by Sandra Paul
In the evening he talked her into going out for dinner. They’d driven all the way into Grant’s Pass for a cozy meal at the Yankee Pot Roast. He thought she would enjoy the quaint brick restaurant, created from a Victorian house—and she had. Afterward, she refused to let him buy her flowers at a nearby florist, but when they got home, he managed to coax her into bed for some “extra rest.” They didn’t come out of his room until late the next morning.
Tuesday afternoon he was full of energy; Libby seemed the tiniest bit irritable. Despite his orders not to bother, she insisted on straightening the house. When she came into his room, he caught her up in his arms and laid her down on the bed. She immediately tried to rise again, and he gently shoved her back down. He sat beside her, capturing both her hands in his to keep her in place.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Let me up, you…you…big oaf.”
He lifted his brows in pretended astonishment. “Is that the best you can do? Good Lord, not only are you cranky, you also have a limited vocabulary.”
“I am not cranky!”
He shook his head sadly, trying not to laugh at her outraged expression. “Yes, I’m afraid you are. I hope our daughter isn’t listening. Let’s find out.” Releasing her hands, he gently laid his ear against her stomach. “Support Crew to Mission Control. Can you hear me in there?”
“For goodness’ sake…” Libby gave his shoulder a halfhearted shove.
He ignored her, saying, “Wait! I’ve gotten through. I think she wants to tell us something.”
“He—I mean, oh, get away from me.”
Del lifted his head and regarded her sternly. “Stay still. All this wriggling around is causing static.” He put his head against her again, apparently listening. “What? What’s that you say? Mom’s grumpy because she hasn’t had sex in twelve hours? Tsk, tsk.”
This time Libby pushed him so hard he slipped off the bed. “Sexual deprivation is not my problem,” she said, her lips primly pursed.
He climbed lithely to his feet. “Nor mine, eitherafter last night. No, I think your problem is you need a nap. Why don’t you take one while I start dinner?”
“I’m not even tired,” Libby said, with just the hint of whine in her voice. She must have heard it, too, because she winced and conceded, “Okay, I’ll lie here for a few minutes.”
When he checked on her two hours later, she was still sound asleep, her hand tucked under her cheek. He covered her up—intending to leave her alone the rest of the night. But when he started to straighten, she’d reached up, tentatively touching his bare shoulder, and he laid down beside her, forgetting his good intentions.
On Wednesday Susan called to ask him to fix her malfunctioning garage door opener. He hadn’t wanted to go, but finally agreed when Libby kept urging him to. Faintly piqued at her lack of jealousy, he’d spent an hour on the ten-minute job, hoping she would miss him—then spent two hours pacing the house when he got home, until she returned from a walk to the library. She seemed surprised at his concern, and politely declined his suggestion to let him know where she’d be the next time she went out. His annoyance with her lasted until evening. He finally forgave her when it was time to go to bed.
On Thursday morning they had decided to go shopping when the phone rang. Libby didn’t complain when he disappeared into the study to handle the call from his supervisor, and ended up working on the computer for a solid three hours. Afterward, though, she seemed a little quiet as they scoured the stores to find what she called “exactly the right color for the bassinet cover.” After waiting twenty minutes while she vacillated between yellow and green, Del pressed her to make a choice.
To his shock, she suddenly burst into tears. He took her into his arms. She was trembling a little, and he pressed his lips against her forehead, trying to comfort her. She sighed and rested against him a moment, before pushing gently away to stand on her own two feet. Despite her protests, he bought her both covers and rushed her home and back to bed. For once he didn’t join her. Instead, he brought up her favorite peanut butter and banana sandwiches on a tray, heroically refraining from grimacing while she ate the loathsome combination.
Later that evening, she insisted on going to their childbirth class. During the break, the women headed for the chairs, even Barbie no longer disdaining the relative comfort. Soon everyone was discussing baby names. The Benedicts admitted they were open to suggestions. Linda and Howard had narrowed their list down to Troy, Bubba or Dion.
Barbie ran a complacent hand down her beige silk maternity smock. “Our precious darling will be Kenneth Iven Patterson, Jr.—after his father,” she announced. “Kenneth means ‘handsome one’ and Iven means ‘little yew-bow.’“
The group made suitably admiring noises except for Del. “Kip,” he said, standing next to Libby’s chair.
Barbie glanced in his direction, her smile fading. “I beg your pardon?”
“The other kids will probably call him Kip-because of his initials,” Del elaborated. “Or maybe Junior or Butch.”
Barbie’s expression said clearly “over-my-deadbody” before she smiled sweetly. “That’s an interesting thought. So, what are you planning on naming your little boy—girl?”
Del glanced at Libby. She hesitated. “I was thinking of Nicholas-after my father.”
Barbie clasped her hands together. “How.cute. Although he might get called St. Nick. Are you sure you don’t want to call him—what is it?—Delbert? After his father?”
Libby merely shook her head.
Del drawled, “My name isn’t Delbert.”
Libby didn’t say much after that, nor mention the conversation on the way home, but later, as they lay in bed together, she brought up the subject. The covers were tucked up to cover her bare breasts, her hair fanned out over her pillow. Hazy moonlight filtered in through the open curtain, faintly illuminating her solemn expression as she asked, “You’re a junior, too, aren’t you, Del? I think Christine mentioned once that you’re named after your dad.”
Del was lying on his side facing her, propped on his elbow as he lazily sifted her hair though his fingers. At her question, he let his fingers drift down along the smooth warmth of her cheek to her mouth. Idly tracing the plump curve of her lower lip, he admitted, “Actually I’m the fifth Delaney to be saddled with the family name. My great-great-grandfather started the tradition of sticking the firstborn son with a tag that the kid spends the rest of his life either trying to hide or fighting over.”
She smiled faintly and ran a finger along the bump on his nose. “Christine says that’s how you broke your nose—fighting with a kid who teased you over your name. She says since then she hasn’t dared tell anyone else what your real name is.”
He tapped her nose back in teasing warning. “Because she knows she’ll be in big trouble if she does.” His thumb gently brushed Libby’s lower lip, back and forth, before his hand slid lower to tilt up her chin.
His gaze met hers. He murmured, “Only the people who really love me are allowed to know my real name.”
Libby stared silently up at him, her big eyes searching his in the semidarkness. Del waited, his muscles tensing in hope and anticipation. Ask me, he urged her silently. Come on, Libby. Ask me my real name.
She didn’t speak. Anticipation ebbed away and an ache grew in his chest. When she started to move away from his touch, his grip tightened and his mouth closed fiercely over hers.
He kissed her without stopping, exploring the soft skin of her cheek, the sharp edge of her teeth, the exciting, faint roughness of her shy tongue. He kissed her until her breath came in short pants and her arms curled tightly around his neck.
Moving lower, his lips roamed the sensitive column of her neck, the hollows in her shoulders. He delicately tasted her so-sensitive nipples and the ripe curve of her stomach. Down, down he moved, gently nipping her thighs until she shivered with excitement, then he kissed his way to the curls at the apex of her thighs, ignoring her dwindling protests and concentrating i
nstead on the feel of her hands in his hair, clutching him to her—the sound of her satisfied moans as she climaxed.
Overwhelmed by a sudden fierce need to be inside her, he moved back up and behind her, pulling her into his arms. He entered her carefully, tenderly, moving slowly until the tension built and her muscles tightened, until she writhed and moaned in his arms. He couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t hold her tight enough to him as they moved together in an everincreasing rhythm. His muscles clenched, sweat built on his body. It felt too good. He fought to hold back the feeling bursting within him, and finally her muscles squeezed him in tiny spasms.
His groans of completion mingled with her soft cries. Spooned together, his body still curved around hers, they lay together as their breathing slowed.
When he held her in his arms, whenever they made love, everything felt right with the world. Full of contentment, Del had almost drifted off to sleep when he felt Libby ease out of his hold. An odd emptiness growing inside him, he watched from beneath lowered lashes as she moved to the far side of the bed and turned away with a sigh.
She’d been turning away a lot of times lately, he realized suddenly. In bed and out.
Long after she’d fallen asleep, Del lay with his hands linked behind his head, staring up at the dark ceiling. He couldn’t kid himself any longer, things still weren’t right between them.
He’d thought if he could get her to come to him, their problems would be resolved. He’d thought if he could get her back into his bed, everything would be like it had been before—the first time they’d made love.
But it wasn’t. Libby was friendly enough, but there were no more of those deep, soul-satisfying conversations like they’d had those few far-off days when they’d first met—when they’d been completely honest with each other, revealing things they never had before. Oh, she talked—she especially talked about the baby. Her future plans for him, how she’d take care of him. But she wasn’t asking for Del’s advice or including him in those plans. She’d be able to share the same things with a chance stranger she’d met on the streets—like that damn doctor, he thought with a sour taste in his mouth.
Del suspected she no longer wanted to share anything intimate with him at all. Even during lovemaking, he was always aware that she was holding something back, keeping a part of herself aloof. It baffled and enraged him. But what really hurt was the way she’d move away afterward, placing a careful distance between them in the bed. It was as if that foot or so of empty white sheet negated what they’d just shared.
His jaw clenched and he sat up. Well, it wouldn’t work—not anymore. He reached over and carefully drew Libby’s limp, sleeping form into his arms. She snuggled her head on his shoulder and draped a leg and arm across him. He dropped a kiss on her soft hair.
Holding her close, he tried desperately to think of a way to get her to abandon this game she was playing. They weren’t strangers; they were lovers. She belonged to him.
The firm curve of her stomach pressed against his hip. The baby kicked faintly and Del placed his hand against the tiny movement. The baby belonged to him, too.
His eyes narrowed. Maybe that was the problem. As long as she refused to admit the baby was his, Libby was able to pretend that they weren’t as involved as they were. Once she admitted to everyone the baby was his, would she still feel such a need for distance? Probably not. But could she be persuaded to admit to everyone that he was the father? He doubted it.
So maybe she’d have to be trapped into the admission.
A small smile played at the corners of his mouth. He hugged her a little closer. This time he’d make certain Libby was well and truly caught.
They were caught late the next morning lying in bed as Christine and Dorrie Jean walked past the open bedroom door.
Del watched from beneath half-closed lids, his arm draped around Libby, as the two women paused in the hallway, identical expressions of shock on both faces.
He had heard them coming. Christine’s chatter, as she unlocked the door downstairs a few minutes earlier, would have been hard to miss. When he heard them climbing the stairs, Chris complaining all the way to Dorrie Jean about the weight of her suitcases, he’d started to wake Libby—only to think better of the idea. This might be the opportunity he’d been hoping for. If his sister and Dorrie saw them in bed, Libby couldn’t deny her involvement with him any longer.
At that moment, Libby turned and cuddled closer, sealing her fate. Del decided to wait just a few minutes more.
His sister blurted out, “Omigosh!” before Dorrie managed to yank her out of sight. That ought to do it, he thought. Now to wake up Libby.
“Sweetheart…” he crooned softly in her ear.
She scrunched up her face in annoyance and burrowed farther into her pillow.
He waited a few seconds and tried again. “Libby…” The pink lobe of her ear was too tempting. He nibbled on it gently.
This time she responded. She gave a husky chuckle, while at the same time snuggling her bottom more firmly against him.
Gallantly, Del resisted her unspoken invitation. “Libby,” he murmured a little louder, “Christine is home.”
“That’s nice.” Libby sighed, pillowing her cheek on her hand. “Tell her—” She jerked upright. “What did you say?”
He met her gaze calmly. “I said Christine is back from her trip a day early.”
“Oh, no,” she moaned. Pushing her hair out of her face, she searched frantically through the rumpled bedclothes. “Oh, no,” she said again and began tunneling her way beneath the covers to the foot of the bed.
Del regarded the wiggling lump of her bottom with interest. “What’re you doing? Trying to hide?”
“Don’t be silly! I’m trying to find my nightgown. I need to get out of here before Christine sees me.”
“She’s already seen you.” He added on an afterthought. “Dorrie Jean, too.”
The lump under the bedclothes froze, then moaned again. “Oh, no!”
“Yep.” Del stretched luxuriously, yawning hugely. Scratching his chest, he glanced around and caught sight of Libby’s nightgown on the floor next to the bed. Stealthily, he snaked his leg out from beneath the covers into the cold morning air and hooked the gown on his toe. Hauling it up, he hastily stuffed it under his pillow. He leaned back, linking his hands behind his head just as she popped up from beneath the covers again.
“Where could it be?” she wailed, holding the blankets to her chin.
He shrugged.
“There it is!” She pounced on a bit of lace poking out from beneath his pillow and pulled the gown out. Del sighed regretfully, hastily assuming a surprised expression when she glanced his way. “How on earth did it get there?” she asked suspiciously.
He innocently spread his hands, palms up. “I have no idea.”
Still holding the bedclothes up over her breasts, Libby struggled into her nightie. “You think they saw us?”
“Yeah.”
Her anxious face pushed through the neck opening. “You’re sure?”
He pictured Christine’s astounded expression. “Very.”
“Well, what are we going to do?”
“What can we do but go down and say hello? We can’t stay up here all day.” He swung his legs out of the bed, standing up for another stretch.
Libby quickly averted her eyes from his nude form—then snuck a quick peek. Although she’d tried to hide it, she never could resist looking at him.
Catching her studying him, his gaze heated. “Unless you want to stay up here.”
Her fists clenched as she looked pointedly away. “How can you joke?”
“It’s not the end of the world, Lib.” He pulled on his jeans, buttoning them as he turned to face her. “Get dressed and we’ll go down and face them together.”
“No. Not now. Not together.” She envisioned Christine’s shock, her own humiliation.
His brows drew together and he placed his hands on his hips. “Are you ashamed o
f being seen with me?”
“Yes.” His scowl deepened and she added hastily, “Oh, not with you per se, but what are they going to think? Here I am—pregnant—and already in bed with who they believe is another man.”
“So we’ll tell them the truth—that you’ve only ever slept with me and that’s my kid you’re carrying.”
“I can’t do that—I don’t want to do that. What would everyone say?”
Del shook his head in exasperation. “Who cares?”
Libby gazed at him, her eyes stricken. “I do.”
Softening a bit at the distressed look on her face, Del added, “Don’t worry about it. Run along and get dressed. I’ll go down and explain.” He headed to the door.
“No! Maybe I can convince them not to tell anyone.”
He paused. “Dorrie Jean won’t tell anyone.”
Libby looked up hopefully. “She won’t?”
“Nope.”
His tone was so definite Libby relaxed a little—only to tense again as he added, “Christine will, though.”
She shoved at the covers. “I have to stop her. Don’t say anything until I get there.”
“Libby.” He gave her a reproachful look. “Don’t you trust me?”
Before she could answer, he strode out the door.
Libby hurried to stop him, but by the time she made it into the hall, he’d already disappeared down the stairs. She raced up to her bedroom, threw on some clothes and dashed down again, entering the kitchen in a breathless rush.
Christine and Dorrie Jean both glanced up at her arrival. Chris was sitting with both elbows leaning on the table, while Dorrie Jean appeared to be edging toward the door.
Dorrie Jean put her hand on the knob. “Hello, Libby. Sorry to have, uh, woken you up.” Her face flamed with embarrassment. “I’d better get home now. Mother is waiting for me to drive her to her pedicure.”
“Let me walk you out, Dorrie,” Libby said, ignoring Del’s bland look and Chris’s surreptitious wink. “I want to talk to you a minute.”