In the dream she had felt strangely buoyant and light, and her breasts had tingled with the touch of someone's hands, and she'd tossed and turned restlessly until she was fully awake. Afterward she'd reasoned that she woke up only because she had to go to the bathroom.

  But that wasn't the only reason, and she knew it. The reason was standing patiently in front of her, emitting vast quantities of pheromones.

  Morgan held out his hand for the bottle, and Kate couldn't help noticing that it was the same strong, sinewy hand that she had imagined stroking her body last night, softly urgent and knowledgeable.

  What was wrong with her? She had to stop thinking about him! She was in no position to be acting like a moonstruck teenager over Morgan Rhett.

  "Kate, it may come as news to you, but I'm not your enemy," Morgan said as he went out the door. She raised cool hands to her hot face, embarrassed that Morgan, knowledgeable bachelor that he was, might have sensed more about her feelings for him than she wanted him to know.

  * * *

  Thinking about Kate and recalling the way her hands had trembled as she wrote out the label, Morgan decided that he'd have to be a fool not to know what was going on.

  She was attracted to him. Not that this was peculiar, since women often were. But she was pregnant. He hadn't thought that pregnant women had sexual feelings.

  Of course, they were still women, he told himself. It's not as though they lacked the proper equipment to do something about normal sexual urges, although previously he'd supposed that such impulses more or less shut down for the duration of pregnancy.

  Now that he thought about it, that was ridiculous. Of course husbands and wives must share erotic moments during the nine months before a baby was born. Married couples would still want to express their love for each other in a physical way.

  But Kate was a single woman, and he'd never known a single pregnant woman before. She was new territory, and from the looks of things, she was eager to be explored.

  Of course, there was the matter of the detective, which she seemed unwilling to forgive, and she didn't like his following her around the island, which he felt was necessary. Where did that leave them? Morgan wasn't sure, but he knew one thing: he was probably as fascinated by Kate Sinclair as she was by him.

  As soon as Morgan arrived on the mainland, he telephoned his assistant. Lavinia told him that no urgent business had presented itself, and the thought occurred to Morgan that he might like not having to attend power lunches. He might even get a chance to find out what blank spaces looked like on his calendar.

  "Say, Lavinia," he said in afterthought. "How about sending me a book about pregnancy and childbirth?"

  "Preg—?" Clearly Lavinia had a hard time bringing herself to say the word. "You'll have it tomorrow," she finished briskly.

  Morgan hung up, bemused. He didn't have to wonder what Lavinia would think if she knew that he was going to be a father. Come to think of it, he'd enjoy breaking the news at the office, and as for what they'd think about it, he didn't care. One of the advantages of being a Rhett was that you never had to explain anything.

  But fatherhood seemed far in the future today. Back on Yaupon Island, Morgan sauntered along one of the twisting, moss-hung paths to the lodge end of the island. A red-winged blackbird fluttered across his path, and he brushed aside a gossamer cobweb still beaded with dew-drops. A guy could get accustomed to peace and quiet, he thought, understanding all at once why Kate dreaded leaving here.

  Not that he liked living at the lodge, which was a big barnlike building with a long uncarpeted hallway that echoed every little sound. It had noisy plumbing, hard water, ugly overstuffed furniture and a line of ants perpetually running from the kitchen window to the nether regions of the pantry.

  As he had since his arrival, Morgan ignored the company of marchers and went to the refrigerator to pour a glass of milk. As he stood drinking it, he could look into the lodge's main room with its mounted boar heads and pheasants. There was a fireplace wide enough to put a bed in—funny that he should think of beds. Or was it?

  If he thought about beds, what sprang instantly to mind was pillows and golden blond hair spread out upon them. If he thought about blond hair, he fantasized about running his fingers through Kate's hair and ultimately guiding her head toward his until their lips met and blended in surprise and pleasure. Her skin would be smooth and soft, her neck warm, her eyelids heavy with passion, and she would cling to him, incapable of moving and her heart beating triple time.

  Oh, he thought about it. He thought about it a lot, more than he wanted to, more than he thought was proper.

  He'd had a lot of experience with women, but nothing in his life had ever prepared him for coming to terms with the fact that he, Morgan Rhett, had the hots for a woman who was humongously pregnant and was going to bear his child.

  Chapter 6

  Morgan forced himself to stay at his end of the island until he thought he'd go crazy wondering what Kate was doing.

  Was she tipped over in some boat, snorkeling, falling off the ferry dock, or tripping over a root and sprawled on one of the treacherous island paths? Telling himself that she'd lived on this island all her life and knew how to deal with its dangers didn't help, and reminding himself that she didn't want him anywhere around only made him irritable.

  So what should I do? he asked himself. His presence on the island wasn't accomplishing its purpose if he stayed in the lodge like a hermit. He found himself daydreaming about her, imagining her eyes warm with laughter, her lips upturned with pleasure—sights that he longed to see.

  Finally, after a couple of days had passed, he knew that he had to see Kate again. Now. Today. Out of pure curiosity he'd confirm what he had sensed earlier when she'd given out definite sexual vibrations, but he wouldn't be influenced.

  In fact, this time his visit would have a purpose. He'd look her over, really look her over, study the size of her, inspect her legs for spider veins, see how the seams of her clothing bulged.

  He'd find fault with everything he could so that it would be impossible for him to find her attractive. He had to put an end to those crazy, maybe even wicked, visions of their bodies pressed together in an endless variety of positions, visions that refused to go away.

  He planned carefully. He would remain aloof when he saw her, refusing to smile or say anything personal. He would wear sunglasses so she couldn't see that he was inspecting every inch of her and looking for flaws and faults. He would watch his body language to make sure he wasn't giving her the wrong idea.

  All the way to the lighthouse Morgan rehearsed in his mind what he was going to say to Kate when he saw her, manufacturing an excuse for being on this end of the island and planning how to open the conversation. But when he was almost there and had the words down pat, he happened to glance upward at the lighthouse tower, and his heart almost stopped.

  Kate was leaning on the railing around the metal platform at the top of the lighthouse, her shirt plastered against the smooth rise of her stomach, her bright hair blowing in the wind.<
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  He was so stunned to see her up there that he gawked for a moment. Kate, seven months pregnant, hanging over the railing at the top of the lighthouse! Kate, taking chances! He cupped his hands around his mouth so that his words wouldn't be flung seaward by the wind.

  "Kate! Come down from there!" he called, the words startling him with their outrage.

  She looked down as if she couldn't quite place him, which, since he had been thinking about her nonstop for the past few days, infuriated him. Her hair flew around her head, shining like a halo. He could barely make out her features; the tower, according to a plaque set into the bricks nearby, was a hundred and thirty feet tall. He knew there was no elevator. She must have climbed all the way to the top.

  "Kate!"

  "Go away," she called back.

  He ran to the door at the base of the tower, but it didn't yield to his frantic tugging.

  He ran back to where he could see her more clearly. "What do you think you're doing?" he yelled.

  "Drying my hair," was her answer. He thought she might be laughing at him.

  He paced back and forth. What if she became dizzy and lost her balance? What if she couldn't manage the downward descent on the narrow spiral staircase? He had climbed another lighthouse once, and the muscles in his legs, unaccustomed to such steep stairs, had ached for days.

  "How did that lady get to the top of the lighthouse?" a boy of about twelve asked. He had a camera slung from a strap on his wrist, and someone that Morgan took to be his mother was examining the inscription on the path to the quarters.

  "Climbed," Morgan said in disgust at Kate's antic.

  "Can we go up there, too?" asked a small girl who must have been the boy's younger sister.

  "Yeah, I wanna go to the top," said the boy.

  "Where can we buy tickets?" the mother asked, hurrying over.

  "You can't, and people aren't allowed to climb the lighthouse," Morgan said distractedly.

  "Is she going to jump?" the woman asked sharply.

  "No, of course not," Morgan said.

  "Then why—?"

  "I have no idea."

  The woman gave him a strange look. "Come along, Tyler," she said.

  "But—"

  "You too, Vanessa," and despite their wails of protest, the children were hustled away toward the beach.

  Morgan couldn't take his eyes off Kate. At any moment he expected her to plummet over the railing, hair flying, as she uttered a bewildered scream. What would he do if that happened? How could he protect her?

  "Kate! Please come down!" he called again.

  She said nothing. He thought wildly of Rapunzel in her tower, letting down her hair so that her prince could climb up. He thought about Kate's total irresponsibility and her beauty and her foolhardiness.

  Then, in the blink of an eye, she was gone. Disappeared. He blinked again, the reflection of the sun on the glass at the top of the lighthouse blinding him. She must have gone inside.

  How many stairs were there in this lighthouse? Each one of them posed the threat of a misstep. She could stumble. She could lose her fragile hold on the railing or have a sudden pain and double over, losing her balance.

  He waited, and it seemed like hours. He hurried to the metal door in the lighthouse base and pounded on it. He called her name. He was acting like a madman, and all because of—no, not because of the baby. The baby was incidental. At the moment, it was Kate he cared about.

  He was ready to renew his attack on the door when it opened with a creak of rusty hinges.

  Kate stood there, a step above him, her hair falling softly around her shoulders, her eyes clear and amused.

  In that soft yellow shirt, her breasts pressing against the fabric, her stomach gently rounded beneath, she looked for all the world like a fertility goddess.

  He swallowed and tried not to look as relieved as he actually was. All the words he had planned to say, all thoughts of finding something unattractive or disgusting about her flew out of his head.

  "You shouldn't have gone up there," he said, and he was so choked with emotion that he couldn't go on.

  "I always dry my hair in the sun at the top of the lighthouse," she explained serenely. "It's so much better for it than the harsh heat of a hair dryer."

  He could smell it, her hair, lemon scented with a tinge of salt, a clean smell. The air inside the tower rushed out, cool and sweet. She stepped outside and swung the door closed behind her.

  He touched her hair as he had been wanting to for so long. It fell away from her shoulders, shimmering like sun-shot silk. She swung her head around and stared into his eyes, startled.

  His hand dropped. He couldn't believe it, but he had been ready to make a move on her.

  "You frightened me," he said.

  She continued to stare at him. "I can still manage the stairs. I've been climbing them all my life," she said.

  "Don't do it anymore. Please. You can dry your hair out on the beach if you must. But not at the top of the lighthouse."

  "I'll think about it," she said. She turned away and headed toward the house.

  "Kate," he began. He had never seen anyone who looked so completely female. He had the urge to wrap his arms around her and kiss her thoroughly, to run his tongue around those seductive lips of hers, to bend her to him, twining legs around legs, arms around bodies, to crush her breasts against his chest until they could both barely breathe.

  If Kate Sinclair didn't want to be kissed, he was a monkey's uncle. Underscoring his jubilation at this thought was the more sobering knowledge that if he kissed her, he might be getting into more than he'd bargained for.

  He'd agreed to take the baby; the baby was his responsibility. But Kate wasn't. And if he started something, she might think she was entitled to more than he wanted to give.

  Give? All he wanted, he admitted to himself with chagrin, was to take.

  She opened her eyes. She looked scared, and he saw her swallow.

  So much for sexual desire in the pregnant woman, he told himself. They felt it, all right. Or at least this one did.

  "I'll see you tomorrow," he blurted before turning on his heel and heading for the path to the beach. In the face of this new knowledge, not only about her but about himself, all he wanted to do was put distance between them before he initiated something they would both regret.

  After all, it was the baby he cared about, he reminded himself on the way back to the lodge. But try as he might, he couldn't imagine the child. All he could think about was Kate. Even now, with the lighthouse receding into the distance, he could still smell the fragrance of her sun-warmed skin and feel the caress of her sweet-smelling hair on his fingertips.

  * * *

  As soon as Morgan left, Kate commenced trembling like a leaf.

  And it was wild, it was insane, but she had desperately wanted Morgan to kiss her.

  Hormones, she told herself, it's my hormones running wild. If other pregnant women thought about sex, Kate had never heard about it. Or if she'd heard about it, she'd dismissed it as cockeyed ramblings. But lately it had been constantly on her mind.

  Morgan's lips had been only inches away from hers, and he had touched her hair, and she had shivered and wanted to lean into him, to put her arms around his waist and feel the warmth of his body pressing against hers.

  Only he wouldn't want that. She had about as much sex appeal as Babar the elephant. She was immensely, hugely pregnant. She was as unattractive as she'd ever been, and besides, Morgan's taste in women ran to small intense ones like Courtney, his ex-wife.

  This was their baby she was carrying, she reminded herself. The product of their union. And even though fertilization had occurred in a Petri dish, the baby was a reminder that Morgan had actually been Courtney's husband and had thus gone to bed with her many times.

  The thought punctured her longings. It let all the air out of them and left her feeling deflated. Deflated, but still huge, and the baby must be swimming laps inside her because it hadn't b
een still for over an hour.

  To distract herself she looked in the cupboard for a snack. Nothing looked good to her. She wanted something tart and sour, and all she had was stuff like vanilla pudding and canned cream-of-potato soup. She slammed the cupboard door, hard. Today, she thought, nothing had gone right.

  Because she had put off the chore long enough, she leafed through some of the marine science professional journals that had been piling up for the past six months. She lingered over the Help Wanted columns for a long time, circling two or three ads. Then, with darkness falling outside, she sat down at her laptop in the homey little sitting room and began to compose a job application letter.

  She had no trouble until she reached the point where she had to mention her previous employer. She was mulling over the proper wording when she heard Morgan at her door.

  "Kate?" he said.

  With all of her senses suddenly alert, she went to answer his knock.

  "Back again so soon, Morgan? What do you want?" Her tone of voice didn't give away the fact that only a short while ago she had been fantasizing about kissing him.

  "I'll be taking the first ferry to Preacher's Inlet early tomorrow morning so I can call my office. I wondered if you needed anything from town," he said. His face showed little expression.

  "I go every two weeks or so to the store. I have plenty to eat," she said.

  "How about fresh vegetables? Fruit? Are you eating enough of that?"

  "My diet satisfies my doctor," she said.

  "Next time you go for a prenatal visit, I'll go with you."

  "Morgan. This is ridiculous," Kate said.

  "What's ridiculous is that you're standing in there and I'm out here getting bitten by mosquitoes as big as helicopters," he said crossly.

  Kate had to laugh. He eyed her without humor and started to walk away, his flashlight bouncing a beam of light off the dense trees beyond.

  She held the door open wide. "Come in," she said with only a trace of impatience.

  He turned with an inquiring look.

  "Hurry up," she urged, "before the bugs beat you to it."