The Bachelor's Baby Surprise

by Teri Wilson

  The sommelier lingered, waiting.

  Evangeline had zero interest in the wine. None. She reached for her glass but stopped short of taking hold of it. There was a visible tremor in her fingertips as she rested her hand on the tablecloth.

  Ryan sipped from his glass and nodded. “Very good, thank you.”

  At last the sommelier left.

  Evangeline took a deep breath. Words were bubbling up her throat—words she’d been trying her best not to say since the moment she’d woken up beside Ryan Wilde. There was no stopping them now. Not anymore. Not after what he’d just told her.

  “Ryan, I...”

  From somewhere behind her, a voice interrupted. “Evangeline?”

  And just like that, the warm glow rising up from deep inside her soul vanished.

  She didn’t turn around. She didn’t have to.

  Jeremy.

  Chapter Seven

  Another interruption.

  Ryan’s jaw tensed to the point of pain. He dragged his gaze away from Evangeline to get a look at the man who’d just said her name. It was the chef, if the toque on the man’s head was any indication.

  And yet not just the chef, Ryan realized as he watched the color drain from Evangeline’s face.

  “Hello, Jeremy,” she said quietly.

  The chef—Jeremy, apparently—shot a curious glance at Ryan, then turned back to Evangeline. “I didn’t know you had a reservation. Did you come here to see me?”

  Ryan had the sudden overwhelming urge to hit something. Or someone. At the moment, the chef seemed like a good target. Who exactly was this guy?

  Jealous much?

  He took a strained inhale. He had no claim on Evangeline and therefore, no right to feel this way. Somehow knowing that didn’t help matters.

  Ryan’s own words from moments ago rang like a bell in his consciousness.

  Seriously, Evangeline. Whoever told you that you lack passion is a fool.

  “I’m here for dinner.” Evangeline lifted her chin and leveled her gaze at Jeremy, undoubtedly the fool in question.

  Her body language gave her away—the crossed arms, the fixed stare, the rebellious tilt of her head. But beyond the bravado, he saw the way her sapphire eyes seemed to go bluer than he’d ever seen before.

  Jeremy had hurt her. The pain was real. Raw. Fresh.

  “Excellent. I hope you enjoy yourselves.” Jeremy glanced at Ryan again.

  Evangeline’s gaze flitted back and forth between the two men. “Ryan, this is Jeremy, the chef here at Mon Ami Jules. Jeremy, this is...”

  An awkward pause followed, as if she wasn’t sure how to introduce him. Ryan tried to imagine her possible options. Her boss? The one-night stand she probably regretted?

  Neither of those was bearable.

  “Ryan Wilde.” He stood and offered his hand.

  The chef took it and gave it a shake. “Jeremy Peters.”

  Ryan complimented the menu, and they exchanged a few words about French cuisine. Small talk. Ryan couldn’t concentrate on any of it. He was too preoccupied with the dull ache that had formed at the base of his skull. He didn’t want to be here in this man’s restaurant, eating his food and shaking his hand while the tenuous connection he’d just made with Evangeline broke beneath the strain.

  They’d had a moment, and it was fading away as surely as a pink-hued sky after a blazing sunset.

  He sat back down, hoping Jeremy Peters would take the hint and go away. Instead, he droned on and on, oblivious to the way Evangeline blanched after her first sip of wine. She was so obviously disgusted by it that Ryan had to stifle a grin. Their eyes met, and her lips quivered with mirth when he reached for his glass. It tasted fine to him. Quite good, actually. But what did he know? After all, he still indulged in the occasional glass of pinot grigio.

  He took another swallow, then a few more. Evangeline’s eyes widened ever so slightly in amused horror. Again, Jeremy seemed clueless to what was transpiring at the table. He continued his monologue with a meticulously detailed description of his coq au vin.

  They were sharing a secret right beneath his nose, and the connection between them—that glittering, gossamer thread—dazzled brightly once again, warming Ryan from the inside out.

  He took another gulp of the Côtes du Rhône and then set his wineglass back down on the table, toying with the stem as memories he’d been doing his best to push away came rushing into his consciousness. Denying them was a hopeless effort. In recent weeks, he’d been semisuccessful in forcing his mind into submission whenever it strayed toward forbidden territory. But it was no use...there was no forgetting. The memories weren’t just in his head. They lived in his body—in his shuddering breath, in the featherlight nerve endings on his lips and the tips of his fingers. His flesh remembered her. It remembered every caress, every whispered sigh, every exquisite thing about that night.

  He looked at her, sitting across from him in her glittering, feathered dress, and despite the suddenly awkward circumstances, she seemed to glow. God, she was gorgeous. Focusing so intently on her luminous eyes and lush, kissable lips was far too dangerous, so he dropped his gaze to her delicate hand resting on the table, just out of reach.

  And yet so close...so very close...

  Desire rippled through him, blossoming from somewhere deep inside, drawing him toward her. It was a fierce, fiery thing, visible in the uncontrollable tremor in his fingertips as his hands inched slowly toward hers.

  He could have stopped himself. He could have simply withdrawn his hand and curled it into a fist under the table, but he didn’t want to. Not after the way she’d looked at him as he’d confronted her with evidence of her passion. Not while a sly smile tipped her lips. Secret. Special. Only for him.

  He slid his hand forward until the tips of his fingers made contact with hers. It was the barest of touches, little more than nothing. But somehow, some way, everything.

  Evangeline let out a little gasp, and her gaze fluttered toward his. He waited a beat, and when she didn’t pull away, he fully took her hand, weaving her slender fingers through his until he wasn’t sure where his touch ended and hers began.

  Ryan couldn’t remember the last time he’d held hands with a woman.

  College, maybe? As far back as high school?

  PDA had never been his thing, but there was something different about Evangeline. If they’d been lovers—real lovers, not simply two people who’d once been intimate—he’d never be able to keep his hands off her.

  But they weren’t. Perhaps that was why there was a hint of melancholy in the warmth of their touch, and perhaps that was why the simple act of holding her hand felt more meaningful than he could ever have imagined. Perhaps that was why he couldn’t seem to let go.

  Jeremy looked down, spotted their interlaced fingers and at last grew quiet.

  He cleared his throat. “Well, I’ve kept you long enough. Enjoy your dinner. Don’t worry about ordering. I’ll send over the chef’s special tasting menu. It’s on the house.”

  Ryan and Evangeline thanked him, and at long last, he was gone.

  Their eyes met, and Evangeline’s cheeks flared pink. She gave him a smile so soft, so vulnerable, that he forgot all the reasons he shouldn’t be sitting across from her on a glittering Manhattan evening, holding her hand.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “For what, exactly?”

  Her eyes flitted briefly in the direction where Jeremy had gone. The kitchen, presumably. “For making an awkward situation more bearable.”

  The sommelier returned to refill Ryan’s glass, and Evangeline grew quiet. Ryan nodded his thanks, and was forced to release Evangeline’s hand in order to accommodate the sommelier.

  “Am I correct in assuming that Jeremy is an ex?” he asked once they were alone again.

  “Yes. It ended badly
.” She nodded, and once again, a flash of pain glimmered in her eyes.

  Ryan’s gut tightened. Then he asked a question to which he somehow already knew the answer. “When?”

  She stiffened ever so slightly, then shrugged an elegant, bare shoulder. “A while ago.”

  “A while.” He took another, larger, taste of his wine. “As in six or seven weeks?”

  “Thereabouts.” She reached for her own glass, brought it to her lips, then frowned into it and placed it back on the table.

  “Ah.” He nodded.

  Six or seven weeks ago, which meant the breakup occurred shortly before they’d met one another. The night he’d gone home with her.

  Suddenly that evening made much more sense, as did Evangeline’s skittishness the following morning. He’d wanted to see her again. Needed to. But there’d been no convincing her. Now he knew why.

  He stared at the swirl of burgundy liquid in his glass, suddenly wishing it were something stronger. The timing shouldn’t have mattered. He knew it shouldn’t, but somehow it did. He wasn’t even sure why.

  Yes, you are.

  The timing mattered because everything about that night mattered. It had mattered to him, anyway. And he was pretty damn sure it mattered to her, too.

  “Oeuf cocotte à la parisienne. Parisian shirred egg, compliments of the chef.” A server placed a small blue crock in the center of the table.

  Ryan took an exploratory bite and was somewhat disappointed to discover the dish was delicious. “Not bad.”

  Evangeline didn’t offer an opinion. Dishes kept coming, one after another. There was no more time for conversation, no opportunity to slip back into the quiet intimacy they’d fallen into before. Ryan was glad when the meal finally came to an end.

  They sat side by side in the back of the limo as it crawled through the snowy streets, Manhattan nothing more than a silvery, sparkling blur through the frosted windows. The inside of the car was snug and warm, and once again, their fingertips came to rest a fraction of an inch apart on the smooth leather seat between them.

  So close. And still so maddeningly far away.

  The driver’s voice crackled through the car’s intercom system sooner than seemed possible. “We’ve arrived at Miss Holly’s building.”

  Ryan pushed the button on his side of the partition. “Thank you, Tony. I’ll escort Miss Holly to her door.”

  If it had been a day earlier, he’d have expected her to protest and insist that Tony walk her up the front steps of her building instead. Something had changed tonight, though. It felt as if he knew her now. Really knew her.

  All that nonsense about their night together being a disaster?

  She actually believed it, just not in the way he’d originally thought. Evangeline was convinced she’d been a disappointment, which couldn’t have been further from the truth. It made him want to strangle that pompous foodie ex of hers...

  Right after he took her to bed again and showed her exactly how much passion she kept hidden away in that beautifully guarded exterior of hers. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not tonight, anyway. For a multitude of reasons, most of which had nothing whatsoever to do with Bennington 8.

  He climbed out of the back seat and rounded the car, bowing his head against the winter wind, and then opened her door. “After you.”

  She stepped out and slipped past him, leaving a trace of airy floral scent behind her. Wholly feminine and just a little bit wild, like sun-kissed orchids.

  Ryan took a deep breath and pressed his hand on to the small of her back as they navigated the icy sidewalk. Evangeline’s neighborhood was dark. Quiet. Serenely so. The hum of the limo idling at the curb was the only sound piercing the silence. Ryan didn’t have to glance at his watch to know that the time was closing in on midnight.

  Twelve midnight—that notorious hour when fairy tales came to an end and Cinderella went home for the night, leaving her prince standing alone in the dark.

  Except Evangeline wasn’t looking at him with goodbye in her eyes. When she turned her gaze on him beneath the golden glow of the Village lamplights, he saw an unmistakable hint of something else. A new beginning.

  “Ryan.” For the first time since she’d walked through the revolving door of the Bennington, she didn’t utter his name as if it were a curse word. On the contrary, it sounded more like a plea.

  Something stirred deep inside him. Remembrance.

  She whispered his name again, just as she had the last time she’d led him up these stairs.

  “Eve,” he said before he could stop himself, cupping her face in his hands.

  Conviction churned in his gut. He knew good and well it was time to turn around and walk away. He shouldn’t be letting her lift her arms and drape them languidly around his neck. His hands shouldn’t be dropping to her waist, settling on the graceful dip just above her womanly hips. And he sure as hell had no business growing hard.

  But he was. He was as hard as granite, and he’d barely touched her.

  Step away. Do it now, while you still can.

  He’d have given all he had—his shares in the Bennington, his penthouse overlooking Central Park and all the other pointless material possessions he’d accumulated—just to have her again. To hear her whisper his name on a broken sigh as he drove himself inside her.

  What things matter, anyway? He’d spent a lifetime trying to make something of himself, trying to prove that he was better than his absentee parents...more than just the sum of their parts. Where had it gotten him?

  Alone, that’s where.

  But he didn’t just want Evangeline’s body. He wanted...

  More.

  He wanted things he hadn’t let himself want in a very long time. Since before the whole fiasco with Natalie. Things he wasn’t prepared to want again. As ugly as the end had been between them, there’d been a certain sense of poetic justice in their parting. Only a fool wouldn’t have seen it. Ryan didn’t deserve the things he’d once wanted so desperately. He wouldn’t have known what to do with them even if he’d had them.

  Thanks for that, Mom and Dad.

  Evangeline shifted, her breasts brushing softly against his chest. She gazed up at him through the lush fringe of her lashes, and her lips parted ever so slightly.

  Don’t. Don’t ask me.

  His thoughts were screaming even as his erection swelled, his mind and body in a full-on war with one another. To his great shame, he wasn’t sure which would emerge victorious.

  Please don’t.

  Evangeline rose up on tiptoe and every muscle in his frame tensed as her mouth hovered irresistibly close to his ear.

  “Kiss me,” she murmured, her breath dancing softly against his jaw.

  How could he refuse?

  He wanted her. There was no denying it. She knew it as well as he did, or she never would have dared to ask him for a kiss.

  She’s going to hate you after tonight. Rightfully so.

  Her eyes were already closed, as her face tipped upward toward his. Then her mouth was just a whisper away, ready...wanting...

  All he had to do was lean in and touch his lips to hers. One taste and he’d be a goner. No turning back.

  He slid one hand along her jaw, pausing to brush the pad of his thumb gently along the swell of her lower lip before taking her chin in his grasp so that when her eyes fluttered open she was looking directly at him.

  She blinked. Impatience creased her brow.

  “We can’t,” he said as evenly as he could manage. “Not now. Not yet.”

  She blinked again, confused for a moment, as if he’d spoken to her in a foreign language. The moment was so bittersweet that Ryan wanted to swallow his words. Take them back and crush his mouth to hers.

  He could practically feel her lips, cold from the biting wind, taste the forbidden warmth of her tongue sliding a
gainst his.

  But it was too late.

  “Oh my God.” She shook her head, incredulous. “Oh my God. We can’t? After everything you said to me tonight?”

  He held up his hands. “Eve, let me explain.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she spit. “Ever again.”

  He nodded. “I deserve that.”

  It stung, nonetheless.

  “You deserve worse. You told me to ask you when I wanted you to kiss me, so I did. And then you refuse?” She shook her head, blinking furiously as her eyes grew shiny with unshed tears. “Is this just some kind of game to you?”

  “It’s not what you think,” he said, reaching for her.

  She stepped backward, out of his grasp. “Is this something you do with all your other women? Are you playing hard to get, playboy-style?”

  Ryan paused, and his jaw clenched with enough force to grind coal into diamonds. “First of all, there are no other women.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  He sighed, not bothering to remind her she shouldn’t believe everything she read in the papers, as she’d so clearly already made up her mind about him.

  He narrowed his gaze. “Second of all, I don’t play games. I’m a grown man, unlike...” Him.

  He couldn’t bring himself to utter Jeremy’s name.

  She lifted a brow. “Don’t tell me Manhattan’s hottest bachelor is jealous.”

  “I’m most certainly not.” He most certainly was. Far more than he wanted to admit, even to himself. Damn it. “You and I both know that if I kiss you right now, it won’t end there. Are you ready for that, Evangeline?”

  He stepped closer, backing her up against the brick wall of her building, and planted his hands on either side of her head, hemming her in.

  She stared daggers at him but couldn’t seem to form a response. How on earth this woman could believe she wasn’t passionate was a mystery he couldn’t begin to fathom. She swallowed, drawing his attention to her neck, where her pulse boomed with such force he could see it flutter in the hollow of her throat. An excited little butterfly.

  Lust shot through him, hard and fast. He needed to leave before he did something they’d both regret. But first she needed to know why he was willingly walking away from something they both wanted.