by Heidi Betts
But the simple facts of the situation didn’t keep her mind from making the occasional trip down fantasy lane, imagining what it might be like if she weren’t an ex-showgirl/dance instructor and he weren’t a high-powered magazine executive. If they were normal, everyday people who had met in some normal, everyday way.
She didn’t spend long wishing for things that could never be, though. She was happy with her life, and happy with what she and Cullen had, even if she knew it wouldn’t last.
For now, it was enough.
And she could certainly do worse…had done worse, considering some of the real treats she’d dated in the past. Compared to them, Cullen was a veritable Prince Charming.
In a tailored Italian business suit.
Dressed now, he stood at the end of the bed with his hands in his pockets. Scooting out from under the covers, Misty grabbed her silk robe from a hook on the back of the closet door and shrugged it on, looping the belt loosely at her waist.
“I’ll walk you out.”
He gave an almost imperceptible nod and they moved together through the living room area to the front door. She released the locks and turned the knob, but before she could open the door, Cullen stopped her with a hand on her wrist. When she lifted her head to meet his gaze, his eyes were smoldering.
Leaning in, he slid a hand under her hair to cradle her neck and kissed her until her bare toes curled. A full minute later, he pulled away and she clutched at the door to keep from melting into the carpet at their feet.
“If I didn’t have to get back to New York by morning,” he murmured softly, rubbing her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, “I’d drag you back to bed and keep you there for a week.”
“If you didn’t have to be back in New York by morning,” she whispered in return, “I’d let you.”
One corner of his mouth lifted in a subtle grin and his arm dropped to his side as he stepped through the doorway, onto the landing above the stairwell that led to the alley at the back of her dance studio.
“I’ll call you.”
She nodded, then stood at the top of the stairs as she always did to watch him walk away.
Two
Four months later—late April
T he music from the studio sound system, mixed with the staccato beat of her students’ feet on the hardwood floor, pounded through Misty’s head, making her wonder if she’d manage to stay on her feet.
For months now, she’d been fighting dizziness, nausea and a laundry list of other symptoms associated with the early stages of pregnancy. She’d thought, with the first trimester out of the way, that she might start to feel better. Instead, she felt worse.
Today was especially bad. She’d barely been able to get out of bed, and ever since had been fighting waves of lightheadedness and the need to lie down.
But she had classes to teach, and if she missed even one, her plan to become self-sufficient and support herself on the income from her dance studio would be in jeopardy.
Three years ago Cullen had bought this building in Henderson, just outside Las Vegas, for her and had it completely refurbished, turning the downstairs into a studio large enough to teach both children and adults.
As much as she’d hated taking his charity, he’d insisted, and the condition of her knee at the time hadn’t given her much choice. It was either accept Cullen’s generosity or risk being homeless in a matter of weeks.
But she’d promised him—and herself—that she would pay him back. Every cent, once the studio became profitable.
Unfortunately, that had yet to happen. What she made on her classes went for the little things like food and electricity, but Cullen was still paying for the general upkeep of the building and business.
She hated that, hated feeling like a kept woman, a mistress, even though that was exactly what she was.
It wasn’t her affair with him that made her uneasy, but the fact that he was supporting her financially. It felt too much like he was leaving money on the nightstand for services rendered.
She didn’t have much choice, though, did she? The only way to get out from under the debt she owed Cullen was to make a success of the studio, and with a baby on the way, that was suddenly more important than ever. Especially since Cullen had no idea he was going to be a father in five more months.
Resting a hand over her slightly distended abdomen, she swallowed past the dizziness that seemed to be with her twenty-four/seven these days, along with the sense of guilt she felt more often than not at keeping her pregnancy a secret from Cullen.
It was better this way, she reminded herself. If Cullen knew about the baby, he would want to do the right thing. He would insist they get married, even though it was the last thing he really wanted.
He’d been raised to always be responsible and protect the family name. When his father had gotten his mother pregnant right out of high school, his grandfather had insisted they marry to give the child a name and keep from tarnishing the family’s sterling reputation.
Misty didn’t want to put Cullen in that position, didn’t want to force him into a situation he would hate and later resent her for.
No, it was better this way. She’d been avoiding him for months, ever since the home pregnancy test—and later a blood test at the doctor’s office—had confirmed her suspicions.
If only she could avoid him a while longer, until the studio began to operate on its own funds, everything would be all right. She would be able to begin paying him back all the money he’d invested in her, and he would eventually come to realize that his unanswered and unreturned calls meant she didn’t want to see him anymore.
She hated to break things off with him so abruptly, but it was best for everyone.
He’d been good to her. Better, she’d often thought, than a girl like she deserved. Because of that, and because she really did care for him, she refused to saddle him with a wife and a child he probably didn’t want and had never planned for.
Misty pushed herself away from the mirrored wall where she’d been standing—leaning, more like—as the music drew to an end and the dancers’ steps slowed. She was only half paying attention, she realized, but at least she’d been watching closely enough to know the routine had gone off with barely a hitch. This was her adult class, so they caught on more quickly than the children.
“Good job, guys,” she told them, clapping her hands together in approval. “Now this next time through, I’d like you to add…”
Her words trailed off as the room started to spin around her. She’d only taken one step toward the line of women who were awaiting her instructions, but her heart was beating as if she’d run a mile. Her mouth went suddenly dry and her skull felt ready to explode.
And then the floor seemed to tilt upward, closing in. Her vision narrowed into a tiny pinpoint of darkness, and she knew she was in trouble a tenth of a second before the world went dark.
Cullen sat in the Elliott family booth at his brother’s restaurant. Une Nuit was Bryan’s pride and joy. Located on Ninth Avenue
, between Eighty-Sixth and Eighty-Seventh Streets in New York City, the trendy, very popular establishment specialized in French/Asian fusion cuisine and was often praised in reviews and articles alike for its daring menu. The low red lighting set a seductive cast to the black suede and copper décor.
At the moment, Cullen was sipping a cup of coffee—some fancy French creation Bryan was apparently trying out this week—and waiting for John Harlan to arrive for lunch.
They’d been friends forever, and after a game of golf on Saturday where John beat him by thirteen humiliating strokes, Cullen had started to think he might be willing to confide in his friend about the recent troubles he’d been having with Misty.
He wasn’t sure he was ready to tell anyone about her, but since she wasn’t answering his calls, and his feet were itching to fly out there and discover for himself what the hell was going on, he thought a little advice from a friend might not be out of the question.
If it hadn’t been for this damn competition his grandfather, Patrick Elliott, had set up between his sons to decide who would take over as CEO of EPH upon his retirement, he likely would have flown out long before now. But he’d been so swamped with work, he’d barely gotten out of the office at all the past few months, let alone found enough time for a trip to Vegas.
“Can I join you?”
He turned his head, surprised to find his cousin Scarlet standing beside his booth. She was dressed in one of her usual outlandish outfits, but just like all the others, the bright colors and stylish design suited her flamboyant personality.
“Mmm.” He looked past her, then back into her pale green eyes. “I’m expecting—”
“Me.”
Harlan appeared, almost out of nowhere, and Cullen would have had to be blind not to notice the sudden nervousness emanating from his cousin’s slender form.
“So, three for lunch, eh?” Stash, the restaurant’s manager, asked in his cheerful French accent.
“No.” Scarlet stumbled back a step, bumping into John. John caught her by the elbows, keeping hold of her a moment longer than Cullen would have expected for mere acquaintances.
Before he could ask or even speculate as to what was going on between his cousin and John Harlan, his cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID screen, his stomach turning over at the number on the lighted display.
It was Misty, calling from the dance studio phone.
He’d been trying for months to reach her. He’d left dozens of messages, but she’d never called him back.
It was just an affair. One he’d intended to break off years ago. But having Misty avoid him, suspecting she was doing so in the hopes of breaking things off with him…
He didn’t like it. And for some reason, it made him even more desperate to talk to her, see her.
He flipped his phone open before the second chirp ended. “Hello?”
“Mr. Elliott?” a voice questioned tentatively from the other end of the line.
It wasn’t Misty, after all. But how would someone else, someone from Misty’s studio, get his private mobile number?
With a frown, he said, “Yes.”
“Umm…”
The woman, whoever she was, sounded even more nervous than before.
“My name is Kendra. I’m one of Misty’s dance students.”
“Yes,” he said again, still confused.
“Well, umm…there’s been a bit of an accident, and your number was the first on her speed dial. We didn’t know who else to call.”
“What?” His voice rose and he sat up straighter in the black suede booth, leaning forward on the copper-topped table. His brain was stuck on the word accident, barely processing anything else the woman said. “What happened?”
“She collapsed during our class, and—”
“How is she?” he demanded.
“I’m not sure. We called an ambulance, but—”
“Where’d they take her?”
“St. Rose Dominican Hospital.”
With a sharp nod meant more for himself than anyone else, he barked, “I’ll be there as soon as I can. If you learn anything more, call me immediately at this number, do you understand?”
Once the woman agreed, he said a curt goodbye, snapped his phone shut and rose from the booth all in one swift motion.
“I can’t stay.”
“What’s wrong?” Scarlet asked. “Who’s hurt?”
“No one you know.” No one his family even knew about.
Meeting John’s gaze, he apologized to the man for wasting his time. “Sorry. I appreciate your coming, but I need to get to Las Vegas.”
“No problem. Anything I can do?”
“I’ll let you know,” Cullen replied through tight lips, already heading for the door. “Thanks.”
Due in large part to the Elliott family jet and the pilot’s awareness of Cullen’s desperation to reach Henderson, Nevada, as quickly as possible, he arrived at the hospital just over five hours later.
He burst through the emergency room doors and made a beeline for the nurses’ station, demanding an update on Misty’s condition and to be taken to her. The nurse on duty—apparently used to frantic and distraught loved ones—looked up Misty’s name on the computer, then gave him a room number and pointed him toward the elevators.
He took it as a good sign that she’d been moved from the emergency room to a regular room. And the nurse hadn’t mentioned anything about the Intensive Care Unit.
Then again, wouldn’t it have been better for Misty to have been treated and released?
His nerves jangled as he rode the elevator up to the third floor, his pulse racing in fear. He stepped out the minute the doors slid open and grabbed a passing nurse.
“Misty Vale,” he demanded. “I’m looking for Misty Vale.”
The young brunette smiled and turned back the way she’d come, leaving him to follow. “I just checked on her. She’s fine. Resting. Poor thing, she just overdid it, plain and simple. Working too hard, not getting enough rest. And a woman can’t keep that up, not in her condition.”
Cullen barely listened to the nurse’s one-sided conversation. He barely cared what was wrong with Misty; he just wanted to see her, to know she was all right.
The nurse paused at a closed door, the narrow vertical window above the knob too small to see much inside.
“Don’t you worry,” the nurse said, patting his arm. “She and the baby are both fine.”
Leaving him alone outside Misty’s room, she turned and padded back down the hallway.
Baby?
His mind raced, his mouth growing dry.
Baby?
His breathing grew ragged and his palms, he noticed, had begun to sweat.
What baby?
He felt as though his brain was about to explode, his fear for Misty’s health mixing now with the news that there was a baby.
Misty’s baby.
His baby?
He shook his head, knowing nothing would make sense until he saw Misty with his own two eyes.
Twisting the knob, he pushed the door open and stepped quietly into the darkened room. A low watt fluorescent light was on over an empty bed, the privacy screen pulled to keep it from bothering the sleeping patient.
Cullen tiptoed across the squeaky clean floor until he could see Misty, lying pale against the stark white sheets, her brown hair with its blond highlights the only splash of color in the room. An I.V. tube was taped to the back of her hand and monitors flashed and beeped, tracking her condition.
But what caught his attention, what sent a cold chill snaking down his spine, was the slight bulge of her abdomen beneath the plain cotton sheet.
She and the baby are both fine.
She and the baby…
My God, Misty really was pregnant.
He swallowed hard, not knowing quite what to think as he moved closer to her bedside.
A part of him wanted to be angry with her. Angry that she’d been avoiding him for the past three months. Of course, now he knew why.
Angry that she hadn’t told him when she’d discovered the pregnancy, whether it was his child or not. But it was hard to hang on to his anger when she looked so small and vulnerable.
Lifting a chair from the corner, he carried it closer and sat at her side, wrapping his fingers around her still hand. His gaze floated over her face, eyes closed, lips parted gently in sleep. Down to her breasts, which seemed a bit fuller than he remembered. Then on to her belly, where their child rested.
Was there ever really any doubt that it was his baby?
No.
As easy as it might be for many men to jump to the conclusion that their pregnant lovers had been sleeping with someone else, Cullen didn’t consider it a real possibility.
Throughout their affair, they’d agreed to keep things open. He had certainly dated his fair share of other women, and he knew Misty had gone out a few times, too.
But he didn’t think she’d
slept with other men in the time they’d been together. It wasn’t arrogance on his part, merely his belief that he’d gotten to know Misty pretty darn well in the past four years.
If she’d been sleeping with someone else, she’d have either mentioned it or found it hard to look him in the eye on his frequent visits. After all, she spoke quite openly of the times she’d been asked out by the occasional man and had agreed to go to dinner with him.
Cullen, on the other hand, didn’t share the details of his frequent exploits with her. For one thing, they didn’t lead to sex as often as he let people believe.
His family was wealthy, its members well-known and easily recognized in the Manhattan area. And he was the playboy of the family, the one who always had a beautiful young woman on his arm.
He’d escorted models, actresses, centerfolds, lawyers, ad executives, boutique owners…You name it, he’d dated it. Just as was expected. And for the better part of his twenty-seven years, he thoroughly enjoyed that lifestyle.
But there hadn’t been as many women lately as one might expect. More and more, he found himself distracted by thoughts of Misty. By the desire to be with her and no one else.
He would almost rather go without a woman on his arm—or in his bed—and wait to see her again than be surrounded by attractive, willing females twenty-four hours a day.
Keeping one hand curled tightly around hers, he slid his other along the sheet that covered her to rest on the mound of her tummy.
He felt her stir and tilted his head to meet her eyes. They were a darker green than usual, clouded with distress.
“Cullen,” she whispered, her voice scratchy from disuse. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard you weren’t feeling well. Thought I’d drop by with some chicken soup.”
For a moment, the corners of her mouth tipped up in a grin, but the aura of concern never left her face.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, hoping to distract her.
She blinked, her glance sliding away for a brief slip of time and then back. “I’ve been better.”
“Misty…” He waited until he had her full attention, then flexed his fingers over her stomach so she would have no doubt what he was talking about. “Why didn’t you tell me?”