by Beth Andrews
Clinton frowned. “Does that hurt the baby?”
“It’s a little prick,” the doctor said, “and we won’t need much.” She smiled reassuringly. “Trust me. The baby won’t remember the pain and will be over it in a matter of seconds.”
“What if we don’t want to wait until after the baby is born?” Clinton asked, and Ivy tried not to get upset. She’d known he didn’t want to wait until after she gave birth, but if he didn’t believe he was the father, why was he in Shady Grove? Why had he come to this appointment with her?
“I don’t want to do anything that jeopardizes the baby,” Ivy said. “If there’s no medical reason to do an amniocentesis, then I won’t have one.”
“What’s an amniocentesis?” Clinton asked.
“A thin needle is inserted into the uterus through the stomach and a small amount of amniotic fluid is taken,” Dr. Conrad explained.
He went so pale, Ivy worried he was going to pass out. “Are you all right?” she couldn’t help but ask.
“Fine.” He sounded and looked anything but. “Just...the thought of it...” He shook his head. “No. We don’t want to do that.” He looked at her. “I would never ask you to do that. I would never ask you to do anything that would endanger the baby or cause you pain in any way.”
He sounded so sincere, she had no choice but to believe him.
“There are other options,” Dr. Conrad said. “The most accurate, noninvasive way to establish paternity before birth is to take a blood sample from both of you. The lab can analyze the baby’s DNA found naturally in Ivy’s bloodstream.”
“It’s safe?” Clinton asked. “For both of them?”
“Perfectly safe,” the doctor assured him. “As I said, we’ll just need blood samples from both of you. And it’s 99.9 percent accurate. It can be done now, since Ivy’s past her first trimester.”
“When can we have our blood drawn?” Ivy asked, not wanting to delay the inevitable.
“I can get the lab orders printed out within five minutes,” Dr. Conrad said.
Ivy stood, not looking at Clinton. “Sounds good. The sooner this is done, the better.”
The sooner she could prove to Clinton he was her baby’s father, the sooner they could both move on with their own lives.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CLINTON UNROLLED HIS sleeve as he and Ivy stepped out of the hospital’s front entrance. It had gotten cloudy, the sky ominous and gray, reminding him a bit of how the storms rolled in over Houston.
They crossed the street to the parking lot. He glanced around. Hills, hills and more hills, all lush and green. He hadn’t seen much of Shady Grove, but what he had seen, he had to admit, was pretty.
Ivy stopped next to an old car with rust above the wheels and dents on the bumper.
“That’s not your car,” he said.
“If it’s not, then someone out there is driving an exact replica of my vehicle.”
“It’s a piece of crap.” And couldn’t possibly be safe.
“Yep. But it’s all mine. Bought and paid for with my hard-earned money.” She studied him. “Wonder if you can say that about anything you own.”
He resented the accusation, though he wouldn’t let her see it. He worked damn hard for what he had, and he wasn’t going to apologize for being born into wealth and privilege. Not when he busted his ass every day to keep his father’s company running, to keep it growing. “You can’t drive that.”
“I can and I do,” she said, unlocking the door. She turned back to face him, the wind picking up the ends of her hair. “Since the doctor is going to let each of us know the results, I guess we’re done until we hear from her.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You do realize we’re heading to the same place?”
She smiled. “Sorry, cowboy, but I’m not following you back to your room this time. I’ve got things to do, places to be and all that.”
He edged closer, couldn’t seem to help himself. Pregnant women shouldn’t look so sexy, should they? But Ivy did, with her blowing hair and that knowing, sexy smirk. “Have a drink with me,” he heard himself say before he thought better of it.
Now she laughed. “Been there. Done that. Besides, I don’t think Junior here should be drinking. Not until he’s a few years older at least.”
“You said you didn’t want to know if it was a boy or girl,” C.J. said. He knew he sounded accusing, but he wasn’t sure he trusted her not to have already discovered the sex of the baby and not have told him on purpose. Plus, he felt like an idiot for suggesting a drink. Of course she couldn’t drink. It was as if when he was close to her, his brain shut down.
“I don’t like referring to my baby as it,” she said, not bothering to try to contain her blowing hair, just letting it wrap around her throat, the strands tickling her cheek, “so on even days I use he. Odd days she. Although...”
“What?” he asked when she trailed off.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I just... I have a feeling I’m having a boy.” She shook her head. Looked embarrassed. “But then, what do I know? I don’t have any experience with pregnancy or motherhood, so I’m probably wrong.”
She looked worried, as if she was nervous and unsure about being a mother. “Have dinner with me,” he said, wanting to spend more time with her. He told himself it was because he should get to know her better, but he had that envelope on his bed back at Bradford House. Anything and everything he needed to know about her would be in there.
He hadn’t opened it yet, though.
And he wasn’t ready to let her go.
“Sorry, cowboy, but I have plans.” She cocked a hip. “If you want to take me to dinner, you need to ask a lot earlier. My dance card fills up quickly.”
“You have a date?” he asked, incredulous. “You can’t date.”
“Really?” she asked in a purr that he was smart enough to recognize wasn’t as innocent as it sounded. “And why is that?”
Because she was his.
Mine.
Hadn’t that been his thought the first night he met her? He’d told her he’d meant that she was his for one night. Had tried to convince himself he was speaking the truth, but he’d wondered, and worried, about how badly he’d wanted to claim her as his forever.
He fisted his hands. No. That wasn’t right. He didn’t believe in love at first sight. Lust. Hell yes. They’d had that in spades. But he wasn’t some gullible teenager confusing his attraction to her as anything more than physical.
“You’re pregnant,” he pointed out. “With my baby.”
“Oh, but you’re not sure you’re the father, remember?” she asked, throwing his logic back at him. “So until you get proof—proof you demanded, by the way—there’s still that little bit of doubt, that little bit of hope that this is all a big scam, some elaborate plan to get your money. One that ends when you get the all-important evidence the baby isn’t yours. That I’m nothing but a lying, scheming tramp.”
His head snapped back as if she’d slapped him. “I don’t think you’re a tramp.”
Her lip curled and she crossed her arms. “Just a liar, then?”
He paced. “I don’t know what to think. I’m just doing the best with the information I’ve been given. But I don’t think you’re a tramp, Ivy.”
He wanted her to believe that. What was wrong with him? He was known for his ability to talk his way into any deal, his ability to charm anyone, handle any problem, but this whole situation, Ivy herself had thrown him for a loop, and he’d reacted like...like...
He’d reacted like his father.
He stopped in front of her. “Have dinner with me. Please,” he added, knowing he’d need to use every bit of charm he had to convince her. He wanted to spend more time with her, and he hated the thought of her going out with some other man, of smiling at him, flirting with him. Letting him touch her.
And he couldn’t fight the fact that the possibility she really was carrying his child was getting bigger and bigger. She hadn’t ev
en blinked when the doctor had said they could do the paternity test right away. If she really was trying to trick him, wouldn’t she delay the test as long as possible?
But she was right, too. He needed that proof.
“Why bother?” she asked. “Why spend any time together? You’re still not convinced I’m telling the truth.”
“The more I’m with you,” he admitted, “the more I believe you.”
“But you’re still not convinced.”
He couldn’t deny it. Wouldn’t lie to her. “No.” He exhaled. “There are reasons for it.”
He’d spent his entire life guarding against being used, making sure he was well protected. Never knowing for sure if someone was with him because of who he was or what his last name was. Or what was in his bank account.
“Poor little rich boy,” she said. “I hate to break it to you, but not everyone is after your money. That wasn’t why I slept with you.”
A couple walked past them, did a double take at her words, but she didn’t seem embarrassed or uneasy. Just kept her gaze on C.J.
He edged closer. Lowered his voice. “It may not be the main reason women sleep with me,” he said, knowing what he looked like, knowing his appeal. “But it’s not a deterrent, either.”
She rolled her eyes. “Do you honestly think I couldn’t have found myself some wealthy man to take care of me before now?” She spread her arms. “Look at me. Do you really think I’ve never had men of certain means proposition me, want to take care of me? We may not be Houston, but there are plenty of rich men right here in good old Pennsylvania. I didn’t care about how much money you had when I went up to your room.”
“Do you really want me to believe you don’t care about it now?”
“I’m not going to say that, because now there’s more than just me to think about. So, no, I’m not going to say it’s the worst thing ever, knowing my child’s father—who seems to be responsible—has the means to make his or her life more comfortable. But it also makes my life more difficult. If you decide you want the baby, I can’t afford to fight you. That test we just took is going to prove you’re this baby’s father, and I have no idea what that’s going to mean to me or to my child.”
He stepped back, so shocked he couldn’t even stop her when she opened the car door, got inside and, a moment later, drove away.
C.J. wasn’t sure how long he stood there. The wind picked up. Rain started to come down, and he couldn’t force himself to move. Ivy was scared. Terrified. Of him. His stomach turned with self-disgust. Wasn’t that what part of him had wanted? For her to fear him, his power?
Jesus, he really was as bad as his father.
He didn’t want to be. His entire life, all he’d wanted was to be better than his old man, to prove that the only things they had in common were their work ethic and their name, and now he was acting just like Senior.
Well, not quite as bad as that. Yes, he was protecting himself and his family, but he hadn’t used Ivy. No more than she’d used him. He wasn’t making her promises he had no intention of keeping. Wasn’t stringing her along, holding on to her until he got bored and then tossed her aside for the next pretty face that walked by.
If the baby really was his, then he and Ivy were going to be in each other’s lives. Whether she liked it or not.
He needed to prove he trusted her. That she could trust him. There was only one way to do that.
* * *
“IS MR. BARTASAVICH the father?” Fay asked late the next morning.
Ivy, in the middle of cleaning up after breakfast service, whipped her head around so quickly, she was surprised it didn’t twist off and go flying across the kitchen. “Maybe ease into a question like that,” she said, rinsing the baking dish she’d just scrubbed and handing it to Gracie to dry. “Hey, Ivy, great scones this morning. And the guests loved your blueberry pancakes. Oh, by the way, is the guest in the Back Suite the father of your unborn baby?”
At the table, Fay sipped her tea, eyeing Ivy over the rim.
“Okay, okay. God, you know how I hate it when you nag,” Ivy said, tossing the dishrag into the water, splattering her top with water and bubbles. “Yes. He’s the father. Are you happy?”
“The cowboy from Valentine’s Day?” Gracie asked, setting the dish on the counter. “I thought you weren’t interested in him.” She didn’t sound accusing, just curious.
“More like I was attracted to him.”
Gracie nodded sagely, as if she was some eighty-year-old who’d been there, done that—dozens of times. “Yeah. The physical stuff can really knock the good sense out of a woman.”
“I don’t even want to know,” Fay murmured, holding up a hand as if to stop Gracie from ever speaking again.
“How’d you figure it out?” Ivy asked her boss.
“It didn’t take much. You tell us you’re pregnant, and then a few days later Mr. Bartasavich shows up wanting to stay here indefinitely. I may not be a genius, but even I can put two and two together. He’s here for you. You and the baby.”
Fay was smarter than she gave herself credit for. “He’s here to get proof the baby is his.”
“He doesn’t believe it is?” Gracie asked as the timer buzzed.
Ivy picked up oven mitts, took the sheet of oatmeal cookies from the oven and set them on the counter. “He didn’t.” Though that attitude seemed to have changed. At least a little bit.
Not enough for her to actually trust him.
“But he does now,” Gracie said.
“I’m not sure. It doesn’t matter anyway. Once he gets the proof he needs, I’m sure he’ll go back to his life in Houston.”
“You don’t sound too certain about that,” Fay said softly.
Ivy dropped balls of cookie dough onto a new sheet. “Well, it’s not like he’d stay here in Shady Grove. The man runs a multibajillion-dollar company. It’s just...” She put the cookies in the oven and set the timer. “What if he wants to be a part of the baby’s life? He has the power to make my life miserable. And he lives in Houston. I don’t want to ship my kid halfway across the country for daddy-and-me weekends.”
“I think you need to take it one day at a time,” Fay said. “And understand that this might be new to him, too. Unless...” She frowned.
“Unless what?” Ivy asked.
“Unless he has other kids?”
“He doesn’t. That much I do know. Well, that and I didn’t find anything about him having ever been married when I looked him up online.” She explained about the Bartasavich family. Their wealth and power and how Clinton, after his father’s stroke, was now head of it all. Head of an empire. “It’s like a horrible, low-rent version of Cinderella. Except I don’t want to marry the prince.”
“I’d marry him,” Gracie said, taking over the dishes for Ivy.
“What about love?” Fay asked, and Ivy almost pitied her for still believing in the concept of true love after everything she’d been through.
“He’s handsome and rich,” Gracie pointed out. “What’s not to love? I mean, it’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it is with a poor man, right?”
“That’s what my mother always said.”
At the familiar deep voice, Ivy shut her eyes and groaned. What was Clinton doing here, in her kitchen, her sanctuary?
She opened her eyes to find him in the doorway, a smile on his handsome face, his hair perfect, his clothes pressed, his shirt blindingly white. While flour covered her stomach, her hair was frizzing from the stupid humidity and she’d spilled syrup on her shorts.
“It’s sound advice,” Gracie said, letting the water out of the sink. “And, if you think about it, fair. You should love someone because you love them. Whether or not they have money shouldn’t have any bearing on your feelings.”
He winked at Gracie. “Smart girl.” He tipped his head, narrowed his eyes. “Does everyone who works at King’s Crossing work here, too?”
She beamed, obviously pleased he remembered her from
Valentine’s Day. “Ivy got me a job here. The hours are much better, and Fay’s about a thousand times nicer than Wendy.”
“You’d have to be an actual demon to be meaner than Wendy,” Ivy pointed out. She faced Clinton. “Guests aren’t really allowed in the kitchen, so unless you need something—”
“I do.”
When he didn’t continue, just leaned against the counter, making himself at home, a large envelope in his hand, she huffed out an exasperated breath. “What?”
“You.”
She blinked. Her mouth dried. “Excuse me?”
“You asked what I needed. I need you. To see you,” he corrected.
She didn’t like the sound of that. Oh, who was she fooling? The problem was she did like the sound of it, of him saying he needed her. She liked it way too much.
“Gracie,” Fay said, standing, “why don’t you come help me finish cleaning up the dining room?” She shot a worried glance between Ivy and Clinton. “You can finish the dishes after Mr. Bartasavich and Ivy are done.”
“We’re done,” Ivy said quickly, hating that she was so weak, such a coward that she didn’t want to be alone with the man. But there was something about him today, an intensity in his gaze and the way he’d said he needed her that made her wary. Worried. “You don’t have to leave.”
But they were already heading toward the door, and Ivy refused to give in to the need to ask them to stay.
“I hope I didn’t put you in a difficult position with your boss,” Clinton said, setting the envelope on the counter.
“She’s not the one you have to worry about,” Ivy assured him as she shot a death glare at her boss’s retreating back.
So much for thinking she and Fay might be almost friends. Friends didn’t let friends have private conversations with handsome men who wreaked havoc on a girl’s hormones and her resolve.
“You won’t get into trouble,” he asked, “breaking the rules by having a guest in here?”
