The Baby Consultant

by Anne Marie Winston

  Just the memory of some of the times he’d lifted her made her breath come faster and her muscles loosen. She’d been long and gangly all her life. Being carried around by him like a Barbie doll was a surprisingly sensual sensation. But having Jack in her life made every day an exciting, new adventure, and she didn’t mean only the wild, all-consuming hours they spent in bed...although that certainly hadn’t hurt.

  Jack was unpredictable, amusing, stimulating both her mind and her body. And he enjoyed being with her, she was sure of it. She’d spent more time in a month with him than she had with Oliver in the entire eighteen months of their engagement.

  Jack was also comfortable, she decided, although she wasn’t sure he’d appreciate the term. With her ex-fiancé, she’d felt she always had to be scurrying around doing little housewifely chores. And taking care of his children. Which, as it turned out, was why he was going to marry her in the first place.

  Still, life with Jack was comfortable. He pampered her, rubbing her feet at night when she was weary, insisting on taking a turn making meals, sneaking up behind her to slip his arms around her waist and rock her back and forth, singing some top forties hit in her ear. Last week he’d sent her a magnificent African violet with lavender blooms, and he’d taken her—along with Alexa—to an outdoor concert in a local park, where they’d watched the sun set over a lake while Pachelbel’s beautiful “Canon in D” haunted the air.

  Of course, she’d also sat through several lacrosse games at which she’d squeezed her eyes shut every time he took the field. His knee was nearly healed, with only some strange green and yellow bruises scattered around, and she didn’t want to watch him get “creamed” again.

  “Those bird thingys are great! Can we use a few of ’em?” Runt interrupted her daydreaming by pointing at a shelf of feather accessories—wouldn’t you know it—on the very top shelf of her storage wall. “And tell me again what accessories will go with the dresses? I’m thinking one of those little white fake umbrellas might be nice.”

  Runt’s powers of description needed some work, she thought as she went in search of the white parasol she kept for displays. But he seemed confident and professional, and she knew Jack trusted him. After an initial visit during which he’d decided her shop and the triple mirror in the workroom were great props, Runt had suggested that it might be easier for him to come to Frannie than the other way around.

  The shoot was scheduled for 2:00 p.m. At 2:10 Jack still hadn’t arrived. He wanted to supervise, to get the “look” he had in mind, he said. But he also was bringing the girl who would be modeling the gowns, so Frannie was a little concerned. It was very unlike Jack to be late. In fact, she’d learned in the three weeks they’d been together—her euphemism for their arrangement—that promptness was one of his virtues. If he said he’d be home at a certain time, he invariably was. And the one time his appointments had run late, he’d called and given her plenty of notice.

  At two-fifteen, as Runt was finishing arranging his lights and the portable backdrop he’d brought, she heard Jack’s van in the driveway. She hurried through the house and met him just as he was coming through the front door. The expression on his face alerted her immediately that something was wrong.

  “Hi. Sorry I’m late.” He dropped a distracted kiss in the general area of her lips and started through the house. “We have a problem.”

  “What?” She scrambled to get out of his way. A wise person didn’t get in the way of Jack in a hurry. It was an invitation to get mowed down. He didn’t do it on purpose, she was sure, he just didn’t think about his size relative to most other people’s.

  “Nan has the flu.”

  “Oh, no! What are we going to do?” Nan was the model whom Jack had gotten to pose for the shots. He’d told her Nan owed him a favor; she wondered just how much of his business was predicated on doing people, “favors.” Jack had a softer heart than he wanted to let on. She suspected a lot of the favors he performed had far more impact on the other person’s life than the return favor would on Jack’s.

  “It’s not what I’m going to do. It’s what you’re going to do.” He stopped in the kitchen so suddenly that she nearly ran into his shoulder blades. He took her by one arm and she moved toward him, expecting a kiss, but instead he turned her in a circle, checking her over like a rancher at a horse auction.

  “But I don’t know any models,” she protested. “Jillian’s got the face and the figure for it, but she’d die before she’d crawl into a wedding gown, I think. She says she’s allergic to marriage—oh, no. No, no, no,” she insisted, the light dawning as Jack practically dragged her into the workroom. “I’ve never done this. I can’t!”

  “Hey, Runt.”

  “Hey, Jack.”

  “The woman I lined up got sick. We’re going to use Frannie for the shoot.”

  “No, we are not going to use Frannie for the shoot,” she insisted. “I’m not a model. I don’t know how to stand. My hair’s a disaster...I’m not pretty enough.”

  Both men stopped what they were doing and turned to look at her. She finally succeeded in freeing her wrist from Jack’s grasp and she immediately backed a foot away until she banged up against the wall.

  “She’s kidding, right?” Runt said to Jack.

  “Don’t think so,” Jack said. His eyes were very intent, assessing, yet filled with warmth and understanding.

  “You have classic bone structure. Incredible smile. Sexy eyes. I’ll just have Jack stand next to the camera when I’m shooting—I like the sparkle in your eyes when you look at him.” Runt was eyeing her critically. “You just need a little makeup.”

  “Makeup? All right.” She rose, too flustered by what he’d just said about the way she looked at Jack to continue to resist. “I’ll—”

  “Sit still, I’ll do it. A good photographer learns makeup because you sell more stuff when the people in your shots look better than they normally do.” He fished a blinding fluorescent orange nylon bag out of one of his camera cases, zipped it open and dumped onto the worktable at least twenty-five different items for making up faces. She was astonished.

  And nervous, when he draped a towel around her shoulders and came at her with a cake of foundation and a sponge.

  “Oh, no, I—”

  “Relax. Jack, tell her to relax.”

  “Relax.” Jack was grinning. He’d brought Alexa’s baby seat into the shop so that she could watch the action, and he held the baby up toward Frannie. “Check her out, Lex. Does she look great or what?”

  She glared at him. “This wouldn’t be half so funny if it were happening to you.”

  “I know. But I’m a little too big for the gowns.” He grinned again, and his genuine good humor soothed her in a strangely unexpected way. Sitting back, she let Runt do his thing.

  It took him about ten minutes to brush, pat, powder and inspect. Her face felt like she had on a mask that would crack if she smiled, but when she slowly dared a change of expression, everything felt the same. When he was finished, she glanced around for a hand mirror.

  Jack whistled. “You should charge for that, my friend.” He looked a bit dazed, but as his eyes met hers, they gleamed with an unmistakable sexual intent. Hastily she glanced away.

  Runt stood back beside Jack and nodded. “I did a pretty damn good job if I do say so myself.”

  Frannie sniffed. “Did I look that bad before?”

  Both men looked startled. Then Jack smiled and came toward her, touching her painted lips in a bare whisper of a kiss that left her longing for more. “This is nice for special occasions, but I’ve always been partial to the real thing.”

  She was pleased all out of proportion to the simple statement, and she didn’t know what to say. Luckily, Runt was issuing orders and they both turned to do his bidding.

  If these photographs turned out half-decent, she’d be amazed, she thought an hour later. Runt had posed and prodded her, powdered her nose and tilted her head just so. He’d stuck a bunch of silk
lilies in her hands and did God-knew-what behind her with the feathers. He’d even asked for her curling iron and did little things to her hair after he’d gotten her to tuck most of it up in what would pass for a pretty upsweep. In a photo. From a distance. She hoped.

  She wished she was Alexa, whom Jack had taken upstairs for a nap halfway through this ordeal. She was exhausted. And sweaty. And incredibly uncomfortable.

  The last gown they’d shot was a traditional style with a high collar and a cutout that revealed more than half her breasts before the heavier peau-de-soie satin bodice hid the goods. Had she really cut this so low on purpose? The whole thing was encrusted with seed pearls and iridescent sequins and appliqúes of alençon lace. The bodice nipped in at the waist and hugged her down to her hips, where it flared into an immense, full, floor-length skirt with a cathedral train no sane bride would want to bother with. It had been a special order for a wedding that had been canceled at the last minute. She hadn’t been too upset, since the bride’s mother had already paid for half, and had tearfully instructed Frannie, “You can keep the dress. Burn it, resell it, I don’t care. I just don’t want my daughter to have to look at it and be reminded of this day.” Sob, sniff, commiserate, end of conversation.

  “I’ll get the proofs to you sometime next week,” Runt said to Jack. He was already laden down with equipment to take to his car, and Jack offered to help. She decided to stay right where she was until there was room to move again in the workroom. Jack had had to help her up onto the raised dias in front of the mirror where Runt had posed her, and she wasn’t at all sure she could maneuver the dress well enough to get down without breaking her neck.

  In no time at all, Runt was waving farewell and winking at her. “Keep this guy in line. He needs a good woman to tame him.”

  She smiled, embarrassed that her feelings must show. “He’s not the tamable type.”

  As Runt went out the door, she shuffled forward, feeling with her bare toes for the edge of the platform. She hadn’t bothered with shoes since they wouldn’t be visible, anyway. With her left hand, she grabbed handfuls of slippery peau-de-soie that she stuffed under one arm as she tried to pick up enough of the mile-long train to be able to walk. She reached for the sheer organdy veil with the other hand—and the smooth satin under her elbow all went slithering down to the floor in a vast, white puddle.

  Jack walked back in from the front, where he had locked the door behind Runt. When he saw her, he started to laugh. “Need a hand?”

  “Please. This is my worst nightmare. I told that woman when she insisted on this ridiculous dress that it wasn’t practical. I didn’t know it would be a safety hazard, though!”

  Jack shoved the white cloud aside and stepped toward her, still laughing. “Come here. I’ll rescue you.” Setting both hands at her waist, he lifted her off her feet. She grabbed at his shoulders for balance as he pivoted and took a few steps away, setting her down next to the worktable with the train billowing out behind her.

  “Thank you.” And she really meant it. “If I get out of this, I swear I’ll never put on another wedding gown again!” She looked up at him, laughing now, too.

  “Are you sure about that?” His voice sounded funny, deep and smooth, but she didn’t have a chance to speak. Lowering his head, he sought out her lips as he gathered her closely against him in a possessive grip.

  “Jack, wait!” She evaded his lips, reading his intent in his eyes. “I have to get out of this dress.”

  “Wrong. I like you in this getup. It inspired me.”

  “Inspired you?” She turned her head to keep him from capturing her in another kiss, and instead his lips fastened on her earlobe, sucking it into his mouth and swirling his tongue around the tender skin in a caress that surprised her with its erotic message.

  “You made me think about what I was missing.” There was a warm light in his silvery eyes as he tightened his arms around her and drew her closer again. “Marry me.”

  “Ma—? Have these dresses scrambled your brain?” Taking refuge in flip banter, she pushed against his chest. Her sudden action surprised him, she could see it in his eyes, and he automatically let her go. Quickly she backed away a step. She was breathless; her heart was banging so loudly she could almost hear it.

  “Maybe.” He closed the gap between them and placed his big hands along her cheeks, cradling her jaw. “But I mean it. Marry me, Frannie. We make a hell of a team.”

  Only Jack, she thought, with fleeting amusement, could relate a proposal of marriage to a sporting event. But her head was spinning and the world was whirling and as she reached up and clasped his thick wrists, he moved faster, lowering his head and taking her mouth in one of the intimate kisses that always melted her bones, her brains and any resistance she might have had. Sagging against him, she was captured by the magic that ignited, as always, when he touched her.

  His hands moved from her cheeks, down her shoulders and around her back, and he pulled her as close as the petticoats beneath the dress would allow. An impatient sound rumbled up from the back of his throat. “You have on too damned many layers.”

  She smiled against his lips, although she was reeling in shock. “I know.”

  “And you haven’t answered me yet.”

  “I know.”

  He kissed her again, deliberately doing his best to seduce her now. “Marry me.”

  When he lifted his mouth from hers, she hesitated. God, this wasn’t fair. He was offering her the moon but she knew it was an illusion. He didn’t love her, though he certainly proved over and over again that he wanted her. And he needed her. She remembered Jill’s warning: Don’t take on this responsibility hoping it will lead to anything more. Deirdre had said he might marry again now that he had a child to care for. And he knew firsthand that she was experienced with children. Could she live with him, love him, knowing he’d married her out of practicality rather than passion? Heaven knew he hadn’t had to offer her marriage to get the passion part, though she couldn’t regret it. In her heart, she’d said, “I do,” the night he’d first made her his, committing herself to him and only him.

  So, the question wasn’t whether or not she wanted to marry him. Rather, she had to ask herself if she could take him for her husband for the rest of her life, knowing she could never say the simple words of love any other woman took as her right? Never hear them?

  The possibility of heartbreak seemed more like a promise. But down the other road to her future lay a lonely path empty of children, of warm companionship, of the intense sexual fulfillment no one but Jack would ever be able to give her.

  And she loved him.

  She took a deep breath and met his silver gaze, tossing good sense and caution to the floor to join the yards of fabric in which they stood. “All right. I’ll marry you.”

  He went completely still when she uttered the words. For a long moment he was a man of marble, still and frozen. Then his chest rose and fell in one deep breath. He threw back his head, right there in her workroom, and howled. Loudly. Wolf-wailing-at-the-moon loudly.

  “Sh-h-h! You’ll wake the baby!” She was just starting to giggle when he covered her mouth with his own again, lifting her off her feet and bending her backward over his arm so that she clutched at his neck to regain her balance. His mouth was a hot, hungry animal devouring her response, drinking in the little noises she couldn’t hold back, invading the fortress behind her teeth with such devastating surety that she never thought of putting up a defense.

  He turned and set her on the edge of the workbench, though he kept her so deeply immersed in kisses that she barely recognized the motion. His arms loosened slowly, stroking over the slippery satin and running up and down her back, then moving around her torso to her ribs, finally arriving at his ultimate destination as he dipped below the daring cutout neck of the dress to palm her breasts, lifting them out of their confinement and into his hands. His thumbs brushed back and forth, calling her nipples to his touch, and she nearly leaped off the ben
ch as the stimulation spread a rioting radius of sensation rolling outward, unerringly arrowing down to concentrate at the waiting portal of her body. Then his mouth left hers and fastened fiercely on one peaked crest, suckling so strongly she almost screamed aloud. As it was, she moaned wildly, spreading her fingers and spearing them through his hair, keeping his head a prisoner at her breast.

  He surged against her, spreading her thighs with the pressure of his body, moving between her legs only to be foiled by the fabric between them. She shifted and took her hands from his head, gripping the edge of the table and pushing herself against him, and without warning, he was a blur of movement, a whirlwind of action, pulling the white skirts up and shoving them behind her, inexorably removing barrier after barrier until she felt the rough fabric of his slacks grazing against the tender flesh of her inner thighs. He surged against her once and then slipped fluidly out of her grasp, down her body, pressing hot kisses against her through the satin until his mouth was suddenly, shockingly nuzzling at the aching feminine flesh between her legs, his breath burning her through her thin panties and his tongue licking insistently against the fabric, dampening it in his quest for her essence. His palms settled against her inner thighs, holding her open to his skillful ministrations as he nibbled and licked until he located the throbbing nub of her desire, settling around her and playing her with devastating precision.

  Then she did cry out, throwing her head back and bracing herself on her hands, pushing her body forward, mutely begging for him to assuage her longing. With a deep, incoherent sound, he rose, tearing at his pants, then the flimsy fabric of her panties, rending them and tossing them aside in one smooth motion that demonstrated vividly the power he held in check.

  She had a second’s view of his blazing eyes as he leaned over her, his hand between them guiding himself to the entrance of her body without hesitation, then without a second’s delay, he shoved forward, grasping her hips and pulling her onto him. She let the force of his big body carry her backward until she was lying on the table, anchored to earth only by the ferocious pounding of his hard, sizzling flesh that crowded into her until she was nothing but his, a receptacle for his taking, begging him with incoherent sounds of surrender to give her what she needed. He hung over her, his gaze drinking in her response, his body surrounded by her, and she knew a deep, feminine satisfaction within her as she read his eyes correctly, wrapping her bared legs around his back and tilting herself upward, wordlessly encouraging him to give in to the shaking, speeding rhythm of his hips. He shoved his hands beneath her, grasping her buttocks and pulling them wide and the unaccustomed sensation opened her mouth in a soundless scream as her own body began its inevitable rush toward climax, meeting and squeezing his jerking, thrusting flesh as he arched his back in age-old masculine ecstasy and poured his seed into the waiting vessel of her womb.