Along Came Love

by Tracey Livesay

  “Right.” Heat slithered up the back of his neck and he cleared his throat. “Yes, for a few months now.”

  “Good. I’m happy for you.” She bit her lip.

  Fascinate, he lasered in on the plump, erogenous organ as it reemerged dewy and pink.

  Fuck!

  He wrested his focus away from her mouth and on their predicament where it belonged. “How far along are you?”

  Her glide into the living room devolved into a stumble before she righted herself and sank down onto his sofa, pulling her legs up under her. “We were together around three months ago, so . . .”

  “So what?” he asked, his fingers burrowing through his hair. “We used protection.”

  “Always, except—­”

  Except the time he’d surprised her in the shower. He hadn’t believed his dick could handle another back-­to-­back session, but when he’d strolled into the bathroom and seen her leisurely soaping up her breasts . . . he’d been unable to call upon his well-­exercised control.

  He cursed softly and closed his eyes. “And that was all it took?”

  “Apparently.”

  “I haven’t seen or heard from you since then but I’m supposed to believe you?”

  She blinked up at him. “I have no reason to lie to you.”

  He scratched his jaw. “Really? The last time I checked I’m part owner of a company that brought in twenty-­six billion dollars in revenue the last fiscal quarter. By my rough estimate that’s at least twenty-­six billion reasons to lie.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I wouldn’t lie to you about being the father to get your money.”

  “Says the alleged felon.”

  She leaned back, crossed her arms, and scowled at him. “That’s a low blow.”

  He exhaled through his nose. It was. But as foolish as it made him seem, he believed her. Still, he had to be sure. If Indi was carrying his baby, it would crimp the smooth flow of his plans. Plans ten years in the making.

  “I’m going to need confirmation the baby is mine.”

  She shrugged. “I expected as much.”

  Asking for validation of her claim was the prudent thing to do, but she made it sound like an insult. “What does that mean?”

  “That I knew you would be suspicious.”

  “I call it being smart.”

  “Whatever you call it, I knew you’d want proof. I’m going to make an appointment with Chelsea’s doctor. You can come with me.”

  Shrewd move. Her invitation lent credence to her belief that he was the father. If she wasn’t pregnant, or he wasn’t the father, she’d be warning him away instead of encouraging him along.

  He pulled the coffee table out and sat on its edge, facing her. “How do you know Chelsea’s doctor?”

  “You’ve never moved with a woman, have you?”

  And that had what to do with his question? “No.”

  “When a woman moves to a new city, one of the first things she does is get recommendations for a hairstylist and an ob-­gyn. We only trust those body parts to exceptional practitioners.” She smiled. “Chelsea told me she’d found one in San Francisco. Said it’d be easier to make appointments closer to her office.”

  He touched the back of her hand and fire grazed along his nerve endings. He raised his gaze to hers and her eyes shimmered as if lit from within. Her hand clenched briefly before she pulled it from his.

  “I’d appreciate going to the appointment with you,” he said, sitting back. “If this is my baby, I will take care of him.”

  She rubbed the back of her hand. “I know.”

  “I don’t have personal experience, but I imagine it’s quite expensive to raise a child.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard. But it won’t be a problem. That’s why your money isn’t an issue. I’m not planning to raise our baby.”

  Blood iced over in his veins. He shot to a stand, planted his feet. “Are you having an abortion?”

  “God, Mike,” she yelled, flinging her hands upward. “Is everything black-­and-­white for you?”

  Her words echoed through the space and she surprised him by laughing.

  He scowled. What was so fucking funny?

  “Black-­and-­white? Us?” She motioned between them.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. There was nothing amusing about this situation. He thought she agreed, as her merriment tinged on hysteria. When her laughter subsided, she exhaled shakily and pressed fingertips to her eyelids.

  “I’m not having an abortion. There’s another option for ­people who choose not to raise their children. An option I know well.” She blinked. “I’m putting him up for adoption.”

  AS THE ASSISTANT showed them into the attorney’s office, Mike struggled to smother his outrage. Over the past few hours he’d careened from pride to confusion, from guilt to anger. And all of those emotions were intensified by an ever-­present layer of lust. His feelings were extending past his usual comfort zone, veering close to a diagnosis of emotional whiplash.

  Adoption?

  Sure, it was a viable choice. Hell, Morgan had come to his family by way of the legal process. It would certainly solve one of the ever-­growing problems in his personal life.

  Still, everything in him rejected the idea of giving his child away. It might work for others, but not for him. Even under these less-­than-­honorable circumstances, he couldn’t imagine his father ever choosing that resolution.

  Remember, you don’t know if it’s yours.

  That one fact is what stopped him from going the fuck off. One problem at a time. She’d called the doctor and managed to get an appointment tomorrow morning. Today, they needed to deal with her pending criminal charges.

  Criminal charges. He shook his head. The state of California had charged the mother of his child with a felony. A foreign notion his brain processed with distaste.

  “Will you sit down?” He aimed an icy stare at Indi, who’d stood to straighten the “Top Lawyers under Thirty-­Five” and “Law Digest Criminal Lawyer of the Year” plaques fastened to the wall. She was currently neatening her way through the scales of justice and paperweights loading the bookcase. “Your pacing is making me dizzy.”

  She bestowed a glaring side-­eye upon him. “I had enough in the car. I need a break.”

  “Enough of what?”

  “Your silent treatment. Stop brooding.”

  “I do not brood.”

  “Oh, please. You’ve had an attitude since we left your place.”

  “You told me you’re giving our baby away!”

  “And you told me you didn’t believe it was ‘our’ baby.”

  He wouldn’t let her distract him. “Is it money?”

  Her head jerked back. “I don’t need your money—­I work.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What type of job do you have that allows you to travel whenever it strikes your fancy?”

  “I don’t have one job. I do a lot of things.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I don’t live to work. I work to live.”

  “Spare me the internet meme.”

  “Of course that’s all it is to you”—­she lowered her voice—­“Mr. My Company Made a Bajillion Dollars Last Year—­”

  “Bajillion isn’t a word,” he muttered, annoyed at the accuracy of her mimicry.

  “Look, I get that your job is a key part of your identity, but my jobs allow me to have fun. To pay my bills. When I’m ready for a new adventure, I give notice and move to the next place. That’s why I work and I’m happy. I spent three months with a mentalist in Vegas, I’ve been a purser on a luxury cruise ship, and I have the opportunity to travel for a year with a renowned, international photographer. I’d never have those experiences worki
ng in a cubicle.”

  “You can’t build a life if you’re constantly wandering. There’s no stability.”

  Her elevated chin and starched posture clued him in to his lack of persuasiveness.

  He shifted tactics.

  “Don’t you get tired of roaming the country?” He moved to stand behind her. “I’m sure Chelsea would love to have you close by. She’s the only family you have. Wouldn’t you like to be near her?”

  Her shoulders loosened and for a second, he thought he’d gotten through to her. But like a folded umbrella being hauled back into ser­vice, she stiffened.

  “Chelsea is busy with her own life. Opening the new San Francisco office of Beecher & Stowe, getting married to Adam . . . She’ll have a lot on her plate.” Her voice lowered to a hush and if he hadn’t been close, her words would’ve been lost to the void. “She won’t be worried about me.”

  He opened his mouth to respond but the door to the office swept open and a tall woman, resplendent in diamonds and pearls and a pin-­striped sheath, strode in. Her reddish-­brown hair was pulled into a knot at the crown of her head, a pair of stylish frames perched on her nose.

  “So you’re Ryan’s friends. I’m Viv Sutton.”

  Her firm handshake soothed him and her cool, confident bearing screamed this woman was exceptional at her job.

  In case one hadn’t noticed the plaques.

  “I’m Mike Black and this is India Shaw.”

  “A pleasure. Please, have a seat.” Viv motioned to the red leather chairs situated in front of her desk. “I was pleased when I heard Ryan had taken a position with Computronix. He’s a brilliant attorney. Your company couldn’t be in better hands.”

  He straightened, appreciating her sincerity. “We’re very happy to have him.”

  Indi strode forward and took the indicated chair. “You call him Ryan and not Sully?”

  Viv looked away from them, placing a file on the corner of her desk. “He doesn’t . . . feel like a ‘Sully’ to me.”

  Mike narrowed his eyes, hearing something in the attorney’s voice.

  Indi scooted to the edge of her seat. “Thank you for seeing us. I’m sure you’re very busy.”

  “A favor I was delighted to grant. Ryan called last night and explained the situation. It’s better that your arrest occurred when it did. If you’d been taken into custody tomorrow, you might have been held over the weekend.” Viv opened another manila folder on her desk. “This morning, I had one of my clerks go over to the courthouse and pull the paperwork. There wasn’t much there: just the arrest warrant, police report, and the bail information sheet.” She swung her steely gaze to India. “You were arrested on suspicion of burglary—­”

  “That’s ridiculous. I did not break into their home.”

  “I see.” Viv made notes on a legal pad. “That might come in handy. The district attorney’s office has three business days to determine whether or not they want to file charges. If this has been a misunderstanding, the case may not go any further.”

  “What do we need to do to nudge them toward the not-­filing-­charges side?” Indi asked, with a smug I told you so look at Mike.

  Viv sat back. “Let me ask you a few questions. The charge is burglary in the first degree. The police report says they responded to a call at the Hermitage at Avalon building and when they entered the Bennett residence they found you. Are you a registered owner of the unit?”

  “No.”

  “The doorman said they keep a list of authorized entrants. Are you on that list?”

  “No. But I promise you, Chelsea and Adam wouldn’t have minded if I were in the apartment.”

  “Then why aren’t you on the list?”

  “Because Chelsea probably didn’t have the time to put me on it,” Indi said through clenched pearly whites.

  Indi’s frustration coated them both, like softly falling mist. He stepped in. “I assure you, Chelsea wouldn’t object to Indi’s presence.”

  Viv’s gaze never wavered. “Unfortunately, I can’t take your . . . affirmation to the DA.”

  “But he’s on the list,” Indi said, pointing at him. “If he’d been there and I’d been with him, this wouldn’t even be a problem.”

  “If only you’d taken the time to consider that before your little crime spree,” he muttered.

  Viv’s pen tapped a rapid, repetitive beat on her desk. “The prima facie case for burglary is entering someone’s property with the intent of committing a felony or petty theft once inside.” She flipped through the documents in the folder. “There’s no evidence, at this point, that you took anything from the residence. That’s information they’d get from the Bennetts. So, how did you enter their property? Do you have a key?”

  “I picked the lock.”

  He’d misheard that, right? She didn’t say—­“You picked the lock? Jesus, Indi!”

  She crossed her legs, primly repositioned her skirt. “I learned it on the job.”

  “Who were you working for? The crew of Ocean’s Eleven?”

  She was the mother of his unborn child? He didn’t believe Indi possessed a malicious bone in that gorgeous body . . . still, her impetuousness worried him as much as any malevolence.

  You loved her spontaneity when she took your cock in her mouth while you ordered pizza.

  Oh, shut up, he snapped at the unwelcome remembrance.

  The lawyer cleared her throat. “Let’s focus on the other part of the statute. Why did you need access to their home?”

  “At first, I’d planned to stay there. When the doorman made it clear that wouldn’t be possible, I went in to retrieve something of mine that Chelsea had.”

  “What?”

  Indi’s chin fell. “I’d rather not say.”

  Mike barely resisted the urge to fling his arms upward. What kind of bullshit response was that? Was he the only one interested in her remaining out of prison?

  Viv pursed her lips and widened her eyes in a look that cried out, Okaaay. . .

  “Look, as soon as Chelsea gets home, this will all be cleared up.” Indi’s tone said that it was a foregone conclusion.

  Viv nodded. “Having the Bennetts contact the DA directly and explain that you had permission to be in their home is the easiest way to convince them not to file charges.”

  “But you said we have three days?” Mike asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then that’s going to be a problem. Adam and Chelsea are on their honeymoon and are out of contact for the next two weeks.”

  Viv’s arched a perfectly shaped brow. “What does that mean: ‘out of contact’? No one is out of contact these days.”

  “They’re at a resort in Fiji with no internet access and no cell phone ser­vice.”

  The lawyer’s head jerked back. “Voluntarily? Okay, no contact.” She squinted her eyes, pondering. “Even in an emergency?”

  Indi shook her head. “This doesn’t count as an emergency.”

  Mike exhaled audibly. “Indi—­”

  “They put off their honeymoon for months. I’m not going to be the reason they have to come back earlier than they planned.”

  Viv clasped her hands together, steepled her arms on her desk. “What is your relationship to the Bennetts?”

  “Chelsea Grant is my sister.”

  Mike eyed Indi at her emphasis of Chelsea’s maiden name.

  “Really?” Viv’s brown eyes brightened. “And you’re close?”

  “Of course. I was her maid of honor.”

  “The pictures will be in ­People magazine next week,” he added. “I can have my office send over the advance copy, if that will help.”

  Excitement tinted Indi’s features. She shifted in her seat, her knees brushing his. “Really? I hadn’t seen the pictures. Were they beautiful?”

  He tightened his
jaw. “Not important at this moment.”

  Indi rolled her eyes but didn’t comment further.

  “Do your parents live here?” Viv inquired. “Again, none of this explicitly negates the prima facie case, but if we put enough before the prosecutors to paint a picture, they may decide it’s not worth moving forward.”

  “Parents aren’t an option. My bond with Chelsea isn’t biological. She’s my foster sister.”

  “Uh-­huh.” Viv pursed her lips. “You should prepare yourself for the DA to file charges against you.”

  Fuck! This wasn’t happening.

  Viv massaged her temple and glanced back down at the documentation. “Ms. Shaw, your bail was set at one hundred thousand dollars, and Mr. Black posted bond for you. Since you’re out of custody, you’ll probably get an arraignment date three weeks out.”

  “What’s an arraignment date?” Indi asked.

  “It’s the hearing where you’ll be formally charged. At that time you’ll enter a plea of either guilty or not guilty. If you plead guilty, the court will set a date for sentencing. If you plead not guilty, they’ll set a date for your preliminary hearing. If you decide to retain me, I’d file notice with the court that I’m your attorney, and the notice of arraignment or sentencing, and all further correspondence, will come directly to me.”

  Mike spoke up. “Consider yourself retained.”

  The lawyer looked at Indi, whose lips tightened, but she nodded.

  “Perfect.” Viv picked up the phone on her desk and pressed a button. “Jocelyn, can you bring in the Shaw retainer agreement?” Hanging up, she eyed them. “I’ll schedule a prehearing conference with the DA and present what we have, including a statement from Mr. Black and the pictures from the wedding, and maybe they’ll decline to get involved. It’s a long shot. With victims as high profile as the Bennetts, the DA will want to err on the side of caution. And barring any contact with them, the state will want to press charges.”

  A few minutes later, a young woman entered with a file. “The clerk just called. The judge in the Collins case wants to see you and the prosecutor in his chambers in half an hour.”

  Viv looked at her watch and nodded. She slid the agreement across the desk. “Please read it over before you sign. It sets out—­among other things—­our retainer, my hourly fee, how you’ll be billed and the scope of my representation. I’ll give you two a moment.”