by Raina Lynn
“Boy, is that important!” laughed Bobby’s wife. “Are you...okay?”
Mason was sure she really meant “married.” Discreetly, he clenched his jaw. Then he took Jill’s arm. “I’m sorry, but she’s been on her feet all day—” teaching me to line dance “—and I think she needs to sit down for a while.”
Jill shot an amused look at him. She knew exactly how badly he wanted to get away from these people. “Sounds like a plan.”
“See you all on Monday.” He turned Jill around and guided her through the tightly packed crowd. “Why were you covering for me?”
Batting her eyes at him in feigned southern charm, she asked, “Now, sir, whatever do you mean?”
“Knock it off, and answer the question.”
She slid into her seat and sighed. “Bradshaw, as agitated as you’ve been the past three days, if I’d spread out our personal business for public consumption, you would’ve had a coronary. I’m pregnant, not insensitive.”
That should have made him feel better, but it made him irrationally angry instead. Anything he said at this point would only give her more ammunition, so he flagged down the waitress. “The lady will have a fruit juice, and I’ll have a beer since it seems to be the drink of choice around here.”
Jill snorted. “What are you doing? You hate beer.”
He blinked. “How do you know that?”
“Ben tried to hand you one at the picnic last summer. When you declined, you covered your shudder of distaste pretty well, but I still noticed. Your rare indulgences are confined to wine—preferably ones you’ve had the fun of aging yourself—and the occasional bourbon.”
“How do you.... Why do you remember all that?” The waitress chuckled at the byplay, and he wanted to snap at her.
“Women in love remember all sorts of trivia. It’s what we’re good at.” She and the waitress shared a grin. “I’ll have my orange juice on the rocks, and Mr. Fastidious here will have your house wine.”
The woman looked at him for confirmation, pencil poised. He nodded. With a smile, she moved to the next table, leaving them alone. Learning that Jill knew that much about him made him feel extraordinarily exposed. Again deciding silence might be the better part of valor, he listened to the words of the song blasting through the speakers. Another mistake.
He bent to her ear. “Jill, are they really saying ‘boot scootin’ boogie’?” He sounded aghast.
“Yep. It’s been one of my favorite songs for years. My CD bit the dust or you’d have heard it this afternoon.” Her expression turned challenging. “Just remember, Bradshaw. No one forced you to be here.”
Swallowing his exasperation and annoyance took an inordinate amount of willpower. Jill tucked a blond curl behind her ear, then let herself move to the rhythm. His attention riveted on the complex moves being executed by the dancers. Two dozen booted heels suddenly connected hard with the wooden floor. The room vibrated from the impact.
“You like this?” he asked, managing to sound enthralled and repelled at the same time.
“What’s the matter, Bradshaw?” she teased, leaning close so he could hear above the canned music. “Forget the wolfbane?”
“What do you mean?” he asked suspiciously.
“From the look on your face, you’d feel more comfortable if you’d brought a couple of wooden crosses or silver bullets to ward off evil.” Her eyes sparkled as she attempted to stifle more laughter. Shaking her head again, she slipped onto the dance floor and stepped into the flawless kick-turns and twists that line dancing made famous. Pregnant, her steps lacked the precision of some of the other dancers, but she looked good. Actually, with her generous bulge in front, she looked incredibly sexy.
He’d never known he found pregnant women a turn on, at least not until Jill had baldly pointed out the possibility. Maybe it was just her. Maybe he was just nuts.
The song ended, immediately followed by another with an entirely different rhythm. The razor-straight lines broke up. Couples formed and whirled around the room. Jill sat down beside him, breathless, eyes glowing.
“See? It’s a lot more fun with a bunch of people.”
He tried to smile convincingly, but to his aggravation, she chortled at him. Anger flared, and he clenched his jaw. He would play this out one day at a time for now, but one thing he knew: no amount of hideous music would keep him from being a full-time father to his child.
Just the thought of the life growing safely beneath Jill’s heart brought a lump to his throat. He’d lay down his life for that baby. He wanted to wake up Saturday mornings to a little body jumping on the bed and falling into his arms. He wanted to rub his beard-stubbled chin into a warm neck just to listen to a happy squeal. He wanted Little League games and dance recitals. In short, he wanted to be a dad.
His own parents had tolerated his presence only if they couldn’t avoid it. He’d enrolled in college before he realized their lack of interest had nothing to do with him. Self-absorption and coldness had simply been their way. No child of his would ever go through that kind of emotional neglect.
With unwavering determination, he turned his attention back to the dancers. “What do you call what they’re doing now?”
“The Texas Two-step.” She smiled enviously at the couples.
“There really is such a thing? I thought that was a joke.”
She smiled. “Like I said, Bradshaw. No one forced you to be here.”
“If you’ll put as much energy into our marriage plans as you do putting me off, our future will be a lot less complicated.”
A slower romantic ballad began, and the couples settled into more of a freestyle dance. The steel guitar’s whine still offended his ears, but at least he could handle this particular melody. Ignoring Jill’s unconvinced smirk, he led her onto the floor. With the guilt he’d been carrying around over sleeping with her, he’d forgotten how perfect she felt in his arms. But unlike the night she’d spent in his bed, her stomach now pressed low against his belly.
Mine. The whole concept of fathering a child—and all its sexual implications—slammed with stunning force into some dark, primitive corner of his brain. Without warning, his body reacted. Only with effort did he shake off the wild, erotic thoughts.
The rest of the situation’s various truths hit Mason equally hard. He was in a bar that played music he hated, dancing with a woman he didn’t really know, and—as bizarre as it seemed, he desperately needed to convince her to marry him.
Marriage. The thought repelled him almost as much as the music—and that took some doing. Jill had always intrigued him, but he couldn’t tell whether his reservations were because of her resemblance to Karen and the reminders it carried, or whether he just wanted nothing to do with anyone. And that completely unnerved him.
Then again, there was the baby. Before emotions and personal preferences got the better of him, he crushed the debate under the iron resolve to shoulder his responsibilities.
Two hours later, the evening mercifully ended, and he drove Jill home.
“You know, Bradshaw, we could always live together,” she announced suddenly as he parked the car.
He gripped the wheel a little too tightly. “We could jump off a cliff too, but I’d rather not.”
“Why?”
The barely disguised challenge in her voice made him suspect she had thrown out the idea as a point of argument, not because she regarded it as an option. Either way, it thoroughly annoyed him. “Why? Because I’m a dinosaur, one of those throwbacks who believes in hearth and home and—”
“Divorce and child support.”
“Having parents with the same last name gives a child a stronger sense of identity and—”
“Right, Bradshaw. She gets to be the product of a broken home.”
“The stability of a live-in relationship is an illusion, Jill. People who live together often subconsciously work harder to compensate for an inherent weakness, but it doesn’t stop them from breaking up. In the long run, it often causes m
ore misery, especially when children are involved.”
“Oooh, psychology. I’m impressed.”
He scowled at her. “Stop it.”
Jill leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes, apparently weighed down by mental and emotional fatigue. A new guilt pricked him. He’d been so focused on his own perspective that he hadn’t given much thought to hers. Still, he couldn’t let her relegate him to the status of outsider.
“I know you’re serious, Mason,” she sighed. “That’s what scares me.”
He ground his teeth. “Our baby didn’t ask to be conceived, but it deserves the right to have two, loving, full-time parents.”
Her breath eased out in a heavy sigh. “Bradshaw, I have no doubts you’ll make a great dad. I just don’t believe you want me as your partner in life.”
“That’s not true,” he lied. Inwardly, he knew he didn’t have any more chance of convincing himself than he did her, but he had to find a way to do both.
Settling back, Jill stared at the sunroof. “You never answered when I asked if you could love again.”
Brutally, Mason wondered if fate had condemned him to be one of those fools who loved only once, even when it had been the worst mistake of his life. Or, as the old saying went, would time heal? God, he wished he knew.
He yanked the car keys from the ignition. Attempting to analyze emotions he’d never really been comfortable with while proposing marriage was rough on a man’s sense of order. He liked Jill, liked her quick wit and envied her openness. And he had to admit, her body—particularly pregnant—made him ache. In fact, he found her attractive on many levels. All but his in his heart, he acknowledged sadly, and not for the first time. “Karen’s in my past.”
Sad, disbelieving laughter rippled from Jill’s throat. “Bradshaw, what am I going to do with you?”
“Marry me. Give our child a proper home.”
Her expression softened, and she gently kissed his cheek. “Her home will be much more stable if she never loses something she never has to begin with.”
“I’m going to be a big part of her life, Jill.” Then he picked up on something. “Her?”
She nodded. “Ultrasound.”
A decidedly silly-feeling grin crept onto his face. “A daughter,” he sighed, mentally adjusting to the sure knowledge of his baby’s gender. Definitely dance recitals. Or maybe Little League, too. The possibilities were infinite. Then he realized how neatly he’d been sidetracked. “Jill, we can build a good relationship. What we’d be starting off with can be more important than love. Respect. We can build from there.”
She winced. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m allergic to situations where I’m likely to get creamed. Don’t worry about my feelings, Bradshaw. I’m an old hand at loving people who don’t love me back. It stinks, but I’m used to it.” She unlocked her age-scarred front door and stepped inside. “Good night, Bradshaw. It’s been memorable.” The door shut with a soft click.
Mason stared at the tarnished knocker. Her words over the course of the day played through his mind. Then it hit him. Jill had loved him the night after his divorce had gone to court. She hadn’t arrived at his apartment just to commiserate with a fellow divorce veteran. Whether she’d realized it or not, she’d come to comfort the man she loved.
Disgust at himself filled up what little space anger didn’t already occupy. If he hadn’t been so self-absorbed back then, he’d have seen it, and he’d never have wound up in bed with her. They wouldn’t be going through all this.
Then again, he wouldn’t have a daughter about to be born, either. “Be careful what you wish for,” he murmured, heading back to his car. “Getting it can be murder.”
Chapter 7
“You have tickets for the what?”
Apparently, it was Jill’s turn to look as if she’d forgotten the wolfbane. The small victory made Mason feel better. “The symphony. No steel guitars, no cowboy hats, no boots.”
“I know what one is,” she snapped. “The question is ‘why’?”
Patience in emotional situations wasn’t one of his strong points, but he’d had lots of practice lately. “Why do you think?”
“Common interests?” she asked, her huge brown eyes taking on the air of a condemned prisoner.
He crossed his arms and smiled. “During the last two weeks, I’ve listened to more country music than I ever knew existed. You’ve dragged me to every hoedown, shindig and—”
“I have not. Those were my normal activities. It’s not my fault you’re into masochism. Which reminds me. My idea of a fun evening is not sitting in a dark theater listening to funeral music.”
“Funeral music?” He blinked.
“That’s what that stuff sounds like to me.”
Delighted laughter bubbled up from deep in his chest. “Only you would come up with an analogy like that.”
She gave him a mock scowl. “I’m so glad you’re amused.”
“The concert is tomorrow night at the college. I’ll pick you up at six, and we’ll have dinner first.”
Her face fell, and she fidgeted. “Bradshaw, I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to go.”
“I know, but you will.”
“Why is that?”
“I’ve learned a lot about you lately. Tonight, you’ll gripe and complain like a spoiled teenager, but your inherent sense of fair play will ensure you’re ready when I pick you up. Then you’ll do everything you can to make sure it’s an enjoyable evening for both of us—even if it kills you.”
Her mouth sagged open. Mason felt guiltily pleased. He rather enjoyed having someone other than himself opened up for public view.
She squared her shoulders. “Bradshaw, I know exactly how much you draw for a salary. You can’t afford to wine and dine me like this. So why don’t you get a refund on those tickets and leave me alone tomorrow night?”
He didn’t know where the idea to take her hands and kiss her cheek came from, but it tempted him. Maybe it had to do with missing her whirlwind, take-life-by-thehorns attitude. He leaned to her and brushed his lips across her cheek. She’d lightly perfumed her skin with something reminiscent of vanilla, and her distended belly pressed low against his midsection. The sensations they evoked combined into a heady mix.
What bothered him was that he felt so detached from it, as if he were watching it happen to someone else. Could she be right? Was he one of those who would never be able to put the past behind him? Would he be able to fall in love again? If so, could she be the one? Maybe if he didn’t see Karen every time he looked at her, the whole disaster might not be so complicated.
He kissed her again, on the lips this time. She held absolutely still. He doubted she even breathed. Drawing her close, he kissed her properly and found the same fire he’d experienced their night together. All these months, he’d believed it had been emotions of the moment running out of control. Now, he no longer knew.
“Bradshaw, I think you’d better go,” she said, trembling.
The full impact of where his thoughts had roamed slammed into him. “I think you’re right.”
Jill still owed about a thousand dollars on her charge card from her cruise last summer. In the overall scheme of things, the black satin gown she bought on her lunch hour didn’t do too much serious damage to her long-term budget. But buying an expensive dress that she’d probably only wear once grated against her principles. Then again, she wanted to look nice for Mason—another complaint her common sense filed against her.
She hadn’t been to a symphony since a high school field trip. In her opinion, classical music had been invented by the same sadist who’d come up with decaf coffee.
Suffering through one this time would be different, though. Mason loved classical music, and he wanted to share it with her. After she dressed, she sank down onto the edge of the bed. “You are setting yourself up for so much hurt.” She buried her head in her hands. “Why can’t your ‘no’ mean ‘no?’ Why can’t you tell him to take a hike, then send him a birth
announcement when the time comes?”
As always when she heard Mason’s knock at the door, her heart leapt into her throat and beat with a slow, heavy thud. She loved him. Nothing would change that. He didn’t feel the same. Nothing would change that either. “Jill, ol’ girl, that man’s not the only one with masochistic tendencies.” With a groan of acceptance and a snappy retort poised on her lips, she opened the door.
Mason stood on her porch in a tuxedo, complete with starched white shirt and shoes with a shine so bright he could have shaved in the reflection.
“You look beautiful, Jill.”
“I feel like a kid playing dress up,” she said, nevertheless warmed by his compliment.
He snorted, then brushed past her into her apartment. She couldn’t stop staring. She’d always suspected he’d come from money by the way he carried himself. The tux emphasized the possibility and how different their backgrounds were.
“Is that yours, Bradshaw?” she observed, only half aware that she’d spoken out loud. “That’s too perfect a fit for a rental place.”
He made a nonverbal noise of affirmation in his throat. “Does that bother you?”
“I’ve never known anyone who owned his own tuxedo before.”
“That I can believe.”
“What did you mean by that crack?” she snapped, bristling.
His expression tightened as if he’d just realized what he’d said could be taken two ways. “Your friends and hangouts show off denim like a badge of honor. I’m not used to jeans anymore than you’re used to symphonies and black tie dinners.”
“Which is why we’re doing this thing tonight. Right?”
“Very good.” His lips pursed. “Are you willing to admit defeat and marry me now?”
“No.”
His shoulders rose and fell in a compressed sigh. “We’ve been at this for weeks. The baby is due in one month. I want this settled and both of us in a comfortable routine before she’s born. Afterward, when she’s awake half the night—as I understand most newborns are—it could be a more stressful time to try and build a marriage.”
