There—he heard it. Buried deep under her indifferent tone was a witty observation. He hadn’t lost her yet.
So he chuckled a little and said, “Why don’t you tell me?”
She closed his computer but didn’t turn around. Instead, she rested her hand on the tabletop. “Do you make it a habit of asking the women you sleep with to marry you?”
He leaned on the counter, keeping it casual. “Nope.”
He saw the corner of her mouth crook up. “I don’t want to get married.”
Why not? And if not, why was she here? But he didn’t ask that. He didn’t want to push her. “Understood. Will you stay with me until Thursday, when we can get tested?”
She nodded. Score one for him. “And then? While we wait for the results?”
“That’s up to you. You could go home.”
He saw her swallow as she dropped her gaze to somewhere near her toes. “Yes, I suppose I could.”
But then, when the results came in, she’d be two time zones away. Just as he felt that he should be with her for the test, he knew he should be with her for the results. They were in this together.
“Or you could stay. As long as you like.”
That was the right thing to say. He could tell by the way her cheeks pinked up and her lips curved into a small but distinct smile. She positively glowed. It was almost as if she was being lit from the inside out.
“What are we going to do with ourselves, then?”
First, they were going to have a lot more sex—good sex. The best sex he’d ever had. But what else could he offer to keep her here—and happy?
“Tell me what you do on an average day.”
“Oh. Well.” She took her plate from him and they moved to the table. “I work out, shower, sketch, sew. I’d love to have a little shop—a dedicated work space—but I haven’t been able to get the financing yet. So I work out of my flat. That really covers it.”
“Do you have clients? Orders?”
“A few clients that order on spec. I don’t have a line yet. I’m working on it.” She looked down. “My father covers my basic bills, so I don’t have to work for money. But this is my dream.”
“He won’t give you the financing?”
“Ah, no.” Her voice got quieter. “My business plan isn’t a solid investment.”
It wasn’t? She obviously had the style and the talent to launch a line. Plus, with her name? Bobby wouldn’t go so far as to say it would be a grand slam of an investment, but he made his living marketing. He knew a good idea when he saw one. And this seemed like a good idea.
“Why not?”
“I’m not responsible enough, apparently.” He must have given her an odd look, because she added, “According to some people, anyway. I really don’t go club hopping, you know, and I never pick up men. I only went to the party that night because I thought my father was going to be there and I hadn’t seen him since the wedding.”
“He was supposed to be there.”
That seemed the easier thing to focus on, because Bobby was having a little trouble with the rest of what she’d just said. She didn’t go to clubs? Didn’t pick up men? He had no reason to doubt her—
But if she didn’t do either of those things, why had she picked him?
Then, to his horror, he heard himself ask that very question. “Why me, then?”
She was studying her toast a little too carefully, slicing it into nearly equal bite-size pieces. “Do you know,” she began, her voice almost childlike, “that people rarely talk to me?”
“I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
“It’s true. To the vast majority of the world, I’m nothing more than David Caine’s misfit daughter. They’re all either terrified I’m going to be as cruel as he is or they want to suck up to me to get close to him.”
He could almost see it—someone trying to charm her pants off in an attempt to get close to David Caine. Realizing that someone had done that made him want to punch that person. Hard.
“You didn’t come off as a misfit in that article.”
“Perhaps you should try telling my father that.”
There was so much hurt in her voice that Bobby suddenly found himself more furious than he could remember being in a long, long time.
“He thinks you’re a misfit?”
Not that Bobby had ever really liked David Caine—the man came off as a world-class jerk—but it was clear that Stella believed her own father hated her. Bruce Bolton, Bobby’s dad, was a huge pain in his own right, but underneath all of that, he loved his boys.
“Oh, quite. He refused to take me to the wedding—said my dress was ridiculously inappropriate—but I threw such a fit.” She smiled again, but it was a rueful thing, full of a deep pain. “Told him I’d already been cleared by security and if I didn’t show up as planned, it would be suspicious and I was going and that was that.”
“The lace on your dress—skulls, right?”
“Very perceptive. No one else noticed them.” Her voice was little more than a whisper at this point. “I guess that’s why—you noticed me.”
He wanted to tell her it was impossible not to notice her—that compared to all the other women in that club, she’d seemed so real, so true to herself. How could he not have noticed her? But he knew if he said that, she might take it as something else—another fall-on-his-knees-and-propose kind of thing. And he knew she wasn’t ready for that.
So he took her hand in his. He stared into her eyes, wide now with hurt and hope and worry. He could get lost in the depth of her eyes.
“Stella,” he said, careful to keep his voice gentle, “I think it’s time you tell me why you’re here.”
Seven
Stella sat there in a state of shock. What was he doing, for heaven’s sake? Had he actually apologized for overwhelming her? Sincerely, even. He’d not only realized he’d upset her, but he wanted to make up for that. Was that possible?
Her father had hurt her so many times and never even noticed that he’d done so that she thought she’d become inured to the disappointment. He’d forgotten birthdays and Christmases for years with nary a peep of regret. She’d convinced herself that it didn’t matter, that she didn’t need those apologies.
That she didn’t need to be noticed.
Bobby noticed her. Almost too much. Even now, he was expectantly waiting for her to pronounce what she wanted so that he could make it happen. It was such an odd thing, to be asked. Even Mickey didn’t ask what she wanted. She stated her intentions—going to the club, tracking down Bobby—and he tried to talk her out of them before finally acquiescing to her wishes.
She hadn’t known what to do with Bobby’s apology a few moments ago—hadn’t even known what the viable options were. She had even less of an idea what to do now.
What did she want? It was a simple question, really. But it wasn’t. Nothing about this situation was simple. Bobby had said as much himself.
He was waiting on an answer.
“I want...” Stella bit off the words before they escaped and betrayed her. She couldn’t very well sit here and tell him she wanted a family less than half an hour after she’d flatly refused his—well, it hadn’t been a proper proposal of marriage, but close enough. Even in her hormonal state, she was aware of how contradictory her thoughts were.
But a family was exactly what she wanted. Not a forced family, not one forged out of obligation or even desperation. One where all parties bound themselves together out of love.
Bobby patiently waited for her to continue, his gaze on her. He had such nice eyes—hazel green, flecked with gold that matched his blond hair. As further proof that she’d lost her fool head, she was suddenly possessed with the urge to sketch him.
She pushed back against the hormonal irrationality. She’d nea
rly said too much and now she needed to cover. A lifetime of practicing this skill with her father made it easy to do.
“I mean, I want you to be involved—calls, video chats, visits for birthdays and holidays. Perhaps when she’s older, she can stay with you on break—that sort of thing.” She couldn’t meet his gaze any longer. She’d said this much. Might as well get it all out in the open. “She deserves a father. I want us to remain on friendly terms. For her sake.”
She wanted so much more than that—but what was the point of pining for it? Bobby had offered to marry her. But she couldn’t make him love her.
And she wasn’t going to settle for anything less than that.
No, the sooner she stopped fantasizing about playing house, the better. What kind of marriage had he offered her? He’d give the baby his name, which would go a great ways in mollifying her father. David Caine would not tolerate a bastard sullying his good name.
But beyond that?
She waited, expecting Bobby to withdraw his hand, lean back or even leave the table—to do something to put distance between them. Or, worse, ask what David Caine would want. Remind her of what her father would do when she told him. Or would he maneuver for the best position in his business affairs, now that he had leverage—her child?
Therefore, when he lifted her hand off the table and kissed her palm, she was so startled that she nearly fell clean off her chair.
“We’re a little past friendly, don’t you think?” he murmured, his lips still pressed against her hand. She felt the words more than heard them.
Her gaze flew back up. He was still watching her, that twinkle in his eye reminding her of how he’d looked at her when they’d met—as if she was the only woman in the room.
“Perhaps,” she agreed, feeling mesmerized.
He grinned at her, but it wasn’t something wolfish or predatory. He looked positively pleased—with her. That was such a foreign sensation that Stella briefly wondered again if she was dreaming.
Bobby shifted her hand so that it rested on his cheek. She was amazed at the prickle of his stubble against her hand. She was awake. Wonderfully awake. “I promise you that, at the bare minimum, I will call and write and video chat and visit on birthdays and holidays.” He let go of her hand, but she chose not to remove it from his cheek. She didn’t want to break this moment of connection.
Then he placed his hand over her stomach. “We Boltons are family men, Stella. We stick together. This baby will be a Bolton. I couldn’t turn a blind eye to that if I wanted to—and there’s no way my family would let me.”
That last bit came out a bit differently, as if it were a great joke he was letting her in on. But was it? Was she giving him a choice? Or was this a sentence of community service in the name of family?
God, she didn’t want him to be a good father out of obligation, no matter how amusing he might make it sound. She wanted him to want the baby—to want her.
With time, a voice whispered in the back of her head. Mickey’s voice. He’ll come around with time. Just you wait and see, lass.
Mickey had said those exact words to her about her father on numerous occasions. The first time had been the first Christmas after Mum’s funeral. She hadn’t seen her father for almost four months. She’d been sent off to the boarding school days after the funeral had ended. She was the youngest at the school by two full years, and the other girls had teased her mercilessly. When it was Mickey who arrived for her on the holiday break, the stony wall Stella had built up cracked open wide and she’d sobbed in the older man’s arms.
Her father had not come for her. She’d spent months telling all those cruel girls that her father would fetch her because he loved her. Because he did not blame her for getting so sick in the middle of the night that Claire had run out to the chemist’s and been hit by a drunk driver on her way home.
Because he wanted them to be a family again.
Mickey had driven Stella back to the cold, empty flat where she’d once been happy. A nanny had come to stay with her. Mickey had returned on Christmas morn with a small, poorly wrapped present for Stella—a doll with a red cloth heart sewn on its chest.
“He’ll come around with time, lass,” Mickey had promised as he rocked her on his lap. “I know your da. He still loves his little girl.”
That was the problem with adults. They found it so very easy to lie.
Was Bobby lying now?
And if he was, did it really matter?
Maybe he saw the doubt on her face. It was as if he could look past all of her walls and actually see what she was thinking.
“Once the results come in, we can contact a family lawyer—draw up an agreement. I’ll need to arrange for child support and a visitation schedule. I’ll support you however you want.”
She nodded. Legally binding agreements, support and visitation—wasn’t that what she’d just asked for? He was going to look after the baby. His voice was strong and sure. These were assurances, the very things she’d come all this way for.
So why did she feel so disappointed?
Bobby leaned forward, that charming smile doing its best to disarm her. Her body responded before she was aware it was happening. Even in all of her confusion, she remembered the way he’d looked such a short time ago as he held his body over hers—intense, hungry. As if he needed her. Almost as if he couldn’t live without her.
That was it—that was what she wanted. Not that he would be there for the baby, but that he would be there for her. That he couldn’t bear to have it any other way.
“If you change your mind and decide that you’d like to get married, my offer stands.”
But Bobby didn’t love her.
True, he didn’t recoil in horror at the idea of marrying her, but he’d made his position clear. He would do it because that was what was expected of him. She couldn’t bear the thought of binding herself to a man who didn’t love her. She already had her father for that.
As much as she wanted Bobby, she couldn’t let him hurt her. So she squared her shoulders and forced a pleasant, bland smile onto her face. The smile her father always took to mean that Stella agreed with him and the argument was over.
“Don’t worry. I won’t ask that of you.”
Then she released her hold on him and turned back to her breakfast.
It had grown cold.
* * *
They ate in silence.
So much for his tactical retreat. But he couldn’t seem to help himself when it came to Stella.
Bobby would have to stop trying to convince her to marry him, that was all. She had absolutely no interest in wedded bliss. Part of him wondered about the disconnect. How she could run so very, very hot in his arms—and then turn ice cold in a heartbeat?
He wanted her in a way he’d never wanted another woman. Yes, the sex was amazing and, yes, she was carrying what was most likely his child—but it went deeper than that. He liked that she was intelligent and beautiful and sensitive and soft and romantic with an extremely hard, jagged edge. He admired her ambition for starting her own boutique and her talent to actually pull it off—even if she hadn’t lined up the financing yet.
She was the perfect counterpoint to his own ambition, but she didn’t treat him and his success as something to be leveraged for her own advantage. Any other woman would have jumped at the chance to tie him down—to have a crack at the fortune he already had and the bigger fortune he was in the process of creating.
She didn’t want him for what he had. That was a relief.
Sadly, though, it seemed as if she just didn’t want him.
No. He refused to believe that—she did want him. He saw it in her eyes when she woke up. He felt it in her body when she melted against him. He knew it because she’d come all this way to tell him in person what a lawyer could have easily served i
n a lawyer’s letter.
Which only left one other option.
She didn’t want to want him.
And hell if he could make a bit of sense out of that.
They finished eating. He picked up the dishes and carried them to the sink. He liked to do the dishes. In some weird way, he thought better with his hands in a sink full of soapy water. That’s where he’d had the idea for the destination resort and using a reality show to build his platform.
When she came to stand next to him, though, he tensed. She’d already refused him twice, but both times she’d come close to him afterward—which only added credence to his theory that she didn’t want to want him.
“Thank you for making breakfast. It was delicious.”
It’d been cold and the French toast had gotten soggy. Not exactly delicious in his book.
He shot her a sideways glance. Her head was down, which caused her hair to swing forward and partially hide her face. Despite that, he could feel her standing so close to him. If he wanted to—and he so wanted to—he could reach over, wrap his arm around her waist and pull her into him.
Which would probably be a bad thing, given that his hands were a sopping-wet mess.
“You’re welcome.”
He saw her turn her head in his direction. “I...I didn’t picture you as a man who did his own dishes.”
“I have someone who vacuums. But I like to do the dishes. I think better.”
She nodded and fished a pan out of the rinse water. “I understand that.”
“You do?” The fact that she hadn’t looked at him as if he was nuts made it even harder to keep his hands in the dishwater.
But he wasn’t going to touch her. Because if he touched her again, he might hold her. And if he held her, he might kiss her, and then make love to her again, which would make it that much harder to let her go when she went. Because she seemed hell-bent on going.
So he kept his hands in the dishwater as she said, “Oh, yes. Sometimes if it’s late and I’m stuck on a design flaw and I cannot for the life of me figure out how to fix the problem, I’ll put everything away, turn off the computer and go brush my teeth. And that’s when I figure it out.” She grinned at him—a small, private grin, as if admitting she brushed her teeth was almost as incriminating as him admitting he did the dishes. “But I have to shut everything down for it to work. If I leave my computer open...”
Expecting a Bolton Baby Page 8