Along Came Love

by Tracey Livesay

  He jotted off a quick text, telling her to stay indoors, that he’d explain it all after his meeting. He and Indi might need to relocate. Of course, if the paparazzi cared enough to camp out at his condo, his house in Palo Alto wouldn’t be safe, either. Maybe they could stay at Adam’s place in the mountains for a few days? Until this all blew over.

  “The media office has already received requests for interviews and they’ve forwarded them to me. How do you plan to respond?”

  “I don’t.”

  “We have to. We’ve started a precedent with Adam and Chelsea.”

  “I’m not Adam.”

  “I’m aware of that, but the implication is that you’re cheating on Skylar and—­”

  Fuck!

  He dialed Skylar’s number. It was almost noon in New York. It went straight to voice mail. Was her phone off or was she refusing to take his call?

  He dialed again . . . and left a message. “Skylar, when you get this message, give me a call. It’s urgent.”

  “Sir.” Evan hurried to his side. “The conference call has already started. You really need to get to your office.”

  “But we need a plan,” Anya said. “Choosing not to respond is an option, but not a good one.”

  His chest felt like a sponge squeezed to within an inch of its life. Anya’s panic, Evan’s urgency, Skylar’s possible telephonic rebuff, chaos supplanting the calm and order he preferred in his business and his life. None of this would be happening if Indi hadn’t charged into his life with the finesse of a tornado.

  He exhaled sharply, his nanosecond of self-­pity over. “Anya, you’re right, we need to react to the inquiries, but I can’t right now. Go back to your office and come up with several sample responses to appease any interested parties then begin drafting protocol on how we should handle this issue in the future. I’ll find you when I’m done with my meeting.”

  Without waiting for her to reply, he strode to his office, Evan falling into step beside him. “Send Skylar flowers. The same kind we sent on Valentine’s Day. I don’t know her address in New York. You can call her office to get it.”

  Like putting a bandage on a gaping wound, but it’d have to do until he could talk to her and not her voice mail.

  When he’d completed his conference call over an hour later, there’d still been no response from Skylar.

  Sully rapped once, then entered his office. “Dude, you’re fucked!”

  Mike didn’t know why the attorney even bothered to knock. He never waited for permission. “You’re not helping.”

  “Have your plans changed?” Sully shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks. Although it was barely midmorning, he’d already shed the jacket and tie. “Because that picture does not look like two ­people planning to give a child up for adoption. It looks like a ­couple eager to make another one.”

  He clenched his fingers into a fist. “It was a misconstrued moment in time.”

  “Uh-­huh. I hate to break this to you, but unless both you and India were simultaneously looking at other ­people who happened to be just outside the frame, there’s no mistaking the heat rays bouncing between the two of you.” Sully lifted one shoulder. “It put me in the mood.”

  Damn.

  “Have you talked to Skylar?”

  Mike didn’t answer. He buzzed Evan. “Did you order the flowers?”

  “Yes” came his assistant’s brisk voice. “They promised they’d deliver them by midafternoon.”

  Sully rubbed his jaw. “You don’t really believe a bouquet will solve this problem?”

  Mike slammed his palm flat on the desk, embracing the pain radiating up his arm. “No! Current situation to the contrary, I’m not an idiot. But I have to do something.”

  “You could fly to New York, talk to her in person.”

  Better than a bouquet, except—­“I’m responsible for Indi while she’s out on bail.”

  Viv Sutton had called yesterday, informing him she’d filed her notice of appearance with the court and would reach out to the district attorney’s office to set up a meeting before the arraignment.

  “Take her with you.”

  Oh, that was sure to get Skylar’s forgiveness. Show up with the other woman in the picture, the same woman who happened to be pregnant with his child, the same child he planned to raise.

  Sully must’ve read the look on his face because he waved a hand. “Bad idea. Never mind. Forget I was here,” he said, leaving the office.

  “If only I could,” Mike muttered.

  Everything was on the line. He’d known it might come to this, but that would have been because of the choices he’d made. He hated that someone else’s actions were forcing his hand. This picture wouldn’t just affect his relationship with Skylar, it could very well affect his deal with TTL.

  What did it say about him, about their relationship, that he was more concerned about the latter?

  Maybe nothing about him, but everything about Indi and the feelings she aroused in him.

  Two nights ago, the late hour had forced him from his desk. But instead of making the turn that led to his house in Palo Alto, he’d kept going, heading back to San Francisco.

  And to Indi.

  She’d asked him why and he’d told her the truth. He’d been drawn back to her and their child, unable to stay away. Walking into the condo had been a homecoming. Everything in him eased, reinforced with a sense of peace.

  Whether that was tied to Indi or Nugget or the both of them, he’d yet to determine. He thought he’d have more time. It looked like his time was running out.

  Evan buzzed him. “Your mother’s on line one.”

  And the hits kept on coming.

  “Who’s the woman in the picture?” Barbara’s normally loving tone was coated in disapproval and reserve, the censorious voice of his rare youthful indiscretions.

  He winced. “You saw it?”

  “Your sister sent me a link to an article.”

  Mike gritted his teeth. He was going to kill Morgan.

  “I thought you were dating Skylar Thompson. I’ve tried to not push or get involved in your affairs, but your father seems to believe your relationship is serious.”

  Nothing would make his father happier. “With that type of woman by your side, the sky’s the limit,” Robert had said, when he’d called after a picture of Mike and Skylar had appeared in the San Francisco society pages.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” he told his mother.

  “It looks like you’re seeing two different women. Which is your business. You’re not married. But I hope you’re being honest and upfront with both of them about your intentions.” A pause. “And using protection.”

  Good God! Is this what it’d come to, taking advice about his sex life from his mother?

  “I don’t think your father’s seen it. Yet.”

  One more thing he’d have to deal with. If Robert thought Skylar personified the wind beneath his wings, what would he say about Indi?

  “So you’re still coming this weekend?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Good. Should I add a plus one for you?” His mother’s voice was the essence of innocence.

  He wasn’t fooled.

  Mike rolled his eyes skyward. “What happened to not getting involved in my affairs? Don’t you have enough on your plate?”

  Between Indi and the baby, Skylar and TTL, and dealing with his father and his sister, he had more than enough to keep him busy.

  “Fine. I’m off to make sure Katherine Givens doesn’t skimp on the decorations for the reception after the ceremony. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  And he was off to inform Indi about the imminent family gathering.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE SMALL COASTAL Northern California town of Barton Park was an idyllic place t
o grow up and Mike usually enjoyed his trips back to visit his family.

  But this time there’d be no early morning family surfing trips to the beach, no drive to the state park to hike the waterfall paths with Morgan, no stroll to the local winery to watch his mom taste the seasonal flights.

  He’d be showing up for his father’s celebration . . . with Indi in tow.

  Oh, she’d argue he could leave her behind and she’d proven she could take care of herself in the unfamiliar city, as long as she refrained from breaking and entering into anyone else’s home. But he’d be away for three days. What if Indi was gone when he got back? And while he knew she understood the consequences of leaving the jurisdiction while still on bail, her impetuousness could override her judiciousness, her recent brush with the criminal justice system his chief case in point.

  But that picture . . .

  Maybe he should head to Barton Point without her. Despite what he’d told Sully and his mother, the picture was exactly what it looked like. He’d stupidly believed he could relegate Indi and their weekend together to an inconsequential footnote in his life. Yet that picture—­taken by an objective third party—­proved that neither of them was as impervious to the other as they’d professed.

  Which complicated his life in fiendish ways.

  He would raise his child, either with Indi’s consent or the court’s involvement, but if Skylar had seen that picture—­and it was time to face the facts: she had—­would knowing the depth of the attraction between him and the baby’s mother affect her reaction to Nugget and her decision to marry him? And what chance did the deal with TTL have without Skylar by his side?

  Shrugging his shoulders to try to alleviate the sudden tightness that had taken hold like a trespassing squatter, he entered his condo . . . and was immediately welcomed by the tantalizing smell of home-­cooked food.

  Indi.

  A quick scan of the kitchen and living area failed to yield the woman who’d invaded his life, his home, and his thoughts. A pop of color materialized in his peripheral vision. Indi stood on the balcony that spanned the back of his condo, wearing bright blue leggings and a hot pink tank top with straps that crisscrossed her upper back. She’d pulled her braids into a ponytail on the crown of her head.

  His heartbeat shifting into high gear, he sat his phone and keys on the counter and watched as Indi settled on her belly and then, in a fluid, lithe gesture, rose up until it looked like she was doing a push-­up. In between one breath and the next, she lifted her hips and bent her body to an inverted V. Several seconds later, she lifted one foot in the air. Gracefully, she brought the leg down and surged forward into a low lunge between her hands. Stretching that leg back, she lowered her body into the push-­up position and the entire routine began again.

  He poured bourbon into a glass and leaned his hip against the wall. The orange glare of the setting sun speckled through the downtown skyline and alighted on her limber form. She was stunning. He’d known his share of beautiful women, but something about this one captivated him—­had from the first moment he’d seen her. It wasn’t just her looks: her enticing warm vanilla scent, the husky timbre of her voice, the dewy suppleness of her skin. She was ambrosia to all his senses. He reached down and adjusted himself. Did getting turned on by a yoga session make him a pervert?

  India straightened and brought both arms over her head, swaying slightly from side to side. Pressing her hands together, she lowered them in front of her. Her chest expanded, then deflated, and her posture relaxed. She turned and jumped slightly when their gazes met. His breath clung to his lungs like an anxious toddler and they stared at each other for a long moment before she looked away.

  He exhaled.

  “When did you get home?” she asked, meeting him in the kitchen after entering through the sliding door.

  He refused to admit he’d been standing there gawking at her.

  “I just walked in,” he said, handing her a bottle of water.

  “Thanks.” She twisted off the top and took a lengthy swig.

  It gave him another opportunity to watch her—­unobserved—­an activity that was fast becoming his go-­to diversion. Initially, he’d believed her to be this waif of a woman. He’d eventually discovered that, though she was slender, she was strong. Even now, with her arms bare, he could see the definition in her biceps, the leanness of her hips, the power in her thighs.

  He brushed his knuckles down her side. She shivered, but didn’t move away from his touch.

  “You’re barely showing.”

  It was true. If he hadn’t enjoyed an intimate and days-­long seminar on the shape of her body, he’d be fooled into thinking the gentle swell in her lower abdomen was natural and not evidence of the existence of their baby.

  “If it weren’t for the nausea, I could pretend I’d just indulged in apple pie topped with Jamoca almond fudge ice cream”—­she gestured airily to her chest—­“the day after my new boob job.”

  Oh yeah, he’d definitely noticed those. They’d felt amazing crushed against him. What had once fit nicely in his hand now looked to overflow his palm.

  “Didn’t you do some of those poses during our weekend together?”

  He realized what he’d given away a second too late.

  Way to sound like a stalker. You told her you’d just walked in.

  Her eyes widened, but she nodded and answered his question. “I’ve been practicing yoga for a while. It makes me feel powerful and at peace in my body.”

  Relieved she didn’t call him out, he asked, “Is it dangerous for the baby?”

  “No. I read the pamphlet Dr. Kimball gave me. As long as I stay away from Bikram yoga—­”

  He paused, the tumbler halfway to his lips. “Bikram?”

  “Doing yoga for an hour and a half in a room that’s over one hundred degrees.”

  “Why in the hell would anyone do that?”

  She laughed. “I’m not a regular practitioner, but I have tried it a few times.”

  “But not while pregnant?” It sounded more dangerous than beneficial.

  She perched on one of the wooden bar stools that matched his cabinets. “Just regular yoga. As long as I listen to my body and don’t engage in any overly strenuous poses, doing this is actually good for me and the baby.”

  He nodded. Then said, “I got a call from my mother.”

  She stiffened and her lashes swept down to create dusky shadows beneath her eyes. “Did you tell her about the baby?”

  “No, but she knows about us.”

  “There is no ‘us,’ ” she said, playing with the water bottle’s plastic top.

  He clenched his jaw at her continued insistence of their non-­status. “She doesn’t know who you are, but she knows that we may have been . . . involved.”

  Her fine brows crammed toward one another. “That makes absolutely no sense.”

  He picked up his phone and pulled up the photo Anya had texted to him.

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “Is that from—­”

  “The Youth Alliance, yes. Congratulations, we’re in the society pages.”

  “Do they know who I am?”

  “No, not yet. But with the ­People magazine spread coming out, it won’t take long.” And because he couldn’t help himself, he added, “Which is why I told you to stay in the house.”

  “I didn’t leave,” she protested.

  “But you went out on the balcony. Easy pickings for anyone with a telephoto lens.”

  “If you’d explained the reasoning behind your demand, instead of shooting off a terse text, I probably would’ve stayed inside.” She bent her head to study the picture then lifted wide, light brown eyes. “And your mother saw this?”

  “Uh-­huh. My sister showed it to her.”

  She bit her lip, leaving a tantalizing trail of moisture behind. “What did you tel
l them?”

  “Nothing.”

  She shoved a hand on her hip. “Don’t you think it’ll be a little hard to hide the fact that you’re suddenly raising a child?”

  Excitement stole the moisture from his mouth. “Does that mean you’ve made a decision?”

  She winced. “I’m just saying . . .”

  His sprouting enthusiasm shriveled and died on the vine. “I didn’t tell my mother anything because I’d prefer to do it when I see her tomorrow.”

  “Is she coming to San Francisco?”

  “No, I’m going to visit them. The town where I was born is throwing a gala in my father’s honor.”

  “Impressive. What did your father do?”

  “He’s owned a very successful commercial real-­estate business for the past thirty-­five years. He was also the mayor for sixteen years.”

  “So you’re like the town’s first son?”

  He’d never thought of it in that way, but there had been major perks growing up in Barton Point as the son of Robert Black.

  A few disadvantages, too.

  “Sounds like fun.” She finished the water and tossed the bottle in the recycling bin. “You should have a good time.”

  “We both will.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re going with me.”

  “Oh no.” She jumped down off the stool and walked out of the kitchen.

  He followed her. “Oh yes.”

  “How do you plan to explain me, the baby, the picture, and your girlfriend?”

  It sounded like the title of a raunchy comedy from the seventies.

  “This weekend is about my father. The last thing I want is to answer questions about our convoluted situation.”

  Or hear his father’s unwanted opinions about the mistakes he was making in his life.

  “But showing up with me,” she said, facing him, her voice low, her hand flat on her stomach, “after your mother and sister have seen the picture—­”

  “I’ll figure out something to tell them.” He tilted her chin up, allowing his fingers to caress the fine bones of her jaw. “I’ve been clear about the fact that I want to keep our baby. If you come with me, I can refer back to this visit when they ask me about the mother. So you won’t be a stranger.”