by Beth Andrews
“Your cologne or—or aftershave.” Another swallow. “It’s making me sick.”
“I beg your pardon?” he asked, sounding like some damn uptight prick. But it was hard not to get offended when a woman said you made her want to throw up.
“Bathroom,” she gasped, pushing away from the wall, her eyes frantic, her hand covering her mouth. “Now.”
Grabbing her by the elbow, he led her the few steps to the half bath off the foyer. Flipped on the lights and was debating whether or not to try to squeeze into the tiny room with her when she slammed the door in his face. He heard the lock click, then the unmistakable sound of retching.
He rubbed the back of his neck. Shut his eyes when the sounds behind the door continued. Damn it. He hated feeling this useless.
Hated that he’d made such a mess of things with her.
He hurried into the study, pulled out a bottle of ginger ale from the mini fridge below the bar and poured it into a tall glass. Considered adding ice but didn’t want to take the chance of being gone too long.
If he wasn’t there to stop her, she’d take off. Again. The way she had that night.
He had a right to be suspicious, he told himself, his strides long. To wonder about her motives. But he could have handled this whole situation better. He saw that now. And he would. When she came out, he’d convince her to stay.
He’d get to the truth.
But a niggling part of his brain insisted she could have already told him the truth. That the baby was his.
And he’d given her fifty thousand dollars to never see him again.
He let his head drop, blew out a heavy breath.
He was in such deep shit.
Someone knocked on the apartment door. More than likely whoever the front desk had been buzzing him about.
What the hell was the point of living in a secure building if the front desk was going to let anyone and everyone in?
The latest visitor knocked again. He glanced at the closed bathroom door. Heard the water running. Another, harder knock. More insistent.
“Coming,” he grumbled, then opened the door.
And would have slammed it shut again if Carrie hadn’t thrown herself into his arms, forcing him to take several steps back to regain his balance, ginger ale sloshing over the edge of the cup and onto his forearm.
“Oh, C.J.,” she wailed against his neck.
He glanced up at the heavens. Mouthed the word help but no assistance was forthcoming, not even a well-timed lightning bolt. He’d have to get out of this on his own.
Story of his life.
Except he was usually fixing other people’s mistakes. Today, the mess he needed to clean up was all his.
He kept his free hand at his side, held the glass away from them with the other. “Who the hell let you up here?”
She leaned back, looking beautiful as always, despite her trembling lower lip and the tears glistening in her eyes. “The nice gentleman at the front desk. He knew you were home and since he recognized me, he buzzed me through.”
“He shouldn’t have. This isn’t a good time.”
“I didn’t know where else to go.” She sniffed. “Everything is such a mess.”
C.J. stepped back, keeping a decent distance between them, in case she decided she needed to latch on to him again. “Carrie, what do you want?”
“I need a place to stay. Just for a night or two,” she added quickly.
He raised one eyebrow, knew it made him resemble his father even more than usual, but maybe that’s what she needed—a reminder of who he was. And who her husband was.
“Something wrong with my father’s house?”
A swipe and another reminder about where she came in the pecking order of things. The mansion she’d redecorated after her marriage to Senior, the bed she slept in, the place she called home wasn’t hers. Every piece of furniture, every pair of overpriced shoes in her closet, every nickel she spent came directly from Senior.
Without Clinton Bartasavich Sr., she had nothing. Was nothing.
Just as Senior wanted. As he’d planned.
She pressed a crumpled tissue to the inner corner of her eye. “I need a break. Seeing Clinton that way. Watching him suffer is just so...hard. So much work. He needs so much time and attention. What about me? What about what I need?”
“I’m sure it’s very difficult for you,” C.J. said flatly, “having a full-time staff and nurses taking care of his every need while you sit back and watch them. You want a break? Try a hotel.”
Sending him a look from under her lashes, she sidled closer, and he realized he’d backed himself into a corner. Or, to be more specific, against the wall. She laid her hand on his chest. Lowered her voice. “Why should I stay at a cold, lonely hotel when you have all this space?”
She tipped her head back, her lips parted. She was beautiful, no doubt about it. Then again, all of his stepmothers had been beautiful. Beautiful and, as the years had gone by, younger and younger.
And this one, barely twenty-eight years old, was making him feel a hell of a lot older than thirty-six.
C.J. snagged her wrist and held her away from him. “Lonely? Guess your friend Chip is out of town.”
Carrie’s eyes widened. “Wha-what do you mean?”
He almost felt sorry for her. Almost. Then again, she’d brought all of this on herself. “Chip Foxworth. Your ex? The man you visited last weekend at his room at the St. Regis?”
With a gasp deep enough to use up half the oxygen in the hallway, she laid a hand over her heart. “Are you spying on me?”
“Save the faux outrage. No one needs to spy on you. You paid for Foxworth’s room with my father’s credit card. His business manager alerted me to the charges. You should be more discreet.”
Then again, his father hadn’t married his last three wives for their brains.
C.J. had planned on talking to his brother Oakes about what to do with the information that their invalid father’s wife was cheating on him. Instead, the problem had landed on his doorstep. Literally.
“What are you going to do?” Carrie asked, sounding small. Afraid. Which was understandable. After all, she was about to lose everything. “You...you can’t tell Clinton. It’ll kill him.”
“The old man’s stronger than you think.” But C.J. didn’t relish the idea of sharing the news. “Be out of the house by Sunday afternoon, and I won’t tell Dad. You can file for divorce, citing irreconcilable differences, and move on with your life. Or, I can hire a private investigator to find proof of your affair. Which, I believe, would mean you would no longer be eligible for the generous settlement allotted in the prenup you signed.”
She blinked rapidly. “You wouldn’t tell him. Not in his condition.”
“I wouldn’t want to,” he admitted, leading her to the door. “But if it came down to telling him or letting you continue to make a fool of him, I’ll choose the former.” He opened the door, nudged her into the main hall. “Do yourself a favor. Take the money and run.”
She made a squeaking sound, which he took for agreement, and he shut the door on her.
“Your life is a bona fide soap opera.”
He couldn’t argue with that. He turned, saw Ivy leaning against the wall next to the bathroom door, her face pale, her eyes huge and rimmed red. “How are you feeling?”
“Dandy.” Her voice was rough.
“Here.” He offered her the ginger ale. “This might calm your stomach.”
“How am I to trust you didn’t poison it?”
“You have a very creative imagination.”
“Hey, you’re the one who could give Dallas—the TV show, not the city—and J. R. Ewing a run for their money. For all I know, you regularly poison women and hide their bodies in a bedroom closet.”
To appease her, he took a long drink. Held out the glass. She accepted it and took a tiny sip but that probably had more to do with her having just been sick and not her naturally suspicious nature.
�
�I want proof the baby is mine,” he said, crossing his arms, feeling like an idiot for not just saying that outright when she’d first claimed to be pregnant with his child. “We’ll have paternity testing done.”
She took another sip. Licked her lips. “It’s as if you don’t trust me.”
“It’s a reasonable request.”
“It certainly is. Reasonable. Rational. Completely understandable.” Another sip. “I would have happily agreed to it had you brought it up earlier. Unfortunately, that ship has long since sailed.”
She shoved the glass at him, giving him no choice but to take it.
“How am I to be sure the child you’re carrying is mine?”
With a shrug she walked past him, her heels clicking, the sound loud to his ears. “Thanks to the check you wrote me, that is no longer my problem.”
She opened the door. She was leaving. Walking out of his life, just like that.
Exactly what he’d wanted.
Reaching past her he slammed the door shut, and then stepped in front of her. “We’re not done.”
“When I’m done, I leave. And, believe me, buddy, I am done with you.” He didn’t move. She raised her eyebrows. “Don’t make me kick you in the shin.”
It wasn’t the threat of violence that had him moving aside, it was the exhaustion on her face. Knowing she’d just been ill.
“In other words,” he said, when she opened the door again, “you can’t prove you’re telling the truth.”
“You don’t get it. I came here because I thought it was the right thing to do. This pregnancy came as a shock to me, too, but I thought we could sit down, discuss our options and come up with some sort of plan on how to proceed. Together. Instead you treated me like dirt, accused me of being a lying, manipulative slut.” She shook her head, her hand gripping the doorknob as if it were a lifeline. “You didn’t have to be such an arrogant ass. You didn’t have to make me feel so cheap. So beneath you. None of it had to be this way,” she continued quietly. “It didn’t have to end this way. I hope you remember that long after I’m gone.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT DIDN’T HAVE to be this way.
C.J. paced the length of his apartment, Ivy’s words replaying in his head.
He felt caged in, like a wild animal recently caught, forced to hide his instincts to keep control. Usually keeping control was easy for him. Emotions were messy and had never helped anyone make a good decision. No, problems needed to be solved by using one’s head, by using logic and reason and looking at all the angles, by seeing the pros and cons of each decision.
Following your heart only led to suffering. Not that he’d followed his heart that night with Ivy, he thought with a sneer. That had all been his groin telling him what to do. He could admit that his arrogance hadn’t helped, either. He’d had the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen come to him, flirt with him, and he’d given in to his baser needs.
It wouldn’t happen again.
The edginess fled as he realized that he could handle this. He handled everything. His blood chilled and he was cool. Calm. Collected. Getting upset wouldn’t solve anything, wouldn’t get to the truth, and that was what he needed right now. The truth.
A knock sounded on his door and though he knew it wasn’t Ivy, his heart sped up anyway, almost as if he was looking forward to seeing her again, as if he wanted to see her again.
He yanked the door open. “Took you long enough,” he growled.
His brother Oakes raised his eyebrows. “I hadn’t realized I was being timed.” He came in, looking like the attorney he was, in a dark suit, his brown hair rumpled. “I left a very promising date to come over here because you said it was an emergency.” He helped himself to a beer from the fridge and sat on the couch. “Well? What’s up?”
C.J.’s mouth tightened. He didn’t know how to go about this. He’d called Oakes as soon as Ivy had left. Demanding his brother drop whatever he was doing and telling him to come over here was one thing, but actually letting him know what was going on? That seemed extreme.
At least it wasn’t Kane, who’d never let him hear the end of it.
“Are you going to stare at me all night?” Oakes asked. “Want me to read your mind?”
C.J. sighed. Damn it, he’d have to tell him. Would have to admit what an idiot he’d been. “I need your help.”
Oakes froze in the act of lifting his beer to his mouth. Slowly lowered the bottle. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” C.J. could have sworn his brother was enjoying this somehow.
“Yeah, I did, but I’d love to hear it again.” Oakes grinned and stood. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that you needed help before. Or that you were wrong, but that’s a miracle for another day.” He took out his phone and snapped a picture.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Just wanted a memento of this momentous occasion,” Oakes said in his cheerful way. “Maybe you could repeat yourself? That way I can have a video of it to share?”
C.J.’s response to that was short and to the point.
Oakes put his phone back in his pocket. “I love my phone but not that much. And I don’t think I have that app, but I’ll look into it for those long, lonely winter nights. Now,” he continued. “What do you need help with?”
“I need you to find out information about someone.”
“I’m not a private detective,” Oakes reminded him. “Those years in law school and all that. I can give you a name—”
“You can find out just about anything you want about someone,” C.J. said, knowing Oakes could get information about people for his clients and the cases he worked on.
“So can you. All you have to do is place a few calls and—”
“I don’t want anyone to know about this.”
“New business venture?” his brother asked.
“No, it’s...personal.”
“Really? I thought you didn’t do personal.”
C.J. bristled. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Oakes lifted a shoulder, not the least put out by C.J.’s tone or hostile glare. “You haven’t dated since Dad got sick, and you focus on work. Everything all right?”
He wished he’d focused on work that night with Ivy. Leave it to Oakes, the best of them all, to worry about C.J.’s well-being. “I’m fine I just...”
Screwed up. Big-time.
Shit.
He sat on the edge of the chair, clasped his hands between his knees. “I met someone.”
“You want me to run a background check on the woman you’re dating? That seems a bit cold and paranoid. Even for you.”
“We’re not dating. We...spent the night together. The night of Kane’s engagement party.”
“Not that I don’t love being privy to the more personal aspects of your life,” Oakes said, “but I’m having a hard time following you. You slept with a woman in Shady Grove and...oh.” His eyes widened and he chuckled. “Oh, I get it.”
C.J. doubted that. “Got what?”
“She dumped you, but you’re hooked, and now you want to convince her to give you another chance.” He made a motion of a fishhook in his cheek. “Never thought I’d see it.”
“That’s not what happened.” He wasn’t hooked. But she had left him. He wouldn’t forget that. Twice she’d walked out on him. That was unacceptable. “We hadn’t spoken since that night, but she came here today.”
“She came to Houston?” Realization dawned and Oakes shook his head. “No.”
C.J. pressed his lips together. Nodded shortly. “She says she’s pregnant.”
Oakes went into lawyer mode, standing and pacing, and C.J. could almost see his brother’s agile mind working. “Any chance it’s true?”
“No.”
Oakes turned, gave C.J. a look he’d never seen from his younger brother before. “No? No chance at all? So you didn’t have sex with her?”
And this wasn’t something he wanted to discuss. He hadn
’t participated in locker-room talk, bragging about his exploits and conquests, since he was thirteen and had gotten to first base with a girl two years older who’d wanted him to take her to some country-club dance and buy her jewelry.
He’d found out later that she’d only liked him for his looks and for his father’s money.
“We had sex,” C.J. admitted through clenched teeth. “But we used protection.”
“Nothing but abstinence is one hundred percent,” Oakes said, as if convincing a jury of C.J.’s guilt. Repeating Ivy’s words. “You say you used protection. Was she on birth control, as well?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
Oakes gave him a look that was filled with disbelief and disappointment. “Just a suggestion, but if you’re going to have one-night stands, you might want to make sure you’re both protected from something like this.”
C.J. felt like a big enough idiot already. He didn’t need to hear it from his little brother. “Are you going to check into her or not?”
He didn’t want to go to a stranger to handle this, but he would if he needed to.
“What do you want to know about her?” Oakes asked.
“Everything. Where she works. Where she lives. Who her friends are. Her history. Past lovers and relationships. Education. Family.”
“Guess you didn’t get around to discussing any of that, huh?” Oakes asked.
“Spare me the lecture. I’ve got enough on my mind.”
“What are you going to do about the baby?”
“I’m not sure the baby is mine. This could be some scheme to give her kid the Bartasavich last name and to get enough money to set herself up for life.”
But his instincts told him it wasn’t.
Oakes made a note. “I know a guy—”
“You—”
“No,” Oakes said. “I told you. I don’t do background checks, but I know a guy who does and who is very thorough. He’s discreet, too, so don’t worry about that. He can be completely trusted.”
“I don’t know,” C.J. said. This was personal, and he didn’t want his personal business spread around.
“Trust me,” Oakes said. “He’s the best.”
C.J. nodded. He did trust Oakes. “How long will it take?”