His Secretary's Little Secret

by Catherine Mann

  Easton kissed her cheek before nuzzling her with his late-day beard. “What brought on this change of heart?”

  Portia looked up at him through long eyelashes. “Not a change of heart. I’ve always wanted this. I just felt like the time was right. This is our night.”

  “The first of many more, I hope.”

  She hummed in answer and kissed him, silencing any more talk or even rational thought, for that matter.

  His hammering heartbeat started to recede into normal rhythms.

  “We should get clean.” He said into her skin. In response, she kissed him, deeply, her tongue darting over his.

  “Done so soon?” She bit his bottom lip, hand wandering down his side.

  She got up, her body a dark silhouette in the streaming moonlight. Walking to the bathroom, she looked seductively over her shoulder.

  He wanted her, even more than before, and he planned to have her again and again. Thank goodness he’d brought enough condoms—

  A sinking feeling slammed him in the gut. Damn, damn, damn it.

  He was always careful. He’d only ever forgotten one other time, the first time he’d made love to Portia and when he hadn’t heard anything from her in spite of his attempts to reach out, he’d known they’d somehow been lucky.

  As he followed her toward the shower, though, he snagged his pants with his wallet full of condoms to use from here on out. They could talk about the lack of birth control during those other two encounters in the morning.

  Because he wasn’t letting anything interfere with this night in her bed.

  * * *

  Bright sunlight streamed into her room, nudging sleep from her eyes. Looking out the window, she began to turn her gaze inward. To memories of last night.

  Allowing Easton to come to her space had been a big step. A bold one. Portia had allowed him to glimpse her private love affair with art—the one activity that steeled her nerves, made her feel brave and resourceful. She’d channeled that creative capacity into their night, blending art with love.

  She stretched fully, remembering the way their tangled bodies sought each other as if by their own volition and inclinations. Portia painted him with whipped cream, made a masterpiece of his skin and her desire. Pulled him again into the shower. Needed him.

  She’d felt like wildfire last night. A rush of flame and heat so intense, one that had to burn itself out. Which was where she felt like this morning was heading. To the aftermath. He’d used condoms those last two times. She hadn’t wanted to break the mood by telling him it wasn’t necessary, not when she already knew they would be talking about the baby soon, likely before her doctor visit. Because it wasn’t fair to keep him in the dark now that they seemed to be heading into a relationship. Once she shared the news with him, things would change between them forever.

  She turned from her side to see if he was awake.

  Those bright blue eyes met hers, his dark hair curling on the pillow. “Last night was incredible. You are incredible.” He stroked his fingers through her loosened hair. “I hope you don’t run in the other direction again to put distance between us. Because I want us to be together. I want to see where this is going.”

  “I have no intention of running.” She meant that. Running with their unborn child wasn’t an option. She needed to face this head-on. No matter what. She’d been running from this conversation for too long.

  “That’s good to know.” He leaned in to kiss her, then stroked the outline of her face. “I’m sorry for losing my head last night and forgetting to protect you.”

  “You mean not using a condom?” Bile churned in her stomach. The conversation was already headed in the wrong direction. She wasn’t ready for this conversation. Not yet.

  “Yes,” he nodded. “That’s twice I’ve let you down and I’m sorry. But I want you to know that if there are consequences, I’ll be here for you.”

  “Consequences.” The word felt clinical. Distant. Emotionally shut off. But then she hadn’t wanted the conversation to get emotional. So why was she bristling? God, her emotions were a mess and she knew it had more than to do with the baby.

  “Consequences. As in pregnancy,” he clarified. “Unless you’re on the pill?”

  All of her gusto and nerve manifested into steel will to cover the hurt his words caused. Part of her did want to rely on him and make a real relationship, but now she was second-guessing herself. Yes, she needed to tell him the truth. But she didn’t need his help. Didn’t need him to be obligated to her. Portia always figured things out on her own, made them work for her. Even if that path wasn’t the easy or conventional one. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “Of course I will. You don’t need more responsibility on your plate in addition to your brother. In fact, can we talk again about me help—”

  “No.” She pressed her fingers to his mouth, surprised at the depth of her remorse over realizing they didn’t feel the same way about last night. He was not ready to be emotionally involved with her, not ready to be a true parent. For a moment, she’d wanted to do all of this with him by her side, and she swallowed back the fantasy of being able to parent with him. “Can you stop talking about money and responsibilities and consequences? I know you don’t want children. You’ve made that clear.”

  “As I recall, I said I don’t think I’ll be a good father and that I wasn’t ready to start a family. Now that I think back I’m not sure exactly what I said.” He scratched the back of his head. “You may have noticed but my thoughts get jumbled around you.”

  “You said you don’t want children. I remember your words, and I would think a man of your education level would know what he’s saying.” Anger edged out her more tender emotions as she lobbed the words at him.

  He reeled back under her attack, then he sat up, grasping her hand. “I’m not trying to pick a fight, Portia, although it’s clear I’ve upset you. I’m sorry for that.”

  Portia tugged her hand from his. Distance. She had to put some space between them. And quell the rising tide of nausea building in her stomach. “Please, stop apologizing. I’m an adult. I’m equally responsible for what happens between us when we have sex.”

  “I’m trying to be honorable. Would you prefer I was a jerk?” His sincere blue eyes punctured her, calming her for a moment.

  “Of course not.” She shook her head, eyes stinging with unshed tears. The world pressed on her shoulders, pinning her to this moment.

  “Then let me be a gentleman.”

  “Gentle is good.”

  The words stalled on her lips, heart growing heavy as nausea took over her body in full force.

  He reached out to touch her, but she bolted from his fingertips. Running to the bathroom, door closing behind her.

  Her bare thighs pressed into the tile floor as she held the porcelain toilet. Two types of illness bore upon her. One from the increasing intensity of morning sickness. That sickness she could manage—that one had an end in sight.

  But her heartsickness over the lost chance to be with Easton in a real relationship?

  She’d parented her brother and never felt this solitude—instead she’d taken comfort from her friends. Heaven knew she had friends and support here at the refuge.

  Yet none of them were Easton. The abyss of her loneliness stretched in front of her as she heaved the contents of her stomach into the toilet.

  Consequences.

  The word sliced through her mind. She just wanted to curl up on the cool tile floor and not move for seven more months.

  * * *

  What was it about him that sent Portia running to lock herself away from him?

  Easton sat on the edge of her bed, scanning the room. Everything seemed to have a definitive place. Bright, cheery colors served to accent the plain white walls. Her poppy-orange bedspread added warmth
and comfort to the room.

  She didn’t have a lot of figurines or knickknacks, he noted. A small, skinny faux marble table sat in the corner, holding a bouquet of fresh-cut flowers.

  Next to him on her nightstand, he noticed a small sketchbook, the spine worn from constant use. The visible signs of wear seemed at odds with the rest of Portia’s room.

  Glancing at the still-closed door, he decided to pick up the black leather-bound book. Leafing through the pages, he found himself transported.

  Portia’s floral sketches that hung in the hallway were beautiful. But the sketches in the notebook were stunning. Haunting, imbued with reality. She’d sketched different animals from the refuge, her images playing with shading and line structure.

  He was no art aficionado, but Easton knew enough to realize Portia’s raw talent. He felt a renewed dedication to getting her into an art program. She’d been self-taught. If she had resources, a mentor and time...she could be downright fantastic.

  He replaced the sketchbook back on the nightstand, continuing his survey of the room. The top of her dresser housed a framed picture of her and Marshall, a gold-leafed copy of fairy tales and a ring dish where a pearl necklace coiled.

  He picked up the book of fairy tales, reminding himself Portia needed her space. The door was still shut, but when they’d been at the inn, she had taken a bath and come out of that experience more relaxed.

  Surely this morning was the same thing. He tried to convince himself of that.

  But as time passed, seconds turning into minutes and then a full half hour without any sound other than the bathroom sink running and running, he began to worry. He hadn’t heard the bathwater start, and he feared she was perhaps crying.

  He walked toward the bathroom door and as he drew closer he realized...she was throwing up. Retching. Again and again. Worry overtook him and he knocked firmly on the door.

  “Portia, let me help you. Do you have food poisoning?”

  A long pause echoed, then he heard the sound of the sink turning off and the sound of what he thought was her head resting against the door panel.

  “Easton, I don’t have food poisoning. I have...consequences.”

  Her words churned in his mind and settled. Hard.

  He’d discussed the possibility of pregnancy with her but he’d been speaking hypothetically. This wasn’t hypothetical. This was reality.

  A baby.

  His.

  Inside her.

  The sideswiped feeling stung along his skin much like a sunburn. But soon it eased enough for other feelings to flood through. Frustration that she hadn’t told him before. That she had only decided to share it with him now that they were separated by a bathroom door and there was no way she could hide the pregnancy’s effects. But at the forefront of all those thoughts? But at the forefront of all those emotions?

  Possessiveness.

  This child and Portia were now his responsibility. They were both officially a part of the Lourdes family circle. Given her independent streak, which was a mile wide, he could already envision her shutting him out.

  He’d just figured out he wanted to create something real with her. No way in hell was he letting her walk away. He would keep her and their child, using whatever means necessary.

  Nine

  Portia pressed her head to the cool panel of the wooden bathroom door and waited for Easton’s response to her poorly timed announcement. This was not what she’d envisioned when she organized the talking points for this conversation. She’d meant to roll out the pertinent details in a logical sequence. Warn him that she was prepared to take on this responsibility by herself. Assure him his child was in good hands with her.

  Instead? She’d blurted out the truth in the harshest of terms possible.

  Her heart pounded in her chest, slamming against her ribs that already ached from her extended bought of nausea. She could barely stay on her feet she felt so weak, a new low in her battle with pregnancy symptoms. She just wanted to crawl back in bed and hug her pillow until the birth.

  With every day that passed, the morning sickness grew worse. Although after today, she didn’t know how it could be worse other than lasting all day long. Heaven forbid.

  Should she call the doctor to move up her appointment date? Or...no. It was already Tuesday and her appointment was at the end of the week. Besides, she’d heard the old wives’ tale that the worse the nausea the stronger the pregnancy. An upset stomach meant there were more hormones pumping through the system from her body’s change. But she didn’t have any scientific proof for that and couldn’t risk her child based on internet articles.

  She drew in deep breath after deep breath, wishing her little haven of a bathroom could be the place of peace it normally was. The old-fashioned claw foot tub had a Parisian-themed shower curtain hung from the ceiling, the whole room decorated in cream, mauve and gray. She’d painted a shadowesque chandelier on the wall with tiny rhinestone studs in the place of lightbulbs, a touch of whimsy that made her smile most days.

  Rhinestones couldn’t touch this nausea.

  Hanging her head, her toes curled into the plush bath mat. She’d been so excited when she had come to the refuge and taken this job two years ago. The exotic locale had called to an adventurous side of herself she’d never indulged. This tiny house had been an unexpected bonus, a treat, a space to call her own since up to then she’d lived in Pensacola, close to her aunt’s place, sharing an apartment with her brother. But the pay bump here had enabled her to head out on her own, and the timing had been right for her brother to spread his wings, too.

  She had her own space, and now she needed to make the responsible choices that went with that freedom. Definitely she would give her doctor’s office a call to see if her symptoms warranted an ER visit this weekend. They must have a twenty-four-hour service or a nurse on call to answer questions. She would not work over the weekend so she could take care of herself until that appointment on Monday. She would place the call as soon as she dealt with her baby’s father on the other side of the door.

  Heaven help her. She’d screwed up this announcement so badly.

  “Portia?”

  The low rumble of his voice pierced the bathroom door. She couldn’t detect how he’d received her declaration about the baby. He’d told her he didn’t want children...but the reality was, he was already a father. If he was half the man she thought he was, he would step up in some way. She’d seen him with his niece, and he was tender. Loving. She knew he would be as kind to his own child.

  If she’d misjudged him, however, she could and would be a loving mother. She could take care of herself and her child. Her baby would be loved, not judged.

  She swallowed hard, then took her time brushing her teeth, all the while bracing herself to face Easton. She splashed cold water on her face and toweled off.

  Willing her hands to steady, she pulled open the door. Bright rays of sunshine washed over Easton, who stood, slightly disheveled, in crisp blue boxers.

  Tugging on her oversized T-shirt, she really looked at him, taking in his muscled chest and abdomen. Sexy blue eyes filled with concern. His sleep-tousled hair perfectly accenting his sun-bronzed skin. Easton, the eccentric, wealthy doctor.

  And the handsome father of her child.

  What an exciting affair and romance they could have had if she’d only had the bravery to grasp this chance sooner. If she’d followed her instincts, which had shouted that they were both attracted to each other. Instead, she’d waited until it flamed out of control, and she had been too caught up in the moment to exercise her normal wealth of good sense. Knowing him better now, she wondered if his sense of honor had kept him from making the first move on an employee before the first storm that had brought them together.

  “You’re pregnant,” he said, clasping her shoulders in broad
, calloused hands. “With my baby.”

  “Yes.” She resisted the urge to lean into him, to soak up the warmth of his body. “This isn’t how I wanted to tell you, but yes, I am. Nearly two months along. I took seven pregnancy tests that first week I was so...stunned.” Shocked. Scared. “They all came back positive. I called my doctor and she said to start prenatal vitamins, and we made an appointment for my first visit with an obstetrician. I go at the end of the week.”

  “Just a few days away.” His voice was quiet, as if processing. He had to be feeling even more overwhelmed than she was. She’d had more time with the news.

  She chewed on her lip before responding. “I was waiting until then to tell you.”

  “So you did plan to tell me,” he said as he sat, causing fabric ripples on the bright comforter.

  “Yes, God yes. Of course. What did you think I would do?” All she’d done was make plans since she had first discovered the news. Planned how to tell him. How to deal with a new addition to her family. She had a bullet list of baby needs. A monthly plan of action a mile long.

  He shook his head, blinking rapidly, no words forming on his lips. After a small breath, he pressed on, “I wasn’t thinking much of anything since I’ve had less than five minutes to absorb the news. I don’t even know if you’re planning to have the baby.”

  “I just said as much didn’t I?” Heat built in her cheeks, hands growing numb.

  “Not really.” He grabbed her hand, studied her features. Her stomach gurgled an involuntary response and an aggressive wave of nausea threatened her again. “Portia? Are you okay?”

  The scent of their lovemaking clung to the sheets. She wanted to crawl in the bed and press her head into her cool pillow and simply sleep the day away.

  Another roll of nausea knocked into her along with a wave of dizziness. She fumbled for the edge of the mattress, gripping it.

  Anchoring herself, she twisted the comforter in her fist. “Yes, I’m having my baby, and I plan on keeping him or her.”