Practice Makes Pregnant

by Lois Faye Dyer

  “What are you studying?” He leaned forward and picked up the book lying open on her lap. “Kelly v. The State of New York?”

  “I’m researching cases supporting the right of a student to sue the school board.”

  “Ah.” He grinned and returned the book to her lap. “What did you eat for dinner?”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “A very healthy, grilled chicken breast, green beans and a salad. And yes,” she said to forestall him, “before you ask, I drank milk.”

  “Good.”

  “I feel like I’m living with the nutrition police,” she complained, smiling when he laughed. She loved his laugh. Deep and throaty. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he was amused. His laughter eased the tension from his shoulders and face, caused by a long day in court. “I had a visitor tonight.”

  “Really? Who?” He tugged his tie free and unbuttoned the top four buttons of his shirt, visibly relaxing.

  “Your mother.”

  His jaw dropped, then he groaned and rolled his eyes. “Damn. She’s home already? She wasn’t due back for another week.”

  “She said to tell you to call her. I got the definite impression that you’re in big trouble because you didn’t tell her we were getting married.”

  He groaned again and raked his fingers through his hair, ruffling the silky black strands. “I wanted to tell her in person, not over the telephone. What else did she say?”

  Allison found it endearing that Jorge, over six feet and a powerfully muscled two hundred plus pounds, was clearly worried that his tiny dynamo of a mother was upset with him. “She wanted to know if we’ve discussed children.”

  He visibly tensed. “And what did you tell her?”

  “I assured her that we’ve discussed the subject.”

  “You didn’t tell her that you’re pregnant?”

  “No. I didn’t know what you wanted to tell her about the baby, or when.”

  “To tell you the truth, I haven’t had time to decide what to tell her and I haven’t had time to discuss it with you, in case you had any concerns.” His gaze held hers. “Were you okay with her asking you about our plans?”

  “Yes, I think it’s nice to know that our baby will have a grandmother eagerly waiting to hold her. She told me that she wanted to volunteer for babysitting.”

  “That’s my mom. She loves kids. Too bad she only had me.”

  “She didn’t remarry after your father died?”

  “No. She said that marrying someone else would be settling for second best, and a husband didn’t deserve that.”

  The handsome lines of his face were relaxed, warm with affection.

  “It’s so nice that you and your mother are close,” she said, resisting the urge to lean closer and brush the fall of black hair off his brow.

  “For a long time it was just her and me against the world,” he commented. “She went to work as a secretary after Dad died, and saved every penny she could squeeze out of the budget to put in a college fund for me. I was determined to be an attorney, and she was just as determined as I was that I’d succeed.”

  “Who cared for you while she worked?” Allison was fascinated by this glimpse into his childhood, so different from hers.

  “A collection of aunts and cousins.” He grinned at her. “I’m an only child, but Dad and Mom both come from huge families. Dad had three brothers and two sisters, and Mom has five brothers and one sister. All of them married and produced big families so I have cousins by the dozens. It’s not just my mother who’ll demand an explanation as to why we didn’t have a huge wedding, the whole family will gather to rake me over the coals.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” Allison said faintly. “I had no idea.”

  “I know. I should have told you before, but to tell you the truth, I didn’t think about it. I expected Mom to be home next week, and I’d planned to take you to meet her then. Did she say who told her that we were married?”

  “I think she said that it was Rita.”

  “I should have known. Rita is the designated gossip-central on Dad’s side of the family. When we were kids, we used to say that there were two ways to make something public, tell the New York Times, or tell Rita.”

  Jorge’s gaze softened as Allison laughed, and he cupped her chin, smoothing his thumb against the curve of her cheek. “Are you okay with this?”

  “With what?”

  “With a very large, noisy and very nosy family. I know you grew up in a quieter home with a much smaller family. The Perezes and Sanchezes together can be overwhelming when you’re not used to them, but they mean well.”

  “Then I’m sure I’ll adjust. I’m looking forward to meeting them, especially since they sound like a wonderful contrast to my parents, whose work schedules won’t allow them to fly to New York and grill us about marrying for at least another month.”

  “Have you heard from them?”

  “No.” Allison had called her parents to tell them she was married, but they were out of the country, exploring filming sites in Thailand for their next project, and she’d had to leave a message with the housekeeper. Jorge had seemed surprised that she didn’t try to locate them, and she hadn’t wanted to confess that they were unlikely to cancel their trip and hurry to New York to meet her new husband. Their casual level of interest in her life was a sharp contrast to Benita’s concern for her son.

  He leaned closer and kissed her, his mouth gentle. When he lifted his head, they were both breathing faster, the desire that was never far from the surface palpable between them.

  “It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”

  Allison put her hand in his and let him draw her to her feet and down the hall to the bedroom.

  Jorge scanned the morning paper while he ate breakfast and watched his wife as she read her own sections.

  She sat across from him at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, her hair smooth and glossy, makeup discreetly applied. The tailored jacket of her caramel-colored wool suit hung on the back of her chair, leaving her in a long-sleeved, white silk blouse tucked into a knee-length, narrow skirt. Jorge would have bet his next paycheck that she thought the blouse, primly buttoned to just below her throat, was proper and completely nonsexy. If she knew how badly he wanted to unbutton the row of buttons that marched from the soft hollow of her throat to her waist, drawing the eye to the full curves of her breasts, she would likely have a heart attack. Just thinking about spreading open the unbuttoned silk and running his mouth over her soft, silky skin made him hard.

  She sipped herbal tea from a gently steaming cup and nibbled toast with marmalade. He wanted to lean over and lick the tiny spot of orange marmalade from the corner of her mouth.

  Instead, he was forced to watch the pink tip of her tongue follow the curve of her bottom lip and whisk it away.

  He dragged his gaze away from the erotic sight and tried to focus on the paper. It was several moments before he actually saw the black print and not a replay of her mouth and tongue.

  “Why don’t you come to court with me and sit in on the trial this morning?” he asked, returning to their earlier discussion about the murder trial he was currently trying. Her thoughtful questions regarding his approach to a hostile defense witness had given him new insight. “I’m cross-examining Jackson this morning.”

  Allison looked up, her gaze surprised and pleased. “I’d love to.” Her smile faded and she frowned. “But I have to stop at the office first. I’m sure Eloise won’t mind my taking the morning off, but I have a report on my desk that I need to complete final edits on, then print and deliver to her.”

  “In that case, why don’t you come to the courtroom when you’re finished with the report. You can sit in on the morning session, and I’ll take you to lunch afterward.”

  “That sounds lovely.” Allison glanced at her watch. “I’d better hurry or I’ll be late.” She slipped out of her chair and carried her plate and cup to the sink to rinse before tucking them into the dishwasher.

  Jorge r
ose and held her jacket for her, his hands lingering on her upper arms when she looked over her shoulder at him. He couldn’t resist dropping a quick hard kiss on her mouth and was rewarded with a quick flush of color in her cheeks, her amber eyes going faintly smoky.

  He knew that look. His hands tightened for a moment but then he released her and stepped back.

  “We’ll be late if we don’t hurry.” His voice was lower, husky with the desire that pumped through his veins.

  “Yes. Of course.” Her lashes lowered, shielding her eyes from him, and she walked quickly to the entryway to collect her coat.

  He swallowed a sigh and cleared his own dishes, rinsing and putting them in the dishwasher with quick efficiency before following her. They shared a taxi, Allison exiting first in front of her building.

  “I’ll see you later this morning,” he said, after getting out to hold the door for her.

  She nodded, smiling with anticipation, and he reentered the cab, turning to watch her slim figure disappear into the building as the taxi moved on.

  Allison was late. Editing the report for Eloise had taken longer than she’d anticipated, and it was after ten-thirty and the morning recess before she slipped into the courtroom and found an empty slot near the back. The seats in the wood-paneled room were nearly filled with observers, including a number of reporters, family members, attorneys and individuals interested in the high-profile trial. The jury box was empty, the group excused while the defense and prosecution presented arguments regarding a point of law governing admission of exhibits submitted by the prosecution.

  Allison slipped off her coat, the room being warm from the presence of so many people, and settled in to listen. She didn’t recognize the attorney speaking, but it quickly became clear that he was a member of the defense team.

  Like everyone else in the audience, she listened closely while the attorney argued passionately about the prejudicial impact of the photographs on the jury.

  Photographs? Allison peered around the bulk of the large man sitting in front of her and located the three large displays held by easels, angled to one side of the judge’s bench where both the court and audience could view them clearly. She dragged in a swift breath. Pinned to the white boards were a series of twelve-by-fifteen photographs. Graphic and brutal, they depicted the crime scene. There was no question that they were shocking.

  Also there was no question why the prosecution wanted them to go before the jury, she thought. They were vivid proof that a horrific, violent crime had taken place.

  The attorney completed his argument and took his seat at counsel table.

  The judge, a distinguished gentleman in black robes with a touch of silver at his temples, peered over his glasses. “Mr. Perez, rebuttal?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Jorge stood and walked to the easels with their stark photos. Allison listened, totally absorbed as he made an impressively logical case for the inclusion of the exhibits in their entirety.

  When he finished, the judge asked several questions regarding case law supporting both prosecution and defense positions on their arguments. While both attorneys’ responses were well thought out, Allison was impressed by Jorge’s. Hearing him quote case law with split-second, incisive clarity not only made her respect for his ability as an attorney grow by leaps and bounds, it also made her apprehensive. He was clearly brilliant, his razor-sharp mind and commanding presence giving him the same above-the-crowd prominence in the courtroom that her father held in the film world.

  Allison’s heart twisted with apprehension. That kind of brilliance and competency in his career could blind him to anything beyond his work, if he let it. Just as her father’s single-minded focus on his career had blinded him to her needs as a child, so might Jorge be unable to see how much their baby needed him.

  And me. She thought, the realization painful. Will he be able to see how much I need him? And if he does, will he care?

  While she was lost in thought, the judge advised counsel that he would render his decision on the exhibits after lunch. Meanwhile, he ordered the bailiff to remove the easels and the exhibits in question and to return the jury to the courtroom.

  When the jury members were reseated, the judge recalled the witness, Henry Jackson, to the stand.

  Allison twisted in her seat and watched the heavyset, middle-aged accountant enter the courtroom and walk to the witness stand.

  “I will remind you, Mr. Jackson, that you are still under oath.” The judge waited until Mr. Jackson nodded his understanding before he waved a hand at Jorge. “Your witness, Mr. Perez.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Jorge stood, consulted his notes for a moment and approached the witness stand.

  Allison knew that Henry Jackson was a pivotal witness in Jorge’s case, being the accountant for the defendant and his deceased business partner. Jorge had told her that motivation for the murder was a disagreement between the two men over the profits from construction of a multistorey hotel in New Jersey. The accountant was reluctant to testify because his bookkeeping practices teetered on the edge of illegal.

  She leaned forward, fascinated, as Jorge began his examination with a deceptively mild approach, drawing the witness into a small admission of duplicity. Having gained that crack in the witness’s story, Jorge swiftly annihilated the man’s position with an incisive, aggressive examination that was ruthless. Brilliant, Allison conceded, but unquestionably ruthless.

  He was intimidating. Shaken by this insight into her new husband, Allison couldn’t help but question her ability to handle him. He’d psychologically overpowered the witness, and Henry Jackson’s helplessness somehow reminded her of the night when she’d been physically overpowered by the egotistical young movie actor and had been unable to prevent his forcing her.

  Had she made a fatal error and married the wrong person? Would she be able to hold her own with a man whose personality was as powerful as Jorge’s?

  Disturbed by the direction of her thoughts, Allison wrote a brief note canceling their luncheon date, using an urgent meeting at Manhattan Multiples as an excuse. Then she quietly rose and made her way to the back of the courtroom, pausing at the door to ask a bailiff to deliver her note to Jorge.

  Too upset to face returning to the office immediately, she stopped in at the coffee bar. Zoe looked up when the door opened and flashed a welcoming smile before handing a customer his change.

  Allison stood in line, waiting patiently until the two men ahead of her had been served. At last it was her turn.

  “Hi, Allison. What are you doing away from the office this early?” Zoe’s curves were enveloped in a bibbed white apron with “barista” appliquéd in scarlet on the top left corner below her name. Her uniform of black slacks and long-sleeved white shirt was further brightened by the red scrunchy that held her black hair in a ponytail, and matching red hoop earrings.

  “I’ve been at the courthouse.” Allison ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it behind her ear in a nervous gesture.

  “Oh?” Zoe frowned at Allison’s telltale gesture. “It’s time for my break. Want to share a chai tea with me?”

  “I’d love to.” Allison nodded, before remembering to add, “Decaf for me, please.”

  “Sure. Why don’t you grab a table—maybe the one in the back corner that just emptied. I’ll be right with you and bring our drinks.”

  “Great.” Allison shrugged out of her coat as she walked to the rear of the cozy coffee shop with its collection of small tables, a couple of worn Victorian plush sofas and three comfortable armchairs tucked into angles and corners, and a scattering of daily newspapers strewn about on seats and tabletops. She hung her coat over the back of a wooden chair, tucked her purse beneath the seat and was just sitting down when Zoe arrived with their tea.

  “Here you go.” Zoe set the hot mugs on the little round café table and plopped into the chair opposite, eyeing Allison with concern. “Pardon me for saying so, hon, but you look like you’ve just lost
your last friend.” She grinned. “And I know that’s not true, ’cause you’ve still got me.”

  A reluctant smile curved Allison’s lips. “And that’s a blessing, Zoe.” Already cheered by Zoe’s warm, blunt honesty, Allison felt her tense muscles ease. She rubbed her forehead.

  “So, tell me. What happened? ’Cause if the gorgeous Assistant D.A. isn’t treating you right, I’ll give the twins a call.” Zoe sipped her tea, clearly expecting Allison to share whatever was causing the worry lines on her brow.

  And that, Allison reflected, is exactly why I came here.

  A warm rush of affection further eased her tension, and she smiled ruefully. “Have I ever told you how much I appreciate you for being my friend?”

  “Yes, but feel free to tell me as often as you like.” Zoe’s grin flashed once again before she sobered. “What’s wrong, Allison?”

  “I sat in on the murder trial this morning—the one that Jorge’s prosecuting.”

  “And…?” Zoe prompted when Allison fell silent for a long moment.

  “And watching him question a hostile defense witness was a little scary.”

  “Scary?” Zoe frowned. “How do you mean, scary?”

  “Scary, as in—he was absolutely ruthless, Zoe. The witness didn’t stand a chance.”

  “You mean Jorge did something unethical?”

  “Oh, no.” Allison shook her head. “Not at all, his cross-exam was brilliant. He’s an amazing attorney.”

  “So he did something right?” Zoe was clearly confused.

  “Yes, his legal work was terrific. What bothered me was that he was ruthless. Seeing him in action in the courtroom was alarming. And if he’s like that in the courtroom, what if he’s capable of that same level of ruthlessness in his personal life? I’m having serious doubts as to whether I could cope with him.”

  Zoe’s face cleared, her gaze softening. “Oh, Allison, there’s a huge difference between a man’s approach to his work and his dealings with the people he loves. And there’s no question that he’s crazy about you.”

  Startled, Allison stared at Zoe. “What makes you think that?”