Expecting a Bolton Baby

by Sarah M. Anderson

  “Stella.” For a moment, he had no idea what else to say, which was something in and of itself. He always knew what to say, when to say it. It was his gift—the ability to read people and know exactly what they needed to hear. That gift had gotten him this far in life.

  Apparently, it was going to fail him now. He didn’t want to say anything. He wanted to pull her into his arms and tell her he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight again.

  But he knew that would probably get him shot. So the best he could come up with was, “Come in.” He stepped to the side as she brushed past him, the scent of lavender surrounding him.

  Mickey didn’t follow her in. Instead, he leaned against the railing, oblivious to the winter temperature. “Keep yer cool,” he told Bobby with a small salute. “I’d hate to ʼave to bust in, all un-gentleman-like.”

  What, did he think Bobby would do something to Stella? They’d already...well, they’d already spent time in each other’s company. He wasn’t the kind of man who’d hurt a woman. Bolton men took care of women.

  For him, that usually meant that he made sure a woman was just as satisfied with their encounter as he was. He took care of her sexual needs, and she took care of his. Everyone went home happy.

  But this? This wasn’t the same thing. Not even close.

  With a final confused look at Mickey, Bobby shut the door and turned his attention back to the woman looking around his construction trailer with obvious disdain. Again, he knew he should say the right thing—New York was a hell of a long way from Sturgis, South Dakota, no matter how one went about it. But again, his mouth failed him.

  “Can I...take your coat?”

  Stella turned her back to him, but he saw her loosening the belt on her coat. He stepped forward and placed his hands on her shoulders.

  The fur slipped off her and into his hands, revealing a sheer maroon lace that covered her arms and back but left nothing to the imagination. He stared at it for a moment before the pattern clicked into place—skulls. The lace formed tiny skulls. It was entirely ladylike and entirely out there—very Stella.

  Below that, she’d sewn a leather corset. This continued down into a floor-length knit skirt that, from the back, seemed puritanical. Then she stepped free of him and he saw that the front of the skirt was divided by two long slits that went all the way up to her thighs.

  Bobby’s pulse began to pound again. Only Stella Caine could pull off something that left her completely covered while still revealing so damn much. What was she doing here? And why did he still want her so badly?

  He was taken with the sudden urge to kiss the back of her neck, right under the precise line of her hair. If he recalled correctly, he’d done the same thing once before, pinning her against a back door as they made their way out to the car.

  He fought against that urge something fierce. The odds that Mickey would consider that “something funny” were too great. So Bobby hung her coat on the hook on the back of the door. “Would you like to have a seat?”

  Her gaze cut a swath through the room before it landed on the couch at the other end of the trailer. He saw it now through her eyes. It was lumpy from where he’d slept on it and someone had spilled coffee on it at some point.

  “Thanks, no,” she said in a crisp tone, her hands smoothing down her skirt.

  Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Bobby glanced down at her feet. Black suede boots with more buckles, the heels had to be four inches if they were one. He had no idea how far she’d traveled today, but he couldn’t imagine that standing in those shoes were comfortable.

  “Here. Let me get this for you.” His desk chair, at least, was relatively new leather.

  He wheeled it over to her. With a nod of appreciation, she settled in—and crossed her legs. The slits of the dress did not contain her right leg. The boot went almost up to her knee, but there was something about the flash of skin, from knee to upper thigh, that was unbelievably erotic.

  For lack of anything better to do, Bobby took up residence on the lumpy couch.

  He needed to say something.

  But as he sat across a cluttered construction trailer from the most enchanting woman he’d ever met, he had nothing. He didn’t know why she was here or what she wanted, which meant that he didn’t know what she needed to hear. All he knew was that his Glock was outside with an Irishman who probably wouldn’t hesitate to shoot Bobby with his own gun.

  That, and he’d never been so glad to see a woman in his life. Which didn’t make sense, because she sure as hell didn’t seem all that glad to see him.

  Finally, he couldn’t take the silence anymore. “Your dress is stunning.”

  Her smile was stiff. “Thank you. I made it, of course.”

  “Where did you find skull lace?”

  When her eyes narrowed, he realized he’d said the wrong thing.

  “I made it,” she repeated, her accent clipping the words.

  “You made the lace?”

  “It’s called tatting, if you must know. It’s my own design, my own creation.”

  He stared at the fabric. From this distance, maybe ten feet, he couldn’t see the skulls. It fit her like a second skin. “Amazing.” He meant the lace, but he realized he was looking her in the eyes when he said it.

  A pale blush graced her cheeks. “Thank you,” she said again, her voice softer. Then she dropped her gaze.

  That, at least, had been the right thing to say. But he knew she hadn’t come all this way to fish for compliments. So he tried again.

  “Mickey seems like an...interesting fellow. Have you known him long?”

  “Since—a very long time.”

  Okay, so they weren’t going to talk about Mickey. Which left him out of ideas. If she wasn’t going to give him anything to go on, what could he do?

  Luckily, Stella saved him from himself. “This is lovely,” she said, looking around the trailer again. She managed to sound ironic and humorous and cutting.

  “Isn’t it?” he said, relieved to have a conversational opening. “Nothing but the best. I have a condo downtown,” he felt compelled to add. “But that’s just until the resort is finished. I’m going to live on-site when it’s done.”

  Man, this was not going well. That came out as if he was trying too hard. Which he was. Confusion did that to a man.

  Where was the smooth? Where was the ability to talk to anybody, anytime, anywhere? Where was the man who hadn’t been able to keep his hands off this very woman?

  He didn’t like feeling this off balance. It was unfamiliar and unsettling.

  “You haven’t been to your flat in a week.”

  Bobby gaped at her. What did she want? Obviously, she hadn’t come all this way just to stalk him into making awkward small talk.

  “I’ve been working on the resort. Would you like to see the blueprints?” He sounded lame, even to his own ears, but he was desperate to establish some sort of connection with her.

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she stared him down.

  God, he wished he could make sense of that look—angry and frustrated, as if she was barely clinging to her better manners. But underneath all of that, he sensed something else churning in her delicate eyes.

  She was worried.

  Finally, she moved. She wiped a black fingernail down the side of her lip, as if she’d eaten something she found distasteful. Then she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and launched a verbal grenade into the middle of the room.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Two

  Her words blew Bobby to shreds. Had she just said—pregnant?

  She was staring at him, her face nearly blank as she waited for a response. What the hell was he supposed to say? His mouth opened, ready to ask who the father was, but the part of him that was good at talking knew that
was the exact wrong thing to say.

  Underneath her careful blankness, he could see she wasn’t just worried—she was scared. Scared of what he was going to say, what he was going to do. But she seemed determined not to let him see that.

  Well, that made two of them.

  Then he realized. Whatever the truth was—and he was sure as hell going to get to that—she believed he was the father. That was, hands down, the most terrifying thought he’d ever had.

  No one had ever said, “Bobby, you’ll make a great dad someday.” Instead, they usually told him to grow up. His brothers said those exact words all the time.

  Kids were...messy. Loud. Unreasonable. Prone to screaming for no good reason. Demanding.

  Bobby liked things his way. He liked staying out late, sleeping in later. He liked not having to rush home. He liked not having to step over toys or change diapers. Maybe all that stuff suited his brothers, but not him.

  He wasn’t father material. He was a businessman and a damn good one. He was focused on making his resort the biggest draw in all of South Dakota. Hell, in either Dakota. And if things went as planned, there could be a chain of Crazy Horse Resorts across the West. A family wasn’t in his plans.

  Until now. Maybe.

  He chose his words carefully. “I thought...we used protection. Both times.”

  At first, Stella didn’t appear to move, but then he noticed that her chest rose and fell with bigger and bigger gulps of air. Finally she said, “We did.”

  Then how did she know he was the father? That was the question Bobby was dying to ask, but it probably wouldn’t ever be the right thing to ask.

  “I believe,” she went on, her words precise and careful, “that the second condom failed. And that we were too sloshed to appreciate that fact.”

  “Oh.” He tried to think. He’d had a couple of drinks in the bar, then they’d gotten a bottle of champagne to go. He didn’t remember being drunk. He just remembered the way she’d unleashed an amazing amount of sexual energy on him. No amount of alcohol could touch that memory.

  He ran his hands through his hair. He was coming apart at the seams, but she sat there, as calm as if she’d just announced that she’d like a nice pinot noir with dinner. He was so glad she was here—he’d done nothing but think of her for months. But...pregnant? Looking at him with such disdain?

  He wanted to see her, but with that wry smile on her face. He wanted to make her laugh, to feel her body under his hands.

  Bobby made a snap decision. He still wasn’t sure exactly what she wanted from him, but he knew one thing. She didn’t belong here, not where camera crews and construction workers came and went. She needed someplace private, someplace more fitting to this situation.

  He stood so quickly that she startled. “We should go.”

  “Go?”

  “Back to my place. We can get this—” he managed not to say “mess” “—we can get things sorted out there. You’ll be much more comfortable—it’s nicer, more private.”

  “No cameras?”

  It was the first time he heard a note of undisguised worry in her voice. It only made him want to protect her. “No,” he quickly agreed. “No cameras.”

  Cameras would only make his worst fear come true sooner rather than later. The reason he hadn’t tracked down Stella, despite being unable to think of any other woman for two whole months? Because he was in no mood to find out exactly how quickly David Caine could ruin his life.

  Hell, if Caine even knew his daughter was here, much less that she was pregnant—it would be all over. The show, the money to build the resort. He couldn’t risk losing everything he’d worked for.

  He moved to the door but made sure to open it slowly. “Mickey? Can you come in here?”

  Although the little man had been standing out in the cold for close to twenty minutes, he didn’t show it. True, he had his hands in his pockets, but Bobby got the feeling that was more to keep a grip on the guns than to warm his extremities.

  Mickey nodded and stepped into the trailer. “Everything all right?” he asked Stella, who was now standing, her hands clasped in front of her.

  “Yes.”

  “I wanted to confirm with you that it’d be best to move this conversation to a more private location—my condo. That way, Stella will be in an environment she’ll find more comfortable.”

  Mickey looked confused. “He always talk like that?” he asked Stella.

  “Not always,” she murmured, dropping her gaze again.

  Bobby hadn’t meant to talk as if he was closing a deal with Mickey. It had just happened. Second nature.

  Mickey looked to Stella, who nodded.

  “You can follow me,” Bobby said, getting Stella’s coat.

  “No worries, laddie.” Mickey’s impish grin was back. “I know where ye live.” He turned back to Stella.

  “I’ll ride with Bobby.”

  If this announcement surprised Mickey, he didn’t show it. Instead, he nodded. “See you there.” Still whistling, he headed out toward his vehicle. With Bobby’s gun still in his pocket.

  Bobby knew what that meant.

  He still had to keep his cool.

  * * *

  Bobby had a very nice car, a fire-engine-red Corvette. It fit with Stella’s mental image of him as a consummate player. He’d certainly been one the night they’d met, his blond hair slicked back, the custom-fit gray suit over a white shirt—no tie, though. He’d looked as if he’d belonged at that party—as if he would have belonged at any party—whereas she’d been deeply uncomfortable even just sitting off to the side.

  She couldn’t reconcile his reaction to her announcement, though.

  She wasn’t sure what she’d expected him to do when she told him he’d fathered the baby growing in her belly.

  No, that wasn’t true. If she was being honest with herself, she’d expected him to tick down the reasons why he couldn’t possibly be the father, why it had to be someone else. Or maybe she’d thought he’d flat out say that, even if it was his—which it wasn’t—he would have nothing to do with it. With her.

  But he hadn’t. He’d just asked a few clarifying questions. Then suggested he drive her home.

  Which he was doing now. They sat in the car in silence. Stella wanted him to say something. The only problem was, she didn’t know what she wanted to hear.

  “Have you been here all week?”

  His sudden question made her jump. Of course, at this point, she was already jumpy. Something about being unwed and pregnant had her on edge.

  “Ah, no. I arrived on Wednesday.” She wanted to look at him again, but sitting in the car made that awkward. Besides, looking at him did some...odd things to her. She pushed aside the fluttery emotions that had her glad to see him. She wasn’t here for him. She was here for the baby. “Mickey drove out last week. He decided that Friday night would be the best time to catch you. I didn’t think so, but he insisted.”

  “Thought I’d be out on the town?”

  That’s exactly what she’d thought, but she didn’t want to admit it. Instead, she redirected. “I learned a long time ago to trust Mickey’s instincts.”

  “Does your father know where you are?”

  Even though they were in a dark car and Bobby wasn’t looking at her, she kept her face blank. Years of training were impossible to override. It always came back to David Caine, sooner or later.

  What would her father do when he found out about her condition? Would he insist she get married and hope no one counted the months? Would he publicly disown her and cut her off? Her fashion design business had a few loyal clients, but she couldn’t cover the rent on her flat in SoHo by herself. Even though her father hadn’t been there for her, he did pay the bills for both her and Mickey. Most of the time, it was the only connection betw
een them. She didn’t want to know how far her father would go to protect his “good” name.

  “No. I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

  “Understood.”

  She heard him exhale, saw his hand clench the steering wheel far too tightly as the car turned through a grand apartment complex. No doubt he had a laundry list of reasons to keep this from her father, too. Bobby pressed a button and a subterranean garage door opened. Then they pulled underneath the building.

  After he put the car in Park, he got out and came around the side to open her door. He even held out his hand for her. She didn’t know if he did it because he’d seen Mickey do it or if this was how he treated all the women he brought back to his place. That thought sent a spike of pain through her, though, so she pushed it aside as she stood.

  He didn’t let go of her hand. They stood there, her hand in his, less than a foot of space between them. Heat flared—the same heat that had gotten her into this fine mess. Why had she let something as ridiculous as desire ruin everything? She should pull away, break this connection between them. She should have pulled away two months ago, too.

  Despite her heeled boots, he was still tall enough she had to look up at him. His sandy-blond hair was tousled, week-old scruff on his jaw, his eyes a tad bloodshot. Not quite the player from her memory, but his mussed state didn’t detract from his handsomeness. Instead, it made him more real.

  And he hadn’t yet told her this was her problem to deal with.

  Stella’s throat caught with unexpected emotion. For some ridiculous reason, she wanted to thank him for not rejecting her outright. Ludicrous hormones, she thought, shaking off the feeling. Just because he hadn’t kicked her to the curb yet didn’t mean he still wouldn’t. He was just in shock, that was all.

  And the fact that she felt that same pull—the one that had started all the trouble to begin with...? How she’d been drawn to his wide smile? How, even though she knew she had no business flirting with a man in a club, she’d been unable to resist him—his laugh, his touches? She’d tried to tell herself that she just needed a little fun and he fit the bill, but she wasn’t sure that was true anymore—if it had ever been. She’d had no intention of picking up a man that night. But he’d changed everything from the very moment his smile had sent flashes of heat across her body.