“Are you sure you’re okay?” Raul studied her anxiously in the rearview mirror.
“Yes. Can we stop by the drugstores on the way home? I need something for an upset stomach.” A really bad upset stomach.
“You bet.” Raul made a left turn off King Street and headed north to Crystal City. “I’ll get whatever you need to help you feel better, Miss Reagan.”
A new life would be nice, she thought bitterly. This one sucks. Obstacles confronted her at every turn, and they were all men. In two days, she would travel a long way to try to please one of them—‘try’ being the key word in the promise she’d just given Alex Stewart.
That had to be why she’d gotten ill. She already knew her father wouldn’t condone her method on negotiating. Well, whose fault was that? If he’d taken her under his wing instead of throwing her under the train, maybe he would’ve gotten his way. Maybe none of this would’ve happened. Darn. Her stomach pitched in protest. Carsickness was well on its way. She swallowed a noisy gulp, hoping to stave it off.
Raul pulled into the nearest drugstore’s parking lot and left the car running while he ran in. She took the small box he handed her when he returned and check the dosage instructions. Grandpa Denver’s words flashed to her mind. There in print was a warning for pregnant women.
What now? Take the medicine or throw up all the way home? And yet… What if? That one awful night… Oh, God no. Her quivering heart pitched at the thought.
“I bought some water.” Raul handed the already opened bottle over the seat. “Just in case you want to take that medicine now. You’re still pale.”
“Thanks,” she said quietly, mulling over the slim possibility that Grandpa Denver’s prophecy was right. Of all the ways to become pregnant. Please God. Not now. She’d been so humiliated. So violated. Spousal rape was not how she wanted to conceive her first child.
What to do… Suffer the nausea… Or make sure… She swallowed hard. There was no choice. No baby, even one as small as this one had to be, if there really was a baby, deserved a selfish, careless mother on top of an abusive father. “I need to go inside. I’ll be right back.”
“Why? Are you sick? Do you need to—?”
“I just do, Raul. I… I… Oh, never mind. I’ll be right back.” She slid out of the car, her knees knocking.
Of course, kindly Raul thought he should accompany her.
“No,” she insisted. “Keep the car running. Really. I can do this.”
He pulled his cell phone from his front pocket. “You call me. For anything.”
“I’ll be fine,” she lied. Was there really such a thing as mother’s intuition? There had to be or she wouldn’t have that sneaky feeling that it wasn’t just the stressful day making her sick.
She bought two kits just in case, then barricaded herself in the handicapped restroom stall, her hands shaking as she performed the first test. Shit.
Frantically, she tore the second box open, and amidst tears and whispered prayers of “No, no, no. This can’t be happening to me…” Shannon found out it could happen to her. She was pregnant.
“Everything okay?” Raul asked from the front seat when she’d finally composed herself enough to return to the limo.
“Do you have time to take me to Dr. Remy?” she asked, biting her bottom lip and unable to meet Raul’s questioning eye. He’d see right through her. He’d know.
“Of course. My time is your time.” God bless Raul, her one bright spot in what had become a really bad day.
Dr. Remy’s big smile of congratulations, along with his, ‘You’re going to have a baby!’ proved the pregnancy tests were right, damn it. She left his office with another appointment in a month, a handful of You’re Going To Be A Mommy pamphlets, and a couple samples of anti-nausea medicine for morning sickness.
“What can I do to help?” Raul had the patience of a saint, but Shannon couldn’t answer. Not yet. Her world had just imploded, and she needed a minute to process it. Or a month.
She was expecting. Her. A recently divorced woman. The unwilling CEO of a defense contractor. An inexperienced, unqualified businesswoman. Tears welled. Even now, a parasitic, miniature Brit Paxton was growing inside her body, and it would probably look like—him.
The freedom she’d so briefly enjoyed crashed to an end. She’d be bloated for months, but worse, she’d be tied to this child’s selfish father for the rest of her life. She’d have to tell him. Brit had a right to know, but the thought of all those future entanglements with the man who’d lied and cheated on her, made Shannon want to vomit for an entirely different reason.
Raul’s warm gaze in the rearview mirror waited an answer.
“I’m pregnant,” she whispered.
His eyes reflected her sadness. This news was nothing to celebrate. He knew all she’d gone through. Stoically, Raul kept his opinion to himself as he backed out of the parking stall and headed to her gated singles community.
She stared out the window in mute wonder at her pitiful life. Her father, Paul Reagan, maintained a distant relationship with her, always too busy to bother with his only child. Then there was Brit Paxton. She’d recognized her naïveté in marrying him long ago. He was her father all over again. Arrogant. Remote. Selfish. Yet her father had praised her for the smart choice she’d made in accepting Brit’s proposal. He must’ve recognized something of himself in his future son-in-law. That was why they got along. Paul and Brit were clones.
Shannon clenched her hands over her traitorous stomach. First vomit, now a fetus. She couldn’t stop the tears. All her dreams were dying inside.
Chapter Five
“The proper command is, ‘sit.’” Harley held his palm forward to the charging canine.
Adam watched, amused that Harley thought he could get this hardheaded Irish Setter youngster to settle down with one word. But sure enough, Seamus screeched to a smiling halt, planted his butt, and sat at Harley’s foot as if he’d understood.
“How’d you do that?”
Harley grinned. “Easy. He’s a smart dog. You picked a good one.”
“He’s been a monster since I bought him—more like an out-of-control kid.”
The redheaded child in question sat demurely watching the conversation with bright brown eyes, his long tongue lolling.
“Nah. He’s still mostly puppy. He’ll learn. Dogs need to know exactly what you expect from them. That’s all.”
Adam blew out a big sigh, not so sure. Dog training looked easy when Harley did it. “You sure you’re okay watching him for a couple days?”
“You bet.” Harley ruffled the dog’s red-brown fur, brushing the long skirt free of a few leaves he’d picked up running like the crazy puppy he was. “We’ve got plenty of room.”
Adam glanced over the five-acre farm Harley called home. It boasted an elegant A-frame house, two rambunctious twin boys, and an out-building where a couple of German Shepherd litters awaited training and socialization. The Mortimer kennels only bred the best. Sometimes Adam wished he’d selected a different breed, maybe one of Harley’s pups. He should have. Harley’s dogs were intelligent and quick learners. At eight months, Seamus was still more moose than dog, all legs and boundless energy that didn’t fit in Adam’s busy life like he’d thought it would.
He had an apartment. All the late-night jogs in the world didn’t compensate for a big dog left alone too long during the day.
“You’re not giving up on him, are you?” Harley asked.
“No,” Adam admitted quickly, “but I am thinking of moving. He needs an outdoor kennel and room to work off some of his energy. Besides, we’re both tired of city life. I need a place like this.”
“There’s an empty building lot down the road for sale. Think about it while you’re in Hawaii. It’s been—what? A year now?”
Adam nodded, surprised Harley remembered the date of the debacle with his ex, Shirley. But he should’ve. Harley was the one who’d taken him in with all his broken belongings, gave him a rack to flop on
, and made him part of his family.
The day in question came back to his mind.
He’d returned home from a successful but long operation in Southeast Asia. The flight alone was torture enough, but then he’d seen the disaster waiting for him. Everyone else saw it, too. Shirley, his live-in girlfriend of two years, had decided to divest herself of him. What a Looney Tune. The woman threw his stuff off of his balcony. His. Not hers.
He’d lost a lot that day. Besides boots and clothes, she’d tossed his prized Les Paul guitar, his Derek Jeter autographed baseball, his Bose brick, a MacPro laptop, and various other audio and video equipment.
But what hurt the worst was watching Granddaddy’s antique 1860 Colt Army revolver fall from the third story balcony, followed quickly by his fifty-caliber Springfield 1866 Trapdoor rifle, similar to the one Custer might have used at his infamous last stand. Adam intercepted the rifle, but missed the revolver by mere hundredths of an inch. It literally brushed past his fingertips before it shattered to its death.
Those things might have been good investments to a collector, but to Adam they were part of his family history, priceless gifts given by a man now buried but never forgotten. Thankfully, the police showed up. She stopped chucking things over the balcony then, not like it did much good. Adam’s belongings were already splattered and shattered. It took less than ten minutes for the fine officers to escort his ex to their patrol car. Oh yes, her girlfriend, Tamara, too. No wonder Shirley was spun up. Tamara was her bipolar match made in hell.
So there he was, just home, tired as hell, with a duffle bag full of dirty laundry and his apartment mostly stripped bare. One of the two had doused his walls with obscene graffiti. Yeah. Two bi-polar witches on a rampage? Not a good thing. At least they hadn’t gotten his big screen to the balcony. Things could’ve been worse.
Oh, wait. No, they couldn’t. Someone caught her antics on their cell-phone camera. If local humiliation wasn’t bad enough, worldwide was better. Even now, the YouTube video of him trying to catch his property while it rained down from above garnered hundreds of views a day. Adam Torrey’s life became a freaking reality show.
Luckily, Harley offered a free room and board while a clean-up crew repainted the apartment, but it was dammed hard moving out the day Adam got his place back. Leaving Harley’s little boys, Alex and Georgie behind ended up being more painful than Adam expected. Saying goodbye to Harley’s dogs was, too.
Enter Seamus. Life hadn’t been the same since.
The mission to South Dakota eight months later should’ve helped. It didn’t. Waking up in the local hospital with a bullet hole in his chest and a failed mission to his credit sucked. Murphy’s law ruled. What could go wrong did.
“Sit.” Adam tried the command that worked for Harley. Instead of sitting, Seamus slapped both front paws to the ground in play, his butt raised high, his tail wagging, and a ‘let’s go’ grin on his silly, happy face.
“Sit,” Harley commanded. Same word, but damned if Seamus didn’t drop that wiggling backside to the ground and sit. He glancing back at Harley like a good dog, his eyes half-closed and his nose on point. On Harley.
Adam huffed. “See what I mean? He listens to you. How did you do that?”
“I’m hearing you tell him to sit, but you don’t say it like you mean it,” Harley offered. “It’s all in your voice. Try again.”
Adam turned away from Seamus, which only meant the dog would follow. Sure enough, the long-legged, over-sized pup nudged his hand playfully as they walked ten feet or so from Harley. Adam pivoted on his heel, raised his palm flat to the dog’s face, and told Seamus in no uncertain terms to “sit.”
Lo and behold. Seamus obeyed, his longhaired ears perked up and listening for a change.
“Now give him his treat.”
“Why? You didn’t.”
“Because you need to incentivize him. I don’t. Dogs are no different than little kids, Adam,” Harley said quietly. “He’s dying to please you, but Seamus doesn’t know the rules yet. That’s where you come in. Tell him what you want, and mean it when you tell him. Reward him when he gets it right. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. I’ll run him through basic dog-training while you’re gone. That’ll help.”
Adam tossed a puppy treat to good boy Seamus, certain that funny red-haired guy could smile.
“Now tell him, ‘go play.’”
Adam repeated the command, and Seamus took off alright, after a bushy-tailed squirrel. Seamus ran fast, but Mr. Squirrel ran faster. Life didn’t get any better. Adam had lost out to a rodent.
Harley grinned. “Wait ’til you have kids. You train ’em the same way. Tell ’em the rules, enforce the rules, and let the testing and pushback begin. It’s taken me a while to figure it out, but if you say what you mean, you’d better mean what you say. Draw a hard line. Just make sure Seamus knows where it is.”
Adam watched his lame-brained canine pursue another squirrel with equal abandon. Somehow, this obedience lesson sounded more like childrearing than dog education. “I don’t have kids, Harley. Just a bonkers dog with two ears that don’t always work.”
Harley shrugged. “Puppies. Kids. They’re pretty much the same at this stage. Are you planning on spending a few days on the island?”
“No. Once the UAVs are signed for, I’m out of there. I’ve had enough of Reagan Industries.”
“Miss Reagan was a nice surprise though.”
“Yeah. Right.” Adam remembered the nice surprise in the elevator that almost got all over his boots. “Guess you could say that.”
“You made her nervous.”
“Me?” Adam shook his head. “Nah.”
No high-class woman would be intimidated by a man the likes of him. She was Niemen Marcus to his Smith and Wesson. Heck, the fancy, high heels she’d worn that day probably cost more than his entire wardrobe.
That Harley had noticed Miss Reagan’s nerves made Adam smile. Good. He’d meant to make her nervous. It was his reputation her father had impugned; she should’ve been a whole lot more than just nervous. Shocked. Maybe indignant, if that innocent act of hers was genuine. Outraged, if she really planned on confronting her father over his failure to tell the truth. Adam doubted both scenarios. Miss Reagan might have shown for the meeting, but her old man pulled the strings. There would be no apology.
Still, she did seem more like a lamb to the slaughter than a woman on her way up the corporate ladder. Even her remark about Adam leaving the drone unguarded seemed more naïve than insinuating. She’d just asked the first thing that had popped into her head.
When he’d heard Reagan’s daughter was a writer, Adam thought he’d be meeting with a sharp-tongued harpy from the press, not a pretty little gal who actually seemed to care what happened in South Dakota. Paul Reagan had never asked about the gunshot wound. Not even once. Shannon had. Hell, she’d stopped the show with her concern.
Her sincerity had almost blown Adam to the wind. If she’d touched him like a lot of women would’ve at that point, if she’d laid just one hand on his wrist in true sympathy, he’d have folded the game. A caring woman’s touch meant a lot. But when she failed, he’d focused on the bastard part of the equation. Paul Reagan wasn’t much of a man, much less a good dad. What guy sends his little girl to do his dirty work?
Of course, her getting sick all over the lobby embarrassed her, so Adam had no choice. He let her off the hook. Maybe he had gone overboard with his ‘tough guy’ routine. Maybe not.
Shannon wasn’t what he’d expected, and she did have a cute way of chewing her bottom lip while she negotiated, at least while she thought she was negotiating. She hadn’t done much of it. For the most part, Alex ran the show. He’d put her on the spot at hello, and manipulated her into accompanying the drones instead of accepting carte blanche Paul Reagan’s preposterous second proposal. Alex was pretty clever.
Adam considered apologizing until she’d pursed her pink lips in an attempt to slow her breathing. That’s when he’d really looked a
t her and recognized the signs for what they were. The sheen of perspiration above her upper lip. The sudden pale skin. Eyes wide and too big. The poor thing was about to faint or puke.
Dealing with a powerhouse like Alex had to have been tough enough, but Adam made it worse. He’d bullied her until she broke, and he honestly felt bad. He’d deserved that comeuppance in the elevator, but her getting sick gave him an unexpected opportunity to delve all five fingers through those luxurious tangles of hers, streaked with browns, golds, and blonde. A man didn’t get a chance like that often enough, not without inviting trouble.
Miss Reagan was different. Intelligent, but naïve. Trusting. Traits alien to most modern businesswomen. Despite her unfortunate display of nerves, her hair was smooth, sleek, and cool to the touch. He couldn’t let it get in the way, could he? Nah. Poor thing.
Adam licked his lower lip at the thought of her lush body in his hands.
He’d noticed other things too, especially when she’d backed into his thigh before she’d lost her cookies. The pleasant plumpness in all the right places. The luscious breasts trapped and heaving in a lacy, beige bra under the cut of her expensive business jacket. Sassy hips that were more than a bony handful. Warm, sensual curves that surely led straight to Heaven the way they’d pressed into him for support. Long legs made longer and a ton sexier when she’d planted her high heels wide, which in turn made her skirt tighter across her butt.
There she was heaving her guts up, and his all-male mind was down and dirty in the gutter. But then she’d made it worse. She’d burped. She’d straightened and swiped the back of a dainty hand across her mouth, and with tears in her eyes, she’d apologize for getting sick. What the hell?
That sweet apology did him in right then and there. Shannon needed a defender in her corner, and damned if it wasn’t him.
Adam Page 5