Found: One Secret Baby

by Nancy Holland

  “He does tend to be sticky.”

  Rosalie cast him a sidelong look of disgust.

  “Hey, don’t ask me to explain Lillian to you. I don’t pretend to understand her myself.”

  “It’s almost as if he’s a possession she feels she has to own, not a child. That’s sad, and a little scary.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  His tone reminded her Lillian was the woman who had raised him. And Charlie. Maybe she’d been more maternal when she was younger. Or maybe not.

  “Where are we having dinner?” she asked to change the subject.

  “My condo.”

  She jerked around in her seat to face him. “You’re taking me to your place again?”

  “It’s quiet, and I have a wonderful caterer.”

  He also had a very large, very comfortable bed, Rosalie remembered with a shiver of desire she couldn’t deny.

  “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t ever make you do anything you didn’t want to do.”

  The problem wasn’t what she wanted to do but what she didn’t dare allow herself to do.

  “I will not have sex with you again tonight.” She half expected him to point out she hadn’t been invited to, but instead he shook his head.

  “Was the last time so awful?”

  She turned away. “No, but …”

  “Believe me, sex with you is the furthest thing from my mind right now.”

  She raised one eyebrow and he shrugged.

  “Okay, maybe not the furthest, but not at the top of the list, either.”

  She didn’t want to think about where on the list it might be. She closed her eyes and let the luxury of the car and Mozart on the sound system carry her away.

  When they reached the condo she strolled past the leather-and-chrome sofa to gaze in wonder out the floor-to-ceiling window at the colorful lights of her city.

  “Would you like a glass of wine before dinner?” Morgan asked. “Since I ordered prime rib, I opened a bottle of red to let it breathe before I went to pick you up.”

  She swallowed and stepped away from the window. “Sure.”

  She didn’t watch as he poured the wine, but chose a modernistic leather armchair and set her purse on the table next to it. The leather felt cool on her legs, but its soft, sensuous texture seemed to caress her through the silk.

  So this was what it was like, not to splurge once in a while, but to be rich all the time. She wasn’t sure she liked it. She certainly didn’t feel comfortable surrounded by all this luxury.

  She didn’t, in fact, feel comfortable at all. Part of it was the awareness that she was alone with Morgan and his bed was a few feet, or given the size of the penthouse, a few yards away. And part of the discomfort was the hot tug of need deep inside her and the prickle of excitement along her skin. Nerves, she told herself.

  Rosalie was nervous. For some reason he couldn’t have explained, Morgan found that charming. He handed her a glass of the Château Lafite Rothschild and was charmed all over again by the surprise on her face when she took her first sip.

  “What is it? It’s like liquid music. I’ve never tasted anything like it before.”

  He chuckled.

  “Is it a ridiculously expensive French wine?” She wrinkled her nose and looked more intently at the ruby-red liquid.

  “Just enjoy.” He sat on the end of the sofa nearest her chair and tried to decide on the right topic for small-talk.

  “So, what was this update about the custody case you came here to give me?” Rosalie asked before he came up with one.

  Okay, no small-talk.

  “Charlie’s father is out of the picture.”

  “I thought he was all along.”

  “There was always a chance, a small one, but I made sure he understood once and for all it would cost him far more to pursue custody than he wanted to pay.”

  He waited, for thanks maybe, but she took another sip of her wine and continued to stare out the window at the blinking city lights.

  “Why did you ask me to marry you?”

  The question seemed to startle her as much as it startled him.

  “Because I want to be married to you.”

  “You can’t. I mean, you might want to have sex with me, but you can’t want to marry a woman you hardly know.”

  “I know you well enough to think it’ll work out okay. We can learn more about each other after we’re married.”

  She gave a huff of laughter. “I still don’t buy it, Morgan. Why marriage?”

  He stared into his glass, rolling the wine around in it while he rolled ways to avoid the question around in his head. In the end he decided to tell her the truth.

  “It worked for my father and Lillian. She didn’t have much money of her own and had been so eager to get free from Paul Thompson she’d settled for less than she should have in their divorce. Plus, she needed a place to live where he couldn’t get at her. My father was a few years older, but they’d traveled in the same social circles all their lives. Since my mother left us, er, him, about the same time Lillian left Thompson, it made sense for them to get married to quiet the gossip on both fronts.”

  Rosalie’s face showed clearly what she thought of such a dreary reason to get married. Still, all he could do was push ahead.

  “I want to keep you in my life, and I don’t want you and Lillian to end up in court over Joey. If we get married and adopt him, Lillian will back off. Hence, marriage looks to be the logical solution in our case too.”

  Rosalie went rigid and set her wine glass down. “Nice Spock imitation.”

  Morgan laughed in spite of himself.

  “It’s logical if you only consider what you want,” she agreed, “but did you ever consider what anyone else might want? Me, for instance.”

  “You want to keep Joey.”

  “And I want to keep my life.” She knotted her hands in her lap. “I spent a lot of years trying not to get lost in someone else’s needs. My mom wanted that for me too, but it was a perpetual battle for both of us. It took so much of my time to help her live her life.”

  Finally she looked up at him, her eyes glistening.

  “Now I’ve built my own life, why would I just want to be Joey’s mom and your lover? What happens after you lose interest in me?”

  He cleared his throat. “I don’t plan to lose interest.”

  Another small laugh, like breaking glass this time.

  “My father didn’t plan on my mother’s illness, either. When she got too sick, he did what men do. He walked.”

  “Women walk too,” Morgan countered before he could stop himself.

  Rosalie started to protest, then remembered how many times she’d already tried to walk away from this man. And failed.

  “I won’t marry you,” she told him. “If you can’t talk Lillian out of the custody suit, I’ll fight her and I’ll win. I don’t need you to keep him, any more than you need me to …”

  He raised one eyebrow. “To have a satisfying sex life?”

  “Something like that.”

  A discreet noise from the doorway announced their dinner was ready. Morgan thanked the uniformed older woman and held out his hand to help Rosalie to her feet.

  She shook her head and stood on her own. She’d be fine as long as he didn’t touch her, as long as her body had no chance to give in to the simmering heat between them.

  The dining room didn’t have as spectacular a view, but it did have a small Monet centered on the wall at one end. An original, she’d guess, based on a lifetime of trips to the local museums and galleries with her mother.

  Morgan held a chair out for her, then sat across the table from her.

  “I hope you enjoy the meal.”

  She more than enjoyed the food. She felt as if she’d fallen into some kind of culinary heaven. The thin slices of perfectly cooked beef were laid across a creamy polenta and drizzled with red, white, and green sauces, each more sublime than the last. She managed to stifle most of her moans of delight, but
couldn’t stop herself from closing her eyes occasionally in pure bliss.

  The conversation did proper homage to the delicious meal. They talked about whatever came to mind—the Monet, local museums they were both familiar with, other cities they’d visited, or rather, he’d visited and she’d dreamed of visiting.

  When he got up to take another bottle off the rack on the sideboard, she realized she’d let herself be seduced by the silky luxury of the wine and had more than her usual single glass.

  “No more for me, thank you.”

  He nodded and sat down as the caterer came to clear their plates.

  Rosalie leaned back in her chair. “So, you came all the way to Los Angeles to tell me you’d taken Charlie’s father out of the hunt?”

  He drained the last of his wine. “I also came to tell you that I want to keep you in my life. If not as my wife, at least as my ‘main squeeze’, I think Jill called it.”

  “You mean your girlfriend?” Your mistress?

  “My lover.”

  The words were a dash of cold water that sobered her instantly. Sobered her, and yet sent sweet tendrils of desire creeping through all the secret parts of her body.

  Maybe an affair was the solution. If she knew from the start she couldn’t trust him to stay, maybe she could find a way to survive when he walked away. Or maybe not. She needed time and space to consider the possibility without Morgan’s distracting presence, without the sweet flames inside her body that made it hard to think at all.

  The server reappeared from the kitchen with their dessert. “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please.” Morgan looked across at Rosalie. “You?”

  She never drank coffee at dinner, but this seemed like an excellent time to break the rule. She needed to be awake and alert to deal with Morgan. “Yes, please. Black.”

  The dessert was more divine than the prime rib. What appeared to be a chocolate cupcake with fudge frosting turned out to be a mocha confection filled with raspberry-flavored whipped cream. They showed it proper respect by eating in a comfortable silence.

  “Excellent meal,” Morgan told the server when she came to clear the table.

  “Yes, delicious.” Rosalie sighed. “I should go home.”

  “It’s early yet.” His voice was a purr as dark and rich as the coffee, as intoxicating as the wine. “We haven’t had much opportunity to talk to each other. Who knows, given the chance, you might even begin to like me.”

  “I like you.” Too damn much. “But I still think maybe it’s better if you take me home.”

  He came around and pulled her chair out. She stood and found him so close all she could see was his silk shirt and a vintage tie hand-painted by a famous rock star.

  Her breath stopped, then came out in a gasp of … Surprise, she told herself.

  She tried to back away, forgetting the table, and lost her balance. His hands, with those long, strong fingers, caught her by the shoulders.

  A wave of sexual awareness washed over her and threatened to pull her into an undertow of sensations and emotions that might drown her. Rosalie looked up into Morgan’s eyes.

  “Steady,” he said in the same seductive purr.

  “I …” She shivered.

  He took her in his arms and held her gently against the solid strength of his body clothed in the softness of fine wool and silk. She couldn’t remember when she’d felt so safe, so sheltered. With a sigh, she laid her head on his chest.

  “Rosalie,” he laid his cheek on the top of her head, “please stay. Just for a while.”

  She never wanted to move, much less leave. Unable, maybe unwilling, to put her emotions into words, she nodded.

  He released her slowly, then took her by the hand.

  His touch had as powerful an effect on her as she’d feared. It was like the magical moment when she found the exact piece of legal information she needed to be sure she’d win her case, multiplied by a thousand. Multiplied by a thousand, and spread through her whole body, a white light that lit her from within and made every bit of her tingly and more alive than she’d ever been before.

  She should have left while she had the chance, but she couldn’t be sorry she’d stayed.

  Morgan led Rosalie to the living room, not sure which of them was more nervous. He sat at one end of the sofa and tucked her under his arm. She settled there with another of those breathy little sighs, her head on his shoulder, her hand still in his.

  He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, then rested it on his thigh. Unsure of what to say, he asked, “Why do you paint your toes, but not your fingernails?”

  She snatched her hand away. “I don’t wear sandals to work.”

  “Ah. Ever the professional. Good thing. Who knows what effect those sexy little toes of yours might have in court.”

  “My toes are not sexy.”

  He took her hand from her lap and kissed it again. “Let me be the judge of what’s sexy.”

  He traced a line across her hand with his finger. Her breath hitched. He kissed the center of her palm. She gave a tiny gasp. He lifted one finger and nibbled at the tip. Her hand tensed, as if to pull away, but after a moment relaxed back into his.

  Reminding himself to go slow, he kissed her hand again before he set it back in her lap. The gesture accomplished what he’d meant it to—she turned toward him.

  Very slowly he lifted his hand to her chin and tilted her face up to his. Her eyes widened. He had to suppress a groan when her tongue slid out to lick her lips in silent invitation. Gently he lowered his mouth to hers.

  Oh, yes! The shock of heat and hunger rocketed through him. Better, he felt it rocket through Rosalie’s body, too.

  She went tense in his arms, but only to draw closer to him. Her hand went to his shoulder, teased the sensitive skin at the back of his neck. Her hips pressed hard against his leg in one wanton pulse before she could stop herself, and he smiled against her lips as a wave of tenderness swept over him that made it easier to rein in the demands of his own body and focus on her needs.

  The heat of Morgan’s kiss flowed through Rosalie like warm honey, relaxing every muscle. She feared she might melt away entirely until he plunged his tongue into her mouth.

  Languid enchantment was replaced with an explosion of pleasure and hunger. Her hands tightened on his neck, her chest pressed closer against his. She could feel the unfamiliar power of her femininity in the tremor of his hands, the roughness of his breath, the hardness of his body.

  They floated sideways on a golden cloud of discovery and delight until they lay on the couch with him on top of her. She held her breath for a moment before she sank into the rightness of it. The rightness of him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Morgan’s kisses became more urgent. The tugs and tension inside Rosalie’s core became more urgent too. One of his hands slid down her body to press her center more firmly into him.

  She was glad his weight kept her from surrendering to the need to writhe under him in an attempt to reach for something shiny and special that hovered in the bright heat between them.

  When his hand moved up to take hold of her breast she gasped out loud and felt the tiny huff of his laughter on her lips. She arched her head back in timeless invitation as his hand kneaded the sensitive flesh it held.

  His groan rumbled against her chest. The sound sent an erotic tremor through her, magnified by caresses that touched all the right places, to open new doors of unexpected delight.

  He caught her pebbled nipple between his fingers and the pleasure became so intense she almost had to pull away.

  He must have sensed the hovering edge of pain because, with obvious reluctance, his lips left hers, traced a line of sparks down her cheek to her ear. She cried out softly when he nipped at the tender lobe. He sighed and lifted himself to his elbows over her.

  “Shall we move this someplace a little more comfortable?”

  “Um?” She forced her groggy mind to focus.

  “We’d be more comfortable i
n the bedroom.”

  “Yes.”

  He shifted to sit beside her. Cool air and cold reality flowed into the space between them.

  “No!” She took a deep breath. “I mean, yes, we’d be more comfortable there, but I don’t think …”

  He smiled and moved closer again. “Don’t think.”

  “Joey.” She struggled to clear her mind from the intoxicating effects of his nearness. “Jill.”

  She took a gulp of air and pressed one hand against his chest. He sat up at once and smiled down at her.

  “You’re right.” He took her hand and kissed it again, then glanced at the clock over the fireplace. “We need to get you home before your babysitter turns into a pumpkin.”

  He helped her sit up and watched with a grin while she tried to put her clothes into some sort of order.

  When she was sure her wobbly knees would hold her, she stood and gathered up her purse, to hold it like a shield in front of her.

  They rode down to the garage in silence. She should have felt awkward—more than awkward—but she didn’t. She felt exhilarated, alive.

  They talked about little nothings on the drive back to her house. Morgan didn’t seem to mind that she’d called a halt to their evening. He was as charming as ever, but the charm had a new air of intimacy that made it even more irresistible.

  She hardly noticed where they were until the car pulled up in front of her house. She turned to say goodbye and found he’d leaned closer to her. Much closer.

  She looked at the house to make sure Jill wasn’t watching, blinked, then looked again.

  All the lights were off. A quick glance at the car’s clock showed it wasn’t Jill’s curfew yet. Had the babysitter gone to sleep on the sofa? Unlikely, when she had the chance to watch unlimited television. Where was she? More important, where was Joey?

  “Joey!”

  Rosalie opened the car door and raced mindlessly up the path.

  Morgan caught up with her as she fumbled with the door keys and took them from her to unlock the door.

  The moment she stepped inside she knew the house was empty, except for the cats asleep on the sofa, but she searched every room to be sure, Morgan silent in her wake.

  Back in the front hall, heart pounding, stomach in full rebellion, she took out her cell and pushed Jill’s button.