That was all irrelevant now. She was not here for him, no matter how handsome he looked or how stunningly good he had made her feel two months ago. She was here for the baby.
Then he said something that took everything she thought she understood about the situation and turned it upside down.
“It’s really great to see you again.”
She froze, afraid to move, afraid to break the spell of the moment. Why on earth would he say that? It couldn’t be because he was actually thrilled by her pronouncement. No, there was too much fear in his eyes for that, despite the admirable job he was doing of hiding it.
What if that was what he thought he had to say? What if the fear wasn’t so much because she was expecting, but because of who she was—David Caine’s daughter? What if he was being a gentleman about this because he was afraid of what her father would do when he found out?
She couldn’t keep this quiet forever. Even if she managed to avoid her father for the duration of her pregnancy—which would probably be easy enough—sooner or later someone would notice that she was packing around an infant to photo shoots. Sooner or later, Mickey would break.
The time would come when she’d have to deal with her father. She wanted—needed—to deal with Bobby first. If she didn’t have everything arranged... Bobby’s promise to keep her secret was first. She’d like to get a promise of support from him, too, but she wasn’t about to set up the baby for the heartbreak of being rejected by a father. She’d had enough of that for one lifetime.
In the middle of this thought, Bobby’s other hand brushed under her chin and he kissed her cheek.
Stella heard herself say, “Even though...?”
It sounded pathetic and needy and everything she didn’t want to be. Everything she wasn’t, by God.
“Even though,” he agreed, the scruff on his chin scratching her cheek. Then he seemed to realize that, despite the fact that he’d promised comfort and privacy, they were still standing in a minimally heated, semipublic car park. “Come on.”
He tucked her hand under his arm, a perfectly chivalrous thing to do under the circumstances. But she felt the heat flow between them. She remembered how he’d acted in the club—suave, sophisticated. Fun. Sexy. Tonight he was...different. Even more appealing.
No.
She’d made that mistake once. She couldn’t let her attraction to him cloud her thinking again.
He led her past a rather dramatic, electric-blue motorbike and to an elevator. “That yours?”
He nodded as they waited for the doors to open. “Built it myself. But I don’t ride it when it’s this cold. Probably won’t take it out until April. It’s been winterized.”
The doors opened and they stepped in. The whole time, he kept his grip on her hand.
They rode to the top in silence.
Even though.
Even though she’d been foolish enough to get pregnant. Even though she’d been foolish enough to break one of her long-standing rules about clubs and parties and men and sex. Even though she was David Caine’s daughter, for crying out loud, he was still glad to see her.
Sure, they’d had a lovely time at that party, an even lovelier time in her car afterward. In fact, it had been fun. Not just the sex—and that had been amazing—but the whole evening, from the very moment she’d seen him.
The music had been far too loud, of course, but that had given her a good reason not to talk to anyone. From her perch at the bar, she’d had an excellent view of the front door and was busy mentally preparing what she would say to her father when he came in. But Bobby had walked in instead, his blond hair and light gray suit standing out in the sea of New York black. She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him.
Which had been why he’d caught her staring. She remembered the first moment, the way his face had registered shock—no, surprise. Excitement. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had been excited to see her.
Bobby had kept his eyes on her as he made the rounds of the club. He had been popular, that she could tell. He chatted with everyone—a handshake, a slap on the back, a joke, from the looks of all the laughing. But his gaze had always returned to her. And once he’d made his rounds, he’d made his way to her.
She’d braced herself for the come-on—for him to say, “So you’re David Caine’s daughter—I had no idea you were so beautiful,” or something ridiculous like that. She’d heard them all and had long since learned not to take the so-called compliments personally.
But the line hadn’t come. “I have a feeling there’s more to that dress than the front,” he’d said, leaning in close so he didn’t have to shout over the music.
Her dress. The one she’d designed.
So she’d stood and done a small turn for him, feeling ridiculous. Until she’d gotten back around, facing him, and had seen something unexpected on his face.
Appreciation.
He’d been close enough to touch her then, but he hadn’t. He’d waited until she’d given him the permission that came with her touching the seams of his suit—that came with her running her hands over his shoulders and down his back.
She shouldn’t have touched him, shouldn’t have allowed him to touch her back. Small touches that had set her head spinning, clever observations that had made her laugh. A drink. His hand around her waist, leaning in close to whisper. His lips grazing her ear, then abandoning all pretense, his teeth scraping her lobe.
Her, saying, “Would you like to get out of here?”
She should have stopped it then.
But she hadn’t wanted to. He’d been a stranger—only when she’d done a little digging over the next few days, wondering if the wonderful man from the club would look her up or not had she realized who he was. A reality-TV star. On her father’s network. Which meant he’d signed a contract with her father’s world-famous morals clauses.
So she’d stopped digging. Ignorance was bliss and she had no intention of harming him. She’d let that night live on in one perfect memory.
Then she’d missed her period.
Now, here she was again, knowing it was foolish to want him and wanting him all the same. He was glad to see her. And she wanted another moment of connection, of impulse. Of doing something she wanted for no other reason than she wanted to. She hadn’t stopped wanting it. Not since she’d refused to give him her number, not since she’d missed her period and not since she’d gotten the positive test result.
But she didn’t want to feel that pull again. Wanting Bobby would only muck up the works. She’d convinced herself the drinks had given that evening such a rosy glow. Faced with the decidedly nonlovely prospect of a squalling, shrieking baby, Bobby would do what any good player would do. He’d turn tail and run.
But he hadn’t.
Maybe he’d wait until he knew which way the wind was blowing—until he knew what her father would do. He hadn’t gotten to where he was by being a shoddy businessman, after all.
She wasn’t here to destroy Bobby by bringing her father’s wrath down on him. Why would she? For one night, in Bobby’s arms, she’d felt free. Beautiful. Loved.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have come. She should have gone straight to her father, claimed she had no idea who her baby’s father was and insisted that she would raise the child on her own. Her father would have been unable to connect her and Bobby. She thought. But she couldn’t be positive. As one of the richer men in England, David Caine had plenty of resources to backtrack her movements for months at a time.
And that, more than anything, was why she was here. If she was going to bring the dogs of her father’s conservative-marriage war down on Bobby, she at least owed him a warning. Her baby was his, too.
Bobby ushered her down a long hallway and unlocked a door that looked just like all the other doorways they’d passed. He went in first and
turned on the lights before closing the door after her.
“Here we are.”
Stella took as deep a breath as she could in this bodice and stepped into Bobby’s home. The place was quiet, with no signs that anyone had been here in a great while.
“Yes. Lovely.”
The apartment wasn’t what she’d expected, but that was starting to be a running theme when it came to Bobby. The lines were sharp, the colors—shades of gray and white, with splashes of vivid red abstract paintings for accent—were bold. The furnishings wouldn’t be out of place in a New York loft—much like the one she lived in. None of those hideous overstuffed recliners that Americans seemed so fond of. Instead, a black leather seating group was tastefully arranged. The dining table was polished black glass, big enough to seat eight, with only a small picture frame set on one end. The whole place was spotless, nary a mote of dust to be seen. It looked as if he could host a cocktail party at a moment’s notice.
This space was something he’d clearly put a great deal of thought into. Suddenly, she wished she’d taken him up on his offer to look at the blueprints for his resort.
He moved to stand behind her, and she quickly undid the belt of her coat. Her fur skimmed down her shoulders, as sensual a feeling as she’d had in the past two months. She could feel Bobby’s warm breath on the back of her neck. All she wanted to do was lean back into his arms and feel his body pressed against hers. Could he tell? Did he know the effect he had on her? He might. He’d kissed her there before, after she’d made the impulsive decision to have a little fun, for once.
It was an impulse she should have ignored.
The coat pulled free of her arms, leaving her shivering. Which she tried to convince herself was due to the sudden change in core body temperature—not the memory of Bobby kissing her. Then Bobby’s hand was on the small of her back, guiding her toward the kitchen.
“Have you eaten?”
“Beg pardon?”
She saw the hint of a smile—warm and inviting—curve up the corners of his mouth. “I haven’t had dinner. I’ll make us something.”
There it was again, that odd feeling that she couldn’t quite name. Was he being his charming self or...was he taking care of her? It was the same feeling she’d gotten when he’d wheeled his desk chair out for her in that terrible trailer.
No one, aside from Mickey, had taken care of her since her mother died seventeen years ago. Stella had only been eight. By now, the memories of her mother were hazy around the edges, so much so that Stella was no longer sure what had happened and what she’d created. But she had fond memories—memories she clung to—of Claire Caine wrapping her in a fluffy towel after a nice bath, drying her off, helping her into her favorite pair of Hello Kitty pajamas and tucking her into bed with a long story. Claire had done all the voices, too.
Stella had felt warm and safe and loved. Very much loved.
Then it had all gone away.
She blinked away the memories of the cold years that had followed Claire’s death. Bobby was rummaging around in a rather large icebox. If he hadn’t been home for a week, what on earth did he have in there that would be edible? Just thinking about it made her delicate stomach turn.
She backed out of the kitchen before any punishing scents could assault her nose. The morning sickness—a comical term if she’d ever heard one—had been manageable all day, unlike the day she’d flown out here. She’d spent all of Wednesday and most of Thursday in bed at the hotel, sipping ginger ale and nibbling dry toast.
“Beg pardon, but where’s the loo?”
His arms full, Bobby’s head popped up. “The what? Oh, yes. Sorry. Last door down the hall. Feel free to look around.”
It’s not as if she would snoop, really. He had given her permission to at least open a door or two.
So after she used the loo, she opened. One room had a pool table in it; another had a rather large telly and stadium seating. The third had a crisply made bed that was so large it had to be a California king.
Did he have someone sleeping in it with him? Perhaps he was the sort of fellow who brought home a different girl every night. It was entirely possible, after all. All she really knew about him was that he was the sort of fellow who left a club and had sex in a car.
When she walked back into the kitchen, the smell of food—eggs and cheese, bacon and veg—hit her. Suddenly, she was ravenous.
Bobby stood at a small island, whisking something. He had a dish towel draped over one shoulder, a chopping board and a knife in front of him. She could see a stove with several pans heating behind him. He seemed completely at ease doing all of this—not fumbling about, as she might have expected.
“Smells delicious.”
His head popped up, a pleased smile on his face. “Veggie frittata and bacon.”
“You...cook?” It wasn’t the most diplomatic statement, but perhaps they were past the point of diplomacy. “No offense.”
“None taken.” His grin seemed heartfelt. “It doesn’t mesh with my image, does it?”
“Not really.”
“Promise me you won’t tell my brothers, okay? They don’t place a lot of value on cooking.”
Ah, yes. The brothers. His show, The Bolton Biker Boys, was about the whole family. The press release she’d found said so. She didn’t watch telly much and hadn’t looked him up on YouTube—couldn’t bear to watch her father’s shows and know that he’d spent more time on them than he had with her. “Then how did you pick it up?”
“I spent more time with Mom,” he replied, checking on a pan. He flipped something—peppers?—before continuing. “Billy’s eight years older than me, Ben’s five. They were always off doing their own thing while I was still in grade school. Mom would pick me up from school, then we’d head home and get dinner ready together.”
Part of her chest started to hurt. The whole thing—a sweet mum to cook and talk with, to spend time with—that’s what she didn’t have. What she’d always wanted. “Do you still cook with her?”
His back still to her, he froze. “She died. When I was eighteen.”
“I was eight. When my mum passed.”
The words escaped her lips before she quite knew she was saying them. She didn’t tell people about Claire. She’d long ago learned that talking about her mother was something not to be tolerated, as if speaking of her would sully her. Her father claimed it hurt too much. Maybe seeing Stella had made him hurt too much, too. Maybe that was why she rarely saw him at all. That had hurt almost as much as her mum’s death—being ignored by her father, foisted off to boarding schools and Mickey.
She’d already pushed aside the hurt again—it was easy when one had as much practice as she had—but the next thing she knew, Bobby had set his bowl down, come around the island and wrapped her in a strong hug. The contact was so unexpected—so much—that Stella felt rooted to the spot. People didn’t usually touch her. Even Mickey just offered her his arm. Her father hadn’t touched her in years. Decades. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been touched like this.
No, she took that back. She could remember. Bobby was the last person who’d put his arms around her. The last person to hold her. As if she meant something to him.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured into her hair, his hands pressed firmly against her back. “That must have been really hard on you.”
Her throat closed up, pushing Stella toward tears. Where the bloody hell was all this emotion coming from?
Ah, yes. Hormones. She was pregnant, after all.
“Thank you,” she managed to say without bawling.
After a small squeeze, Bobby leaned back. “You okay?”
“Fine, yes.”
She managed to push the sorrow back down. What she needed to do here was focus not on the unchangeable past, but the very changeable future. Sh
e was pregnant. She’d do anything to make sure her child didn’t suffer the same joyless fate she had.
Bobby let go of her and turned back to the stove. Heavens, the food smelled delicious. Part of her wanted to just enjoy this moment. He was making her dinner. He’d comforted her when she’d gotten upset. Wouldn’t it be lovely if this were something she could look forward to on a regular basis? Wouldn’t having someone to rely on—someone besides Mickey, that was—be just...wonderful?
It was a shame it wasn’t going to happen, Stella thought as Bobby flipped slices of bacon. He was being delightful now because it was a wise business maneuver. In no way, shape or form was this an indicator of things to come, no matter how nice it was. She hadn’t come for a husband. She’d come because it was the proper thing to do, to warn him. To give him a chance.
That’s all she wanted for their baby. A chance.
Quickly, Bobby had plated up slices of omelet and bacon and added buttery toast browned in the oven. “I don’t have any tea,” he said apologetically as the coffeepot brewed.
“No worries. This smells amazing.”
He carried the plates over to the table, setting them down next to each other. The table was empty, save for the picture frame she’d noticed when she’d first entered the flat, but he’d set the plates right next to each other, anyway. Close enough to touch, really. The proximity felt cozy.
Then she saw the picture in the frame.
Three
As Bobby set down the plates, the coffeemaker beeped. He hoped the coffee would be okay. His sister-in-law, Josey, hadn’t been able to touch the stuff when she’d been pregnant. The smell had bothered her.
Expecting a Bolton Baby Page 3
