Dominic's Child

by Catherine Spencer

  Sophie felt her jaw drop, and just for a fleeting, glorious moment, hope soared. Then reality returned with a thud. “I was there when she made the announcement. I heard her say, ‘We’re going to have a baby’.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Considering that you now know the lengths to which she’ll go to have her way, why would you? She lied about everything else, didn’t she? What’s to say she didn’t try to pass off her lifeguard lover’s child as Dominic’s? And what if Dominic knew from the outset that there was no way the child could be his? What if it never entered his mind that you’d believe it, either?”

  What if, indeed! It provided considerable and provoking food for thought, especially since not a hint that she might be pregnant had once passed Barbara’s lips. In view of how free she’d been with her other confidences, it hardly seemed likely she’d have kept quiet about something as momentous as a baby in the making.

  “If the baby had been Dominic’s,” Jenny put in thoughtfully, “that would mean she was already pregnant when she went down to the Caribbean with you at the end of November, and she’d be at least fourteen weeks along by the time she showed up again in Palmerstown. You saw her, Sophie. Did she look pregnant to you?”

  “She looked the way she always did, skinny as a reed.”

  “It all adds up if you ask me,” Paul said, puffing complacently on his damned pipe.

  “Yes,” Sophie said meekly. “Now that you mention it, I suppose it does.”

  Paul shrugged. “Then instead of spinning your wheels over here, book the next possible flight to Vancouver and find out, Sophie. And don’t take too long to do it. It’s the height of the tourist season, seat space is at a premium, and you’ve only got until August the fifteenth to sign on the dotted line if you don’t want to lose your house.”

  She must have looked even more churned up than she felt. The flight attendant swept a keen, professional eye over her, tucked her ticket stub to one side and, as soon as the Air Canada jet had reached cruising altitude, moved her to business class where, in addition to being wider and reclining farther, the seats came equipped with little footrests. that afforded divine relief to Sophie’s swollen, eight-month-pregnant ankles.

  She was plied with extra pillows, another blanket, an early lunch. After, while the rest of the passengers watched a movie, she tried to sleep. But every time she closed her eyes, the same unlikely scenario played itself out: what if Paul had alerted Dominic to the fact that she was coming home, and when she cleared customs in Vancouver, he was waiting to sweep her into his arms? What if, in between breathtaking kisses, he confirmed what she now suspected, that the other baby hadn’t been his, and Barbara’s decision to end the pregnancy had had nothing to do with him?

  Just like before, though, it was too easy a solution to bear up under pressure. Problems didn’t solve themselves so neatly. The difference was that this time Sophie was prepared for disappointment and therefore not overly surprised to find no one waiting to greet her amid the mob of people waiting to meet the flight.

  Within the hour, she was on the road in the car she’d rented for the last leg of her journey, the long and arduous drive into the southern interior. She drove until early evening, then stopped for the night in a motel. It seemed a smart idea, especially as she was again conscious of that low abdominal pressure.

  Once this latest mess was sorted out—if it ever was—she really would have to devote more time to taking better care of herself and the baby. She had exactly four weeks in which to conclude her business with Dominic and find a place to live. Unless...

  She shook her head impatiently. It was too late for unlesses and what ifs. She and Dominic might have begun their relationship in the bedroom, but it was ending in a courtroom. Not a very auspicious sign!

  The temperature was hovering around ninety the next afternoon when she drove over the mountain pass and down into the blistering heat of the valley. The dry, semidesert air hit like a blast furnace, scorching her lungs and turning the steering wheel tacky beneath her hands.

  She could have pared fifteen minutes off the final lap of her journey if she’d taken the upper highway from there, but she turned the other way, along the narrower, quieter lakeshore route, past the place that had once been home. It was cooler down by the water and it wasn’t as if anyone was expecting her. She was coming home the same way she’d left—unexpectedly.

  The road unrolled in front her, distorted by heat waves. In the orchards on either side, the last of the peach crop hung ripe and golden from the trees. Up on the hills, the vineyards were heavy with fruit.

  Even with all the windows rolled down, the car was still unbearably hot. It was another typical August day in the southern interior: somnolent, windless and glaringly bright. She could taste the dust in her throat, feel her clothes sticking to the leather upholstery of the car.

  She hadn’t intended to slow down at the turnoff to the rutted driveway that led to the site of her old house. It was more as if the car had a will of its own and wasn’t about to take direction from her.

  There was no sign of life about the place; nothing new or different at all, in fact. The grove of fruit trees remained undisturbed by all the supposed changes while the broad leaves of the huge old maple drooped listlessly in the blistering heat. Everything looked just the same. Until she rounded the last bend and saw the house he’d built for her.

  It didn’t sprawl exactly; it was much too elegant. Instead, it reclined on the long, grassy slope above the lake as if, when God made the earth, He’d had this particular spot in mind for just such a dwelling.

  Killing the engine, Sophie remained behind the wheel of her car and simply stared through the windshield, drymouthed with admiration. Whatever else he didn’t do right, Dominic knew how to design and build a house. Sunshine dazzled its white stucco walls and blue tiled roof. Tall, gleaming windows soared to deep, protective eaves. A flight of shallow, curving steps led up to double front doors with etched-glass inserts.

  She couldn’t resist a closer investigation. Nudging the car door closed with her hip, she walked up the steps, pressed her nose to the nearest window and knew right away she wouldn’t be satisfied simply to look.

  She tried the front doors, found they were unlocked and, like Alice, stepped into a wonderland of pale hardwood floors, twelve-foot ceilings and deep moldings. There was a kitchen with granite countertops and a breakfast bar; a dining room big enough to entertain royalty; a nursery with a built-in intercom. Entranced, she walked quietly down the hall, passing spacious rooms flooded with sunshine and shimmering reflections from the lake.

  French doors stretching the width of the back of the house gave access to a brick-paved patio. From there, a path wound down to the water. To either side, mounds of topsoil waited for the landscaper to restore the flower beds that had been disturbed by all the construction. Sophie itched to get down on her knees, bury her hands in the rich loam and bring the garden back to brilliant life.

  At the foot of the property, the lake lapped indolently against the shore. Farther out, the surface of the water lay smooth as glass. Picking her way carefully, Sophie crossed the rock-strewn strip of beach and, without bothering to remove her sandals, waded up to her ankles in the relatively cool shallows.

  It felt so good to be home again.

  And then she heard it floating across the somnolent air of midafternoon: the unmistakable growl of a vehicle cruising up the driveway from the road. If it was Dominic returning... oh, she couldn’t face the indignity of his catching her snooping around and looking like an oversize pumpkin in a travel-creased tent!

  Splashing ashore, she cut across the beach at an angle to avoid being seen from the patio, intending to sneak away up the side of the property. But her eyes were dazzled from the glare of the water, her leather-soled sandals slick on the sunbaked rocks. She blundered forward, her mind fixed on escape at any price, and felt her ankle twist out from under her.
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  Clutching at thin air, she skidded, lost her footing and landed hard astride a huge boulder. She blinked at the moment of jarring pain, seemed to hear each vertebra crunch against its neighbor. Slithering to the sand, she rotated her ankle and gingerly tested her weight on it.

  Miraculously, no bones appeared to be broken. And yet... something wasn’t quite right. Something had torn loose inside, where her baby was supposed to remain safely cocooned for another four weeks. That feeling of pressure was back, more persistent, more ominous than ever. Every instinct urged her to remain still in order to minimize whatever problem was manifesting itself.

  “Help!” she cried, her throat aching and her heart unraveling with fear.

  Her voice floated up into the thick, hot air and was met by drowsing silence. The sun beat down mercilessly. A flicker of pain stabbed the small of her back. And in the distance she heard the sound of the Jaguar’s engine fading down the driveway, heard it slow down as it met the junction with the road, then take off with a roar of power in the direction of town.

  Forgetting all the things she’d read about, she tensed, helpless to control either her body or her mind. No one had answered her cry for help and she didn’t need a book to tell her that her baby was coming, uncaring that it was too early and that his mother was alone on a deserted stretch of beach.

  The pain had subsided to a persistent ache, but a sense of urgency gripped her. She was in labor and she had to make it back to the house while she still had the strength, to the kitchen where she remembered seeing a phone on the breakfast bar.

  Cradling her belly in her hands, she stumbled forward and tried not to think of the number of steps she’d have to take to reach her objective. She was only halfway home when the first contraction hit.

  With a monumental effort at control, she breathed deeply. She must not panic, even though she was helpless to govern the order of events or the speed at which they were occurring. Emptying her mind of all but the urgency of dragging her reluctant body up to the house, she navigated the last of the rocky shore with excruciating care and determination.

  Rough-hewn cedar steps with a single railing spanned the drop from garden to beach. She hauled herself up the first two well enough, but as she attempted the third, another contraction clamped hold and something flooded warm and thick between her thighs.

  She knew instinctively that what was happening to her was not a normal part of labor. Things were happening too quickly and in the wrong order. This was not the beginning of birth but a slow sort of death for her baby.

  “Dominic!” she wailed softly, tears filming her eyes. She had threatened never to let him know his child, but she hadn’t meant it. She would never have punished him like that. She loved him. She loved him and she needed him. But she’d left it too late to let him know. Because if their baby died, he would neither believe her nor forgive her.

  Their baby would not die. She would not allow it.

  Gritting her teeth, she pressed on, shutting out the dizzying pain, the blinding sun, the endless, endless path, and at last the French doors that looked out on the patio were a hand’s grasp away. From somewhere beyond the fear, she scraped up the energy to wrestle them open, to drag herself over the threshold and across the floor to the breakfast bar.

  She’d made it. She was home.

  Her hand reached for the phone, closed around the cord, pulled it toward her. Then the last of her strength gave out, and with a sigh she sagged against the side of the bar and slid all the way down to the smooth oak floor, taking the receiver with her.

  Dominic jumped down from the truck to check on the unfamiliar car parked at the foot of the steps, saw the purse lying on the front seat with a ticket stub tucked into the side pocket and knew at once who the unexpected visitor was.

  “Don’t bother waiting,” he told his foreman. “I’ll lock the place up and hitch a ride back into town with my guest.”

  As soon as the truck disappeared down the driveway, he leaped up the steps and into the house because he’d thought at first that that was where she’d be, especially when he noticed the front door standing open.

  When he didn’t find her there and there was no answer when he called out her name, he raced back outside again, struck suddenly by the thought that she could drive away while his back was turned. It would be just like her to sneak off before they had a chance to straighten out the ridiculous mess they’d managed to get themselves into.

  Her car was exactly where she’d left it and he was running in circles, so bloody exhilarated that she was back that he wasn’t thinking straight! She was probably hiding somewhere in the garden, enjoying watching him make an ass of himself. Well, he’d fix her wagon. Literally!

  Sauntering over to the car, he reached inside, removed the key from the ignition and tossed it into the bushes. Then he strolled up the steps and went back into the house. He’d wait and let her come to him for a change because neither of them was going anywhere until she did.

  It wasn’t easy to be patient. He’d missed her badly. As the days had passed, all the aggression he’d nurtured had faded into one long, aching need that flared wild and unruly through his veins.

  He didn’t care anymore that she’d hurt him with her accusations, or angered him with her threats. All he wanted was to hold her, feel the reality of her in his arms, the substance of her close to his heart. He wanted to touch her and tell her that he loved her and that if he had his way they’d never spend another night apart.

  He ambled down the long hall, looking into each room as he passed, just in case he’d missed her the first time around. Had she liked the nursery? The master suite? The nanny’s quarters?

  He passed by the dining room and pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen, the heart of every house he built. And felt his own heart stammer to an agonizing halt when he saw her crumpled in a heap next to the breakfast bar.

  The universe narrowed to her closed eyes, the sharp angle of her cheekbones. Dropping to his knees beside her, he scooped her into his arms, shocked at her pallor and appalled at her fragility.

  “Sophie,” he whispered brokenly, rocking her to and fro. “Sophie...my darling, my love, what have you done to yourself?”

  When he saw the stain on her hyacinth blue dress, he at first refused to acknowledge what it had to be and tried to pretend his eyes were deceiving him. But nothing changed, no matter how fiercely he blinked. Sophie was hemorrhaging.

  “Hold on, sweetheart,” he told her. “I’ll get you to Palmerstown General before you know it.”

  Except that he had no means of taking her there. The key to the car was buried in waist-high shrubbery because he had been so anxious, once again, to show her who wielded the power.

  Cursing, he secured the phone in the angle of his shoulder and dialed the emergency number. Heard himself barking out directions to find the house. But all that really registered were Sophie’s pale, drawn features and the terrible dread that in pushing for what he wanted, he’d finally gone too far.

  This was not the way to write their ending, with her dying in his arms. They had too much loving to share.

  Emergency vehicles arrived within half an hour, their various sirens splintering the stillness of the afternoon. Swift, efficient men in white poured into the kitchen and took charge. They bundled her onto a gurney, wheeled her outside to a waiting ambulance and took her away. Dominic sat beside her, holding her limp hand to his cheek, willing her to hold on, to take all his strength and use it for herself.

  They hung tubes from her arms, pierced the softness of her skin with needles, fed her oxygen. A young paramedic bent over her, an intent stranger with his alien hand on her stomach, listening through a stethoscope to the baby’s heart.

  “Never mind the child,” Dominic snarled, beside himself at being reduced to the role of helpless spectator. “Listen to her heart—save her life.”

  “Calm down, buddy,” the paramedic advised laconically. “We don’t aim to lose either one.”
r />   Murderous rage rose up in Dominic. What did this cocky young bastard know?

  Enough to keep his attention where it belonged.

  Chagrined, Dominic followed suit. “Sweetheart,” he whispered, kissing the hand he held in his. “Sweetheart...”

  Miraculously, she opened her eyes. He lifted his head and saw she was looking at him, that she was radiant. “Dominic,” she murmured, smiling like an angel through the pain. “I needed you and you came.”

  “Of course I did,” he replied huskily, the emotion almost choking him. “Where do you get off trying to cheat me out of being here for my son’s birth?”

  “What if she’s a girl?”

  “Not a chance,” he said. “We’re starting our own football team. Anyhow, girls are always late. She wouldn’t have finished packing yet.”

  Her smile faltered and beads of sweat popped out on her forehead. She gripped his hand with bone-crushing force. “Ohhh,” she gasped, drawing in a great breath. “Are we nearly there?”

  The paramedic caught Dominic’s eye and nodded. “Just about,” he said, “and we’ve radioed ahead. They’re expecting us.”

  He sounded calm. But he looked anxious.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE worst thing about hospitals, Dominic concluded savagely, as the congregation of personnel attending Sophie huddled for another whispered conference, was that everyone from the most junior clerk in admissions to the head nurse on the maternity floor seemed part of one great conspiracy to keep people like himself firmly on the outside.

  “No, I’m not her husband,” he snarled when they tried to shoo him out of the cubicle where they had Sophie cloistered. “I’m her lover and that’s my baby she’s about to deliver. So don’t tell me that what goes on here is none of my business because I’m making it my business, damn it!”

  “You don’t make the rules around here,” the iron-faced head nurse informed him severely. “In fact, you don’t have any clout at all. So, unless you want to find yourself booted out of this unit, please lower your voice.”