A flush suddenly streaked up her cheeks. "Excuse me for just a minute, would you?"
He could have guessed a call of nature would interrupt the first moment they touched on anything serious. He rested his head in his hands until she came back from the bathroom, thinking he'd better preserve his strength. Nothing was going as he planned. Nothing. If she had some resistance to talking about finances, that could wait, but so far she'd wasted this whole conversation talking about an irrelevant subject—namely him. They had to get off boring topics and get to some meat. The instant she emerged from the bathroom, he hustled to get the first word in. "Could I have a turn at my list now?"
"Well, sure, Mac."
She said "sure," but unlike the way he'd patiently, politely sat still for all her confounding questions, she started flying around the kitchen. Pots and pans clattered. Water ran. Silverware dropped.
"Kelly, I'll do that cleanup later. These are serious health questions—"
"But didn't I already tell you this? My ob-gyn doctor is Dr. Lynn. She's a peach. And my health insurance is through the Fortune company—which I'd think you'd already know is terrific." Again, she lubbered his brain with one of those female-devil sassy grins. But again, that smile of hers died faster than smoke. "Holy cow, I never thought to ask—I don't lose my health insurance because of being married to you, do I? That doesn't disappear because we're suddenly related now?"
"The employee insurance you had still works after you quit, because the pregnancy was a preexisting condition. And you're now covered under mine. And neither question is relevant. Kel, could you try and get it in your head that we're not destitute? You don't have to worry about things like that anymore."
"Well, I realize you have money, but I've always paid my own bills. It doesn't seem right to take advantage of you, Mac."
God. Most women seemed to grasp swiftly that an association with him was worth gravy. Kelly was not only independent; he doubted she could spell "greed" with a big print dictionary. "You're not taking advantage of me—and could we stick to the subject of health? You had an ultrasound not long ago?"
"The beginning of last week," she affirmed. "Initially they weren't sure about twins. Because they run in your family, the chance was obviously higher—"
He knew. And that was how his mother had died, giving birth to the twins, a fear he'd never wanted to voice to Kelly for fear of scaring her.
"—But there's just one baby. And the little one's doing terrific. Perfect. Growing just as it should. The due date's the end of February, and I didn't ask the sex. It really doesn't matter to me if it's a boy or a girl, but I'm having a tough time picking out names. I'm thinking of Anne for a girl. Oops. You don't like that name?"
"I like it fine."
"From your expression—"
"Annie was my mother's name." He took a breath. "And something tells me you already knew that."
She nodded. "Kate mentioned it to me one time. And Marie another time. Both your aunts thought a lot of your mom, Mac. She sounded like she was a really special and wonderful woman. And I loved the name, so I just thought I'd try it out on you … sometimes people don't like to use names already in the family, but—"
"You couldn't possibly have come up with a name that meant more to me."
Her smile was joyful. "So that's terrific. One name settled. We just have to argue about a boy's name then—"
"Which we can do. Later. But somehow every time I ask you about health, you sidetrack to the baby and you never answer a single question—"
"Oh, me. There's just nothing interesting to say. I'm fine. Except that Doc Lynn said I had skinny hips. Can you believe that, when I'm fat as a slug?"
"You're not a slug, you're not an elephant—I don't know why you keep saying stuff like that when you're not remotely fat. You're beautiful. But what does that 'skinny hips' mean? Is there a health risk for you with the delivery?"
"Mac, I'm not the least bit beautiful. You don't have to do those ego stroke kind of things with me."
By then he was feeding pans into the dishwasher, because he could hardly let her do all the k.p. while he sat like a lazy worm with his list. But she was standing right next to him, whipping plastic wrap around some bowls, and he couldn't believe she was that blind about herself. No, of course she wasn't beautiful the way models were classically beautiful. But models were cold. Those blue eyes of hers were so huge and emotive they could stop a guy in his tracks. Her mouth reminded him of strawberries; her skin was as pure as a translucent pearl … it wasn't as if any one thing made her beautiful, but her expressions were so full of life and sensuality and emotion. Surely she had to realize how attractive she was. A man can hardly help imagining how that soft skin would feel all bare against his on a nice, big, hard mattress … abruptly Mac pulled himself up short. What the hell was the matter with him? Thinking about his wife that way?
Impatiently he shoved a frying pan into the dishwasher. "Could we get back to the question—did the obstetrician tell you there were any special health risks for you with the delivery?"
"Nope. I'm fit as a fiddle. Although talking about this reminds me…" She glanced out the window. "It's pretty obvious we're snowed in, but do you think we'll be cleared out by tomorrow night?"
"What's tomorrow night?"
"My Lamaze class. Six-thirty. It won't kill me to miss it, but there are four in all, and so far I've only been to the first one—"
"We'll get you there. Don't worry about it." He hesitated. "Were you planning on going alone?"
"Yes. Mollie offered to be my labor coach. So did Amanda—you know her, she works for your cousin in marketing? Actually Kate offered to be my coach, too … your aunt has been so wonderful to me, and like Kate put it, she went through labor a half dozen times herself, so who could possibly be more help? But … well, I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings, but I'd just rather do this alone."
Mac sensed this was touchy ground. "As often as I've heard women in the family talk about this stuff, I admit I wasn't listening very hard. This 'coach' is like a person who supports you when you're going through labor?"
"Yeah, that's the idea."
"And you don't want anyone with you?"
"Having some support sounds good in theory, but the truth is, I'm lousy with pain. A real sissy," she said cheerfully. "The woman who leads the class does this big cheer-leading talk about the joy of giving birth. I'm not buying that Brooklyn Bridge. The baby's going to be a joy, but I figure the labor is never going to make my top ten list of fun things. And I just figured out a long time ago, I handle tough things best when I'm alone."
Mac didn't like the idea of her going through serious pain alone. He liked the idea of her learning to handle the tough things alone in life even less. But he also didn't figure his name would even cross Kelly's mind as a support person. Hell, he was just her husband.
Out of nowhere, she suddenly reached out and put her hand on his stomach. So much for husbandlike thoughts. His pulse bucked to a sudden pagan, drumroll beat that snapped every hormone he owned to attention. His gaze shot from her splayed fingers on his abdomen to her face. Then he realized she was just pushing him out of the way—the way a wife would do. She had a box of dishwasher soap in the other hand and just wanted to pour it in and turn on the machine.
He got out of the way. "That coach thing is up to you, but if it's all right, I'd like to go to the Lamaze class."
"You want to learn how to grunt and groan?" she asked humorously.
"I'd like to get a clue what you're going to go through, and I know zip about babies or labor now. Would you mind if I went with you?"
"No, no problem. As long as you really want to, and aren't feeling obligated … listen, how do you feel about oatmeal-raisin cookies?"
"Pardon?"
"We're snowed in. Seems a great day to make cookies to me. And I decided on a bedroom upstairs for the nursery—the far one, next to the peach bathroom?"
"Fine. Whatever you want." He poured him
self another cup of coffee, thinking labor, cookies, nurseries … now that Ms. Efficiency had leveled the kitchen, she was back to talking about a zillion subjects at once. He sipped the hot brew, figuring he was going to need the caffeine.
"Is it okay if I put a fresh coat of paint on the walls?"
The caffeine helped. He was prepared for another new subject to pop out of nowhere. "No."
"No? I realize that there's nothing wrong with the paint, Mac, but it's really a dark blue. I just thought for a baby's room it needs to be some kind of light, happy color—"
"I wasn't objecting to the room being painted. You want any rooms painted or changed, we'll get it done. But you don't need to be lifting heavy paint cans on your own."
She argued. She liked painting. She wanted to do it herself. Pregnancy wasn't an illness and she didn't need coddling. Yadda yadda, on and on. At some point in the discussion she plopped a bowl in his lap and ordered him to stir. Apparently it was the oatmeal-raisin batter—and it stirred about as easily as cement—yet from nowhere Mac suddenly realized this strange thing. He hadn't thought of work or responsibilities in hours. He was sitting in a tipped-back chair with a foot propped on a fling. He was not only stirring cookie batter, but he could actually feel a grin molding the corners of his mouth.
Relaxed hadn't been a word in his vocabulary in years. He liked stress and power and responsibilities. But it never occurred to him that anything about this marriage could be easy. He had no idea what living with Kelly would be like—except for respecting that she'd been trapped into making the best choice she had, no different from him. But he'd never expected … her. A woman who chattered nonstop and had an irrepressible giggle and made the whole house rock with motion and light. She teased him. She ordered him around. She didn't have a formal bone in her entire body.
For a moment, he just wished it would keep snowing, that the whole world would disappear for a little longer.
For a moment, it almost seemed as if he was a real husband, and she belonged to him, and there was nothing more natural on earth than being with her.
But then, of course, the phone rang.
The real world intruded and the foolish illusion vanished. Mac had a job in this relationship. To keep her safe. She'd never chosen to be with him—and he warned himself that it would be dangerous to pretend otherwise.
* * *
Chapter 4
«^»
Thirty hours later, Kelly was pulling a cherry red maternity top over her head and considering divorce. The honeymoon had only lasted through one batch of cookies. Once the phone started ringing yesterday morning … well, she wasn't able to eavesdrop well enough to pick up any details about the problem, but it was something about a guy named Gray McGuire and a threat of some takeover. Mac had been on the company jet, flying to New York, less than an hour after that.
She sat on the bed and pulled on fresh socks—an increasingly challenging task with the size of her tummy—and she needed to hustle. Five minutes from now she needed to be in the car, en route to her Lamaze class if she were going to make it on time. Going alone didn't bother her. Mac was a busy man. She'd never believed he wanted to go to the class with her anyway.
The crisis with her marriage had nothing to do with her new groom being absent. It wasn't even remotely Mac's fault, but that didn't make the problem any less serious.
Kelly conquered the socks and then looked wildly around for a hairbrush. She'd just moved her stuff into the corner blue-and-white bedroom this morning, and she kept forgetting where she'd put things. Like hairbrushes. And shoes. She'd just located one shoe—and the brush—when she suddenly heard the sound of a truck engine below. Curiously she peeked out the window and saw a moving van.
Still hopping into her shoes, she hurried down the hall to the stairs. "Martha? Did you see that truck outsi—?"
Mac's housekeeper was already charging for the front door, her steel gray bun bobbing at the pace of her jog. "I saw. Don't you worry about a thing, dear. Mr. Fortune just arranged for more of your things to get moved from your old apartment. I realize you have to leave for your class, and I'll make sure everything gets inside safely—"
"What things?" Kelly asked in bewilderment, but once Martha opened the front door, she had a clear view of the truck bed outside. Against the snowy landscape her pink couch was a noticeable shock of color. "Holy kamoly. Martha, I never asked Mac to move any of the furniture. There's no possible way any of those things are going to fit in here—"
"Now, don't stand in the draft, dear. You don't want to catch cold with the baby. And Mr. Fortune said not to let you lift anything, so it's just as well you need to be leaving right now … there you are, Benz. He's got the car all warmed up—"
Kelly whirled around. "Benz, you're not driving me."
"Sure I am, miss. You don't want to be battling that snow. And Mr. Fortune says I'm to drive you wherever you want to go, and see you get in as well. Now we've got plenty of time, but we do need to leave—you just let Martha worry about the moving van, all righty?"
No, it wasn't all righty. The whole drive into town, Kelly huffed in the seat next to Benz. Maybe the words "Mr. Fortune said" would hit most people as innocuous—and certainly nothing to cause a crisis in a marriage. But for the last thirty hours, Kelly must have heard the phrase at least fifty-million times. Martha and Benz were the retired married couple who lived at the edge of Mac's property. They only worked part-time, but the close living relationship enabled Mac to have certain things done—like repairs or plumbing or heavy cleaning—because the couple could pop in to supervise while he was working.
They were both darlings. But from the instant Mac had left for New York, Kelly had been subjected to a steady stream of Mr. Fortune said this and Mr. Fortune said that. "Mr. Fortune said I should ask whatever you want to eat and that you're not to worry about cooking." "Mr. Fortune said you're not to lift any boxes." A painter had telephoned. "Mr. Fortune said you needed some rooms done." Mollie had called yesterday but Kelly had accidentally fallen asleep on the couch. Martha later told her that "Mr. Fortune said" she wasn't to be interrupted any time she might be resting.
"There are going to be changes—bbbiiigggg changes—if this marriage is going to survive," Kelly muttered.
"What'd you say, miss?"
"I said it's absolutely ridiculous for you to get dragged out in the cold with your arthritis when I could have driven myself perfectly well alone."
"Well, now, it's not a question of your being capable of driving, honey, it's just that Mr. Fortune said—"
"I know, I know." Princesses in ivory towers couldn't be more coddled than this, she thought darkly. She'd never expected so much attention from Mac—much less that he could pull off this protectiveness long distance. And to a point, she didn't mind. Being pampered wasn't her cup of tea, but after the attack, she just couldn't seem to feel safe. Between the security system and Mac's support staff, those fears were fading like smoke. That wasn't the aspect of the "Mr. Fortune saids" that really troubled her.
It was Mac she was worried about. For Pete's sake, everybody treated him like a god. Of the zillion people who called the house, there wasn't one who didn't ask for Mr. Fortune instead of Mac. What kind of life was he living, with all these people kowtowing all the time? Benz and Martha clearly felt affection for him. It wasn't that. His family obviously cared, too. But nobody called to say "hi." They all called because they wanted something from him. And Kelly didn't know whether he chose that formal distance or it had been forced on him, but it bothered her, badly, that absolutely no one seemed close to Mac.
"And it's not like I expected him to sit around and eat cookies. But for heaven's sake, he can't even count on a holiday to put his feet up and relax."
"You talking to yourself again, Kelly?"
"Now don't start thinking I need a straitjacket, Benz. A little insanity's allowed in pregnant women. But I'm telling you we need to make some changes in his life, and I'm serious about that."
"Sheesh, I will. Quit with the orders." She bussed Benz on the cheek—if he was going to behave like an honorary grandfather, then he was going to get treated like one—and then heaved her bulky girth out of the car.
The stinging cold slapped her face, but it was only a short walk into the clinic. The snow was shoveled so high from the holiday blizzard that mini white mountains framed the sidewalks. Other women were hustling toward the door at the same time, and she recognized most of the faces from the first class. A spirit of camaraderie had caught on swiftly, because they had so many things in common. They were all first-time moms, all bigger than boats, all waddling at the speed and all dressed in the same kind of easy comfortable clothes to accommodate sitting on floor mats for the exercises.
Everyone else, though, had brought a coach—mostly husbands, but a couple of the women had brought friends or sisters. Kelly felt a pang of isolation, even knowing that being alone was her own choice, but she just couldn't imagine asking anyone—especially Mac—to help her through this. She'd made her own bed when she'd fallen for a man like Chad. Her baby wasn't a mistake, but what she'd done certainly was, and she just hadn't felt right about asking anyone else to pay her prices with her.
Those disquieting thoughts faded away as she joined the other women pouring into the classroom. Everyone was laughing and chattering as coats got heaped on the floor and the group settled down on floor mats. Mrs. Riley was already standing at the head of the class, looking more like a zesty thirty-year-old than the fifty she had to be. The nurse was so full of enthusiasm that personally Kelly thought she could sell the Brooklyn Bridge several times over. No labor war stories were allowed. Mrs. Riley was hot for all of them to believe that giving birth was going to be more fun than a party.
THE HONOR BOUND GROOM Page 5