“No blinding flashes of inspiration?”
“Not a single one,” she agreed in a sad-but-amused voice. “Then I have to decide if I’m going to sleep or get everything back out again. It’s such a struggle.”
He chuckled, but the whole time they talked, he was planning. She worked out, sketched, sewed. But Mickey had only carried in two bags. If Stella was going to stay, she would need something to do while he went to work. But he didn’t have a sewing machine or whatever one used to make lace. And it wasn’t as if he and Stella could hit the nearest crafts store for supplies, either. That would defeat the purpose of keeping her out of the public eye.
He was debating the value of asking Mickey to pick up some supplies, when it hit him—Gina and Patrice. They were the artists who lived in Ben’s warehouse—they’d probably know where to get supplies without attracting media attention.
He and Stella could go over to Ben’s place. The more he thought about this idea, the better it seemed. He could introduce Stella to his brother’s family—show her that he was serious when he said Boltons were family men. They could borrow some art stuff from Gina and Patrice—enough to keep Stella happy while Bobby worked.
“So,” she went on, her voice suddenly a little too bright. “What are you thinking?”
“I have an idea,” he told her.
Eight
Stella clutched her bag in her hands as Bobby drove them through an industrial neighborhood. Parts of this looked like Manchester, England, and the gray tone to the afternoon was not helping. Not even the sky could manage to be cheerful.
Her nerves were getting the better of her. When Bobby had suggested that they visit his brother and pick up supplies from some artists he knew, she’d felt compelled to agree. He was trying to provide for her and she hated to disappoint him—even if that did mean she was going to meet his family.
All of those perfectly rational facts didn’t quell the butterflies in her stomach, though. Neither did the huge warehouse Bobby parked next to. She hadn’t prepared to meet his family. She hadn’t prepared for any of this.
“Here we are,” he said in an everyday kind of tone.
“Your brother lives in a warehouse?”
“Think more industrial loft. Wait and see.” The twinkle was back in his eyes.
She did like that twinkle. It spread a pleasing warmth through her.
Bobby escorted her to an entrance, entered some numbers into a keypad and opened a gate. To a freight elevator? What in heaven’s name?
“Industrial loft,” he repeated, shutting the gate behind them and entering another set of numbers. Then he stepped into her, slid his arms around her waist and said, “Hold on.”
The lift lurched upward, taking her nervous stomach and pushing it over into upset. She clutched at Bobby, who seemed unaffected by the motion. “I’ve got you,” he said, holding her steady.
“Better.” She managed to get out as the nausea rolled her stomach. She really didn’t want to meet part of his family and be sick all over their shoes.
Normally, motion sickness wouldn’t even be an issue. But nothing about her was normal now. Being pregnant, being in South Dakota—being here with Bobby. Actually, given the total abnormality of the moment, she was probably lucky she was only a little ill.
She closed her eyes and buried her face in Bobby’s chest as the lift came to an uneven stop.
“Hang on,” he whispered as he pulled away. “Girls? We’re here—but we’re going up to Ben’s!”
“Okay—not ready yet—meet you up there in a few!” came the excited response.
That was another thing that was not normal. After Bobby had proposed this little side trip, he’d had Stella make a list of supplies she would like—paper, fabric, tools—and called someone named Gina. This Gina apparently knew who Stella was—her voice had been so loud and excited that Stella could hear almost everything she said from several feet away. However, Gina had talked so fast that Stella hadn’t been able to make out anything.
Bobby held her tightly and the lift began its unsteady climb again. She focused on taking long, even breaths, but her stomach was not happy.
Finally—mercifully—they stopped. With one arm still around her, Bobby opened the gate and ushered her out onto solid, unmoving ground. “You okay?”
“Morning sickness,” she managed to get out through gritted teeth.
“It’s three in the afternoon.”
She’d love to sock him in the shoulder but that would mean opening her eyes and letting go of him, and she was afraid she might collapse if she did so. “I’m aware.”
“Come on.” He guided her forward. The sounds of Vivaldi filled the room.
“Hello,” a pleasant female voice said. But her tone quickly changed. “Is everything okay?”
“Ginger ale? Or crackers?”
Stella couldn’t tell if Bobby was asking her or asking the other woman.
“Yes,” she said through gritted teeth. She willed her stomach to settle. Absolutely no getting ill and that was final.
Together, they walked through the industrial loft. When Stella got her eyes open, she was taken with the space—huge and very well done. The massive abstract paintings, which took up whole walls, should have made all the leather and mahogany furniture look out of place, but the space worked.
Bobby led her toward the kitchen area, where a stunning woman with a reddish-black braid that hung halfway down her back was sitting on a stool at a massive granite island. She glanced up as they approached, a weary smile on her face.
It was then that Stella saw what she was holding. A baby—not a newborn, but small enough to be tucked into a sling around the woman’s shoulders. It had been ages since Stella had seen an actual child. Her friends, such as they were, didn’t start families, and people with families didn’t move in her design circles.
At the sight of the child something inside Stella clenched with such force that it almost doubled her over. That was what she wanted—a weary smile and a baby’s red nose and what had undoubtedly been a long night of crying. She wanted it all—she wanted to be the one person in the world that her baby needed and loved.
“Hello,” the woman said. “I’m Josey—sorry about this,” she added, waving her hand around. “Callie’s been teething and has another double ear infection.”
“Stella. No worries. Just some motion sickness. Wasn’t ready for the lift. Nothing contagious.”
Josey smiled and motioned to the glassful of pale amber soda at the far end of the counter. “I got that for you.”
“Thanks much.” Stella took a long sip. Refreshed, she took a step closer to Callie, who promptly began to fuss. “Oh, sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. She’s been clingy.” This did not make Stella feel better. How was she supposed to be a good mum if babies didn’t like her?
Bobby stepped around her, undeterred by the fussing. “More ear infections? Callie Lou Who, you can’t keep doing that!” He reached out his arms and Stella was amazed so see the baby lean for him.
“I hate that nickname,” Josey said, but she didn’t seem bitter about it. Instead, she lifted the little girl out of the sling and handed her over to Bobby. Then she cricked her neck from side to side. “Thank you.”
Bobby grinned as he chucked the baby under the chin. “You have got to let your poor mommy get some sleep, Callie Lou Who. Mommies need sleep, just like babies.”
Stella stood there, dumbstruck as she watched Bobby cuddle the child. He was good with babies? He liked babies?
“Remember,” he was telling the baby, who was almost smiling at him, “I’m Uncle Bobby—the fun uncle. Don’t let Billy tell you otherwise.”
That feeling—that clenching—seemed to center high in her chest. She was filled with a rush of emotions she couldn’t gr
asp, much less name. Heavens, she couldn’t even think of anything to say. She had no words for what she was watching.
“Been back to the doctor?” he asked Josey.
“He said if she gets two more ear infections in the next six months, we’ll start talking tubes.”
Bobby scoffed as he patted Callie’s back. This is what she wanted so desperately. This was why she had come.
This is the family she wanted. The family no custody agreement could guarantee. These sorts of moments—that’s what would be lost if Stella and the baby were in New York and Bobby were here in South Dakota. Sure, she knew Mickey would probably tote the infant around, maybe even sing her some of the old Irish folk songs from his childhood. But it wouldn’t be like this. It wouldn’t be her baby’s father.
It wouldn’t be Bobby.
He was grinning at the baby’s mother. “So he likes to see you suffer—nice. Remind me not to use your pediatrician.”
That snapped Josey’s attention away from the baby, now nuzzled against her uncle’s chest, back to Stella. Stella could see her connecting the dots—Bobby shows up with a strange woman, the strange woman requires ginger ale and crackers, then stares slack-jawed at the baby.
But Josey didn’t say anything. Instead, she waited.
Bobby noticed the sudden attention shift. “Where’s Ben?”
“Here,” came the deep reply from the other side of the space. A tall, broad man who looked a great deal like Bobby was striding toward them, wiping his hand on a rag.
The two brothers—for there was no mistaking that—stood side by side. Ben Bolton was imposing and severe-looking in a way that reminded her of her father. Bobby was a few inches shorter and considerably lighter in his coloring.
Stella much preferred the younger brother to the older one. Ben seemed too harsh, too calculating—far too severe for her. But Bobby? He was warm and inviting and he made her smile.
In fact, the more time she spent with Bobby, the less she knew what to expect from him. Everything she’d thought she’d find—the self-made playboy, interested only in no-strings-attached sex and his next business deal—was offset by the unexpected. He gave up his bed so she could sleep alone. He made her breakfast and did the dishes. He brought her to meet his family and doted on his niece.
And he made her feel as if she was someone special. It was ludicrous to say that mattered, but it did. Even though she’d walked into his life and turned it upside down, he still looked at her as though he was glad she was there. As though he wanted something more from her. Almost—almost—as though he wanted her to stay.
Ben Bolton was giving Bobby one of those hard looks that Stella was all too familiar with. Then Stella realized that, instead of Bobby being resolutely blank or cowering in fear, he was actually grinning at his brother.
“You’re scaring her, man,” he said under his breath, but loud enough that everyone could hear it.
“Bobby was just introducing us,” Josey added, but she didn’t look as if she was trying to draw Ben’s anger onto herself, as Claire had sometimes done for Stella. Instead, it seemed that Josey was just stating a fact.
“Right. Stella, this is my grumpy brother, Ben—the chief financial officer of Crazy Horse Choppers and one of the main backers of the resort. You’ve met his wife, Josey. She’s a fundraiser for the Lakota Indian tribe and specializes in building schools.”
Josey actually blushed. “One school. You always exaggerate.” The way she said it was full of gentle teasing.
There was a pause. Stella stood as she always did when she was uncomfortable—shoulders back, chin up. She didn’t betray any emotion that could be used against her.
“Ben, Josey, this is Stella Caine.” Still holding the baby, he stepped to her and slid his hand around her waist. So comfortable. So easy. “She’s a fashion designer and model. We met two months ago at a party.” He paused. “She’s pregnant with my baby.”
Well. No pussyfooting around that. But saying she was a designer first, a model second? Being David Caine’s daughter wasn’t worth mentioning? That summed up why she’d been attracted to Bobby in the first place. Because she was Stella Caine, first and foremost. David Caine had nothing to do with it.
She tightened her grip on Bobby as she leaned her head against his shoulder. Together, she thought. That was becoming a very good thing.
To be fair, neither Ben nor Josey blew their tops. Perhaps they already knew about the baby? Then Ben turned the meanest look she’d ever seen at his brother.
“Stella Caine?”
“Yes. David Caine’s daughter.” Finally, Bobby sounded as worried as Stella felt. She could tell this bit of information had caught Ben Bolton off guard. She could also tell that Ben Bolton being caught off guard was not a good thing.
“The David Caine? Who owns the show?” Josey asked, clearly flummoxed.
“Technically, he owns the network. He’s only the executive producer of the show. I retained all rights during the contract negotiations.”
This technicality did not make things better. Ben looked murderous, but Bobby was strategically holding Ben’s daughter.
“We’ve got some testing scheduled for Thursday. Once we get those results, we’ll see a family lawyer,” Bobby added.
Josey seemed to pick up on Stella’s distress. She got up and refilled the glass with more ginger ale. “Morning sickness—I’ve never heard a more misleading phrase in my life. I was always sickest around dinner.” She poured herself a glass, too. “Why don’t you give me Callie, and Stella and I will go chat?”
It was phrased as a question, but Stella heard the order loud and clear. Bobby was to hand over his infant shield immediately.
“Of course.” Stella was amazed to see Callie had fallen asleep. “Oh, Gina and Patrice will be up in a bit. Stella’s going to be staying with me while we get everything sorted out, and I thought the girls would be able to round up some supplies so that she can get some work done while I’m at the construction site.” He cleared his throat. “For obvious reasons, we don’t want Stella to be anywhere near a camera crew.”
“Obviously,” Ben snorted.
Bobby shot his brother a tense smile then kissed Stella on the cheek. “You’ll be okay?”
“Will you?”
He kissed her again. “House rules—no fighting, or Josey gets mad.”
“No one wants that.” Stella couldn’t help but notice Josey was looking at her husband when she said it. “The baby’s asleep, boys. Let’s keep it that way.”
Nine
Bobby was not off the hook yet—not by a long shot. Just because Josey had laid down the law didn’t mean that Ben wouldn’t find a way to drive a knife deep into his back.
His brother stood there, arms crossed and eyes mean. So much for the hope that fatherhood would soften the uptight bastard a little bit. No such luck.
“I could use a drink,” Bobby began, not so much because it was true—although it was—but more to get things started. If Ben had his way, he’d stand there glaring at Bobby until hell froze over. “Beer?”
“You’re out of your damn mind,” Ben growled as Bobby stepped around him—out of reach—and went to grab two longnecks.
Bobby got the distinct feeling that, as long as he didn’t wake up the baby, Ben wouldn’t kill him. He hoped, anyway.
“I didn’t know who she was,” he told Ben as he popped off the caps.
“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?”
“I didn’t know who she was,” Bobby repeated with more force. “We were on a first-name-only basis until after we...” He swallowed. “Until it was too late.”
“You weren’t thinking.”
“The condom failed—I just didn’t realize it at the time. This was an accident.”
Ben snorted as he to
ok a pull on his beer. “She tell you that?”
Bobby tensed midswig. “What are you saying?”
Ben let him sweat for several painfully long seconds. “You know what I’m saying. How do you know this whole thing isn’t a setup? Do you even know if she’s actually pregnant?”
Suddenly, Bobby wasn’t so worried about Ben trying to punch him. Instead, he was far more worried about whether or not he’d wake up Callie by decking her father. “You watch your mouth about her. That’s the mother of my child you’re talking about. I’m just trying to make this right.”
“What I said was to make sure it’s yours—then make things right.”
Bobby was hanging on to his temper by the skin of his teeth. “We have an appointment on Thursday.” He said it through gritted teeth, but at least he wasn’t shouting. “That was the soonest they could get us in. So you shut your damn mouth or I will shut it for you.”
Ben didn’t back down. He never did when he thought he was right. Which was all the time. “You’ve single-handedly managed to put this entire deal—your damn deal, I might remind you—at risk because you couldn’t keep your damn pants zipped. Do you have any idea how much money I’ve put up for your resort?”
This was about money. Sooner or later, it always came back to that for Ben. He was a numbers guy. Sometimes, Bobby wondered what the hell Josey saw in him. Whatever it was, he couldn’t see it.
“I know exactly how much you put in—twenty percent.”
“Which is less than half of what David Caine put in, isn’t it?”
Bobby didn’t have an answer for that. The network was underwriting a big piece of the resort as part of the production fee. It was all part of the contract. The contract with all the morals clauses Bobby had broken.
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