The Best Is Yet to Come & Maternity Bride

by Diana Palmer

  "Of course it's entirely up to you," he conceded and Denise could hardly believe it. "As to the other, will you be coming in to work tomorrow?"

  "Yes. But as I said earlier, I might be a bit late."

  "Take all the time you need," he said and hung up without a goodbye.

  Denise held the receiver limply in her hand. She heard the hum of the dial tone as she stared at the phone. With her free hand, she reached up and rubbed her forehead. What was happening? Everything was changing so fast, she could hardly keep up.

  Mike, talking about love and marriage.

  Even more mind-boggling, her father, calling to inquire about her health? Trying to set her up on a date?

  The doorbell rang and she jumped to her feet. Setting the phone down on its cradle, she snatched up her purse and walked to the front door. She had been so preoccupied with her father's peculiar behavior, she hadn't even noticed the sound of Mike's motorcycle.

  A moment later, she knew why.

  "A car?" she said, mentally cataloging yet another change in the universe. Denise looked up into Mike's face and saw him grin.

  "'Not just a car," he said. "My car."

  "But you said you didn't do cars."

  "I also said people can change."

  "When did you…?"

  "This afternoon," he interrupted and stroked the tip of one finger down the line of her jaw. "It's a BMW," he said unnecessarily. "Good family car. Safe. Practical."

  Family. Safe. Practical? Mike?

  She stepped out onto the porch and he reached behind her to close and lock her front door. Taking her elbow in a firm grip, he guided her down the front steps and along the walk to where the shiny new, candy apple red Beemer waited.

  As he opened the car door for her, he said, "Safe and practical was for you. The racing red was for me."

  "Mike, I don't know what to say."

  "Good."

  She glanced up at him and noted for the first time that he wasn't wearing a T-shirt, either. Not exactly a suit and tie, the white linen shirt with a banded collar and sharply pleated black slacks looked wonderful on him. His hair was pulled neatly into his ever present ponytail and the smile on his face sent her heartbeat into overdrive.

  "Now," he told her, "slide in and buckle up."

  Dinner was a blur, though she did recall the five-star restaurant on a cliff overlooking Dana Point. If it had meant her life however, she wouldn't have been able to testify to what she had eaten.

  Now, she sat in a balcony box at the Orange County Performing Arts Center, watching their production of Carousel. The stylishly built hall was thrown into shadows, but for the brightly lit stage illuminating the performers. Beside her in the darkness, Mike lifted one hand and ran his index finger around the inside of his collar. When he caught her eye on him, he shrugged, gave her a smile, then returned his gaze to the stage.

  Denise's mind was whirling with too much information. Too many changes had happened too quickly for her to take it all in. Her father's odd behavior. Her surprise pregnancy and the apparent redemption of the bad boy she loved.

  She threw a sideways glance at Mike and found herself wondering if it could work between them. Just looking at him made her toes curl. But was that enough? Was it even enough that he cared for her, too?

  Love alone couldn't make a relationship, could it? She rubbed her forehead again as the familiar music from the play swelled up into the darkened balconies. Her stomach in knots, Denise tightly folded her hands together in her lap and told herself to stop thinking. At least for the moment.

  Mike had asked for this one night and she would give it to him. In the morning, she could face the same unanswerable questions again.

  Decision made, she turned her attention back to the play. Silently, she watched the sad story of bad boy Billy Bigelow and the good girl who should never have married him.

  "Why are we back here?" she asked as Mike pulled the BMW into his driveway.

  He glanced at her, shrugged and smiled. "Thought you might like to take another bike ride with me."

  Ever since the end of the play, she had been way too quiet for his peace of mind. He had hoped to prove to her that their worlds could meet. So what if he didn't use the Wave Cutter box at the Arts Center often? He would if it was important to her.

  Hell, he could even get used to driving a car.

  But he couldn't get used to the fact that she was so ready to walk away from him. A ride on his bike, where they would be forced into close contact, could be just what he needed.

  He opened the car door, went around to her side and offered her his hand. She took it and stood up beside him.

  "Mike," she said.

  He didn't like the tone of her voice. It already carried the hint of goodbye in it.

  "Come on," he said quickly and started for the garage. They walked up the dark, narrow drive and he released her hand to open one half of the double doors. Automatically, he stepped inside and yanked the chain that brought the lone, dim light bulb to life.

  He dug into his pocket for the key, straddled the bike, then turned the powerful engine on. Looking at her, standing to one side of him, his heart began to thud painfully against his ribs. How had this happened? How had love caught him so unaware? And so quickly? But more importantly, how could he convince her to take the risk that he was only now ready to take himself?

  The rumble and vibration of the bike's engine trembled up his legs and back. She stepped closer to him and in the vague light of the overhead bulb, he watched her features tighten with a sadness that made him want to scream his frustration. Instead, he reached out for her, grabbed her hand and pulled her in close. Dragging her head down to his, he planted his mouth on hers and gave her a kiss that demanded a response. She didn't fail him.

  Returning his kiss with a desperate passion, her arms slid around his neck even as she pressed herself against him. Lifting her easily, Mike pulled her onto the bike in front of him. Perched half on his lap, half on the narrow seat, Denise moved in closer, holding him as tightly as she would have a life preserver thrown into choppy seas.

  Beneath them, the engine grumbled loudly, sending vibrations bouncing along their spines. Mike's hands moved up and down her back in long caresses designed to drive her body into a fever pitch. His own body, hard and ready, pushed heavily against the fly of his trousers and Mike groaned from the back of his throat as she scooted around on his lap.

  His hands dropped to her hips where he lifted the hem of that incredible dress. Bunching the fabric beneath his hands, his palms slid across the tops of her thigh-high stockings to the narrow band of her silk bikini panties.

  The feel of her bare skin inflamed him and his already rock hard body tightened another notch.

  "Denise," he whispered when he tore his mouth from hers.

  Her head fell back on her neck as one of his hands moved between her legs to stroke that most sensitive piece of flesh. Through the sheer, silk fabric of her panties, he felt her heat and knew that he had to have her.

  Now.

  Chapter 11

  He kissed the pulse point at the base of her throat and Denise arched into him, tilting her head to one side, welcoming his kiss.

  His fingers moved again at her center and her thigh muscles tightened. The rumbling vibrations of the motorcycle's engine added their own trembling torture.

  Denise pushed herself against his hand, letting him know silently that she wanted him as badly as he did her. It didn't matter that they were in his garage. Perched precariously on a motorcycle. All that mattered now was him and this moment when she felt so alive.

  "I need you, Mike," she said on a sigh.

  He groaned heavily and almost immediately, she felt the lace of her navy blue panties rip. Mike tore the fragile material from her body and Denise's hips rocked gently in an age-old invitation.

  "Hold on, baby," he said and she felt him move to open the zipper of his slacks. Then his hands were on her hips, lifting her, guiding her to his har
d, ready strength.

  She gasped as he slowly lowered her body onto his. Denise braced herself with her hands on his shoulders and opened her eyes to stare into the shadowy green depths of Mike's gaze.

  Squirming in his grasp, she tried to take more of his length inside her. He filled her so completely, she wasn't sure anymore that they could ever be separated. Her knees on his thighs, his hands at her hips, she moved on him, raising and lowering herself again and again, abandoning then reclaiming him as her own.

  Her hips twisted, sending new spasms of delight spiraling within her. Mike's strong fingers kneaded her bottom. Her legs trembled and her hands tightened on his shoulders. He moved within her again and Denise smiled in the dim light. She watched his eyes slide shut as her hips rocked in a slow, rhythmic motion.

  When the first tingling sensation started, low and deep, Denise's breath caught and held. Tension built slowly, creeping from her body into his as completion neared.

  The heavy rasp of his breath sounded in her ear and she felt her own lungs straining for the cool night air whispering into the garage through the open door. An incredible tightness grabbed at her. Denise's eyes squeezed shut as she concentrated on the sensations, willing them to come faster, harder.

  As the first convulsive climax ripped through her, she ground her hips against him. Wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, she muffled a shout by burying her head in the curve of his shoulder.

  Seconds later, she felt Mike shudder, heard him whisper her name as he emptied himself into her.

  The hard, physical release left them both breathless, locked together, clinging only to each other.

  Thirty minutes later, they were standing on her front porch. He took the key she gave him, opened her door and pushed it wide.

  "Can I come in?" he asked.

  "Sure," Denise said softly. She led the way inside, dropping her purse on a small table in the entryway before continuing on into the living room. She hit the switch plate on the wall as she went in and instantly small puddles of light erupted all around the room.

  Denise walked to the sofa and plopped onto the cushions. Mike, she noticed, didn't sit down.

  She looked up at him. "Mike, what happened a little while ago doesn't change anything."

  "What do you mean?" His jaw tightened.

  "I mean," she said and leaned back into the overstuffed fabric behind her, "sex isn't the issue here. We already know that we get along fine on that score." Absently, she smoothed the skirt of her dress across her knees. "But we have to think about the baby. What's best for her."

  "What's best for the baby is having two parents."

  "I agree with you."

  "You do?" Both eyebrows lifted in surprise.

  "Of course. Two loving parents are always preferable to one."

  His gaze narrowed, sharpened on her. "Then what's the problem?"

  "The problem is, you want us to be married and parents."

  "You don't." It wasn't a question.

  She shook her head and chewed at her bottom lip for a moment before speaking again. "I've been thinking about this all night…well, since the end of the play, anyway."

  "Thinking about what?"

  "What to do. How to handle this." She pushed up from the couch, kicked her heels off and started walking aimlessly around the room. "I don't want to keep you from your child."

  "Oh, thanks."

  She ignored the sarcasm and said what she felt she had to say. "And I don't want to stop seeing you, either."

  "So, what's your plan?"

  Denise turned around to look at him from across the room. "That we keep things as they are. Like you said when we first went out. We're two people who share something incredible…I'm not ready to give that up."

  "Perfect," he muttered. "Do you remember everything I say so that you can throw it at me at some later date?"

  "Mike."

  "Dammit, Denise," he shouted, "I don't want to be a visitor in my child's or your life." Shoving both hands into his pockets, he glared at her. "I never thought I would say this to anyone—in fact, I had planned to never say it. But I love you."

  She sucked in a gulp of air past the knot in her throat.

  "I want us to be together. A family."

  Shaking her head at him, she said, "If we're unhappy, the baby will be, too."

  "Who says we'll be unhappy?" he demanded, pulling his hands from his pockets to throw them wide, helplessly.

  "I told you about my parents."

  "Forget about your folks and the stupid mistakes they made, will you?" His voice sounded raw with pain she knew she was causing.

  "How can I forget? I grew up in a house where unhappiness was a way of life. No child should have to live like that. Especially not my child."

  "Denise," he said through gritted teeth, "we make our own happiness. Or misery." Moving quickly, he walked toward her. He kept talking as he went, clearly trying to control a rapidly rising temper. "Maybe your father was a jerk. And maybe your mom let him get away with it."

  "What?"

  He snorted a choked laugh that held no humor. "If my dad tried to ignore my mother, she'd get in his face and shout until she had his attention. Same goes for him." As he got closer, she took a step backward, but bumped into the sliding glass doors and knew she couldn't go any farther. Mike stopped right beside her. Looking down into her eyes, he said, "Happiness doesn't just happen."

  "I know that," she snapped, looking for a way past him and coming up empty. "But there's no point in stacking the deck against yourself, is there?"

  "How is loving each other a bad thing?" he asked tightly. "It's not bad, necessarily," Denise muttered and took the direct approach. She shoved at his chest until he backed up. Stepping past him, she walked to the far wall and stopped to look at him from a safe distance. "It's just not enough."

  "There are no guarantees, Denise. Not for anybody." She reached up and pushed her hair back from her face. In seconds, he had crossed the room. His hands warm and strong on her shoulders, he waited until she met his gaze to speak again. "Who are you scared of, Denise? Me? Or you?"

  She pulled away from him and shifted her gaze from his. Unwilling to admit to fear and unable to deny it, she said, "I'm not afraid. I'm just trying to think with more than my hormones."

  "That's it." He grabbed her elbow and turned her around to face him again. "This is all bull, Denise. All of it. If you remember everything I said, remember this, too. Sometimes you have to stop thinking and just feel."

  She laughed and winced at the raw, scraping sound of her own voice. "Feel? Didn't you watch the same play I did tonight?"

  "What are you talking about now?"

  "Carousel. Weren't you paying attention?"

  He released her, shook his head and stared at her, waiting.

  She had felt it all through the play's production. It had been almost like a sign. Fate, reminding her just what could happen if the wrong two people fell in love. She had tried to ignore it, but she couldn't. Denise was only surprised that Mike hadn't drawn the same conclusions.

  "It was right there on the stage, Mike. It was as if someone were trying to tell us something." She wrapped her arms about herself and hung on tight. "Billy Bigelow was the wrong man for her. But she married him anyway. She let her feelings get in the way. And look what happened? He died and she mourned him forever!"

  "I don't believe this, Denise." He looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then shifted his gaze back to hers. "It was a play! Fiction."

  She shook her head firmly. "No, it was a sign. Don't you get it, Mike? We're just like the players in Carousel."

  "You're way overreacting."

  "No, I'm not. You just don't want to see the similarities between us and the couple in the play."

  "I am not Billy Bigelow, dammit! And this is real life! Our decisions aren't based on whatever some fool playwright jots down on a sleepless night." He grabbed her arms again and yanked her to him. His hands held her firmly but gently. She se
nsed the leashed power in him and heard his anger in his voice. She looked up into fierce green eyes. "We're real people, Denise. With real feelings and real brains to sort out our problems. We can love and be loved without a script."

  "Mike, I know the difference between reality and fantasy, but you have to admit—"

  "No! I don't have to admit anything beyond the fact that you're driving me out of my mind. You seem determined to push me away no matter what I say or do. I've listened to your theories and your fears and tried to be patient." He sucked in a gulp of air and exhaled just as quickly. "God, Denise, don't you think all of this scares the hell out of me, too? I've faced down bullets and screaming, heavily armed enemies with more confidence…but I'm standing here telling you that I love you. I love our baby and now you have to choose."

  "How can I?"

  Mike looked down into those wide blue eyes and saw the fear and confusion written there. He didn't know how to reach her. How to get past the years of hurt she had experienced as a child.

  Maybe though, he wasn't supposed to. Maybe, he suddenly thought, it had to come from her. Denise had to be the one to put her past behind her and come to him on her own. If he pushed her into it, leaving her no way out, she would never really be with him.

  It would take every ounce of his strength to walk out of there. But he wasn't going to spend the rest of his life paying for the crimes of her father.

  Lifting his hands, he cupped her face, letting his thumbs stroke her cheekbones as his gaze drifted over her features slowly, lovingly. He was taking a huge chance here and he knew it. But sometimes in war, you had to let the other guy think you were out of the battle. Make your opponent come to you.

  "I'm not going to go along with your little plan, Denise."

  She blinked a sheen of moisture from her eyes and his gaze locked on a solitary tear tracking down her cheek. His heart felt as though a giant fist were squeezing it.

  "I won't be a visitor in my child's life and I won't be just the man who shares your bed."

  Her bottom lip quivered and he felt her trembling. Fiercely, he steeled himself against surrendering to the urge to hold her, comfort her.