Baby by Design

by Paula Detmer Riggs

  He stopped at an open door and looked down at her. A quick glance at the number affixed to the wall told her that Morgan was one of the patients Boyd intended to check on.

  "Can I see him?" she asked.

  "I don't see why not." He stepped back to let her precede him.

  While Boyd paused just inside the door to remove the chart from the holder on the wall, she tiptoed to the side of the bed and looked down at the man sleeping there.

  His face was nearly as pale as it had been when she'd dragged him in out of the rain. His hair, too, was wet and sticking to his forehead in golden ringlets. Not from the rain this time, but his own sweat.

  He was frowning in his sleep, and tension was stamped on his angular features as though with a heavy hand. Only the long thick lashes resting on his hard cheekbones showed a hint of softness to counterbalance his unrelenting masculinity.

  Oh, Morgan, she thought, fighting a mix of emotions. Why did you have to come back now? When I'd just gotten everything in perfect order?

  Biting her lip, she reached out a hand to brush the damp hair away from his brow. His skin was warm to the touch, and she allowed her fingertips to linger just a little longer. She had missed him so. She had a feeling she would always miss him.

  Steeling herself, she withdrew her hand and stepped away from the bed. "I'll wait for you outside," she told Boyd as she went past him.

  A few minutes later he emerged from the room and closed the door. "He's in good shape," he said when she met his gaze.

  Too tired to reply, she nodded.

  He slipped an arm around her waist and headed back down the now-empty corridor toward the elevators. "You're still crazy about the guy, aren't you?" he said quietly.

  "Yes, but I'm getting over it."

  "Why?"

  She didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Because every time he leaves me, he takes a little piece of me with him. Sooner or later there wouldn't be anything left."

  "So ask him not to leave."

  Raine drew a weary breath. "I can't. I gave him my word when we were married that that was the one thing I would never ask of him."

  "You want him to make that decision on his own, is that it?"

  Raine nodded. "But I know he never will. Which is why I will stop loving him."

  I will, she repeated silently. Sooner or later.

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  Morgan opened his eyes to find the doctor from the emergency room standing next to the bed, watching him. He recognized the face, but to his dismay, couldn't dredge up a name.

  The man was blond, about his size, wearing jeans and a sports shirt under his starched white coat, the kind of ruggedly boyish guy women tended to mother—or seduce—depending on their age. Morgan figured him to be younger by a few years, and from the lazy look of contentment in the guy's eyes, a whole lot happier than he was with the way his life was going.

  "Morning." He winced at the raspy quality of his own voice. He couldn't remember swallowing his regular pills, but the sluggish aftereffect of a powerful painkiller was all too familiar. It made him feel stupid and slow. "Or is it afternoon?"

  "Split the difference and make it a little past noon."

  Moving only his eyes, he checked the window behind the respectable spread of the other man's shoulders. The sun was shining, and the sky was a hazy shade of blue. The color reminded him of a paler, more insipid version of Raine's front door.

  The scene in the kitchen came crashing back to taunt him. Artificial insemination. Son of a bitch. The very thought had his temper humming and his gut tightening. It was humiliating and insulting. And it hurt like hell.

  "Today is … Wednesday?" he guessed, returning his gaze to his visitor's face.

  "Yep. You damn near slept around the clock."

  "I figured."

  Morgan took a testing breath and realized he'd survived another round with most everything intact. "Which one of us was doing the talkin' that woke me up?"

  "You." The doctor grinned. "Have to say I didn't recognize the language, but I have a feeling you were blistering the air pretty good."

  "You might say that," he owned. "Doesn't seem to help much, but it's gotten to be a habit."

  The doctor held out a hand almost as large as his own. "I'm Boyd MacAuley. We met yesterday, in case you don't remember."

  Morgan grinned as he shook the doctor's hand. "I have a vague recollection."

  "How do you feel?"

  The subtle shift in the doc's tone told him it was a serious question, so he gave it serious consideration before answering. It took a moment to run down an inventory of an assortment of aches and twinges, another to translate sensory impressions into a recognizable pattern.

  "Like I want to rerun the tape and do some heavy editing."

  The doc looked thoughtful. "Sounds reasonable. Which part do you want to cut out?"

  "The part where I made a fool of myself, which is pretty much everything after I got out of the damn taxi in front of the lady's house."

  "That bad, huh?"

  "Worse."

  Morgan fumbled with the controls for the bed until he found the one that raised the head. Someone turned on the TV in the next room. A phone rang in another. Familiar hospital sounds. He had to get out, and fast—before he started remembering too much.

  "My memory's fuzzy, but I have a bad feeling I lost a lot of ground with a certain exasperating female."

  "Women have a knack of making a guy feel that way, even when it's not true."

  Holding his breath, he turned his head slightly and was relieved when the dull throbbing didn't shatter into piercing pain.

  "You sound married."

  MacAuley nodded. "Almost five years now. You met my wife on the day you arrived."

  Morgan thought back. "Dark hair, world-class smile?"

  A smile dawned in the medic's gray eyes. Morgan read pride and love there and fought a hard stab of envy.

  "That's my Stacy. She's … special."

  "By my count you have two daughters, right? Tory and … Shelby?"

  "Right." MacAuley shifted, lifted a brow. "That's some memory you've got there."

  "A mixed blessing."

  "Expect that's true about a lot of talents."

  Morgan felt some of the cobwebs unsticking in his brain. He knew from past experience that it would take him a good day to snap back to normal. Longer, if this headache wasn't done with him.

  "You got any objections to me getting the hell out of here today?" he asked with only a slight edge of demand in his tone.

  "Not a one, although I would advise you take life slow and easy for the next week or so. Get as much rest as you can, soak up some sun. Tank down a steak or two."

  "No problem. I can do that."

  MacAuley narrowed his gaze. An easy man to like, Morgan decided, but not an easy man to fool.

  "According to the Saudi doc with the upper-class accent who gave me a rundown on your stay in Riyadh, you were strongly encouraged to take a long rest before going back to work. Instead, you were on the air the day after you were released."

  "Goes with the territory. A man in my business is only as good as his next scoop."

  MacAuley frowned, giving Morgan a glimpse of the tough, no-nonsense professional under the lazy grin and casual clothes. Not a man to cross without a damn good reason.

  "Raine had no idea you'd even been sick."

  It was Morgan's turn to frown. "You told her?"

  "Not exactly. She heard it first from some guy she called in New York. Fella by the name of Bronstein."

  Morgan grunted. "My boss."

  "He's the one who told her about the bug you picked up overseas and your recent stint in the hospital."

  "Man always did have a big mouth. Just can't resist blabbing everything he knows. Probably one of the reasons he's behind a desk instead of working in the field."

  MacAuley flexed his shoulders. Someone laughed in the hall outside the open door.

  "She
was scared. You hit the floor pretty hard."

  Morgan winced. That explained the sore elbow. "Guess she thinks I'm pretty much a wimp."

  "That's a question you'll have to ask her. I took her home and put her to bed."

  Morgan tensed. "Is that right?"

  MacAuley's mouth twitched. "Metaphorically speaking."

  "Uh-huh." For the sake of his sanity, he forced himself to accept MacAuley at his word.

  "Guess you know most of the doctors in town," he probed as MacAuley pulled a stethoscope from the pocket of his white coat.

  "By reputation, if not by sight. Why?"

  The doctor lifted a brow as he slipped the end piece of the stethoscope into the neckline of Morgan's hospital gown. Damn thing was cold as an ice cube. Morgan figured it was MacAuley's version of revenge.

  "You know an obstetrician by the name of Jarrod?"

  MacAuley checked his watch as he listened to Morgan's heart, counting off beats. Finished, he pulled the earpieces free and straightened.

  "I know him," he said as he wound the stethoscope into a tidy package and slipped it back into his pocket. "He's my wife's ob-gyn."

  "Raine's, too."

  "Yes, I know." MacAuley met his gaze steadily, his expression somber. A dead-end street for information. Morgan cursed the idiot who'd invented professional ethics, even as his respect for the other man increased a few more notches.

  "You got any idea where I can find this Jarrod?"

  MacAuley's beeper went off just as he started to answer. He plucked it from his belt, checked the number on the readout, then sighed as he replaced the small device.

  "Forgot about a staff meeting," he said by way of explanation. "Guess the chief of staff finally got around to taking names."

  Morgan grinned. "Better you than me. I'm not big on meetings."

  MacAuley grinned. "I'll sign your release papers on my way out."

  "Much obliged."

  The doctor started for the door, then paused and turned back. "If you plan on sitting in for a few hands at Case Randolph's on Saturday night, you'll probably run into Luke Jarrod sitting across the table from you. He's a regular."

  Chloe Randolph dropped the tomato seedling into the freshly dug hole, then plopped her chubby bottom down next to it and grinned.

  "Dere," she said with great satisfaction.

  Raine couldn't help grinning back. The little dickens was covered with dirt from her soft terry-cloth sun hat to her bare toes. Chloe was in little-girl heaven.

  "Now that's what I call a terrific planting job, kiddo."

  "'Wiffic'," Chloe echoed, eyes gleaming beneath the hat's drooping brim.

  "Now, the next thing we do is pat the dirt around the little plant's roots nice and gentle."

  Raine took the little darling's plump little hand and pressed her fingers into the loose warm soil.

  "Like this, okay?"

  "'Kay." Chloe patted exuberantly, leaving tiny handprints in the bed.

  Grinning, Raine gently extracted the last seedling from the pony pack before putting the pack aside.

  "Ready for the next one?" she asked her eager little farmer.

  Chloe nodded and held out her hands.

  "Keep your thumbs together and make a kind of bowl out of your hands," Raine instructed as she handed over the tiny plant. "That's good, sweetie. Give me a minute to dig another hole."

  Raine scooted backward and picked up her trowel. After two years of pampering, the soil in her herb garden was rich and crumbly, a dream to work. She'd already planted cherry tomatoes. Now it was time for the big juicy beefsteak kind. Her mouth was watering already. Sometime during her fifth month she'd developed a craving for tomatoes. She ate them whole, like apples.

  "Okay, let's put the plant in its new home."

  "'Kay."

  Her brow knitted in concentration, Chloe slowly conveyed the seedling to a spot directly over the hole, then glanced up. At Raine's nod, she opened her hands and let the baby tomato plant drop.

  "Another perfect job, Chloe! I swear, you're just about the best garden assistant I've ever had."

  "Hey, I thought you told me I was the best."

  Raine stiffened at the sound of Morgan's distinctively deep voice. Glancing up, she saw him standing a few feet away, his booted feet braced wide, his hands fisted on his hips. His hair had been combed by the wind or his fingers—or both—and he needed a shave.

  He looked anything but rich and famous, she thought. More like reckless and impatient and just a little jaded. She felt a flutter in her stomach and a pain in her chest.

  The man was a heartbreaker when he was rumpled.

  "What are you doing here?"

  She lifted a hand to shade her eyes. It annoyed her that she hadn't heard the sound of the gate opening and closing.

  He heaved a sigh. "Funny thing, all the way home I had this image of my wife running into my arms and kissin' me breathless the minute I arrived."

  Raine refused to remember all the times she'd done just that. "How are you feeling?"

  "Tired of that question."

  He sauntered forward until his shadow touched them, then went down on his haunches. The soft, well-used jeans sheathing his legs strained at the seams as his thigh muscles bulged. Raine clamped her teeth together and ignored the tug of purely physical interest that ran through her.

  "Hiya, Chloe. I sure do like that hat." He reached out to touch a long finger to the brim and Chloe giggled.

  "Hat," she repeated proudly. "Chwoe's hat."

  "You bet. A real stunner."

  Morgan looked smitten. Raine felt something tear inside her. It was next to impossible to resist the man when he let his guard down to reveal the softer side of his hard edge.

  "Chloe's mommy is taking a nap, so we decided to get some sun," Raine explained with a grin for the goggle-eyed little girl. "Right, sweetie?"

  "Uh-huh."

  Morgan shifted his gaze Raine's way. His pupils were still slightly dilated, and he looked tired.

  "Where's your sunbonnet, Mrs. Paxton?"

  She frowned at the use of the name she was determined to shed. "Inside. I hadn't planned to be out long."

  She knew she sounded stiff and unfriendly. She told herself it was necessary. Morgan had already shown her just how easily he could get under her guard.

  Chloe used Raine's shoulder as a prop while getting to her feet, then toddled off toward her little yellow tricycle parked at the edge of the sidewalk. Raine dropped her trowel into her carrying tray, then tugged off her gloves and stowed them neatly away next to the trowel.

  She started to rise, only to have Morgan loop a long arm around her waist and lift her effortlessly to her feet.

  "Thank you," she said in that prim little voice that made her cringe inside.

  "I used to picture you in your garden," he said, watching her. "With your hair tumbling over your shoulders and a smear of dirt on your chin."

  Reaching out, he brushed the ball of his thumb over her jawline. She felt something quicken inside. Her heart speeded. It was simply an adrenaline rush, she told herself. An involuntary reaction of her nervous system to the proximity of the male of the species.

  A very large, highly intense, utterly ruthless male.

  "Morgan, don't," she said in a strained voice. "It's over."

  "So you keep saying."

  She looked into his eyes, surprised by the unusually deep resonance of his voice. "This isn't easy for me."

  His eyes crinkled, but the smile remained unborn. "Good. The harder it is to divorce me, the better."

  He lifted a hand to capture a corkscrew curl blowing across her face. His mouth quirked as he rubbed the long strand of hair between his thumb and forefinger.

  "I've made my share of mistakes in this marriage. More than my share, which is why I'm willing to deal."

  It took Raine a moment to realize what he was saying. "Deal?"

  He tucked the errant curl behind her ear, then settled his hand lightly on her shoul
der. She felt the skin beneath her shirt begin to tingle. She'd always loved his hands. So gentle in spite of the hardened ridge of calluses. So arousing against her skin when they made love. Large blunt hands that would forever mark his humble origins. She'd had to go to three jewelry stores before she found a wedding band large enough to fit him.

  "You want a divorce, I'll give you a divorce. But only after those babies presently kicking up a storm in your belly are delivered safely."

  He took a half step closer. She felt the heat of his body and the tightly lashed-down tension of his restraint. She told herself not to look at his mouth, but found she couldn't look anywhere else. He had firm lips, well-defined. Oddly sensual when he smiled, intimidating when he frowned. His teeth were large and white and intriguingly irregular. But it was the shallow dimple that winked in one tanned cheek that had always enchanted her most.

  "I don't need your permission to divorce you, Morgan."

  She tried to make her voice firm. It came out oddly breathless. She shifted her gaze to his eyes and saw that his were molten gold and very intense.

  "No, but you need my cooperation to ensure it doesn't drag through the courts for a lot of expensive years."

  He ran a fingertip down her cheek, and she shivered. It would be so easy to step into his arms, so easy to give in to the longing to try again. To somehow start fresh.

  "I should check on Chloe," she murmured.

  "I see her. She's rocketin' that trike up the sidewalk like she's on the last lap of the Indy 500." His gaze shifted to her mouth, and his own firmed.

  "Don't," she whispered, but his mouth was already settling over hers.

  Her body refused to grow rigid. Her arms refused to push him away. Instead, she arched upward, her arms already encircling his neck. His lips were both firm and gentle. Persuasive and demanding. And so wonderfully familiar. She tasted toothpaste and coffee and marveled at the erotic impact of so mundane a combination.

  It was just as she remembered—the heat of his hard body, the feel of his big hand splayed against the small of her back, urging her closer, the warm, sweet demand of his mouth moving over hers. Nipping, tasting, molding to hers for a long, hot kiss.