by Linda Grimes
After my visit to the flight doc I’d been freed for the day. Naturally, I’d projected Dr. Phil in peak physical condition, not a bruise or blemish on her. It was likely another story beneath her aura, but nothing that need ever show to anyone but me. Luckily, Dr. Phil’s mission wasn’t set to launch until January, so she wasn’t scheduled for the mandatory weeklong pre-mission quarantine until after the new year. Thank God I wouldn’t be filling in for her then.
Mr. Brooks and Eddie were given a police escort back to their school, something that thrilled Eddie to no end. From the shine in his elderly eyes, I suspected Mr. Brooks was enjoying the excitement, too. The next edition of the school newspaper was sure to be a doozy.
Mark had spoken with the big boss of NASA security and convinced him Dr. Carson would be adequately watched over, so nobody in that department gave me any shit when I went to leave.
The drive back to Dr. Phil’s house in her cool TR6 was exactly what I needed after my bathroom brawl with Smith—fresh air and open sky. I kept the top down in spite of the cooler-than-average December weather. (This works pretty well if you put the heater on high. Warm legs offset the chilly ears and nose.)
Misha was with Phil, so I had the house to myself. He went out of town a lot for his job with Spaceward Ho, so the neighbors wouldn’t think it was strange he wasn’t here. His coworkers thought he was taking leave to spend more time with his wife before her mission. Which was true enough.
Tonight was the night I was going to do it. I was going to pee on the stick.
The first night, I’d come straight here after work, sure the job would keep my mind occupied and I’d be able to stop thinking about my own dilemma for a while. Yeah, not so much. I’d stayed up most of the night, unable to stop generating scenarios of me with one baby, with two babies, with Billy, with Mark …
I’d even stood in front of Dr. Phil’s full-length bathroom mirror and projected myself with a big belly. It was a scary sight.
I didn’t intend to spend another night wondering. Hell, I’d just faced down a big Russian intent on harming me, and thoroughly kicked his ass. That took guts, right? Surely I could be brave enough to face the truth in my personal life. So before I’d hit the burger joint, I’d visited a pharmacy far from Dr. Phil’s neighborhood and purchased a test kit, which was in the other bag, next to my dinner. I was determined to use it.
Right after I ate my pickle-laden burger while refusing to think what my sudden craving for extra dill pickles might mean. (I mean, come on. My subconscious couldn’t be that clichéd, could it?)
“Mmm. Smells good. I don’t suppose you have enough for two?”
Crap.
I spun around to see Billy lounging against the frame of the door leading to the living room. Clad in dark slacks and a midnight-blue fitted dress shirt (with no tie, loosened collar, and cuffs rolled up to display his ridiculously sexy forearms), he looked even more delicious than my burger smelled. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Gee, I love you, too,” he said, dimpling enough to show me he hadn’t taken offense. He was used to me blurting out the first thing to cross my mind when I was surprised.
I crossed to him, my heart beating faster, either out of love, or out of terror that I might wind up blurting something I definitely didn’t want him to know at this point. Not before I knew, and could figure out the right way to handle it. Either way, immediate physical contact was called for, so I wrapped my arms around his waist and pulled him tightly to me, reveling in the comfort of his familiar arms until another thought occurred to me.
“Wait a second,” I said, pulling back slightly. “Did Mark send you here to babysit me? Damn it, I knew he gave in too easily after…” I trailed off when I saw confusion being replaced by suspicion in Billy’s eyes.
“Tell me. Now.”
I took a deep breath and told him the whole thing. I could see he was upset at the idea of another person acting with Loughlin, but I did manage to coax some humor into his eyes when I related how I’d accomplished the space-potty takedown.
“Jesus, cuz. Remind me never to piss you off,” he said, his dimples finally making a welcome reappearance. “Anyway, to answer your question, Mark didn’t ask me to come—that was purely my libido’s idea—but he does know I’m here.”
Which probably explained why Mark hadn’t argued more strongly for yanking me off the job right away. “Did you fly in yourself?” Billy had a Mooney 252 he was fond of using to hop around the country.
“Yeah. Doesn’t take much longer than commercial, and it’s way more fun. I got here this morning. Mark gave me Mikhail’s aura—”
“Phil calls him ‘Misha,’” I said.
“Misha’s aura to use as needed—with permission from the man himself, of course. I told him I’d check out some places in Houston Loughlin might have been seen. When I was done, I thought I’d come here to wait for you. Didn’t want to bother you at work.”
I grinned. “Yeah? Since when?” Showing up to bug me on a job was one of Billy’s favorite pastimes.
“Hey, I can try new things.”
I raised a skeptical brow.
“Okay. I decided not to bother you on your job for the spook, seeing as how it’s so important for you to impress him and all.”
“Technically I’m on the job right now,” I pointed out.
“Baby steps. At least we’re not in public this time. You don’t expect me to reform all at once, do you? Now, drop the aura so I can kiss you properly.”
“Wait—did you find any sign of Loughlin?”
“Yes, but nothing recent enough to be relevant. Now drop it.”
I waggled my eyebrows. “You sure? Most men seem to find Phil exceedingly attractive.”
“No doubt she is. But I’ve become addicted to a certain petite blonde with freckles. And the last time I tried to take her to bed I was rudely interrupted by her work. Therefore, I feel perfectly justified in interrupting her work now.”
I laughed, a soft and sultry sound in Phil’s aura. “You’ve convinced me. Let me make sure all the blinds are shut—”
“Already did. Come on, hurry.”
I stopped projecting Phil’s aura, instantly losing half a foot in height. Billy lifted me right out of her shoes and laid his mouth across mine, teasing my lips open with his clever tongue. My major worries—whether or not I was pregnant, who was killing adaptors in New York, how Loughlin could apparently see through my auras, and, newest of the bunch, who Loughlin was working with—all disappeared into a fog of passion. Hell, even the cheeseburger was taking a backseat, which said a lot about how good Billy was at kissing.
He pulled his head away long enough to say, “Living room okay?”
I took a deep breath and released it raggedly. “Yeah, good. The rug in front of the fireplace is soft.”
He carried me there, and laid me gently on the plush earth tones of the deep pile. There was a fire already going in the gas fireplace, and what looked like an expensive bottle of wine on the slate coffee table, open and breathing next to two delicately stemmed wineglasses.
I pushed myself up on my elbows. “You raided my client’s wine rack?”
“Well, it seemed like the sort of thing a good husband would have waiting for his wife after a hard day of astronaut training. Shall I pour you a glass?” He reached for the bottle.
I grabbed his hand and pulled it back to me. “No, thanks. Right now all I want is you.” I’d figure out how to avoid drinking it later.
He lay down next me and nibbled my neck. “More than your cheeseburger?” he murmured.
A soft moan escaped me. “Well, it was close, but you squeaked out ahead. Barely.”
“Speaking of barely”—he divested me of Dr. Phil’s clothing, not a difficult task considering how easily they slid off now that my size had been diminished—“and squeaking…” His hands zeroed in on all my most ticklish places until I was, in fact, squeaking with laughter.
“Stop!” I said. “I can�
��t breathe!”
He ceased immediately. One of the things I loved about Billy—as big a tease as he was, he never turned tickling into torture. His hands became gentle, applying enough pressure to leave me breathless for another reason entirely. While I could still form words, I whispered, “You have too many clothes on.”
He remedied the problem with a quick, but remarkably hot, striptease.
“You know, you could make good money doing that for a living,” I said, only half jokingly.
His grin told me he appreciated the compliment but didn’t take it seriously. “You’re the only audience I want. Think you can afford me?”
I pulled him down on top of me. “I’m fresh out of ones. Can I run a tab?”
“I don’t know.” He kissed my neck, unerringly hitting the spot. “I’m thinking barter arrangement might be more mutually beneficial.”
I moaned as he slid into me. “Mmm. Definitely. Barter works for me.”
As did procrastination.
* * *
The cheeseburger was a cold—and some might say aesthetically disgusting—mess by the time we got to it. Fortunately, I wasn’t picky about my burgers, and neither was Billy. I sawed it in half with a serrated knife I’d located when I was doing my extensive recon of Dr. Phil’s home.
It wasn’t that I was nosy … okay, I am nosy, but the fact is, it’s essential to be familiar with your setting when you’re impersonating someone. Something as simple as not knowing where an everyday object was kept could trip you up if, say, a neighbor stopped by to chat. I was sure Billy had also gone through the house from attic to slab while he was waiting for me. He was nothing if not vigilant.
“You sure you don’t want this nuked?” I asked, handing him his half.
“Do you really think it would help?”
I shrugged. “Why don’t you try? If it works for you, I’ll nuke mine, too.”
He tugged my hair. “Fine. I’ll be your guinea pig.”
While he had his back to me, futzing with the fancy microwave, I dumped most of my wine down the sink. When he turned around, I had the glass to my lips, like I’d taken a big sip.
He picked up the bottle to offer me more.
“No thanks,” I said. “This is plenty.”
“But it’s the good stuff. What’s the point in working if you don’t take advantage of the perks?”
“You go ahead. I’m saving my taste buds for my meager dinner.” Lame, but the microwave beeped before he could call me on it.
He retrieved his half-burger and waved it under my nose. It might look like something retrieved from a Dumpster, but it smelled divine. Before I could snatch a bite, he downed half of it, as usual not spilling a bit.
“Well, what’s the verdict?” I said.
“Mmm. Nuke it. Definitely nuke it.”
I loaded my half into the microwave, fiddled with the reheat function, and turned to find Billy staring into the sink. A flash of panic killed my burgeoning appetite. He turned on the water, extended the sprayer from the faucet, and rinsed away the wine residue.
“You know, cuz, I can understand your not drinking,” he said after carefully replacing the nozzle. “It’s okay not to be in the mood to imbibe. Heck, even I don’t drink every day. But what I don’t get is why you’re taking such pains to hide it from me. Back at your brother’s with the beer—yes, I noticed, and at the restaurant, too, when you wanted to leave before they brought the wine. And at the diner with Mark. Lemonade with a Reuben? You want to tell me what’s going on?”
My mouth went dry. “Not really, no.”
“How ’bout you do it anyway? In our newfound spirit of communication. Or have we suspended that?”
After our last misunderstanding, we’d vowed to be more open with each other, and it had been working great. Did I want to risk whatever ground we’d regained just to spare him what might prove to be a fruitless worry? Especially when, if I was honest with myself, I was mainly trying to spare myself the discomfort of telling him. (Being honest with yourself sucks.)
I took a breath. Released it slowly. (It didn’t help.) “Look, it might not be anything. I’m probably being stupid, and I hate being stupid, around you especially … damn it!” I picked up the drugstore bag and tossed it at him. “There. You want to know so bad, that’s it.”
I braced myself for his reaction. Told myself I could handle it, whatever it was.
He reached into the bag and pulled out the test kit. Studied it for a good thirty seconds, as if unable to comprehend what it was. I held my breath, hugging myself, my hands gripping the sides of Dr. Phil’s shirt, which was more like a short dress on me. I hadn’t bothered with her pants. Billy was back in Misha’s clothes.
Eventually he smiled. His dimples grew until I could see he was struggling not to laugh. “This is it? You’re worried you’re pregnant?”
I snatched the kit away from him. “I told you it was stupid. Don’t laugh! You’re the one who put the idea in my head, you with your comment about my boobs being bigger. And I thought … I mean, it happened to Laura … and then she stopped drinking because apparently it’s bad to drink when you’re…”
He wrapped his arms around me. Leaned his chin on my head and held me tight. “Cuz, it’s okay. You’re freaking out about Tom and Laura, and being an aunt, and hell, even your client is getting ready to inseminate herself. You have babies on the brain, is all.”
“But…” I took a deep breath. “… my period’s late.”
“How late?”
I shrugged. “Hard to say. I’m not very regular.”
“Well, there you go. And lots of things can make your period late. Stress, for one. Think you might have been under some lately?” he said, sounding so perfectly reasonable I felt like kicking myself for not coming to him when I first started worrying.
“Maybe.” I hugged him tighter.
I had been under a huge amount of stress recently. My Hollywood job had been a real doozy, and then there was the wedding and all its related hoopla, and the misunderstanding with Mark (something I really didn’t want to think about right now), all topped off with the murders in New York. No wonder my body was staging a protest.
I finally looked up at Billy. His beautiful eyes were full of empathy and, yes, humor. Oddly, I found the humor the most reassuring thing of all. He wouldn’t think it was funny if he thought there was the remotest possibility I was actually pregnant.
“You think I’m being crazy?” I asked hopefully.
He tugged my hair, and stroked my cheek with his thumb. “Little bit.”
“But what if … I mean, I know we’re careful, but no birth control is a hundred percent foolproof.”
“Birth control patches are extremely reliable. I’d be willing to bet the vast majority of statistical ‘patch failure’ is actually user failure. And I happen to know you’re very careful with yours. I’ve never seen your naked ass without it”—he winked at me—“unless you count the time I walked into your room without knocking back when we were in middle school.”
“I still think you did that on purpose,” I said, laughing. I certainly hadn’t found it amusing then.
“And punished me adequately at the time, as I recall.” I had thrown my hairbrush at his head with deadly accuracy, resulting in a black eye he’d had to spend a week adapting away with his fledgling skills. “So you can stop pinching me now. The point is, I’m sure this is a false alarm. But if it will ease your overanxious mind to pee on the stick, let’s do it.” He ended with an encouraging smile, and led me to the downstairs powder room. I was feeling better about the whole thing already.
* * *
We stared at the stick together, holding hands.
“That’s a p-plus sign,” I said.
Billy swallowed, so hard I could hear it. “Yes. It is.”
The brittle quality of his words drew me out of my own shock. Because I was shocked. It didn’t matter how worried I’d been, how afraid it might be true, I hadn’t really believed
it. I’d somehow expected this would turn out to be another warning from The Big Guy Upstairs. That I’d be saying, Ha ha, good one, God. You sure got my attention. Whew! I’ll be a much better person from now on.
Only … plus sign.
And worse than the plus sign: Billy’s face.
He’d joked throughout the test, reading the instructions in funny accents, even insisting on holding the stick for me while I peed on it, because girls were such lousy pee-aimers. As he’d probably intended, his teasing humor had gone a long way toward relaxing me.
There was no humor in his eyes now. No hint of a dimple on his stiff cheeks. Only a stark paleness that extended to his lips and made his eyebrows stand out like two slashes of black paint on clean canvas. He looked so unlike his usual animated self that I found myself checking to make sure he wasn’t projecting a different aura.
“Billy?” I said, making his name into a question I couldn’t find the words to frame.
“I can’t do this,” he said.
The panic inside me was bubbling up for real now. It felt like acid in my throat. “We’ll talk. We’ll figure it out. The test—maybe it’s wrong—I’ll take another one—”
He finally looked at my face. “Queasy. Bigger boobs. Positive test. It’s real, Ciel.” When I didn’t respond (I didn’t know what to say—I’d barely had time to process it myself), he leaned down and kissed me, fiercely. “I have to go.”
“But—”
He turned and strode out, grabbing keys from the kitchen counter on the way to the garage. I had no doubt he’d don Misha’s aura before he pulled out—no matter how upset he was, he wouldn’t risk blowing his—or my—cover. That much was pure instinct for him.
“You’re leaving?” I called after him.
“You’re safe. Mark has men on the house,” he said, without breaking his stride. It almost sounded like he was reassuring himself more than me.
My legs finally started to work, and I trailed after him. “Will you be back?” I hated the pleading that had crept into my voice, but I couldn’t seem to control it.
He hesitated. “I don’t know.”
