“Definitely.” She sounded breathless.
“I’ve got a bottle of nonalcoholic sparkling cider the girls didn’t drink on New Year’s. How about tonight at eight. My house.”
“See you there.” She hung up.
“Congratulations,” Mrs. Grosso said, while assisting her husband into his office.
“For what?”
“You wife. She pregnant?”
“Oh. No. Just a friend of mine.”
Mrs. Grosso still knew how to look coy. “Your girlfriend?”
“Just a friend.”
He shuffled the stack of lab reports on his desk and waited for the couple to settle in. It might prove harder than he originally thought to keep a secret about the fact that he had something to do with René’s pregnancy.
René tapped on Jon’s steel door five minutes early. It sounded like a vault opening, and he must have been waiting just on the other side, it opened so quickly.
“Hey,” he said, eyes bright. His black tailored shirt, with sleeves rolled to his forearms, hugged his trim, long torso. The jeans fit just right, too. She’d noticed he’d shaved off his beard earlier in the week and missed it, but evening stubble darkened his face. The image set off a burst of excitement on an already-overloaded day. She chalked it up to fatigue mixed with euphoria.
“Hey,” she replied as she entered his loft. The perfectly square main room was decorated with clean urban minimalism, and surprisingly unusual artwork balanced out the sparse furniture. Dare she say sensual artwork, with warm and inviting shapes and colors? She scanned the room, and noticed an alcove separated by a Japanese paper screen that was most likely his bedroom. A closed door next to it she pegged as the bathroom. The mantel sans fireplace came complete with a large mirror and—she had to look twice—larger than life-size angel-wing artifacts? Jon?
“My daughters tease me about that one, too,” he said as a smile slid across his face. “Found them in Venice. Couldn’t resist. The shipping fee was astounding.”
A laugh tickled up from deep inside. She imagined Jon in Italy making plans to ship his art home, using sign language and pointing to the wings. Then another peculiar thought popped into her mind about him and Cherie dividing up their property during the divorce, and Jon insisting he keep those serene angel wings. What kind of man would want to look at angel wings every day? She smiled at him, a man who’d already proved himself as an angel. It felt good to be here, to share the news she’d been bursting to tell the world all day.
She followed him toward the spotless new kitchen wedged into the far corner of the completely undivided room. Her eyes bugged out at the conference-size black-enameled dining table, and how he’d taken over half of it with his computer equipment.
“Do you entertain a lot?” This was certainly a side she’d never seen of Jon.
“Me? Are you kidding? Nah, I just like how it fits here, and the girls really spread out with their books and laptops and all. It works for us.”
“It’s impressive how much thought you put into the girls when you moved here.”
“As you’ll soon find out, kids become the biggest part of your life. Even bigger than medicine. It’s great.”
He retrieved the alcohol-free sparkling cider from the ice bucket and popped the cork faster than she could blink. “Let’s toast to our success.”
“Yes, of course! That’s what I came here to do, to celebrate.”
That devilish sparkle she sometimes noticed appeared in his eyes. “I have to know one thing,” he said. “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”
She sputtered a laugh and delivered a firm sock to his deltoid. Feeling a bit like a schoolgirl again, she rolled her eyes at his tasteless and very macho joke. “Ugh.”
“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” He lifted his glass. “Here’s to our success. May the baby be healthy and pretty as her mother if it’s a girl, and if it’s a boy outrageously masculine like his fah…sperm donor.”
She almost spit out the cider. “Who are you, and what have you done with Jon Becker?” She loved seeing this playful side of him, hadn’t seen it nearly enough during their five-year acquaintance.
“I’ve got to admit, I’m really jazzed about this successful kid experiment of ours.” He reached out and patted her waist.
The gesture sent an electrical jolt through her stomach. She couldn’t look into his bright gaze so she glanced over his shoulder, down the wall, directly into his bedroom. Wrong move. More minimalism smacked her between the eyes. That and an inviting king-size bed neatly made with a warm brown duvet on display by recessed lighting. A prurient image popped into her mind. She blamed it on hormones and quickly glanced away, then sipped more cider to avoid his stare.
“You have no idea how ecstatic I am,” she said.
He took her by the arm and guided her back to the living room section of the loft.
She sat on the chrome-and-cushioned navy-blue couch, placed her cider flute on the glass-and-brushed-nickel coffee table and admired a small peacock sculpture next to three oversize art books—another fanciful surprise about Jon. The contrast with the “man” furniture was a breath of fresh air.
“So tell me,” he said. “I’m all ears.”
She felt coy and girlish as her cheeks grew warm. “Well, you did your part.”
He nodded. “That I did. And, might I add, magnificently.” There was that teasing, full-of-himself glance again.
She fought the smile tickling the corners of her mouth. “And I did mine.”
“Yes, I see how this story is shaping up. Intriguing.” He lifted one brow.
“And three weeks later, I missed my period. We did a blood test this morning and sure enough it took!”
“Fantastic. What a team, huh?” he said, looking beyond pleased.
Maybe it was the new rush of hormones, or extreme gratitude, but before she could stop, she’d thrown herself into his arms.
Jon wanted to keep the evening all about René and the pregnancy, but here she was smashed against him, and he knee-jerked a response. He enfolded her and held her close, doing his best to deny the most basic of all reactions between a man and woman. He couldn’t let this happen. There was no point.
After all his years in chemistry lab, he knew it took at least two ingredients to react. Him and her. In his case, at this particular moment, combust was the word that came to mind.
Did she have a clue what she did to him each time—twice now but who was counting—she’d flung herself into his arms? It was the dumbest thing he could do to let his guard down, yet he savored the delicate feel of her spine and shoulders, inhaled the shampoo-fresh scent of her hair. He’d missed this part of a relationship.
Casting his misgivings aside, he stopped holding himself back and kissed her head, soon finding the smooth skin of her cheek. Memories of closeness and pleasure flashed in his brain. He hadn’t felt her tense or pull back, so he kissed her earlobe. It was warmer than his lips.
She adjusted her head and her mouth was right there for the taking. Any man in his right mind would kiss her, but a gentleman, a colleague and friend, a man who dreaded commitment and dreamed of China and a year away, should ignore that plump lower lip and its upper, perfectly fitted mate.
He ignored the warning, exhaled and dipped his head. Just a taste, that would satisfy this curiosity he’d harbored for the past month. How did it feel to kiss René Munroe?
Moist and warm, and open, her lips pressed against his, so soft, so inviting. He meant to restrain himself, but the lure of her lips made him quickly forget. He covered her mouth and flicked his tongue over the smooth surface, felt the tip of her tongue and explored it. She tasted like sweet cider, but so much better. He drew back and kissed her from another angle, finding the same sweet invitation. Again and again they joined mouths, deepened, flicked and swirled tongues. His body, with a mind of its own, shifted toward her in a desperate attempt to make as much contact as possible. One arm held her close, as the other grazed her butter-so
ft skin.
One long crimson polished finger touched his chin and slid down his throat, dipping below his collar. Hell, at this point she could pinch him and that would turn him on, too, but that finger and the sensual trip down his neck made him groan. He weaved his hands through her hair and deepened the kiss, then followed the curve of her arms and hips, moved inward and cupped her full and pliant breasts.
Wrong move. Her head snapped free from the kiss. She closed her eyes, though he’d seen the bright blaze within them before she did, and pulled away from him.
“Oh, my God. What have we done?” she whispered.
He ignored the stirring in his gut, and acted as surprised as she did. He needed to do something, to lighten the mood, to distract them from the trail they’d foolishly embarked on. “Hold on. Hold on. We can pretend this never happened.” Like hell he could. “Blast that sparkling cider. It does it to me every time.”
His clumsy attempt at humor helped them both save face, but he needed to say more. This attraction wasn’t in the contract, but damn he’d wished they’d taken time to explore other avenues for her to get pregnant. Like the tried-and-true natural way, the way they could easily fall into bed if his better senses didn’t keep cropping up. He knew where that would lead—to something he could never give.
He’d already let her down. He dropped his head and glanced first at his feet, then at her. “I’m sorry if I took advantage of the opportunity.”
She screwed up her face. “Jon, I threw myself at you.”
“But that was out of happiness, and I went right into sexual mode…”
“Stop.”
His gaze flew to hers. She offered a measured look. “I think now we’re both aware of something we hadn’t bargained on. At least, I hadn’t,” she said, pushing the thick hair he’d mussed out of her face.
He nodded. “I’ve got to tell you, it’s pretty damn strong on this side of the couch.” He crossed his foot over his knee, knowing he couldn’t possibly hide the full body reaction she’d caused.
“You didn’t sign a contract for a girlfriend and a baby.”
“You’ve got a point there. We can’t ignore that you’re going to have a baby.”
“Taking a risk to explore this—” her hand swam back and forth, gesturing to him and her several times “—this thing between us is too risky. Unfortunately, our timing is off.”
“Story of my life.” He went for humor again, a sorry attempt to lighten the heightening confusion and his drooping spirits.
Her caramel gaze drifted demurely to her lap and her hands. “You don’t want anyone to know you’re the father.”
“Right.”
“And you’re planning that sabbatical.”
“Right again. And you wanted a baby without any strings attached. And the last thing I ever want again is commitment. Any commitment.”
“Right. So we’ve got to go back to how it was before—” she glanced at him and quickly at the floor “—before we realized…”
“That we turn each other on.” He finished the sentence for her, used the words he wanted her to hear, not her beat-around-the-bush, let’s-make-this-all-go-away-nicely explanation.
She sighed. “Yes.”
At least she’d admitted it. He’d have to settle for that crumb when the whole cake sat right before him, fresh baked and ready to… Okay that was another poor analogy, but damn it, it was exactly how he felt. He’d take her in a New York minute, ravish her, have her naked and on his bed before she realized what a great lover he was, and before he could stop himself from making a huge mistake. His ironic laugh tossed him quickly out of the fantasy. He scrubbed his face. “Yeah, okay, well, what do we do now?”
She stood, looking solemn and at least half as perplexed as he felt. “We stick with the plan. We’re colleagues. We work together. And you’ve done an incredibly wonderful favor for me.”
Jon heard the resolve in her voice, but her body language wasn’t nearly as certain. He watched her fidget with her hair and look everywhere but into his eyes, then came to the only logical conclusion—anything between them was impossible, out of the question, not going to happen.
So that was how it would be.
CHAPTER SIX
THE next morning, Jon steered clear of the clinic lounge. He wasn’t ready to see René again after last night. One kiss had led right to insomnia, tossing and pulling sheets, adjusting and readjusting the pillow and cursing like a horny college kid.
He thumbed through his latest journal, waiting for his nurse to put his next patient in the exam room. He never wanted to go through the turmoil of a relationship again. Cherie’s surprise departure had left him emotionally drained, and with nothing left to give. Maybe that’s why he’d signed on to a sure thing—make baby, stay out of the picture. Hmm, write that down. Exclamation point!
So why the hell had he kissed René?
True, if life made sense it wouldn’t be nearly as interesting, but the crazy logic of needing to stay aloof and disengaged from a woman who was carrying a child he’d helped make nearly made his head explode. He wasn’t able to say “carrying his child.” No. The connotations that went along with that would surely do him in. And besides, he’d been absolved of the duty, and rightfully so, what with his future plans. He had to keep the proper frame of mind about the situation. He’d signed on to the project, and…it had been a success. On the first shot. He couldn’t help puffing out his chest as a macho, top-of-the-world feeling rustled through him.
Stop it. He couldn’t allow the prideful thoughts to mix him up any more than he already was. It was a favor. They had a contract. She wanted a baby of her own, and he had plans for a year’s sabbatical. Theirs was a business relationship, nothing more. Write that down!
Turned out the fallout was a bitch, though, and he had the filled journals to prove it.
René had made her hospital rounds before her scheduled surgery that morning. It was almost 1:30 p.m. before she made it in to the MidCoast Medical clinic for her afternoon appointments, and she was grateful for the busy and distracting morning. The last thing she could handle was seeing Jon.
She parked in the back and entered through the porch, a continuation from the wraparound porch at the front of the clinic. Several terra-cotta flowerpots burst with color and lined the picket railing. She inhaled the winter scent of pine tree and reached for the chilly glass doorknob.
The redone hardwood floors throughout the hallway sparkled with care. Jason had spared no cost when it came time to refurbishing this grand old house, and she never grew tired of admiring it.
“Ah, you’re just in time for lunch,” Jon said, looking chagrined, as she pushed through the door in the kitchen.
How had this happened? Normally he was already seeing his afternoon panel of patients by this time. So much for avoiding him.
“What are you doing here?”
“Morning clinic ran late when I had to admit one of my patients into the hospital for an EPS study.” He spoke in between popping potato chips into his mouth. “Young kid. Basketball player. Passed out at a game. Got zapped with an AED.”
“Wow. That’s not good.”
“Good news is he survived, and after we figure out what sets off his arrhythmia, we’ll know how to treat it and keep him alive.”
She nodded. Even now, desperately trying to stay out of his way, she was glad to see him. He looked sharp in a mint-green button-up shirt and tie with some sort of hieroglyphics on it, no doubt spelling out the meaning of life or something equally as important. His trousers fit him impeccably, and she couldn’t help but have a quickie flashback to the day she’d seen him stripped down and jogging. And the way he kissed.
This line of thinking had to stop.
René plopped into a chair and put her feet up on another. She’d stayed awake half the night thinking about the irony of asking a man to help her get pregnant, then, after the fact, realizing she was attracted to him. She’d live with her decision, though. Had to.
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“What held you up?” he said.
“I was in surgery all morning. My tubal ligation clinic. Two of the women were younger than me and they’ve already met their personal baby quotas, and wanted to make sure they didn’t have any more.” She glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one else was around. “And here I am just starting out. Ironic, huh?”
She fiddled with the single braid she always wore on surgery days and happened to pass glances with Jon. He nodded. She’d made the mistake of pondering her circumstances in front of him. He was bound to comment.
“You smell like chocolate,” he said, ignoring the irony and throwing her a curve. “What’s got you stressed?”
Like he didn’t know. And from the looks of the dark circles under his eyes, he didn’t get such a great night’s sleep, either.
“What do chocolate and stress have to do with each other?” She’d play dumb.
“I’ve seen you go for that chocolate stash in your purse when you’re under pressure.”
She blurted a laugh. “Guilty as charged, but this time it was more out of necessity. My blood sugar took a dive after being in the O.R. all morning, and I forgot to bring any lunch.”
“Here,” he said. “Have half of my sandwich.” He pushed a portion of a sub sandwich loaded with deli meats and vegetables under her nose. “You need to eat, now that you’re…”
“Jon, you don’t have to look out for me.” Though the sandwich did smell delicious and her taste buds had already gone on standby.
“Someone’s got to do it.” He flashed a smart-ass smile, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Take it. It’s loaded with those dill pickle slices you love.”
How could she refuse?
Ravenous, she took a huge bite, then said muffled thanks while dabbing at some mustard at the corner of her mouth.
He watched her with a quiet inward expression. “I like watching you enjoy your food.” He smiled again.
Then as if he’d only meant to think it and not say it out loud, his gaze darted away.
The Heart Doctor and the Baby Page 6
