His Miracle Baby

by Karen Sandler

  She had to enter the code a second time to open the gate, and by then Logan had walked back down the drive looking for her. She stopped and opened her car window. “I’m fine,” she told him to forestall a grilling. “Just had a little trouble with the gate code.”

  He leaned down, his blue eyes scanning her face as if checking for trouble. “I’ll call the company out tomorrow to inspect it.”

  “Don’t bother. It was my error.” Tiredness weighed on her. “I’ve got to get to bed.”

  He backed away and she rolled up the window. But where she should have felt relieved to drive away, to be left to herself, a trace of fear still lingered. As unwise as it seemed, a part of her wished he would follow her to the cottage and stay there with her, keeping her safe.

  By Friday night, the glimmer of hope Shani had felt after her first study session with Logan had blossomed into complete confidence that she could not only do a good job with the extra-credit assignment, she could pass the upcoming final, as well. Her understanding of perfect and monopolistic competition and price discrimination might not win her a Nobel prize in economics, but the concepts were no longer the overwhelming monsters they had been.

  And she’d made it through the week’s tutorials without one stray touch, without one forbidden kiss. Not that her imagination hadn’t filled in for what hadn’t happened, teasing her with fantasies after she went to bed each night, crowding her dreams with erotic images. But she’d been able to keep those sizzling scenes out of real life.

  Now, as they settled in Logan’s living room for another after-dinner session, Shani flipped open her notebook to a fresh page. “I know you’ve explained this before, but I’m still not getting it. How do you define the ‘Prisoner’s Dilemma’ as it applies to collusion?”

  He stretched his long legs out on the coffee table beside her. “We have to go back to oligopolistic market structures.”

  Her eyes glazed over. “Why is nothing in economics in plain English?”

  “Let’s take a step back.” He reached across her for the textbook. “The short version of the Prisoner’s Dilemma is that you have a situation where two individuals would prosper as a whole if they cooperated, but even more individually if they cheat.” Flipping through the book, he found the pertinent page.

  Shani scanned the text he pointed to. “Right. Two prisoners will most likely rat each other out rather than stay quiet and risk their buddy ratting them out.”

  Logan then explained—again—how the Prisoner’s Dilemma related to economic markets. He neither spoke down to her nor went over her head and managed to make the arcane subject fascinating.

  She scribbled down notes as fast as she could, patting herself on the back that they’d spent the better part of an hour together without her mind straying once into illicit territory. Then she made the mistake of looking up at him to ask a question about product differentiation.

  The intensity in his blue gaze as he met hers stole her breath and sent heat shimmering up her spine. The air was charged between them, almost as palpable as Logan’s touch. Every resolution she’d sworn to herself evaporated in the wake of that sizzling visual connection.

  She shook her head, slowly, to warn him off. Even though that was the last thing she wanted from him. She put a hand up to stop him as he leaned closer. But it somehow landed on his chest, and her fingers curled into the soft knit of his polo shirt.

  She knew it would take only the slightest effort to push him back. But his warm palm had curved against her cheek, tipping back her head. And his mouth lowered to hers.

  After four days of resistance, she couldn’t seem to muster the strength to even whisper a no. She could only melt under his touch, catch fire with the first stroke of his tongue along her lips. Ease back against the sofa at his urging.

  Shani had no idea how far things would have gone if the phone hadn’t rung. The first trill didn’t register, the second brought Logan’s head up, frustration in his face. The third brought him to his feet, leaving Shani to clear her mind and come to her senses.

  As he barked out a hello to whoever had phoned, Shani quickly gathered her notebook and textbooks. Keeping her head down, she waved at him as she headed for the door.

  “Hold on,” he spat out as he dropped the phone and hurried through the living room after her. “Shani!”

  She kept on going, slipping outside. He shouted her name again as she reached the bottom of the stairs. Without looking back, she ran toward the cottage, closing her ears to his third imperious summons.

  If Logan had known the caller was his father, he would have let the phone ring, despite the fortuitous interruption of his folly with Shani. Once he saw the number on his caller ID, he nearly let it go to voice mail, particularly when Shani all but ran from his house. But his father only called when he wanted something and wouldn’t give up until he got it. Shani wouldn’t be coming back tonight. Logan might as well deal with whatever unpleasantness his father had called about.

  When it was clear that Shani wouldn’t return, he grabbed up the phone again. “Hello, Dad.”

  “How are you, son? It’s been a long time.”

  A month since Logan had last called. He’d phoned on his father’s birthday, then every day for nearly a week afterward. Colin Rafferty had never answered, hadn’t bothered to return Logan’s call. He hadn’t acknowledged the gift certificate Logan had sent, either.

  Not that it mattered to Logan. He’d long ago given up caring.

  Just tell me what you want so we can get this over with. He longed to say the words out loud, but instead, he asked, “What’s up, Dad?”

  “Still having trouble recovering from that last setback,” Colin said. “Cash flow’s not looking too good.”

  That “last setback” had been tax evasion. Colin Rafferty had driven Logan’s grandfather’s once-profitable import/export business into the ground in record time with shady deals and well-cooked books. The company that Colin Rafferty Sr. had built into a powerhouse, Colin Jr. had destroyed with twenty years of fraud. Only the family name and copious amounts from Logan’s trust fund had kept his father out of prison.

  But the high life was over, the mansion and Jaguar gone, the lavish parties a thing of the past. Logan supported his father with an allowance, but Colin Rafferty never did understand how to stick to a budget.

  “I’ll talk to the accountant,” Logan told him. “How much do you need?”

  When his father named the amount, Logan nearly exploded. He had just managed to reel in his temper when his father said, “I heard a rumor from your sister-in-law.”

  Logan bit back an oath. His father had always found Arianna’s generous sister Corinna a soft touch. Apparently he was still hitting her up for money. Logan wouldn’t have thought Corinna would have let the secret out, but he knew how persuasive Colin could be.

  “Leave Arianna’s family alone. They’re not your private piggy bank.”

  “Just called to say hello,” Colin insisted. “But those babies—what in God’s name are you going to do with them?”

  “Baby,” Logan clarified, although he wasn’t sure why he bothered. “There’s only one.”

  “Kids are a pain in the butt,” Colin said. “I ought to know.”

  Logan might have believed his father if he’d actually had anything to do with Logan’s upbringing. But over the years, Logan had seen more of his various nannies than he ever had his father.

  But wouldn’t he be doing the same with his own child? He’d have to hire someone to look after the baby. The kind of hours he worked, he might see them just as little as his own father had seen him.

  No. It would be different. He’d make sure of it.

  “I’ve got to go, Dad. I’ll have the accountant transfer the money.” His thumb drifted to the disconnect button.

  But his father wasn’t finished. “You don’t really think you’re going be all warm and cuddly with this kid of yours, do you? You damn well ought to know by now that old fatherly-love thing j
ust isn’t in the Rafferty genes.”

  For an instant Logan flashed back to the day his mother had died, a scared, grieving little boy left with the cold piece of work that was his father. Acid burned in the pit of his stomach as he squelched the memory.

  “Thanks for the feedback,” Logan said, then hung up the phone and dropped it on the kitchen counter.

  The days of him trying desperately to please his father, to earn his praise, were long gone. But somehow dear old Dad still had the weapons to jab and pierce. Despite the fact that his father was a failure times three—as a husband, as a father, as a businessman—a part of Logan still reacted to Colin Rafferty’s gibes.

  Without conscious thought, Logan found himself moving toward the door, exiting the house to stand out on the front porch. Light spilled from the cottage windows, the warm glow drawing him down the stairs to the decomposed granite walkway. He forced himself to stop there when what he really wanted to do was to stride across those dozen or so yards and pound on Shani’s door.

  She needed her rest. He needed to keep his hands off her.

  Knowing that didn’t change the urgency burning in him to pull her into his arms, to hold her, to contemplate the life burgeoning inside her. Breathing her scent, feeling her skin against his, maybe he’d be able to banish the doubts that haunted him. Maybe he’d find a way to remake the sorry legacy his father had bequeathed him.

  And maybe the world would spin the other way on its axis. Because not even Shani could perform that miracle.

  Chapter Eight

  Determined to both avoid Logan and to maximize her time working on her extra-credit project, Shani holed herself up in the cottage all of Saturday morning and early afternoon. She even toiled through lunch, munching a hastily slapped-together sandwich while she typed at her laptop. When she came up for air, first draft completed, she was surprised to discover it was only three o’clock.

  Leaving the laptop on the kitchen table, she rose to stretch her legs and considered what to do next. She could start her rewrite, keeping her nose to the grindstone right up until seven o’clock when Logan would come by to pick her up. But she’d prefer setting the work aside until tomorrow morning, attacking it again with a fresh eye.

  Wandering over to the front window, she angled herself so she could see the main house. Logan had gone out this morning, but had since returned—his Mercedes was back in the drive. Temptation whispered in her ear, suggesting she should go over to the house. Just to say hello, to let him know how well she’d done today.

  Except she was kidding herself if a hello and a discussion of her project was what she really wanted. Her body was clamoring to stoke the heat she and Logan had sparked last night, not to engage in intellectual discourse on industrial organization.

  She needed to get out of the cottage. The five minutes she’d spent this morning digging through her closet for something suitable for tonight had left her in despair. The one formal gown that might have sufficed would no longer zip past her waist. She felt even more hopeless after a peek at the Web site for the fund-raising gala. Photos from previous years showed women wearing lavish, knockout gowns to the event. Dresses that were far beyond anything Shani owned.

  Picking up the phone, Shani called her friend Julie Mendoza, and arranged to meet her at the Roseville Galleria. The shopping gene most women seemed to possess had skipped a generation in Shani. Julie, six years younger and more in touch with what was fashionable, was delighted at the prospect of finding Shani a dress for the gala.

  Julie had been a rock for Shani after Arianna’s death last year. The life Julie had led had been as carefree as Shani’s had been difficult, but the young girl had a bottomless well of empathy for other people’s troubles. When Arianna’s death had triggered a self-examination in Shani, had her thinking that perhaps she ought to give up her dream of a college degree and go back home to Iowa, it was Julie who had encouraged her to stick to her goal.

  Since then, Julie had been a sounding board whenever Shani needed to vent. So far, she was the only one besides her mother and sister who knew about the surrogacy.

  An hour and a half into their shopping expedition, after visiting nearly every dress store in the expansive Galleria, they were still empty-handed. Everything on the racks either had Julie wrinkling her nose in disapproval or sent Shani and her bank balance into sticker shock.

  “No,” she told Julie firmly as the blonde pulled out yet another outrageously expensive dress. “Have you seen the price tag?”

  “Come on, you only live once,” Julie cajoled. Easy for Julie to say. She still lived at home and her parents were footing the bill for the master’s degree in nursing she’d just started.

  “It won’t fit, anyway,” Shani told her. “Size six. I’m an eight.”

  “You were a six last summer when I lent you my dress.” Julie gave Shani’s body a quick once-over. “Have you put on that much weight?”

  “Enough.” Shani rested her hand on her tummy. “Mostly in my waist.”

  Julie cast an appraising eye along Shani’s body. “What are you, about eight weeks now?”

  “Nearly nine.”

  When Shani had confided in Julie about her agreement to act as a gestational carrier, she’d glossed over some of the details. Out of deference to Logan’s privacy, Shani kept Logan’s name out of the explanation, leading Julie to believe the genetic parents were strangers to her.

  “Maybe Daddy ought to pay for the dress,” Julie said. “He’s responsible for the change in your figure.”

  Shani laughed. “I don’t think a clothing allowance is part of the deal.”

  “Hey, you’re living at his house,” Julie said.

  “In a guest cottage.”

  “On his estate,” Julie persisted. “Who is this guy? You never told me.”

  Shani just shook her head. “I haven’t got much more time to spare. We have to either find a dress or head back.”

  Realization lit Julie’s face. “You’re not going to the gala with this guy? With the father?”

  Shani checked her watch. “I have twenty minutes. Are we still shopping, or do I go home?”

  But Julie wasn’t giving up. “You’re crossing over a line here, Shani. If you’re a GC for the father, I don’t know that a personal relationship is all that great an idea.”

  “It’s not a personal relationship,” Shani told her, heat rising in her cheeks.

  “If you’re going out with him, it is.”

  “I know him,” Shani finally confessed. “From before. He was Arianna’s husband.”

  Julie’s eyes widened. “The jerk? The complete horse’s—What were you thinking, Shani?”

  “It’s a long story and I’m not up to telling it. I need to get going.” She groped in her purse for her car keys.

  “But you hate that guy! How could you have agreed to be his surrogate?”

  Shani turned her back on Julie, head bent to her purse to avoid her friend’s gaze. “It’s complicated.”

  “Wait.” Julie turned Shani toward her, her sharp gaze studying Shani’s face. “You’re not falling for this guy, are you?”

  No! Of course not. Shani shouted the words in her head, but somehow they got stuck in her throat. “Why in the world would you say such a crazy thing?” she asked instead.

  Julie’s expression turned serious. “That would be beyond bad, Shani.”

  “Of course it would,” Shani agreed, exiting the store. “I do have to get going.”

  Keeping pace with her, Julie took Shani’s arm. “There’s one more shop we can try. The owner is a friend of my mom’s.”

  The dress Julie unearthed from the sale rack at Sassy’s was like nothing Shani had ever worn, an ankle-length raspberry silk confection she likely never would have tried on. But the backless halter-top gown with its loose waist fit perfectly, and the price, after the shop owner added a discount, didn’t make nearly the dent in Shani’s checking account that she’d expected.

  It was past six by the
time Shani made it back to the cottage. Barely enough time to shower and do something with her hair. It was too short to put up—maybe she could scoop it back with a pair of combs. She’d add glittery earrings and Arianna’s necklace, then keep warm with a hip-length black velvet cape she’d found in a thrift store a few years ago.

  As Shani hurried to get ready, Julie’s preposterous question echoed in her mind. You’re not falling for this guy, are you? What could Julie have seen in Shani’s face to make her ask that? Admittedly, Shani found herself preoccupied with Logan, thoughts of him stealing into her mind most hours of the day and night. But she was carrying his baby, living on his estate, working at his company. It only made sense that she would think of him.

  It had nothing to do with how she felt about him. She felt the same as always toward Logan…didn’t she? She wasn’t as angry as she’d been back in the days when Arianna had so often cried on her shoulder. And she didn’t dislike him as she once had. But she felt nothing for Logan beyond a certain mutual respect.

  Assured that Julie’s question had simply been out of left field, Shani fastened her cape around her shoulders and grabbed a small black clutch bag. Logan knocked just as she switched off the bedroom light, and she hurried to answer the door.

  When Logan had wrapped up a slice of Mrs. Singh’s pecan pie to take over to the cottage this afternoon, he’d been looking forward to a few moments spent with Shani. He’d thought maybe he could look over what she’d written so far, give her feedback, clarify any points she was still having difficulty with.

  But as he stepped out on the porch, he realized her car wasn’t there. He’d let himself into the cottage, guilt twinging because he knew she wouldn’t like it, on the pretext of leaving the pie for her in the refrigerator. But while inside, he looked for some indication of where she might have gone. He saw only the closed laptop on the kitchen table with a neat stack of paper beside it.