Stop thinking about that.
Yes. He really did have to stop thinking about the sex.
“You’re upset,” he said after a moment, choosing his words carefully. “And I’m sorry for that. I don’t mean to distress you but…” He hesitated, studying her for reaction. She was trying to wipe away the tears and getting great smears of mascara everywhere.
“Oh, don’t let me stop you,” she said, waving a hand. “Please, I’m dying to hear what pearls of wisdom are going to come out of your mouth next.”
More sarcasm. Well, okay, he could cope with that. “We should discuss what we’re going to do. We can go to my house, I think. That would be best. It’s quiet and private. We won’t be disturbed.” That strange possessiveness was sinking down into him, holding on tight. The need to get her back to his place, so they could discuss this. Put some kind of plan in place for the baby.
Your baby…
Shock was there at the thought, definitely. And something else, too. Something like wonder. Because this was the kind of normal he didn’t think he’d ever have. Or want.
But now that it’s here, you do want it.
Hell, yes. He did want it. With a ferocity that surprised him. Though how he was going to manage this with the OCD, he had no idea.
Her mouth opened then shut again. “What? Like now?”
“Yes. The sooner we deal with this the better.”
“No. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Luke tried to stifle his impatience. “Why not? We can’t discuss it here. There are too—”
“I don’t want to discuss it anywhere, McNamara. Not tonight.”
“I understand you’re in shock. But—”
“I’m not in shock.”
“Yes, you are. And stop interrupting me. You’re pale, you’re trembling, and that purse of yours is going to split open if you keep twisting it like that.”
She glanced down at her hands. “Oh. Dammit.” Her hands stilled, but the sequins on the purse glittered, casting spots of light everywhere. “Yeah, okay, so I’m in shock. Which means I need to go home, sit down, and eat a whole tub of ice cream and chick-flick myself into a coma. Not go home with you and ‘discuss stuff.’”
“Avoiding the issue won’t help. The quicker we deal with it the less shocking it will be.”
Her head came up at that. “Oh honey, you have no idea how long an issue can be avoided.”
Honey. It had been weeks since he’d heard that in conjunction with himself. And he really didn’t like it. It made him feel odd. He found himself wanting to adjust his tie. Quelled the urge. “Yes, well, you may be used to avoiding issues but that’s not the way I handle things. Especially not things like this.”
Marisa raised a hand, touched her forehead briefly as if she had a headache. “Luke, please. Don’t go all alpha on me. I don’t think I can handle it right now.”
It was the first time she’d called him by his name and notsounded angry. And that made him feel even odder.
No, don’t think about it. There are far more important things you have to do.
This was true. Marisa’s news was chaos, and if he was going to manage it, he’d have to make some kind of order from it.
For a strange moment his mind went into free fall, trying to consider all the implications of this, how he would manage the issue of the OCD, not to mention all the checking compulsions and anxiety having a child would generate.
Of course the main problem was how in the hell he was going to hide it from Marisa. He kept his liaisons short and sweet for a reason—so no one would find out about his condition. But if she was having his child, she’d be around for a lot longer than a few weeks. God, what if it he had a bad episode and Marisa saw it? She’d think he was crazy, like everyone else had…
Through sheer force of will, Luke got a grip on his flailing brain. No, he could manage this. He would have to manage it. There was simply no other option.
“We need to talk, Marisa,” he said, trying to make it less of a demand. “Sorting something out now will help, I promise you. You’re not the only one whose life is going to change.”
She glanced back at him, and he got the impression she was searching for something, though what he didn’t know. “Do you have a handkerchief?” she asked after a moment.
He did. It was white and clean. Perfectly pressed and meticulously folded. Well, if he couldn’t give her the kind of comfort she needed, the least he could do was give her his handkerchief. Without a word he pulled the piece of fabric from his pocket and handed it to her.
She took it, eyes widening at the snowy white material and the perfect creases. “Did you iron this?”
“No. My housekeeper did.”
“Unbelievable,” Marisa muttered. Then she shook out the material, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. And as he watched, trying not to protest as she proceeded to decimate his perfectly clean linen, she opened her purse and got out a pocket mirror. Then she cleaned herself up, getting rid of the signs of distress before whipping out a tube of mascara and applying it with an expert hand.
He found the whole procedure oddly familiar and somehow fascinating. It was her equivalent of a ritual. A routine. Applying the mask, putting herself to rights the way he often did.
If she found his watching her odd, she didn’t comment. Once she’d applied her mascara, touched up her lipstick, and put away her mirror, she held out the now-soggy handkerchief to him.
He didn’t look at it. “Keep it.”
She frowned but then shrugged and tucked the material away in her purse. Then after a moment she said, “All right, fine. We’ll go to your place and have your little talk. But there better be ice cream, okay?” Another of her mercurial changes of mood altered her expression. “Oh, and I meant it about having to borrow money. Because I have no idea how I’m going to pay for this damn auction.”
…
“Leave the auction money to me,” Luke said, doing another of those clothing adjustment things he seemed to do a lot of. Maybe it was a nervous tic? “I’ll handle it.”
Marisa pulled a face. “Yes, but I’m the one who kept bidding when I shouldn’t have.”
“I’ll lend you the money then.” He turned toward the door. “At a nominal interest rate.”
Well, she didn’t much like the sound of that, either, not when she’d only now paid off her credit card. Man, why had she inherited her mother’s looks instead of her penny-pinching ways? Those would be a damn sight more useful, that’s for sure.
“Okay,” she said. “But it’s going to be years before I can pay you back the whole amount.”
Luke stood by the door. “We’ll solve that one once I have some time to go through your finances.”
“Excuse me?”
“Whether you meant to or not, you bought my financial services for six months. So that’s what you’ll get.” He pulled open the door for her courteously. “After you.”
Marisa didn’t quite know how to respond to that, so she said nothing as she walked through the door and out into the corridor beyond. Because his financial services weren’t exactly high priority right now. Not when she was so consumed with the embarrassment of completely losing it in front of him.
The shock of the pregnancy and her idiocy at the auction, reality sinking in about having a baby with a man she didn’t know, who happened to also be her boss, coupled with the fact that after angsting about how to tell him, he’d guessed anyway, had overwhelmed her completely. Pregnancy hormones had only added to the disaster of tears and running mascara and snot.
Ugh. While he’d stood there, wooden as a stick, patting her on the shoulder and saying “there, there.”
Oddly enough, though, she’d found his calm detachment helpful in pulling herself together. Perhaps if he’d gotten angry or panicked, it might have been a different story. He’d been cool and calm and logical. For some reason that had been more comforting than hugs or any amount of soothing.
“About the ice crea
m,” he said as they walked down the corridor toward the foyer together. “I don’t have any.”
“Then we need to stop and get some.” If she couldn’t have a glass of wine, she was damn well having a sundae. With chocolate sauce.
“How does having ice cream help?”
“It’s a girl thing. You wouldn’t understand.”
A frown flickered over his handsome features. “It’ll delay us.”
“No ice cream, no discussion.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Unless you want me to snot-cry over another one of your handkerchiefs again?”
An expression of distaste crossed his face. “I’m sure we have time to stop, in that case.”
As they got to the entrance, Luke went to speak to one of the theater staffers while Marisa flicked off a quick text to Christie.
Sorting out the finance stuff with Luke. Then going home. Catch you later, St. John.
She’d tell her friend the real deal at some point. Soon. When things had been sorted between Luke and herself. If that were possible.
The theater had arranged valet parking for the event, so she and Luke waited outside while Luke’s car was brought around the front. Expecting something staid and safe like a Volvo, Marisa was rather surprised to see a low-slung, glossy black Aston Martin pulling up in front of them. It was beautiful, all long, lean curves, built for speed, not city driving.
“Wow,” Marisa murmured. “Nice ride. I picked you for something a lot more…uh…sedate.”
“I like sports cars and this one is safe. Wait here a moment. There was a problem with the clutch earlier and I need to check it,” Luke said, taking the keys and tipping the guy. Then, he strode over to the car and opened the passenger’s door, leaning in and fiddling around with things inside the car. After a minute or two, he straightened, then went around to the other side of the car and repeated the routine.
Marisa admired the car while Luke did whatever he was doing with the clutch. She did like a nice sports car, especially long, lean, and sexy sports cars.
Five minutes later, clearly satisfied by whatever he’d done, he said, “I think it’s okay. You can get in now.”
She did so, glancing at him as she put her seat belt on. “What was all that about?”
“Oh, the clutch was a little stiff earlier. Probably have to take it to a mechanic at some point.” He adjusted his mirror, touched the gearshift, then the hand brake. Then put his hands on the wheel. “Ready?”
“Yeah.”
Luke pulled the car out into the traffic, his hands lean and strong on the wheel.
“So, why an Aston Martin?” Marisa asked, curious. “You look more like a Volvo kind of guy to me.”
“I don’t like Volvos.”
“Why not? What have you got against Volvos?”
“I prefer fast when it comes to my cars.”
An uptight guy who liked fast cars. That was way more intriguing than it had any right to be. “Hmmm, which implies you have more than one.”
“I do have more than one. I collect sports cars.”
Marisa blinked. “Wow, really? That’s an expensive habit.”
“It’s the one indulgence I allow myself.”
Marisa glanced at him. The lights of the city passed over his features, highlighting the amazing architecture of his face. Strong jawline, high cheekbones, blade-straight nose. And a surprisingly sensual mouth. Surprising in that he wasn’t a man who gave the impression of sensuality in the slightest. Or that he would indulge himself with anything. He was always so contained. Detached.
Except when he touched you.
Oh yeah. Soooo not detached then.
An unwelcome shiver of awareness went through her, which was insane. Apparently her body had no sense of timing.
“So you collect sports cars and don’t like Volvos,” she said. “Excellent. Both vital facts.”
He flicked her a glance. “You use a lot of sarcasm, don’t you? Especially with me. Any particular reason?”
The question was unexpected, disconcerting her that he’d noticed. She tried to think of some kind of witty response and failed. “I guess it’s because you irritate me.”
“You irritate me, too.”
“Oh. Right. Fair enough, then.” She twisted her purse again, not liking the flat statement and unable to pinpoint why. Because what kind of toss did she give about his opinion? Zero toss. “I think we’ve already established that anyway, right?”
“This is true.” He slowed for a traffic light. “But we can’t let our personal feelings about each other affect any decisions we make about the baby.”
Marisa folded her hands over her stomach, sick at the words “decisions” and “baby.”
God. I am so not ready for this.
“I think the first decision we really have to discuss is whether to keep it or not,” Luke’s incisive voice cut through the sudden flood of emotion.
The knot in the pit of her stomach tightened further.
“Because there are options these days,” he went on relentlessly. “You can give the child up for adoption or you can—”
“Please, you don’t need to say it.”
“So which is it to be?” Demand echoed in his tone.
Why did he insist on a decision now? When she’d barely gotten her head around it? She needed time, she needed space, she needed…
You know what you’re going to do.
Her palm flattened against her belly as an old and primal instinct sparked to life inside her. Yeah, she knew. Oh, she had enough self-doubt about her abilities to sink the Titanic, not to mention the fact that a kid would threaten all the plans she’d made. The plans for leaving work and taking an art course, perhaps going to university and getting a fine arts degree. For setting up a glass studio and doing what she wanted for a change, not what other people thought she should be doing.
That didn’t mean she wanted to get rid of this baby. Her baby. She’d made a lot of mistakes in her life, a lot of bad decisions. But this child wouldn’t be one of them.
“I’m keeping it,” she said, and the words sounded true and right in her mouth.
“Yes,” Luke agreed. “You most certainly are.” And when she turned her head to look at him, she found him staring back, nothing but complete and utter agreement in his eyes.
It surprised her, especially after his initial “there will be no children” response. “You want this baby, too?”
“Of course I want it.” A flash of something ferocious crossed his face. “It’s mine.”
Unexpectedly, the tight knot of sickness and fear in her stomach loosened. Okay, so she may not like Luke McNamara, but he wasn’t a guy who would leave anyone in the lurch.
Uh, unless you happen to be his girlfriend, in which case two weeks is all you get.
Well, yes, there was that. A great reminder of why getting involved in anything more than parenthood with Luke McNamara was a really bad idea. As if she needed another reason.
“So where did you want to go?” Luke asked after a moment.
Screw buying a tub from the supermarket, this kind of decision needed a waffle cone, chocolate sauce, and at least three different flavors of ice cream. Maybe four.
“Gianni’s. It’s on the waterfront.”
Luke was frowning. “What’s Gianni’s? That doesn’t sound like a supermarket.”
“It’s not. It’s an ice cream parlor.”
His frown deepened. “Ice cream parlor?”
“Best in Auckland. Accept no substitutes.” Her hands clenched on her poor, wrung out purse. “Besides, I need emergency chocolate sauce ASAP.”
He didn’t argue with her, making no comment as she directed him down to the waterfront where Gianni’s was located. The late-night crowd often used it as a dessert stop while out clubbing or after an evening at the pub. She’d been there a lot herself, mostly late at night after more than her fair share of martinis. It was loud and tacky, not to mention slightly run-down, but the ice cream and gelato more than made u
p for it.
Luke’s expression was a picture of disdain as he surveyed the loud and tasteless faux-Italian decor, the jukebox playing thrash metal, the drunks in one corner loudly laughing and throwing nuts at each other, and the slightly grimy texture of the walls.
“We’re getting these to go,” he said flatly, his lip curling. “We’ll eat them back at my place.”
Oh yeah, and she could imagine his place. A temple to order. A monument to minimalism. White walls, dark floors. Perfectly placed artwork. He probably had bonsai trees that he clipped with tiny scissors. And a Zen garden with a little rake. And modern, atonal classical music playing.
But perhaps it wasn’t so much his decor she should be worried about as him. Because they’d be alone. Together.
Yeah, remember what happened last time you were alone with him?
“No,” she said, leaving no room for argument. “I want to discuss the baby here.”
“Here?” He looked aghast at the prospect.
“Yes, here.”
“I don’t think so.” He’d begun to get that stern, forbidding expression on his face. “It’s noisy and dirty, and there’s no privacy.”
Marisa raised an eyebrow. “You remember the last time we were alone together, right?
He eyed her. “Of course. I never forget anything.”
“So you’ll remember the time before that? And the time before that?”
Luke frowned, his jaw tight. “I see your point.”
“Good. Now, if you don’t mind, I want my sundae.” She turned away from him and walked toward the counter. Across the room, one of the drunks wolf-whistled loudly while the rest of them “hey baby-ed” her. She tossed them a grin over her shoulder, unconcerned. It was easier and safer to humor the idiots than act all offended.
All of a sudden a hand rested in the small of her back. A proprietary, possessive hand burning through the silk of her dress. She glanced up to find Luke standing beside her, eyes narrowed at the drunks in the corner.
“You go and sit down,” he said, continuing to glare suspiciously at the men. “I’ll get yours for you.”
Marisa stared at him in surprise. “I’m perfectly capable of getting my own ice cream, thank you very much.”
Talking Dirty With the Boss (Talking Dirty#3) Page 9
