Amanda's Child

by Rebecca York

  “You told me it was nothing to worry about,’’ she answered.

  Deliberately he kept his voice mild. “That’s how it turned out. At the time, it wasn’t much fun. But we’re not going to get off on that now. The point I was making was that while I was evaluating my life, I realized it didn’t have a lot of depth. And I wanted something more meaningful than going to work every day. The more I thought about it, the more I knew that something was you.’’

  Her expression told him she still wasn’t convinced. “Whoever the father is, I’m carrying another man’s child,’’ she said. Her face solemn, she reached for his hand and dragged it to the rounded swell of her tummy. When she pressed his palm against her, he could feel the kick of a tiny foot or the flailing of a hand against his skin. The sensation awed him.

  Smiling, he smoothed his fingers over her abdomen, pressed his palm as close as he could get to the life within. “I had time to think about the baby, too. And I figured that if I’m there while you’re carrying her, and I’m there when she’s born, and I help you raise her, then I’m the one who has a claim to her.’’

  “Why do you think it’s a girl?’’ she asked.

  “I guess I keep picturing her looking like her mom.’’

  “Rather than a boy who looks like his father.’’

  “I told you, as far as I’m concerned, I’m going to be the father. You already told me there’s a good chance the baby will look like me, anyway.’’

  “Matt, I…’’ Her voice hitched and she started again. “I’m having trouble taking all this in.’’

  “I know sweetheart. And I understand,’’ he added as he continued to caress her, establishing his connection with the unborn child—yet at the same time starting to feel the sensuality of the intimate touch. He made a little throat-clearing sound to hide the thickness in his voice. “I’m having trouble myself because I thought I’d never ask another woman to marry me. When you asked me about my first marriage, I didn’t tell you that I felt like a failure when we broke up. That I felt like Coach Forester had raised a son who couldn’t make a marriage work.’’

  “That’s not true! You’re the complete opposite of him.’’

  “Oh, yeah? Are you switching sides?’’

  “No, I’m arguing—the way I usually do. Because I’m independent and stubborn,’’ she added for good measure.

  “Yeah. Those are two of the things I like about you.’’

  “Oh, come on. We disagree all the time.’’

  “Because you’re strong enough to stand up to me. And you make your point. You don’t sulk.’’

  “Maybe I do.’’

  “Maybe it’s time to stop talking. If I can’t persuade you with logic, I guess I’ll have to try another approach,’’ he muttered as he took away the breakfast plate she’d forgotten about and set it on the floor.

  Then he lowered his mouth to hers, his lips persuasive and urgent as he strove to convince her that the two of them belonged together. He had her flat on her back before she could protest. He had her aroused before she could take ten shaky breaths. And he had his way with her before motel-checkout time.

  Unfortunately that wasn’t the end of it. After the mind-blowing sex, he had to further prove his good faith by letting her look at the scar on his leg and make clicking sounds over the job he’d done of sewing the damn thing closed.

  But after he’d endured that, she agreed to the marriage plan. And he’d felt some of the awful tension seep out of him.

  While Amanda got ready to leave, he paid their bill, then returned to the chalet. She was in the living room, dressed in one of the outfits he’d bought her, and his mind emptied of everything else when he saw her. He’d always had a good eye for color, and he’d guessed right when he’d picked a soft blue top with little yellow flowers over navy maternity pants. It took away the hard edge that her own clothes gave her and substituted a softly feminine image.

  “I like the way that looks on you,’’ he told her.

  The pink of her cheeks deepened. “Thank you,’’ she answered, and he knew that they had made some major progress, since she didn’t feel compelled to tell him what she didn’t like about the outfit.

  He was in a good mood as they hit U.S. 160 heading southwest. His future wife was sitting beside him, and the pain in his leg was down to manageable proportions.

  “It’s an easy drive to Las Vegas,’’ he told her, handing over the highway map. “We cut across Arizona.’’

  She studied the map, then cocked her head in the way she did when she was about to ask a hard question.

  “I suppose I’m still a murder suspect,’’ she said, her voice casual but laced with underlying strain.

  He made a face. “You would have to bring that up.’’

  “Tell me how we’re going to get married and use our real names.’’

  “One cop may have caught a glimpse of you, but the Denver police department doesn’t have anything to tie Amanda Barnwell and Matthew Forester to Francetti. The only person who’d have a reason to suspect us is Roy. And he doesn’t want you apprehended. He wants you at the Logan Ranch. So we’ll make a quick trip to a wedding chapel, then disappear back into anonymity.’’

  “With the fake ID you’ve been using?’’

  “I bought a couple of new sets. When we get to Vegas, I’m going to pick up something for you.’’

  “Just like that?’’

  “You can buy anything in Vegas, drugs, ID, white slaves, if you know where to look.’’

  Her eyes widened. “White slaves?

  “Well, women who will act any part you want—for a fee.’’

  She was silent for a few minutes, then said, “There’s something else I need to do. I haven’t been to a doctor for over a month. And I should have a regular prenatal checkup. Really, I should be seeing the same doctor the whole time, but I guess we can’t manage that.’’

  “No. We don’t want to establish a pattern. But we’ll get you an appointment before we leave Vegas.’’

  She apparently considered the answer satisfactory and went to another topic. “Can I see the material from the Highton clinic?’’

  He repressed a sigh. “The computer is in the pack on the floor by your feet. There’s enough battery power for you to use the machine for a while.’’

  She pulled the compact machine out of the pack and set it on her lap. To his amusement, her belly got in the way of the keyboard, but she managed anyway. He could tell at once that she knew her way around a hard drive.

  “The file name’s Highton?’’ she asked.

  “Right.’’

  She scanned the coded entries, then looked at him when she reached the detailed information on donor Colin Logan.

  “I thought you said there was no way to tell it was him. But here’s his record,’’ she said, pointing to the screen.

  “Well, the two issues are separate. Francetti could pull the record for Colin Logan. But there’s no way, specifically, to link this record to your donor without breaking the code.’’

  She moved the cursor through the file. “There’s a lot of personal stuff here. They think his IQ was 135!’’

  “Was it?’’ he asked, although he had no problem remembering that detail—or anything else he’d read about the bastard.

  “Maybe. He was smart. Cunning, I guess. He knew how to make people like him—teachers, coaches. Of course, his daddy’s money didn’t hurt. One year Roy donated all the equipment for the high-school football team.’’

  “A real humanitarian,’’ Matt muttered.

  She scanned through the report. “Here’s the medical information. Colin’s blood type is A positive. He had his wisdom teeth extracted when he was seventeen. He said he never had any major illnesses. That’s a lie. He had pneumonia when he was in third grade.’’

  The computer started to beep, and she switched off the machine. As she returned it to the backpack, he asked, “What else can you tell me about Colin that might help me und
erstand who murdered him?’’

  She shrugged. “You want to hear about the girl he raped our senior year in high school?’’

  “Rape?’’

  “Well, forced sex. The way I heard it, they were both drinking. When he tried to do it to her, she said no. And he didn’t take no for an answer. His father gave the family enough money to send her to a very nice college and that was the last we heard of that.’’

  “Convenient.’’

  She was silent for a moment, then told him about the dead frog Colin had put in her lunch box when she was in third grade.

  “How do you know it was him?’’

  “I don’t for sure, but he was the one who laughed the loudest.’’

  “He sounds like a real nice guy.’’

  “Which is why I wouldn’t have picked him for my child’s father.’’

  “Maybe he isn’t. And even if he is, we’ll make sure the kid turns out differently.’’

  “I hope,’’ she said in a shaky voice.

  “I know!’’ he answered with all the conviction he could put into the affirmation. “And I can guarantee she’ll like country music,’’ he added, turning on the radio to lighten the atmosphere in the truck.

  For lunch they stopped in a little town in Arizona where he coaxed her into the guilty pleasure of joining him for a root-beer float at a fast-food drive-in.

  In the afternoon she slept, and he took his eyes off the road every few minutes to watch the peaceful expression on her face. He wanted to guard that serenity, to keep the anxious look out of her eyes. But he knew he couldn’t do it until he got Roy Logan off their backs.

  AMANDA WOKE WITH A GASP as her eyes focused on what looked like Mt. Kilauea spewing lava into a lagoon.

  Blinking, she struggled to orient herself in time and space.

  “That’s the fake volcano at the Mirage Hotel,’’ Matt told her, obviously amused by her reaction. “It goes off every half hour or so,’’ he added as he pulled up along the curb to give her a better view. “But in this case, it’s all done with underground gas jets.’’

  Next to the hotel with the volcano was another sprawling edifice—this one a transplant from Imperial Rome. Beyond that was the Eiffel Tour, which vied for attention with a miniature version of New York City.

  Wide-eyed, Amanda tried to take it in. She’d never been more than three hundred miles from Crowfoot, Wyoming, and she’d never felt more like a country girl as she stared around her at this fantasy land.

  “You look like you’re in shock,’’ Matt commented.

  “I guess I’ve seen movies filmed in Las Vegas. I didn’t think it was going to look so…’’ She struggled for the right word and came up with “outrageous’’ just as a man wearing six-foot stilts and a clown suit crossed the road.

  The whole place was a circus, she supposed. And under other circumstances, she might have wanted to join the fun. Instead she found the atmosphere set her nerves on edge.

  When she couldn’t repress a little shiver, Matt put his hand on her arm.

  “You okay?’’

  “Yes,’’ she answered automatically as he turned off the main road. “Where are we going to stay?’’

  “Away from the action, to the extent that it’s possible. There’s an elegant little hotel I’ve been meaning to try for the past few years. They only have a small casino and a couple of high-stakes poker tables.’’

  “You come here often?’’

  “A card shark has to keep up with the latest in the field,’’ he answered as he turned in at a short driveway flanked by beds of exotic flowers.

  “Right,’’ she murmured under her breath. Apparently he felt right at home in this fake city in the desert. And suddenly all she could think of was the silver-tongued con man whom she’d seen in action on several occasions. The same man who’d asked her to marry him this morning.

  Even before he cut the engine, a uniformed doorman hurried to the side of the car. But Matt waved him away. Following his usual cautious routine, he went in alone to register, and she felt some of the anxiety ease out of her. But her stomach knotted again the moment he reappeared.

  He hustled her quickly through a plush lobby, where wild ducks with bright plumage swam in an artificial stream.

  Upstairs, she waited with her arms stiffly at her sides while the bellman showed them the features of their luxury suite, including the controls of the hot tub.

  When they were alone again, Matt gave her an assessing look. “Why don’t you rest while I see what I can find out about some of the men involved in the gambling consortium?’’

  “Okay,’’ she answered quickly.

  “You’re not going to insist on going along?’’

  “I learned my lesson in Denver,’’ she answered, hoping that her voice conveyed sincerity. “Just tell me what name we registered under, in case I need to know.’’

  “We’re Mr. and Mrs. Fred Marvin.’’

  “Classy!’’

  When Matt finally left her alone, she sank into a puffy white chair and threw her head back against the cushion, struggling to catch her breath as she remembered how casually he’d introduced the topic of marriage—then maneuvered her into saying yes.

  Now she wondered if she’d been out of her mind to go along with his plans. She’d known Matt Forester only a few weeks—and under totally unreal circumstances. What was going to happen when the immediate danger was over? When the excitement of running and hiding was behind them?

  And what about her own motives? Matt had snatched her and her unborn child out of Roy Logan’s clutches. Now she felt more dependent on him than on anyone else who had ever been in her life—including her parents.

  Was that why she had agreed to the marriage? Because she knew she couldn’t protect the baby on her own? Was that why she’d convinced herself she was in love with him?

  Struggling to hold on to her sanity, she wrapped her arms around her shoulders. Heart racing, she sat there, her mind circling and circling around the painful questions she’d posed. She had resolved nothing when Matt returned. To her vast relief, he suggested going out to dinner at a little Italian restaurant he’d found, and she accepted at once, figuring that it was probably better to be in a crowd than alone. But Matt requested a booth in a quiet corner.

  “Do you want me to tell you about the results of my research?’’ he asked as he stretched out his legs under the table and buttered a piece of bread.

  “Yes,’’ she answered, grateful that he was providing the topic of conversation.

  “First I checked out the chamber of commerce for any black marks against Colin’s would-be partners. They’re squeaky-clean in that department. Then I drove over to the real-estate offices of Chet Houston.’’

  Aware that she should be vitally interested in the information, Amanda dredged up a question. “Does he sell houses?’’

  “Commercial property. I told one of his agents I was looking for a suite of offices in a well-maintained, upscale building. That gave me a chance to ask a lot of questions.’’

  Amanda cut off a piece of chicken cacciatore, chewed and swallowed. Normally she would have enjoyed the rich tomato sauce. Tonight it had no taste, but she kept eating because pregnancy had made her hungry.

  Matt had launched into a description of his next stop—a condo management company owned by Chris Tallwood. “I had a similar scenario ready. But I didn’t get to use it,’’ he said.

  Something about the tone of his voice raised goose bumps on the skin of her arms. “Why not?’’

  “Tallwood was killed this morning in a hit-and-run accident on the way to the office.’’

  The news blasted through her own dark mood. “Do you think that’s just a wild coincidence?’’

  “I don’t know,’’ he answered quietly.

  Leaning toward him, she asked. “What about the rest of them? Have any others had accidents?’’

  “Not as far as I know.’’ He chewed and swallowed another bite of rosemar
y-grilled veal chop. “There are three more guys I want to investigate. But I decided to leave that for tomorrow.’’

  They ate in silence for a few more minutes.

  “Sorry I spoiled your dinner,’’ he finally said.

  “It’s not you,’’ she answered quickly. “It’s been a long day.’’

  “Want to go back to the hotel?’’

  “Yes.’’

  He signaled for the bill and had her back in their room almost before she could blink.

  “You go on to bed,’’ he told her. “I’m going to review the computer files again—see if I can put anything else together on Houston and his friends.’’

  She escaped into the bedroom. But as she lay in the king-size bed, she knew she was in for a long, sleepless night.

  At one-thirty Matt finally turned off the living-room light.

  She listened to him undress, felt the mattress shift, then lay with her eyes closed, vividly aware of his big body only a couple of feet away.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?’’ he finally asked in a low voice.

  “Nothing.’’

  “Sweetheart, you’ve been acting like a possum who’s stepped on an anthill ever since we got to town.’’

  “That’s a great image,’’ she muttered, her arms stiffening at her sides.

  “Is it the news I gave you at dinner?’’

  “No. Let me go to sleep.’’

  “You’ve been in here for four hours. If you didn’t fall asleep when I was out in the living room, what makes you think it’s going to be any easier now?’’

  “Matt, please.’’

  She heard him shift so that he was facing her. Her own body going rigid, she stared into the darkness.

  “Maybe it will help if you get it off your chest.’’

  “Help you? Or help me?’’

  “Both.’’

  “I’m not used to telling people what’s bothering me.’’

  “I know,’’ he answered, reaching for her. Before she could scoot away, he moved behind her, holding her the way he had the first morning in the cabin. “But you told me about Colin. You told me about what it was like for you growing up in Crowfoot. You can tell me what’s bothering you now.’’