Because if she was wrong, and the test came out positive, and she had to face the father of her baby day after day…
Cat couldn't deal with that. Already during the past month her feelings for Brody had become much too complicated. Self-indulgent, unreliable, obsessed with a sophomoric need for negative attention, Brody Mikhailov, aka the notorious Jake Beckett, was the last man she would have chosen to father her child. He was a hack writer whose sole objective was to shock and titillate, though he possessed the talent and means to accomplish so much more.
Even so, Cat had to admit she'd begun to soften toward him, a natural result, she supposed, of their enforced togetherness. At least she'd been able to maintain some degree of objectivity, so far. But she knew that would end if she were to discover she was carrying his child. Her emotions would get the better of her. She'd start twisting things around, straining to detect redeeming qualities in the father of her child. She'd fool herself into thinking he was something he wasn't, just like so many other women who became trapped in lousy relationships because they had blinders on until it was too late.
Cat reminded herself why she'd sought an arranged pregnancy in the first place, why she'd opted for single parenthood. No child of hers was going to go through what she'd endured. Getting too close to a man like Brody Mikhailov was almost a guarantee of a broken family somewhere down the road.
She'd just have to put off the pregnancy test for another month.
If she had to have one at all. I'm not pregnant, she reminded herself. I'm premenstrual! Soon enough her body would get up to speed and provide her with proof positive that she wasn't in the family way. She wouldn't need to pee on any damn stick.
Cat opened the door and looked at Brody over the top of the sports car. "Some ground rules from here on out. No more plying me with alcohol. No more 'accidentally' groping me. No more following me around the house to read me the dirty parts of your books."
"Are you finished?"
"No." She stabbed a finger toward him. "No doing whatever it is you're thinking about right now."
"Darn."
"And I don't want to hear a peep out of you for the whole ride home, is that clear?"
"Have you thought about having a baby, Cat? I'm telling you, you'd make a hell of a mom."
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
From his perch on a wooden bench just inside the mall, Brody scrutinized the shoppers meandering out of Macy's. As the minutes passed, his trepidation ripened into something approaching panic.
Cat had dashed into the department store in search of the ladies' room about the time she started turning an alarming shade of gray. This wasn't the first time. She'd lost her breakfast shortly after arriving at his house that morning, just as she had almost daily for the last couple of weeks, since she'd begun her second month working with him.
The first time, he'd tried to send her home, and had even offered to drive her to her doctor. She'd insisted it was something she'd eaten and that she felt all better. But then it had happened the next day, and the next, while she continued to pretend nothing was wrong.
Cat's constant fatigue was another worrisome factor. Twice during the past week she'd fallen asleep in the afternoon, once in the computer room when he'd stepped out for a minute while she'd been teaching him to balance his checkbook, and again in the kitchen. Brody had walked in to find Cat slumped over the table, her head pillowed on her arms and a panful of brownies turning to chocolate bricks in the oven.
It hadn't taken long for the inevitable suspicion to plant itself in Brody's mind. But hadn't she told him she was on the Pill? Which brought him back to the only other possibility—that she was indeed sick, with something serious enough to last several weeks.
Where was she? He debated going in after her. What if she'd passed out in the ladies' room? He glanced at the watch she'd insisted he purchase. One more minute. He'd give her sixty seconds and then he was going in.
Scanning the crowd, Brody caught a glimpse of wavy red hair. He leaped to his feet, knocking over two of the seven overstuffed shopping bags piled around him. He reached her in about five seconds, weaving around a power-walking elderly couple, two mothers pushing strollers, and a knot of heavily made up adolescent mall rats.
"Brody, the bags!" Cat glanced worriedly at their purchases, left unattended. Her coloring was nearly normal, he was relieved to see. She just looked tired.
"Let me worry about the bags. Are you okay?" He led her back to the bench and sat her down.
"I'm fine now. It was nothing."
He scowled down at her. "That's what you say every time, Cat. When are you going to go to the doctor?"
"I'm not sick. I must've eaten something bad and it's just taking a while to work its way out of my system."
"Two weeks? I'm taking you to the doctor. Today. Give me the number and I'll make an appointment."
"Brody, I really don't need—"
"If you won't cooperate, I'll take you to mine."
"You have a doctor?"
After a moment he said, "No. But there are those walk-in places. Or the emergency room."
"I'm not going to the emergency room for an upset stomach!"
"You know, if you took care of yourself half as well as you take care of other people, you wouldn't be going through this now."
She looked so miserable, he pushed a bag aside and sat next to her. Quietly he said, "You know what I thought when this first started? I thought maybe you were pregnant. But then I remembered you told me you're on the Pill." She avoided his gaze, and his heartbeat picked up speed. "That's what you said, right, Cat? You're on the Pill?"
He saw her debating her response. No. This can't happen, he thought, as his whole body tensed. He'd been uncharacteristically careless that night, true, but at the time he'd thought she was a professional, and had assumed she'd protected herself. He hadn't bargained on a pregnancy scare, that was for damn sure!
"Cat?"
She glanced at him and pushed her hair behind her ear. "I—I was on the Pill when, you know, when we were together. You and me."
"You were."
She nodded, looking away.
Brody relaxed. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. It wasn't his, at least. "And now?"
She took a moment to answer. "I went off it after that. Um, because of side effects."
"And you've been seeing Mr. Per—Greg this whole time."
She nodded.
"Without birth control."
She clenched her hands together. "I guess not."
Those mental images Brody had banished by force of will came hurtling back with a vengeance: Cat writhing on the sheets with her faceless lover, arching against him, taking him into her body; giving herself unreservedly to the man she loved, night after night.
Growing that man's baby in her body.
Brody glanced at Cat's belly. He should be rejoicing—another bullet dodged. This wasn't his problem. It was Cat's problem. And Mr. Perfect's.
So why did he feel like it was his problem?
He said, "Are you late?"
She nodded. "I've missed two periods."
"Two!"
"And my breasts are sore and I can't stand even looking at Brie cheese and I've always loved Brie cheese!"
She sat limp and listless, and Brody wondered if he'd ever seen anyone look so wretched. "Oh, honey…" He put his arm around her shoulders and said the first thing that came to mind. "It'll be okay."
"Ha ha ha," she muttered, but Brody knew he'd spoken the truth. It would be okay because Mr. Perfect would make it okay. The guy was responsible, dependable, a stand-up fellow. Hadn't she rubbed it in, all the differences between Greg and Brody? Her boyfriend wouldn't let her down. Guys like Greg Bannister had invented the phrase "do the right thing," just for this particular situation.
In no time at all, Brody's office mom would be installed in whatever passed for suburban splendor in Alaska—a cozy split-level igloo perhaps, with a two
-dogsled garage and a plastic flamingo out front.
On the other side of the world, practically. Reflexively Brody pulled her closer. "I take it you haven't done a pregnancy test yet."
She shook her head. "I want to wait until … well, I just want to wait."
"No more waiting. We'll pick up one of those drugstore kits." He pulled her up off the bench.
"No."
"What do you mean, no? You've gotta find out."
"I will," she said, "when I'm ready."
"Well, I'm ready now. Is there a pharmacy in this place?"
He shooed away her hands when she tried to lift a bag, and grabbed the handles of all seven himself. They were awkward to carry and much too heavy for a mother-to-be, filled with a wrought-iron magazine rack, black marble bookends and other household furnishings that reflected the taste of the homeowner in question, which was to say, a heterosexual male. After Cat's fourth unsolicited offer to help him redecorate, he'd figured he'd have to give in or risk having her wonder just why he was so attached to floral chintz and white eyelet.
They'd ordered furniture earlier in the week and picked out new paint and wallpaper. Cat had suggested he have the pastel carpeting taken up and the hardwood floors refinished. After years of stolid indifference, he found he was actually looking forward to living in a home that suited his own tastes.
* * *
Brody pounded on the door of the upstairs bathroom. "What's taking so long?"
"Leave me alone!"
"Need some help?"
"I don't need help! Now, leave me alone!"
"Touchy," he muttered, leaving his post by the door to wrestle with Spot.
Several minutes later the bathroom door opened and Cat emerged, looking pale and dazed.
"Where's the, uh, thingamajig?" he asked.
She nodded toward the bathroom. He went in and examined the white plastic wand. He knew what the plus sign meant; he'd read the instructions aloud to her.
"Okay. So now you know." He turned to see the hallway empty. "Cat?"
Brody looked in each room as he hurried down the hall. "Cat!" He sprinted down the stairs, calling out, "Come on, we'll deal with this. We'll get through it. Cat?" He peered out the front windows, relieved to see her car in the driveway, wondering where this "we" stuff was coming from.
This isn't your problem, he reminded himself. Leave the hand-holding to the boyfriend.
The hand-holding and everything that went with it: the lovemaking, the nest building, the child rearing, the growing old together. Cat and her Mr. Perfect.
"Where is she, boy?" he asked the dog, who was whining by the back door. Brody let him out, startled to see Cat sitting calmly at the picnic table, flipping through a magazine.
He watched her for a few moments before taking a seat across from her. She glanced up at him and asked, "Are you going to barbecue those salmon steaks tonight? I wouldn't keep them for another day."
"I thought I would, yes."
"I'll pick up some corn. Maybe I'll cook it on the coals."
Brody propped his elbows on the table. "We're going to talk about this, Cat."
Her neutral expression never faltered. "No offense, Brody, but it really doesn't affect you."
An unwelcome thought jabbed him. Slowly he straightened. "You're not thinking of getting rid of it."
"No!" Her icy reserve evaporated in a heartbeat. "I'd never do that. I want this baby!" She clamped her lips shut, having clearly revealed more than she'd intended.
"That's okay, honey. It's okay to want your baby. Just because it wasn't planned doesn't mean…" He reached across the table and captured her icy hand. He threaded his fingers through hers. "You've got to tell Greg right away."
He saw her swallow convulsively. She studied the magazine spread open in front of her. It was People, which he subscribed to for business reasons—to help stay abreast of who was saying what about whom. Cat hated People.
"I'll … tell him." Her voice was so faint, he had to strain to make out her words.
"Tonight," he said. "Or now. You can call him from here."
"No! No, in person. I'll see him."
"Tonight, Cat. He should know, he should be taking care of you now." Brody rubbed his thumb on the soft skin of her hand. "It's his responsibility."
She looked at him, a question in her shimmering eyes. He wished he could read her mind. She opened her mouth to speak, then simply sagged, like a deflated balloon.
"You didn't expect this, did you?" he asked. "You should have, you know. Two missed periods, the nausea…"
"I didn't want it to be true."
"Denial."
She gave him a tired little smile. "That's what my friend Brigit said."
"This is the same Brigit who bought you that negligee?" he asked. Cat had wanted to make it clear she hadn't chosen the scandalous thing herself. Foolish woman.
"Yep."
"This Brigit sounds like a very sensible woman. Bring her around sometime. I'd like to meet her." Even though she was Greg's cousin, if he remembered correctly.
With a watery chuckle." Cat said, "I don't think you're ready for Brigit. Most people aren't."
"I mean it, Cat." He pinned her with his sternest glare. "You're going to tell him. Tonight."
* * *
Chapter 8
« ^ »
"I told him," Cat said, before he could ask. She dropped her purse on a living room chair. Her stomach was doing its morning pitch and roll. "Did the floor guy get back to you?"
"And…?" Brody gestured impatiently.
"You want me to relate our whole private conversation?" She tried to walk past him, but he blocked her way.
"Yes. Don't leave anything out."
"Sorry to disappoint you, but that's between Greg and me." She shook him off and started for the kitchen. "I hope you still have those saltines."
"I bought three more boxes for you," he said, following her. "And a gallon of milk."
She pulled the box of crackers out of a cabinet. "You bought me milk? Why?"
"Aren't pregnant women supposed to drink milk?"
"I don't know. I've never been pregnant before."
"This is the sort of thing you're supposed to ask your doctor. Have you made an appointment?"
"Will you stop it?" she griped around a mouthful of cracker. "I'm the one who's supposed to nag, remember? I'm being paid to take care of you."
Brody reached into the refrigerator for the milk. "Did you set a date?"
"I don't have an appointment yet. I haven't even chosen—"
"No, a date for the wedding."
The saltine in Cat's hand broke in two. He added, "Unless you want to waddle down the aisle in a white satin tent, I suggest you hurry it up."
"Who said we're getting married?"
Brody gaped at her as most of the milk he was pouring ended up on the counter. "Of course you're getting married!"
"I don't recall saying any such thing."
"But he asked you, right? I mean, Greg wants to marry you."
She shoved her hair behind her ears and crossed her arms. "We didn't discuss marriage."
Brody held his palms up, as if staving off this latest complication. "No no. That's not the way this works. The guy got you pregnant, Cat. He's supposed to marry you."
"He's supposed to? This is practically the twenty-first century, Brody. I'm a grown woman, self-sufficient. It doesn't have to work that way."
Brody's color had spiked. "He's supposed to do the right thing!" he declared, slapping the counter for emphasis.
Cat was momentarily speechless. Finally she asked, "Would you?"
"What?"
"Would you … do the right thing? If you got a woman pregnant?"
His telling pause was answer enough. Cat was sorry she'd asked, even before he said, "Thank God I've never had to find out."
She'd thought the crackers had settled her queasy stomach. Now she wasn't so sure.
He said, "You're trying to dodge the issue,
and it won't work. This isn't about me, it's about the guy who did this to you. Where's he staying? I'm gonna go straighten him out."
"No! This is nuts, Brody. Listen to yourself!"
"His name is Greg Bannister, right? Just give me the name of his hotel. Or is he staying with Brigit?"
"I don't want to get married!"
He gave her a yeah-right look. "If the father of your unborn child got down on bended knee, you'd want it. Your pride is keeping you from admitting it—"
"Oh God…" She leaned back against the counter, dropped her head into her hands.
"—But deep down, it's what you want, what you and the baby need."
After a few moments Brody came to her and gently lifted her face. His expression was heartbreakingly sincere. "He doesn't deserve you, Cat. He doesn't deserve someone as warm and giving and bighearted as you."
She couldn't have responded if she'd tried, couldn't have gotten words past the knot of emotion in her throat.
His thumbs caressed her cheeks. A gentle smile touched his eyes. "Maybe the news just freaked him out. He'll come around."
She pulled in a shaky breath and eased away from him. "It doesn't matter, Brody. I'm prepared to raise my child alone."
"You shouldn't have to—"
"Having one parent isn't the worst thing that can happen to a child." She lowered herself into a chair, feeling wearier than she could ever remember.
Brody placed the glass of milk in front of Cat, then stood gripping the back of the chair across from her. "But it's also not the best. Every child deserves a real home."
She stiffened. "My child will have a real—"
"With two parents."
"I had two parents. Believe me, I wish I hadn't."
Brody absorbed that for a moment, then pulled out the chair and slid into it.
Cat held up her hand. "I didn't mean to get into that."
"Tell me."
She already knew there was no use trying to keep something from Brody Mikhailov, aka Jake Beckett, aka the King of Sling. If he wanted to, he could probably make a phone call or two and find out where Jimmy Hoffa was.
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