Four
Bobby drew her a bath. At first, Stella had scoffed when he’d offered to fill up the tub. But he’d done so, anyway, insisting that she should relax.
So here she sat, nude, stretched out in a tub that had jets. The water covered her body, the warmth seeping into her bones. The whole time, she was thinking, What am I doing?
Because taking a warm bath, sleeping in Bobby Bolton’s bed—even if he wasn’t in it with her—was not the plan. Although, with her stomach happily full and the bath doing an admirable job of making her sleepy, she was having trouble remembering what, exactly, the plan had been. Show up. Inform him of his contribution to her situation. Determine if he would be supportive of the child or not. Decide what she was going to do. Go home.
Alone.
But this? Soaking her toes in his bath? Sleeping in his very large bed? Eating the meal that he’d made for her? Seeing the photo of the two of them so prominently displayed on his table?
Feeling as if he cared for her?
No. How he made her feel—as if she was more than just an inconvenience to be dealt with, more than just a reminder of a painful mistake he’d made—this was a short-lived sensation and could not figure into her plans. It wouldn’t last. Aside from Mickey, bless his soul, no man had ever done a thing to take care of her. She had no reason to think that Bobby was any different. Not once the shock of the situation wore off, anyway.
Stella cradled her belly with her hands. She couldn’t tell if her body had changed—not on the outside, anyway. Inside, she was something of a mess.
Her world was carefully controlled to buffer her against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Because she couldn’t bear another arrow. Better to feel nothing than to feel the pain that had been her constant companion since her mum’s death.
But Bobby...she felt things for Bobby. That was how she’d gotten into this fine mess in the first place—he made her feel things that she’d never felt before. Happy. Exuberant. Silly, even. She’d laughed with him in the club when he’d told a disparaging story about his brother breaking his jaw, and she’d giggled in his arms in the back of the car, and the orgasm she’d experienced brought forth a whole new range of feelings.
Now she was feeling things, things that she didn’t want to feel, because feelings were messy and unclear and hard to control.
She hadn’t lied to Bobby. She wouldn’t allow him to use the child as a pawn in negotiations with her father. Better that her baby never knew her father, if that’s how it was going to be. At least, that had been the plan. The life she had was not a life she wanted to pass on to another generation.
From far away, she heard a knock. A loud, insistent knock. She knew immediately it was Mickey. Good ol’ Mick, she thought, he’d always taken care of her—maybe not in a motherly way, but God knows, the man had put his heart into it.
Still lost in that space between awake and dreaming, she heard Bobby say something she couldn’t quite make out. Then, loudly, Mickey said, “I want to talk to me girl meself, if ye don’t mind.”
That, coupled with the approaching sounds of men jostling for position, snapped Stella out of her daze. Mickey would bully his way into the bedroom and—if she wasn’t careful—the bathroom. He was a great many things, but sensible about these sorts of situations he wasn’t.
But instead of an old man bursting in on her in the bath, she heard a gentle knock on the door. “Stella? Mickey’s here with your things and he’d like to have a word with you. There should be a robe hanging on the back of the door.”
“Yes, one moment.” Reluctantly, she stood.
It was a nice bathrobe, the soft, luxe kind that had probably cost a lot of money. But that wasn’t what Stella liked about it. What she liked was how, as she slipped it over her still-damp shoulders, the smell of Gucci by Gucci wrapped around her, as warm and inviting as the robe itself. Bobby had worn that scent at the club. She hadn’t realized how much that smell had remained with her.
Outside, she could hear Mickey’s grumbling getting louder. She quickly ran a towel over her damp hair, destroying what was left of her perfect bob. Ah, well. Tomorrow she’d do it up proper.
When she opened the door, she was surprised to see Bobby standing in the doorway to the hall. “I’ll leave you two alone,” was all he said, but before the door shut, Stella saw the cheeky wink he shot at her. Mickey didn’t scare him. Not much, anyway.
“How ye feeling?” Mickey waved at the two bags set on the end of the bed. “There’s all yer things.”
“Thank you.”
It always amazed Stella how much more English her accent became when it was just her and Mickey. Most of the time, when she was in New York, she hardly heard the notes of Britain in her voice at all. But when it was just her and Mickey—even if they were in an unfamiliar bedroom—everything came out thicker.
Mickey heard it, too. His eyes softened. “Ye sound like yer dear mum, lass.”
She’d heard that before, too—Mickey was fond of noting it—but this time, it hit her funny. Her eyes began to water as she placed a hand over her stomach. She knew the babe was still too tiny to feel, months would pass before her whole body began to twitch with small kicks, but still...
God bless Mickey for trying, but what she really wanted was a mother—someone who’d fold Stella into her arms and hold her as she cried about this strange situation she found herself in. A mother would be able to answer all of Stella’s questions about the baby inside her with that wonderful phrase “When I was pregnant with you...” A mother would reassure her that everything would turn out, just wait and see.
That was something she’d never had and never would. Which had probably led her to where she was today—in a world of trouble.
“Oh, now,” Mickey said in his gruff way, fishing out a worn kerchief from his back pocket and handing it to her. “Don’t start with that.”
“It’s fine,” was all she could say, waving off the kerchief. Even though it wasn’t.
Mickey eyed her before he accepted the dodge. This is what they did, after all. Danced up to the edge of emotions before waltzing in the other direction. “Are ye sure you should stay with him? Is that the best idea?”
“He said he’d sleep on the sofa.”
“Pshaw.” Mickey tapped his toe. This was also part of their normal routine. Mickey stridently stated his opinions—ranging from her modeling jobs to her outfit choices—and then acquiesced to what Stella wanted. That night at the club, eight weeks ago? Mickey hadn’t thought it was a good idea to go to the party. He’d thought it an even worse idea to slip into the backseat of the car. But instead of stopping Stella from making the single biggest mistake of her life, he’d stood guard so that no one interrupted them.
Really, Mickey was a huge softy underneath that crusty exterior.
“Suppose it’s not like he could get ye more pregnant than you already are.” Stella shot him a look that made the old man blush. “I still say that we don’t need him. Just ol’ Mick, Lala and the wee one. We’ll manage just fine, the three of us.”
Lala. It’d been her childhood name for herself, when she couldn’t get the St sound just right. Her mother had called her Lala, too.
Her father had never called her Lala. Not once.
How different would it have been if Mickey had been Stella’s father? After all, it was no lie to say the two men had been friends since the day they were born. Mickey Roberts and David Caine had been born on the same day in the same hospital in Dublin. They’d gone to Campbell College in Belfast together. They’d been joyriding in David’s car together when they’d seen Claire O’Flannery coming out of a church one summer afternoon. The only difference was that David Caine came from an old family with older money and Mickey Roberts had scraped by on scholarships and sheer luck.
David had never forgotten
his oldest friend. Mickey had worked as David’s driver-slash-bodyguard as David had dramatically expanded the Caine family holdings into media, mobile and whatever mergers he could make.
Including merging with Claire O’Flannery. Not even the Catholic schoolgirl, just past her nineteenth birthday, had been able to resist David Caine—or the money that went with him.
Mickey would take care of Stella’s baby as best he could, just as he’d taken care of her. But he was sixty now, more set in his ways than he liked to admit. Despite his best efforts to stand in as both a mother and a father, he wasn’t a natural at either role. Stella loved her old friend, but she couldn’t picture him changing a nappy. At least, not without a fair amount of curse words.
“We’ve been over this, Mickey. It’s his child, too. He gets to have a say.”
“Hmmph.” Mickey shot a mean look at the door. “I don’t like him. Too smooth.”
“You don’t like anyone.”
This was a fact. Except usually, Mickey was proven right. He hadn’t liked Brian, her last paramour—and that relationship had ended when Stella had refused to invite her father over for dinner so that Brian could pitch his Great Big Idea to a captive audience. Mickey hadn’t liked Neil before that—too much eye makeup, not enough backbone. Which explained how Neil had left her in the middle of a questionable club while he chased an easier skirt.
She hoped that wasn’t what Bobby was about. Somehow, it felt like a blanket denial, followed quickly by a general refusal to accept the baby, would be easier to take than to find out that he’d been more interested in finding an in with her father from the beginning.
Mickey scuffed a toe on the carpet. He was bending. He always did. “Said I could sleep on the couch, he did.”
She thought of the way Bobby had touched her face in the car park, the way he’d pinned her against the glass in the living room. She breathed in the scent of his cologne and snuggled deeper into his plush robe. Bobby was too smooth. But that didn’t change the situation. Smoothness had no impact on pregnancy. Except to occasionally cause it.
She loved Mickey, she did—but she didn’t need a chaperone. She was a grown woman of twenty-five, carrying a baby. Plus, she knew Mickey’s weakness—room service.
“No, I don’t think that’s necessary.”
Mickey glared at her, but she could see him thinking about dessert delivered to his door. “Ye keep yer mobile next to ye, hear? Ye call me at any time, fer any reason.”
“Of course. But this is something I have to figure out for myself.”
“I suppose...” Mickey let out a heavy sigh. Stella smiled at him. Stubborn until the very end. “He lays a hand on ye, though, and all bets are off.”
“It’ll be fine,” she promised.
She just wished she believed it.
* * *
Bobby stared at his phone. He’d been tempted to listen in on Stella’s conversation with the leprechaun, but he had something to do.
Man, he didn’t want to make this call. But he didn’t have much choice. With Stella’s presence in his condo, there was no shot in hell that he’d meet all of his deadlines.
So he braced for the worst.
“It’s late,” Ben said. But the fact that he’d answered on the first ring told Bobby that his older brother had been at his desk, not in bed.
“I know. I have a problem.”
Even saying those words out loud was a blow to Bobby’s ego, but having to say them to Ben? Mr. Responsible himself? Ben would never let him live this down. And it wasn’t just that he was missing a deadline. It was that he’d gotten Stella pregnant. Family was everything to the Bolton boys. The moment he told any member of his family that he was a father-to-be was the moment he lost any illusion of control over his own life.
“What?” Ben snapped.
“I’m not going to make the sales projection deadline.”
“Damn it, Bobby. I have that meeting with the bank.”
“I know, I know.” He wasn’t good at feeling guilty. It made him uncomfortable. “I have an unexpected houseguest.”
“This better not be some girl crashing at your place.”
When Bobby didn’t say anything, he heard a noise that might have been Ben throwing the phone. He couldn’t tell.
After a moment, Ben got back on the phone. His voice was lower, but much more pissed. “You’re telling me you’re going to miss a deadline because of some woman?”
Bobby swallowed. Ben was a backer on the resort, but he’d chipped in only after his wife had strong-armed him. “Is Josey still up?”
“What?”
“Josey. Your wife. Is she still awake? I need to talk to her.”
“She’s in bed. Callie’s got another ear infection. I’ve got the night shift tonight. What the hell does that have to do with you missing the deadline because you picked up some chick?”
Bobby took a deep breath, trying to hear if Mickey and Stella were heading out of the bedroom. Nothing. He had a few minutes left to talk, but not much more than that.
He didn’t want to do this, but what choice did he have? Ben, after all, was a father. Someone he could ask for advice. Someone who would know what to do next.
“My houseguest is also—” The words hit the back of his teeth, refusing to budge. Saying them out loud made it more real. “She’s pregnant.”
Ben didn’t say anything, which was sort of a mixed blessing. On the one hand, he wasn’t calling Bobby a jerk or a twit or telling him how bad he’d messed up.
On the other hand, the weight of Ben’s silence felt as if someone had dropped a massive oak tree on Bobby’s chest and was in no hurry to lift it off.
Finally, Ben said, “Yours?”
“That’s what she says.”
“Make sure it’s yours. Then do the right damn thing, Robert.”
“Then I guess I shouldn’t have called you, should I?”
“Twit,” Ben muttered. “You know what I mean.”
“Look, I’m sorry about the projections. But this is more important.”
“Fine.” That was the nice thing about Ben. After he got it out of his system, he was able to focus on the business at hand. Billy, the oldest Bolton, probably would have driven over here to beat Bobby to a pulp. “You want me to wake Josey?”
That seemed like a colossally bad idea, especially if she was already tired. “No, let her sleep. Will she be around this weekend?”
“Yeah. I’ll have her call you.” Ben paused. “You’ve got to make this right.”
Bobby knew what that meant. Family, Dad liked to say, was everything. This baby-to-be would be a Bolton. He and Stella had to get married, for better or for worse.
“I will,” he promised his brother.
He hung up just as the bedroom door opened. Mickey came out, looking cranky. “Should I make up a pallet on the couch for you?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Stella emerged from behind Mickey, wrapped in Bobby’s robe, her hair still mussed from the bath.
Enchanting, he thought as she looked up at him through thick lashes. Everything about her seemed softer, more touchable. Did she have anything on underneath the robe? Probably not. Boy, did he ever want to touch her.
“Ahem,” Mickey coughed, spreading his legs wide and standing between Bobby and Stella.
Right. Humoring the old man. “Are you sure? Plenty of room. No trouble at all.”
With an impressive eye roll, Mickey looked back to Stella, who said, “Thanks, but Mickey will be more comfortable back at the hotel.”
“Aye,” Mickey agreed, although he didn’t seem happy about this. “But I’m watching you.” He turned and patted Stella on the cheek. “Take care o’ yerself, lass.”
Stella smiled as she leaned down and kissed hi
m on the cheek. “Don’t eat too many ice lollies, hear?” Her voice was different when she said this—richer, more rolling.
Despite the worry and the late hour and the completely surreal nature of the evening, Bobby’s blood ran hot. This Stella was much closer to the woman who’d let loose in the back of a car—no stiff clothing, no detached attitude.
He wanted to take her back to bed, peel that robe off her and bury himself deep in her body. He wanted to hear her cry out his name again—that was what he’d wanted ever since the first time.
But he’d promised. He’d sleep on the couch, if that was what she wanted.
He had to make this right.
Pretty darned hard to do from the couch.
Five
The couch was not a comfortable place to sleep.
Bobby had this epiphany around two in the morning as he tried to figure out what the hell to do with his feet. He needed a longer couch, for starters, and one that had less metal in the armrests. Finally, he gave up, threw his pillow on the floor and tried to enjoy being flat.
The lack of bedding wasn’t the only thing that kept him from sleep. It was the thought of how, after Mickey had finally taken his leave, Bobby and Stella had stood right over there, staring at each other. Bobby had wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her, but she’d looked so sweet, so vulnerable that he hadn’t been able to move.
The best he had been able to do was to ask, “Can I get you anything?”
She’d replied, “Thanks, no. The bath was lovely, but I’m rather tired.”
“Of course.” It had been fast approaching midnight.
Stella had gone back into his bedroom—alone—and shut the door. Bobby had made do on an instrument of torture masquerading as a couch.
How was he going to make this right? Or, more to the point, how did Stella want him to make this right? She’d given no sign that she wanted to get married—this despite having one of the most world-famous supporters of heterosexual marriage for a father.
Expecting a Bolton Baby Page 5
