“Shh,” she hissed. “Don’t say a thing. Don’t even breathe.” She held the phone for one more second to compose herself and then clicked on. “Hello, Da.”
“Where are you?”
That was her father’s standard greeting and had been ever since she’d left England days after graduating from school.
“America. Where are you?”
That was also her standard reply. It was supposed to be snarky and ironic, but truthfully, she never knew where he was. Despite that time when she’d crossed the Atlantic without informing him, she’d been in the same place for almost seven years. New York City.
“New York.” He sounded put out by this. “You weren’t at your flat.”
Stella swallowed, which only made the curdling fear in her stomach much worse. He’d come looking for her? She hadn’t seen him in two years, for heaven’s sake. Did this mean he knew about the baby? About Bobby?
Was he having her followed?
Her stomach turned hard, the dread so thick she could taste the bile in the back of her throat. She knew he’d find out sooner or later, but she had wanted to control the meeting—not be ambushed, not like this.
She pushed back against the panic. No. If he were having her tailed, he’d know where she was. Still, there could be nothing good about this call.
She was still half lying across Bobby’s chest, his heartbeat calming. He started stroking her hair, which helped her keep her tenuous grip on composure. “True. I’m staying with a friend. Thanksgiving holiday and all that.” So far, she had not spoken one word of a lie.
“Hmmph. And Mick? He’s not picking up his mobile.”
Good ol’ Mickey. No doubt, he was sitting in his hotel room, staring at the phone and, more than likely, listening to the profanity-laced messages David Caine had left for him. But he hadn’t picked up because he’d promised Stella that he wouldn’t speak a word of the baby or of Bobby to her father.
“He’s with me.”
“He best be.”
This surprising sentiment caught Stella off guard. It almost sounded as if her father was being...protective of her. Was that even possible?
No. It wasn’t. She kept her voice light and airy. “You said you came round the flat?”
“Yes. I need you to accompany me to an event in two weeks.”
“Heavens, and the last time I accompanied you to an event was such a smashing success. Don’t you have a girlfriend you can take?”
The moment the words left her mouth, she knew she’d gone too far.
“I do not know how many times I have to tell you,” David Caine growled. “There can never be another woman after your mother.”
Guilt washed over her. He had, in fact, told her that very same thing many times before—so many times that she’d lost count. It should have been a comfort to her—her father had truly loved her mother. Perhaps he had not always known how to show it, but his devotion remained unwavering, even after all these years.
Indeed, it should have been a comfort. It wasn’t. Every time, he reminded her that David Caine only had room in his heart for one woman—and at no time in the past, present or future would that woman ever be his own daughter.
“Sorry, Da.”
“Now,” he went on, his tone brusque, “I have been invited to a benefit gala in New York that’s also a fashion show, or some such nonsense. You will accompany me.”
“But you hate fashion. You won’t even put up the seed money for my boutique.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass for fashion, and your store is a ridiculous idea,” he snapped. “I can’t think of a single person who would wear something you made. I’ve seen schoolchildren with more fashion sense than you.”
Stella flinched. They’d had this particular line of conversation before, too—and she’d long since learned that listing the people who had requested a custom-order piece or noting the magazines that had featured her did no good. David Caine would never see her designs as anything other than a waste of time.
“This is good PR,” he went on. “The benefit is for orphans or AIDS or something liberals bleed dry over. I’ve been taking a hit in Hollywood for my defense of traditional marriage. Some people think I’m heartless.”
Stella couldn’t help it. Her body curled into a small ball without her mind’s permission. “Oh?”
Immediately, Bobby’s hands rubbed her shoulders. Letting her know that he was still there.
“It’s in two weeks. Wear whatever you bloody well want, as long as you’re covered—I don’t care. I can’t have people thinking David Caine’s daughter is a trollop.”
Of course he didn’t care. He couldn’t care less about her designs, except when he thought they made him look bad. It had been much the same with her modeling.
Heartless. No one word could have ever described her father better.
“Two weeks?” She had things to do—test results to get, family lawyers to meet. He hadn’t seen her in two years and he expected her to reschedule her life in two weeks? She supposed she was to consider herself lucky that he had given her any warning at all.
“Tell him you’ll check your schedule,” Bobby whispered in a voice so soft she wasn’t sure he’d said anything. But when she raised her head to look at him, he nodded in encouragement.
“I’ll have to check my schedule. I’ll let you know.” There. She’d done it. A small victory.
“This is not optional, Stella. You will attend or—”
The way he said her name—as if it was a curse that couldn’t be lifted—never failed to leave her feeling the way she’d felt in the cold, dank flat that first Christmas. Alone. Inconvenient.
Completely unloved.
“You will see what you can do,” Bobby’s voice was in her ear, so quiet there was no way her father could hear him. “Then hang up.”
At first, she couldn’t even form the words. Her father was probably trying to do her a favor by asking her to accompany him to a fashion event. She’d chat up movers and shakers and, if her dress was outrageous enough, perhaps wind up as a featured photo on fashion blogs. It would be a wonderful way to generate word-of-mouth buzz about her designs. It might even lead to an investor for her boutique.
But it wasn’t optional. It was an order. David Caine went on as if he was the boss and she was the intern about to be escorted from the building.
That wasn’t how it worked. Not anymore. He wasn’t the one in control. She had a child on the way and that child had to come first—now and forever.
“I’ll...I’ll see what I can do.”
“You will—”
Bobby took the mobile out of her hand and ended the call. They lay there for a moment in stunned silence. Bobby had just hung up on her father. She didn’t know if she should be horrified or appreciative.
Then, against her every wish, Stella did something she had sworn that she would never do again because of her father.
She began to cry.
Eleven
Damn it all.
Bobby wrapped Stella’s shaking body in his arms. He’d heard the whole conversation as clear as day. David Caine was not a subtle man in person or on the phone.
He’d only met the man twice—first to pitch him the show and second to sign the papers. Both times, David Caine had been belligerent to the point of demeaning, a real nose-to-the-grindstone Scrooge with a multimedia empire instead of a countinghouse.
That hadn’t bothered Bobby at the time. He’d expected nothing less from high-level negotiations. The old man could bluster and threaten, but he couldn’t browbeat Bobby into worse terms.
But for Caine to treat his own daughter that way? Damn. Bobby’s father was a piece of work, but at least he cared for his kids.
Sobs racked Stella’s body. God, it hurt to hea
r. He wanted to dent the man’s skull in a few new and interesting places. No one should get away with talking to Stella like that, especially not her father.
If Bruce Bolton ever heard any of his boys talk to a woman like that... Men who treated women like doormats didn’t deserve to keep breathing through their noses.
How dare Caine speak to his own daughter like that? This was exactly why they needed to see a lawyer before anyone said anything to that man.
Bobby curled his body around hers, trying to absorb her pain. He couldn’t go beat the hell out of Caine, but he could be here for Stella. She clung to him. He didn’t know what to say, which was unsettling. He always knew what to say, when to say it, who to say it to. But Stella always had him at a disadvantage. Something about her took everything he knew and threw it right out the window. So he didn’t say anything. He just held her, rubbing her back and kissing her forehead, her cheeks.
Finally, she started to calm down. Sniffling, she forced the saddest grin he’d ever seen. “Sorry,” she said, her voice all scratchy. “Must be the hormones.”
“Don’t apologize, Stella.”
This statement made her tear up again, so he kissed her. Not the heated kiss from this morning, but something he hoped to let her know it was okay if she was vulnerable around him. He could be strong for her, if she’d let him.
A panicked series of knocks interrupted the kiss.
“Oh—Mickey—he’s probably frantic.”
They hurried out of bed. He put his hand around hers and they went to the door together.
Mickey actually looked about three steps past frantic. His face was red and he was panting. “Yer da,” he said before he doubled over and coughed.
“I talked to him,” Stella replied. But she didn’t go to Mickey’s side. She just clutched Bobby’s hand a little harder.
“What did he want?” Mickey straightened up and took a good look at the two of them—her face all red, both of them still rumpled with sleep. “What were ye doing?”
Stella ignored the second question. “He told me I had to accompany him to a gala benefit and fashion show.”
Bobby turned to look at her in wonder. Her eyes were still swollen, nose still runny, but she sounded as calm as he’d ever heard her. How many times had a scenario like this played out before?
Mickey’s face twisted with confusion. “But—ain’t that a bloody good thing? He’s never cared a whit for your clothes. Ain’t this him trying?”
“I—” Stella’s voice caught and she covered her mouth with her free hand.
“Oh, now,” Mickey said in a gruff voice as he fished out a worn kerchief from his back pocket. “Don’t start with that.”
Bobby watched the two of them. The whole exchange—they’d done this before.
It was clear from that conversation that David Caine had rarely, if ever, told Stella he was proud of her. Just that her designs—her passion—was childish. Ridiculous.
It pissed him off all over again.
His family didn’t cry. They screamed and punched and threw things—but nothing was left unsaid. You always knew exactly where you stood with any Bolton. Bobby had often thought of it as a curse—years of fighting did wear on a man—but now he saw it for something else. A gift, almost.
His father never hesitated to tell him when he was being a jerk. But for every time Bruce said that, there were maybe two times when he slung his arm around Bobby’s shoulders and said, “Good job, boy. Your mom would be so proud of you.”
Yeah, Ben had torn him a new one over this whole situation. But he wouldn’t grind Bobby’s nose in this mess for the rest of his life. Something else would happen and they’d be back on the same side again, working to make the business successful. Bobby let go of Stella’s hand and slid his arm back around her waist. He didn’t know what was going on between them, what would happen once the baby came—but he knew he wanted them to be on the same side.
“The benefit is in two weeks,” Bobby explained.
“So?”
“So we have some testing scheduled and an appointment with a family lawyer. That will take almost a month to complete.”
Mickey didn’t like that answer. His beady eyes narrowed. “Testing, eh?”
“We have to be sure before we tell my father. Otherwise...” Stella had recovered. Her voice, at least, was level.
She shivered, and he realized that she was only wearing the tank top and leggings. “You cold?”
She shrugged, but he felt the shiver race through her body. He had an idea. If she took a few minutes to powder her nose, he could get things straight with Mickey. “Grab my shirt, will you?” he asked as he gave her a gentle push toward the bedroom.
“All right.” With a quick peck on his cheek, she headed back to the bedroom.
Mickey waited until the door clicked shut. “I ain’t met the man yet who’s worthy of her,” he growled, one hand in his coat pocket.
Bobby knew he should be insulted—and he was—but he had more important things on his mind. “Are you going to shoot me or not? Because if you are, I’d appreciate it if you just got it over with.”
Mickey glared. Perhaps the old leprechaun wasn’t used to people calling his bluff. “No, I ain’t gonna shoot you.” He pulled out Bobby’s gun and handed it to him. “She picked ye. It’s not me place to tell her she’s wrong. But I’m keeping yer bullets.”
Bobby took the weapon and shoved it into a cabinet where Stella wouldn’t see it. “Duly noted. Coffee?”
“Got any whiskey to go with it?”
“I can scrounge up something.” He made the coffee. “I had some friends get her some supplies so she could keep working,” Bobby said, motioning to the bins scattered around the apartment as the coffee brewed.
Mickey nodded in appreciation as Bobby handed him the spiked coffee. “Ye need to marry me girl.”
“I can’t.”
“And why not? Ye could marry her on the side—keep it quiet. I don’t want her having a bastard baby.”
Bobby slammed his coffee mug on the counter so hard half the contents sloshed onto the floor. “You call my child that again and I’ll break your jaw, gun or no.”
“Easy,” Mickey said—without even flinching, damn him. “Yer sharing her bed—more than sharing, I reckon. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that she already said no. Twice.”
Mickey’s mouth dropped open in shock. “She did what?”
“She has no interest in getting married and I’m not about to force her to do something she doesn’t want. So no marriage.”
“But—but—but the tests? Ye were gonna get tests?”
“So that no one can ever question the custody agreement.” God, he hated this conversation. He was admitting to a near stranger that he’d failed. Yeah, he didn’t want a bastard baby, either. But he would not force her hand. And he wouldn’t let anyone else force her either. “She made her position clear. I don’t want anyone twisting her arm because they think they know best—including you. You’re not her father.”
This statement looked as if it actually wounded the old man. “No, I’m not, but she’s me girl just the same. Some families, you’re born into ’em. And some you make.”
Mickey’s words hit him like a gut punch. He wanted to make this family work. Family came first. His parents had taught him that, lived it—family was everything. Family was the only thing.
He shouldn’t want this family. He shouldn’t be interested in tying himself to Stella until death did them part. He shouldn’t even consider Mickey a father-in-law figure. He had no interest in settling down and giving up his lifestyle. He had parties to attend, celebrities to chat up, women to wow. That was his life—that was the life he’d planned on having for at least another five, ten years. If not more.
Behind them, the bedroom door opened. Stella emerged, looking put together. She’d brushed her hair, fixed her makeup and put her sweater dress back on. Still no shoes, he noted with an inner smile at her soft pink toenails.
“Behaving yourselves, gentlemen?” she asked as she handed over Bobby’s shirt.
“Having a grand time, lass. Better?”
“Much,” she replied as she kissed the older man on the cheek. Mickey patted her on the arm. Bobby saw the twinkle in his eyes, saw how Stella hung on his every word. They were gestures perfectly fitting for a daughter and father. Except that Mickey wasn’t her father.
He shouldn’t want her, shouldn’t want to make a family with her. He shouldn’t.
God help him, he did.
And he couldn’t have one. He couldn’t have her.
It would have been easier if Mickey had shot him.
* * *
Stella lay in Bobby’s big bed, yawning. Dinner had been quite nice, actually. Mickey seemed to have warmed to Bobby a tad.
It was only ten-thirty and she’d had a nap, but she was struggling to stay awake. She’d always been something of a night owl, but this whole pregnancy thing was a different cup of tea. In fact, the only thing that kept her eyes open was the fact that Bobby should be coming in soon. He was showering in the other bath, to give her a modicum of privacy whilst she got ready for bed.
If she weren’t so hormonal, the mere act of waiting for him would have her wired. She hadn’t slept with a man in, well—ever. When she’d first come to New York, fresh out of school, she’d had a few something-to-prove one-night stands. Those men—boys, really—had never stayed. She’d always woken up alone, feeling hollow and used—a feeling made all the worse because she knew she’d done it to herself. No one had asked her to sleep around.
Eventually she’d realized that the sex was never worth the morning after. So she’d stopped. She’d only had two boyfriends who could have been considered semiserious. Even then, she hadn’t let them sleep over at her place. She couldn’t bear to wake up and find them gone.
She shouldn’t be nervous about Bobby. After all, she was in his bed, his flat. Where was he going to go?
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