He certainly wasn’t ready to be somebody’s father.
So . . .
What are you going to do?
The words hung heavily in the air, along with all that was unspoken.
“I’m going to have the child, of course,” Emmaline announced, eyes flashing beneath that dark fringe of lashes.
“Of course.”
“I haven’t yet been to a doctor, but I believe the due date is sometime in the middle of March.”
“And when you told me . . .” He scrambled to keep up with what she was saying, but his thoughts seemed unable to get past the notion that she was carrying a child—his child. He took a deep breath, tried again. “When you told me yesterday that you were planning to stay here forever . . . you meant . . .”
She lifted her chin. The gesture was slight, but telling. “Don’t worry, Granger. I only needed you to help me escape my wedding and Verdunia. I had nowhere else to turn. From here on in, you’re off the hook.”
The words sounded as stiff and unnatural as the blond wig she had worn earlier.
He wanted to tell her not to worry. That he would take care of her. And the baby.
But the truth was, he prided himself on being a man of his word. Grandfather had taught him well. It was the Lockwood way.
Granger wasn’t about to make a promise he wasn’t capable of keeping.
Perhaps he might have been, before. Before he had defiantly turned his back on his grandfather, the business, and the family fortune.
Now that he had willingly shed his riches for rags, he wasn’t even all that certain he could take care of himself. But he was determined to try.
“All I need is a place to stay until I can get settled,” Emmaline was saying.
He blinked. “You can stay with me.”
“Here? But I thought—”
“I mean, wherever I end up. Don’t worry. I’ll find us a place before . . .” He had less than twenty-four hours to vacate the premises. “Before the sun goes down.”
With that, he pulled his rumpled navy shirt over his head and stood. He jammed his feet into his deck shoes, not even caring that the heels were squished down beneath his feet.
He opened the bedroom door and was greeted by Newman and Kramer, who had apparently been lying in wait in the hallway.
“Later, boys, later,” he said, giving them each a hurried pat on the head.
Making his way hastily to the door, feeling rather like someone about to parachute from a burning plane, he called over his shoulder, “I’m going for the paper, and I’ll try to start seeing places right away. I don’t know how long it’ll take, but I’ll be back as soon as I can. Make yourself at home. My house is your house . . .”
Except that tomorrow, his house would no longer be his house. Or hers.
Where would they go?
Stepping out into the hallway, he stabbed the Down button.
What would they do?
As he waited for the elevator, Granger rubbed his suddenly throbbing temples.
A baby.
Oh hell.
A baby deserved a father. And not just any father, he thought, frowning at the recollection of his own inadequate paternal upbringing.
A baby deserved a father who would be there. With a checkbook, yes. But with a warm lap and strong arms. With reassurance, and discipline . . .
And love.
Granger swallowed hard, wondering what the hell he was doing. Maybe he should just swallow his pride; go back to his grandfather and Lockwood Enterprises.
He could turn around, march back into the apartment, and call Grandfather at the house in the Hamptons. He could tell the old man that he’d made a huge mistake. He could apologize. He could beg to return to his old job, his old home, his old life.
Then he wouldn’t have to bother with building a new one.
The elevator doors slid open.
He hesitated, rooted to the spot, weighing his options.
The doors started to slide closed again.
Granger reached out, wedged his foot between them, and stepped inside.
Six
“Remember, once we get out there, don’t speak unless you absolutely have to.”
“I won’t,” Emmaline promised Granger, who was holding Newman and Kramer on leashes and had an umbrella tucked under his arm and several bags slung over his broad shoulders.
She nibbled on a saltine cracker as they walked across the polished marble floor of the lobby, the dogs’ nails and her heels making a staccato tapping sound that echoed in the deserted space.
She’d suffered her usual bout of morning sickness first thing, before Granger had dashed out to the deli and brought back bagels with cream cheese. The last thing she wanted to do then—and now—was eat. But the bland starch seemed to settle her stomach. Not entirely—but enough so that she had safely made it from the apartment to the elevator to the lobby without vomiting.
So far.
It was too early for the office workers to have started pouring into Lockwood Tower on this gray, rainy Monday morning. A uniformed security guard was at his post, reading a newspaper. He barely looked up as they passed.
A doorman was stationed on the sidewalk just outside the spinning glass doors.
“You’re out bright and early this morning, Mr. Lockwood,” he said cheerfully. He tipped his cap. “Ma’am.”
Emmaline smiled briefly, keeping her blond head tilted down as they stepped out into the drizzle. Would anybody wonder why she was wearing sunglasses on a grim, rainy morning?
Perhaps not. This was New York, after all.
Emmaline adored New York. She had been here on countless occasions, for the theater and the seasonal fashion shows and various charity fund-raisers. She always stayed in an elegant midtown hotel, dined in the finest restaurants, and was escorted about town in a chauffeured limousine.
She now realized that for all the time she had spent here, she had never seen the city from this perspective. From a New Yorker’s perspective. Before, she had been separated from the masses by tinted glass or velvet ropes or a VIPs ONLY placard.
Not any longer.
Now she wasn’t a visiting princess. She was one of them. A New Yorker. At least for the time being.
The hurried commuters rushing along the sidewalk paid little attention to Emmaline and Granger, or to one another. Or even to traffic, she realized, as a few feet from the curb, a cabdriver screeched to a halt, honked his horn, and bellowed an obscenity at a pedestrian who had just stepped out in front of him.
“Walking the dogs yourself today, Mr. Lockwood?” the doorman asked.
“Actually, we’re leaving for . . . for the day,” Granger replied.
“Did you call for your car, Mr. Lockwood? Because I don’t see—”
“No, Roger, it’s okay. I’m not taking the car today,” Granger said quickly, clinging to the leashes, the umbrella, his duffel bag and Emmaline’s satchel as the doorman reached out to take them from him.
“Can I get you a cab, then?”
“No, thank you. Have a nice day, Roger.” Granger juggled the baggage straps over his shoulders, then put up an enormous black umbrella.
He held it low over Emmaline’s head as they walked down the street, effectively shielding her from any passerby who might happen to glance in her direction.
They rounded a corner.
She was afraid to ask, but curiosity was getting the best of her. “Granger, if we’re not taking a cab—”
“Your accent,” he cautioned, holding a finger to his lips and swiveling his head from side to side, as if to make sure nobody was eavesdropping.
The coast was clear, but she couldn’t be too careful.
She began again, but lowered her voice and spoke in her practiced New York accent. “If we’re not taking a cab, how are we getting there?”
“The subway,” he announced—gleefully, for some reason.
“The subway?” she echoed weakly.
She had never seen a subwa
y, let alone been on one.
Under the best of circumstances, she wouldn’t be thrilled by the idea of descending below the Manhattan street and riding a stranger-filled train through a dark tunnel. Now, as she forced the last sodden bit of saltine into her upset stomach, it was all she could do not to gag.
What she wanted to do was drag herself back into the queen-sized bed in Granger’s guest room fifty-five stories above this noisy city street.
But that was impossible.
He was taking her to his new apartment, which he had presumably found last night after hunting for hours. She had been in bed, asleep, when he returned. In fact, that was where she had spent most of the day. She had never slept so much in her entire life.
But when Granger woke her that morning, she had felt as though she could go on sleeping for a few more hours, at least.
No such luck.
Here they were, on their way to the subway to go downtown to Granger’s new home on Eldridge Street.
A studio apartment, he had called it. Emmaline had no idea what that meant, but the phrase brought to mind Porfirio’s quarters in Buiron. The fashion designer’s studio was a spacious network of oversized rooms, all of them adorned with high vaulted ceilings, exposed brick, and hardwood floors.
Emmaline figured that if Granger’s studio apartment was anything like that, they would be quite comfortable there—if only until she found a place of her own.
She had been too exhausted yesterday to be able to think coherently about her predicament, but she could no longer put it off. She had to make plans for her future—and her baby’s future.
She couldn’t go crawling back to Verdunia. Well, she could . . . if she were willing to become a public disgrace. But that would mean dragging her family—not to mention Remi—into a full-blown scandal.
It would be far better to remain in anonymity here in New York. Surely Papa would be willing to support her financially. She would call home just as soon as she and Granger were settled in his studio apartment.
“There it is,” Granger said, pointing, as they crossed a wide avenue.
“The apartment?”
“The subway,” he said with a grin.
“Oh. I almost forgot.” She tried to muster an enthusiastic smile.
She supposed the subway looked harmless enough. It was just a stairway that disappeared into the sidewalk. Beside it was a green globed streetlamp-type thing on a tall post.
They crossed the street and walked down the steps. Granger was careful to cling tightly to the dogs’ leashes. People rushed past them, heading up and down in a flurry of activity. They reached the bottom of the steps. She saw several vending machines along the wall, a row of turnstiles, and a large map showing a network of colored lines.
Emmaline glanced at Granger, who appeared a bit uncertain.
“Have you ever taken the subway before?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Often?”
He seemed to hesitate before admitting, “Once.” There was a pause. He added, “In London.”
“In London?”
“I’m sure this is exactly the same,” he said with what she suspected was false confidence. “We just have to look at the map, figure out where we’re going, and then get on the train.”
As he spoke, there was an ominous rumbling that shook the floor beneath their feet.
“What is it?” Emmaline clutched Granger’s arm. “An earthquake?”
“I think it’s the train,” he shouted above the roar.
The commuters who were still on the stairway launched themselves downward, bolting for the turnstiles. Emmaline watched in amazement as people shoved cards into slots in the turnstiles. They hurtled themselves forward to another stairway on the other side and disappeared as the air filled with the sound of squealing brakes.
Emmaline looked at Granger.
He was looking at the vending machines.
“I’ll get our tickets,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He produced a roll of cash.
“Yo, dude, they’re called MetroCards,” a nearby voice said.
They turned to see a teenaged African-American boy standing there. He was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a navy blue baseball cap with the letters NY criss-crossed above the visor.
“If I was you, I’d put that cash away before somebody decides to take it off your hands,” the boy told Granger. “Subway ain’t no place to be flashing that stuff around.”
“You’re right. Thanks.” Granger hastily peeled off a bill and looked again at the vending machines.
“Ain’t you never been on the subway before, dude?” the boy asked, looking from Granger to Emmaline, who shook their heads.
“Yo, you tourists?”
“Yes,” Granger said with a quick nod. “We’re tourists. From, uh, Kansas. And we would appreciate it if you’d help us get on the subway. We’re not sure how to get our tickets.”
The boy seemed to consider it.
“Look, take this money, get us our tickets, and you can keep the change,” Granger said, shoving the bill he was holding at the boy. “Just show me how it works so that I can do it myself next time.”
“Dude, no problem.” The boy was suddenly grinning and agreeable. “Guess my mama was right. You do a good deed, you get rewarded. But you know, dogs aren’t allowed on the subway.”
Granger shrugged. “We’re not going far. We’ll take our chances.”
Five minutes later, Granger, Emmaline, and Newman and Kramer were stepping onto a downtown- bound train. They had to fight their way in, swept along with a sea of other riders, going upstream against a tide of passengers who were disembarking.
Inside, the car was more crowded than the platform had been, filled with stoic-looking people wearing everything from business suits to turbans to skimpy summer tank tops and shorts. They held briefcases, newspapers, babies, Walkmans, shopping bags, paper coffee cups with jagged sections of the white plastic lids torn away for sipping.
There were no seats. There was barely room to stand.
“Hold the pole,” Granger suggested as the doors slid closed behind them, sealing them into the car, where the air was hot and close and scented with garlic and strong cologne and sweat.
“What po—”
The train lurched. Granger grabbed an overhead metal strap with the hand that clung tightly to the dogs’ leashes, and held Emmaline’s arm with the other. Not that she’d actually have fallen to the floor, wedged as she was against the bodies of strangers, the dogs . . . and Granger Lockwood.
She pressed closer to him in an effort to get away from the others, and found herself flashing back to yesterday morning’s encounter. She still couldn’t quite believe that they had wound up in each other’s arms moments after she had every intention of putting an ocean and as much European continent as possible between them.
Strange, Emmaline thought, how a man could infuriate you one moment and the next, leave you breathless with passion.
A disembodied voice crackled overhead on a loudspeaker, its words unintelligible aside from the phrase “next stop.”
Strange, Emmaline thought, how you could be a royal princess bride in Verdunia one moment and the next, riding a subway in Manhattan.
Strange, too, how your stomach could be semi-settled one moment and the next, on the verge of—
“Are you feeling okay?”
She looked up to find Granger’s face mere inches away from hers, watching her.
“Just a little . . .” She swallowed hard, fighting back the nausea.
“Sick?” His blue eyes were concerned.
She nodded.
The train slowed, then jerked to a stop.
The doors slid open.
People got off, jostling and pushing their way out as others jostled and pushed their way in.
“There’s a seat,” Granger said, and Emmaline saw that a spot had been vacated a few feet from where they stood.
A dour-faced businessman made a beeline fo
r it.
Granger stepped in front of him, cutting him off.
“Hey!” the man said, “That’s my seat.”
“It’s her seat,” Granger said, and propelled Emmaline into it. She sank down gratefully, wedged between an elderly Asian woman and an enormous man who overflowed past his bench allotment. She took a deep breath of the stale air and rested her elbows on her knees, and her forehead in her hands.
“You can’t do that. I was about to sit there,” she heard the man say.
“Let the lady sit down.” Granger’s tone was reasonable, but there was an ominous undercurrent. Newman and Kramer appeared poised to defend their master.
“The lady can stand. That’s my seat.”
“The lady will sit. She’s sick and she’s exhausted and she’s pregnant.”
Pregnant.
There it was, a public declaration made, courtesy of Granger, to a throng of strangers.
Emmaline didn’t dare lift her head.
“Yeah? She doesn’t look pregnant.”
“Well, you don’t look like a—”
The loudspeaker blared another unintelligible announcement, obliterating Granger’s undoubtedly colorful insult.
Emmaline heard a plastic bag rustling, then felt something poking her arm.
She lifted her head and saw that the elderly woman beside her was offering her something small and pale brown.
“It’s ginger root,” the woman said in heavily accented English. “You take it.”
“What did you call me?” the businessman was asking Granger.
“Peel and grate it. Make ginger tea. It will settle your stomach.”
“Thank you,” Emmaline said to the woman, her eyes suddenly welling with tears behind the sunglasses.
She wanted to hug this stranger, whose exotic eyes were filled with sympathy and kindness.
And she wanted to punch the rude businessman, who deserved the insult Granger obligingly repeated.
The train slowed again.
Emmaline darted a glance upward and saw the man glaring at Granger. He growled, “If I wasn’t getting off at this stop, I’d—”
His words were muffled by another blast of the loudspeaker. This time, Emmaline was able to make out the word “street.”
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