Just in time. Another cramp came, forcing her to grit her teeth.
Luckily, no other women seemed to be around at the moment. She hurried into a stall.
Vomited. Felt better. Checked to see if she was bleeding. She wasn’t.
She gave herself a second or two to catch her breath and let a final wave of clamminess pass. Then she left the stall (the ladies’ room was still blessedly empty), washed her hands, rinsed her mouth, wiped the tears from her eyes, blotted her face with a paper towel, touched up her makeup and tried not to notice how pale and wild-eyed the woman in the mirror seemed.
She checked her watch. Saw that she still had a few more minutes until Daniel needed her.
So she found the emergency Tylenol in her clutch and took it using one of the paper cups helpfully provided with the mouthwash. Then she gargled. And then, because she still wasn’t ready to face the world, she helped herself to the scented lotion on the counter and smoothed it on her hands.
There.
Following another deep breath, she squared her shoulders, held her head high and strode out of the bathroom. Whereupon she ran into Baptiste.
“Samira.” He clasped her forearms, looking every bit as wild-eyed as her reflection. “Are you okay? I was just going to find another woman to check on you.”
She reached for her fake smile, but it had evidently run down its battery for the night and needed to be recharged.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry.”
His grip tightened when she would have turned away.
“Don’t tell me you’re fine. Tell me what’s wrong. You’re scaring me to death.”
“I have to go,” she said with rising desperation, that unshed scream collecting in her throat again. “Daniel needs me.”
“Non, madame. You need someone to take care of you right now.”
They stared at each other, stalemated.
Until the raw concern in his eyes overwhelmed her.
A sob rose up, almost slipping through her grasp before she yanked it back.
Some of the ferocity leached out of his expression. He reached for her face, stopping himself at the last second.
“Please, Samira.”
She hesitated, knowing she couldn’t go very far down this road with him right now if she wanted to be a professional and do her job for Daniel and the winery.
Then she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.
“I think I’m having a miscarriage.”
12
Baptiste insisted on driving her home, which he somehow did while in a trancelike state.
His churning thoughts threatened to explode out of his head.
Samira was pregnant, but she might lose the baby.
Samira was pregnant.
But she might miscarry.
As of this moment, though? There was still a baby.
Samira’s baby. His baby. Their baby.
He hoped.
How did he feel about that?
Soaring joy in his chest.
Stark fear in his gut.
The two emotions battled inside him until his lungs began to tighten down and seize up the way they had when he first saw Howard’s Folly on the night of the Halloween bonfire. But he wasn’t about to let himself spiral into another panic attack. What did he have to freak out about? He wasn’t the one in pain, or the one whose body might be rejecting a baby.
If nothing else, he had to be strong for Samira tonight.
Trying to be subtle about it, he took a deep breath and rubbed his chest with his free hand as they pulled into Samira’s driveway. Somehow calmed himself down as they climbed out of the car. Shoved his shaky hands deep into his pockets. Watched Samira unlock the door and trailed her inside as she clicked on the lights and shed her coat.
So…what now?
They couldn’t seem to look each other in the eye.
He stole a glance at her downturned face. Her color was better, thank God, and her pain seemed to have passed. He surreptitiously took another deep breath. More of the crushing pressure eased from his chest.
Not much he could do about his jumbled thoughts, though.
Questions jockeyed for position in his mind. The biggest one elbowed the others out of the way and shoved its way to the front:
Is the baby mine?
He opened his mouth, but couldn’t un-mute his voice. Probably because he had the unshakeable feeling that a single wrong word or deed would spark an argument…a flashpoint…possibly even the destruction of their blossoming relationship.
Shaken though he was, he would not let that happen.
She started to walk off without a backward glance. “I’m taking a shower.”
“Samira.”
She hesitated, keeping her back to him.
Struggling with his words—she wasn’t going to make this conversation easy, was she? —he defaulted to his major concern.
“I wish you would let me take you to a doctor.”
“You heard me talk to her in the car.” She finally turned to face him, her calm demeanor at complete odds with the smoldering misery in her eyes. “If I’m going to miscarry this early in the pregnancy, there’s nothing we can do. But the cramps have stopped and I’m not bleeding, so those are good signs. I have an appointment on Monday. She’ll see if she can still detect the baby’s heartbeat.” She shrugged. Shrugged. “This is not an emergency. It happens all the time.”
“It doesn’t happen to us all the time.”
She stiffened.
He waited, wanting to take his cues from her. But he’d have had better luck reading the Bible in its original Hebrew because she wasn’t giving him anything.
His only job tonight was making sure that Samira was okay.
This isn’t about you, he reminded himself. But Christ, he needed some answers.
“I…I didn’t know you were pregnant,” he said, very quietly.
She flushed to the roots of her hair. “Yes.”
Samira’s baby was his baby, period. He would die before he insulted her, but he needed the answers from her to match the ones he already had in his heart.
This was his baby. He knew it.
But…how could it be when they’d used contraception every time they’d made love?
And of course Samira had nearly married another man just a couple of months ago.
His stomach solidified into a knot.
If only he were a smarter person. Then he would know how to say it.
He opened his mouth. His heart pounded out a thousand beats in the time it took to get his voice to work.
“How long have you known?”
It took her forever to answer. The knot in his belly coiled itself a little tighter.
“I took a home test when we got home from Paris—”
His brain stalled out.
When they got home from—?
She’d kept this secret for two weeks?
“—and then I went to the doctor and she confirmed it. I’d…” She ran a hand through her hair, ruffling it. “I’d had a couple episodes of being sick. I thought I was having anxiety attacks.”
She was having anxiety attacks?
He went very still because here, right in his face, was another delicate issue they needed to address.
“Why would you have anxiety attacks?”
Once again, she didn’t seem able to look him in the eye.
“Don’t we have enough other stuff to talk about tonight, Baptiste?”
There was only one answer for that.
“I think we should talk about everything tonight.”
Her gaze flicked back to his.
“I get a little…overwhelmed about our relationship sometimes,” she confessed.
Overwhelmed. What a charming word. How appropriate for this thing they did to each other.
“I see.”
He rubbed his nape, trapped inside his miserable uncertainty and fumbling with his lack of appropriate words. A drink seemed like a good idea, so he went
to the drink cart for a shot of bourbon. He downed it and hoped the burn would jump-start his thought process.
It didn’t.
He walked to the kitchen. Set the empty glass down. Yanked off his bow tie and tossed it on the table as he came back with a bottle of water for Samira.
She took it and watched him warily.
“And when do you think you conceived?” he asked.
“The night we met,” she said lightly, her expression softening. “That very first time we were together…you didn’t pull out right away after you came, and I didn’t think to…”
She trailed off, shrugging. “You probably don’t remember.”
She’d never been more wrong.
He blinked, remembering everything about that night. Their immediate chemistry. Their dance to “No Ordinary Love.” The exquisite time spent in each other’s arms.
He also remembered that she hadn’t been on the pill that first night.
He stared at her, searching her face for further clues and desperately wanting it to be true.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she snapped. “Condoms aren’t a hundred percent. And I had my period in between when Terrance canceled the wedding and I met you, so I know the baby is yours.”
I know the baby is yours…
That was all he heard. All he needed to hear.
He and Samira conceived a child their very first night together.
Their very first time.
She’d already been pregnant when he had that vision of the brown-haired baby.
He ran a shaky hand through his hair, thinking hard.
What did this all mean?
His heart produced an immediate answer:
That some secret part of him had recognized, almost right from the beginning, that he and Samira were destined to be together. To build a family together.
He made a choked sound—a laugh; a relieved sob—as his wobbly knees gave way. He sank to the sofa, rested his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands, trying to digest all this information.
He was going to be a father. Elation threatened to tug him out of the chair and send him soaring across the room like a child’s birthday balloon, and no one could be more surprised than he was at this reaction. Hadn’t he always sworn that he’d never wanted children? That it was his solemn responsibility to spare some poor child from the loneliness and neglect he’d suffered as a kid? Hadn’t he always been smart enough to know that you didn’t parent via telephone and nannies deputized to make all major decisions? And that being a good father required more than a willingness to write blank checks and to call in for a thirty-second greeting on birthdays and holidays?
Hadn’t that been his entire adult life: a no-children vow and medicine cabinets fully stocked with condoms at all times?
Hell, there’d been times when he’d wondered whether he should march to the nearest hospital and demand a vasectomy to protect himself and any innocent children his misbegotten sperm and bloodline might one day produce.
These considerations had always led him to the conclusion that he’d never allow himself to be a father. But maybe they should have led him to the conclusion that he’d never allow himself to be a bad father.
Would it be easy? No. He knew he didn’t have the tools to be a good father.
Yet.
But he had the overwhelming desire and determination to learn. To be the kind of spectacular father worthy of the kind of mother Samira would undoubtedly be.
He rubbed his belly, trying to ease some of the sudden ache of longing.
If only the baby were already safely here, in his arms right now.
Did these feelings make sense based on everything he’d thought he’d known about himself? No. Nothing about his sudden and absolute connection with Samira made sense.
But in his heart and his gut? Deep inside, where it mattered?
Nothing in his life had ever made more sense.
This baby was a miracle. He was on the way despite the fact that condoms usually worked. But this one time, with this one woman…Baptiste couldn’t begin to wrap his head around the nonstop showering of blessings since he first laid eyes on Samira.
Yes, a miracle.
But…Samira.
He raised his head, his heart sinking when she nailed him with her hard gaze.
Maybe…
Christ. He couldn’t even think the thought.
Maybe she didn’t want a baby with him.
“Why…” He paused, desperate to say it right. “You’ve known for two weeks. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was going to. I just…needed time to process everything.”
“Oh.”
He tried to make her explanation work. To be satisfied. To let it go.
“But…” He tried to smile. “I’m heading to France tomorrow for at least a week. And two weeks is a long time to process. When were you going to tell me?”
She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know.”
Some combination of the lateness of the hour, the alcohol and the emotional turmoil caused a terrible new thought to form like a funnel cloud in his head.
“You weren’t…” He cleared his throat, trying to unstick the words. “You weren’t going to get rid of it while I was gone, were you?”
She looked stricken. “Of course not! Why would you—”
“I don’t know,” he said quickly, another head-spinning surge of relief hitting him. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. Can you come sit with me, please? You look tired. I think you need to get off your feet.”
She hesitated, casting a final longing look down the hallway before she perched on the edge of the sofa.
Her profile was still. Stern.
They might have been strangers waiting on a bench for the next bus appear.
The tight lines of her face terrified him. He absolutely could not let this awkwardness continue. They’d almost lost a child tonight. They should turn to each other for comfort.
He stared at the hands she held clasped in her lap, nerves making his heart skip every other beat. For the life of him, he didn’t have the courage to reach for one of those hands, which made no sense. They spent their nights in each other’s arms. Why was it so hard for him to touch her now?
For several long seconds, cowardice kept him paralyzed with a knee to his throat. If someone had presented him with the choice of putting his hand on top of hers or joining the military and fighting on the front lines for a year, he’d have asked for a rifle.
Be brave, Jean-Baptiste.
Taking a deep breath, he shoved his fear aside and reached out. Felt better, as always, with her warm flesh against his. Pressed a fervent kiss to the back of her hand. Reveled in the way she melted, just a little, and ran her fingers through the hair at his temple.
She had dark circles under her eyes, he realized. It was late, they were both exhausted and she needed to get to bed and rest. He had the answers he’d needed. The rest could wait until tomorrow—
“What did you want to talk to me about tonight?” she asked.
Nothing important. Just the entire future of their relationship.
“It will keep. We can discuss it after you’ve had your shower and a good night’s sleep. I’ll postpone my meetings so I can take you to the doctor Monday. I’ll leave in a couple of days instead.”
To his mind and in his ears, this proposal sounded perfectly reasonable.
But Samira scowled.
“I’m a grown woman, Baptiste. I’m perfectly capable of putting myself in bed when I’m ready to go to bed and getting myself to the doctor. And if you need to leave tomorrow, then you should leave. I’ll be fine. I don’t want to keep you.”
He flinched. “Keep me?”
She shrugged, her eyes stone cold. “I’m sure you’re eager to get back to your regularly scheduled life by now. Especially after seeing so many friends—”
“I had exactly two friends there from Europe tonight: Nick and Anthony.”
“Yeah, but those were your people—”
“My people? What do you mean, my people?”
Another hateful shrug. “Rich. European. Sophisticated. You’ve been here for several weeks now. You must be a little homesick for your regular life.”
He couldn’t be hearing this. She couldn’t be saying it.
“Where is this coming from? Are you so eager to send me back to Paris without you? To the apartment I hate?”
Her defiant gaze flickered.
“I have a passing acquaintance with most of the people you saw tonight. What I know of them, I don’t like. They remind me far too much of my parents: shallow, materialistic and self-serving. I don’t want to go back to France right now, and if I didn’t have pressing meetings to attend, I wouldn’t go.”
She made a derisive noise. “You don’t have to say that just because I’ve had a tough night.”
Thus far, he felt he’d kept an admirable hold on his emotions. But this was too much.
“A tough night? What are you talking about? We almost lost a baby we both want! Why are you talking like this?”
“We both want?” She looked wild-eyed. Incredulous. “What are you talking about? You’re the one who said you never wanted children! You’re the one who said you wanted your family name to die out! And now you suddenly want a baby?”
Merde. Shortsighted words come back to bite him in the ass. Their impact was like a lightning strike to his forehead. He recoiled as sudden understanding hit him.
“Of course.” He slumped back against the cushions and rested his arm over his eyes. “That’s why you didn’t tell me.”
“Yeah. Because you don’t want children, and I don’t want you to look at me the way you looked at Daphne.”
He dropped his arm and sat up straight, aghast. Surely she didn’t think—
“The way I looked at Daphne?”
“I’m not trying to trap you,” she said fervently. “I don’t want your money. And I’m fine with paternity testing—”
“Of course you’re not trying to trap me! Of course you’re not Daphne! Of course the baby is mine! What are you talking about, Samira? Do you think I haven’t noticed that you have more honesty and integrity than anyone I’ve ever met? I can’t even begin to understand you right now!”
Beyond Ordinary Love: A Journey's End Billionaire Romance (Journey's End Billionaires Book 2) Page 16
