Baby by Design

by Paula Detmer Riggs

  Resigned to a long wait in the pouring rain, he'd made himself as comfortable as possible on the covered porch at the back, then did his best to keep the vicious pain at bay by playing mind games.

  It was an old trick, discovered by accident when he was riding in a gunship heading into combat. At that time, he'd zoned out on detailed recitation of all the things he planned to do in Hong Kong on leave. This time he'd started by running down a list of all the visa stamps in his passport, then began listing each state and its capital in alphabetical order, starting with Alabama. Methodically, just as he'd taught himself to master everything from basic hygiene to the techniques of killing an opponent in hand-to-hand combat during boot camp, he'd worked his way down to Rhode Island when Raine had interrupted him.

  It had been worth the agony of opening his eyes to find her hovering over him, an eccentric angel in an oversized yellow rain slicker, her expression stark with concern and worry. Even in his semiconscious state, he'd felt her compassion and caring. Damn near basked in it, but then he was a desperate man. He'd take whatever she offered and be thankful for it.

  Lord, but she'd been determined to rescue him the same way she'd rescued the damned dirty starling with the broken wing she'd nursed back to health during one of his visits home. An apt comparison, he realized. Too apt. The wretched starling had infested the house with mites.

  "What's wrong?"

  Until he heard her urgent question coming from above, he hadn't realized he'd groaned aloud. Bracing himself, he opened his eyes and looked up at her. She had removed her slicker and looked soft and touchable in a pale yellow shirt and corduroy slacks. Her hair was more tumbled than styled, piled in a heap atop her head. It was a casual look that tempted a man to mess it up even more, with his hands.

  In bed.

  Morgan fought a sudden longing that made the crashing pain in his head seem little more than a twinge by comparison. He closed his eyes and prayed for oblivion.

  "I found the pills, at least I think they're the ones. From a chemist's shop in London, with all kinds of warning stickers stuck on the label?"

  He managed a curt nod, which he should have known was a bad mistake. The sudden shard of molten steel splintering his brain had him sucking in hard.

  Raine saw the awful strain on his face and hurt for him. She'd had bad headaches before, but nothing that had even come close to incapacitating her. As soon as she got some medicine down him, she intended to call Boyd.

  "It says one or two on the label," she said, careful to keep her voice calm and quiet. "How many do—"

  "Two." The answer was a mere whisper of sound, forced between a grimace of pain.

  "I'll just get some water from the kitchen."

  Raine squinted down at the tiny letters printed on the pill bottle's label. She'd just finished spelling out the name of the medication for Boyd MacAuley who was on the other end of the phone line.

  She heard the sound of a low whistle in reply.

  "That's heavy-duty stuff, Raine. It's not even available in the States. The FDA considers it experimental."

  She frowned down at the multicolored labels warning against mixing the medication with just about everything—alcohol, milk, other pain medication, the operation of machinery.

  "It says 'for pain.'"

  "Yeah, right. Hard-core. What's wrong with your husband?"

  Ex-husband, she started to say, then realized that Morgan was anything but. "He said something about a headache. That's about all I could get out of him before he drifted off."

  "Hmm. Hang on a minute and let me see if I can make this stupid computer tell me anything useful."

  Raine leaned against the kitchen counter and listened to the faint tap-tap of a computer keyboard and the sound of her own breathing. It pained her to admit it, but she was terrified. Divorcing Morgan was one thing. Thinking that she might never see him again was something else entirely.

  Of course it was a silly distinction, but one that had come at her with the force of a blow in the dark. She couldn't still love the man. It wasn't logical or sensible or particulary smart.

  No, she was simply feeling a normal human compassion for the father of her first child. The same as she would feel for Boyd or Case or any of her other male acquaintances.

  "Still with me, Raine?"

  Boyd's question gave her a start. "Still here," she blurted into the receiver.

  "Says here that that particular med is prescribed for cluster headaches, among other things."

  Raine frowned. "Is that like a migraine?"

  "Yes, but worse. I've heard of people committing suicide because they couldn't take the pain any longer. Unlike a traditional migraine, a cluster comes in bunches, hence the name."

  She wet her lips, trying to remember if Morgan had ever mentioned cluster headaches. "This is the first time I've ever seen him going through this."

  "Could be a recent onset. Clusters can be triggered by an injury or severe trauma. Even prolonged stress can bring them on if the patient has a genetic predisposition or physical weakness."

  Raine took a moment to think about that. "Then why didn't he have one after Mike's funeral?"

  She heard the sound of a weary sigh. "Raine, I don't have the answer to that. And I'm not a neurologist, but I can recommend a couple of good ones."

  "Thanks. I'll … mention that to Morgan when he wakes up." She bit her lip, then straightened. "He's sleeping now. Is there anything else I should do for him?"

  "Keep him warm. Check on him periodically to see that he's breathing normally."

  "Right."

  "And one more thing. Make sure you follow the dosage instructions on that medication precisely. It's nothing to fool around with."

  "I understand." She gave a weary sigh of her own. "The best-laid plans, and all that."

  Boyd chuckled. "Yeah, ain't that the truth?"

  She pressed the button to end the connection, but kept the phone tucked between her shoulder and her ear as she searched for the number of her part-time sales assistant, Ginny Burks, on the list pasted to a nearby corkboard.

  "Please be available," she muttered as she punched out the digits.

  She felt a wave of relief roll over her when Ginny came on the line and jumped at the chance to put a few more hours on her time card. All she needed was five minutes to pull on some jeans and a sweater, and she'd be on her way.

  That handled, Raine stood staring out at the rain. It had slacked off slightly, but the gloomy gray storm clouds seemed to hover directly over the house.

  It had been a day very like this when she and Morgan had scattered Mike's ashes over Long Island Sound. Morgan's face had been the color and texture of granite. His eyes had burned with some inner torment, and the few words he'd spoken had seemed torn from him.

  We could have another child, she'd told him with tears streaming from her eyes. It was as close to begging as she could come. But Morgan had wanted to wait. To give themselves time to grieve.

  Gradually she'd come to realize that, although Morgan had loved Mike and had been deeply shaken by his death, he wasn't suited by temperament or inclination to the daily grind of child rearing. Or the mundane details of a traditional marriage, for that matter.

  No, Morgan was an adventurer, a thrill seeker, a man too physically and intellectually restless to settle for home and hearth, while she liked nothing more than to nest.

  Two polar opposites. No wonder they hadn't had anything to say to each other after Mike was gone. No reservoir of shared trials and triumphs to bind them together. No grand plans for a dream home or a vacation cottage or a trip around the world together. Nothing had bound them but their mutual love for their child.

  And sex.

  Before she'd met Morgan, she'd known what sex was, but not what it was like. She'd read books about soaring experiences and lofty flights, but Morgan had been more of a primitive than a poet. With him, making love was as wild as a battle for survival, no-holds-barred and no quarter given.

&n
bsp; Raine felt a familiar swell of sensual excitement run through her and bit down hard on a protesting moan.

  "No, no, no," she muttered into the silence of her own kitchen.

  If only he'd loved her as much as he'd wanted her…

  But he hadn't. End of story. End of marriage.

  Squaring her shoulders, she turned and hurried back to the living room. On the way, she detoured to the guest closet near the door where she kept a quilt for those times when she wanted to curl up on the sofa with a book.

  Morgan was still sleeping, his one arm thrown over his eyes as though to block the light. Standing motionless, she studied the tight jeans and sodden shirt. They would have to come off, or he would be miserable.

  "Shirt first," she muttered, dropping the quilt on a nearby chair.

  Taking a breath, she knelt in front of the sofa and tugged the soggy shirt free of the jeans. Easing it over his chest while he was lying on his back proved impossible.

  Stalling, she turned her attention to his jeans. Of course they had buttons, the slippery metal kind. Once she had those undone, she hooked her fingers beneath the waistband and pulled.

  Suddenly he jerked, as though in pain. Before she could move to soothe him, he'd grabbed a handful of her hair, holding her captive.

  "Morgan, let go," she said calmly. "Morgan, you're pulling my hair."

  His eyes remained closed, but she could swear his fingers tightened. "Morgan, sweetheart, you have to let go of my hair."

  There was no response. Nothing.

  Raine sighed. Her neck was twisted at an odd angle, and her back was beginning to ache. Worse, both babies were awake and engaged in a wrestling match. According to several of the books she'd read on the subject of prenatal behavior during the last trimester, babies in the womb were very sensitive to their mother's emotions.

  A calm mother produced a calm child—or so one prominent researcher had claimed. The last thing she wanted or needed was another hyperactive hellion running around. Correction. Two hyperactive hellions.

  Not that there was much possibility of that. She was all but positive that Mike had inherited from his father his inability to settle in one spot for longer than a few moments. And since these babies had a different father, their temperaments were sure to be different, as well.

  Nevertheless, she wasn't inclined to take chances.

  "Morgan, my neck is hurting very badly now, so it's time for you to let go." Her tone was restrained and patient. He replied by twisting his wrist and tugging harder. She let out a squeak of pain and tried to jerk away. It didn't faze him.

  Desperate situations call for desperate measures, she decided.

  Taking a breath, she eased closer. "Let me go, you big bully!" she shouted, as close to his ear as possible.

  He let out a harsh cry of pain as his body jackknifed nearly to a sitting position before he fell back again. She managed to jerk free, and his hand dropped to the floor. His lashes fluttered wildly in his pale face, but he didn't waken.

  Raine realized her eyes were filled with tears, and she swiped them away from her lashes. "It was your own fault," she muttered, but she knew that wasn't quite true. Oh, hell, she thought as she slowly maneuvered to her feet. She would just cut the damn clothes off of his body and be done with it.

  Twenty minutes later, out of breath and irritable, she eased his sodden jeans free of his legs and tossed them onto the floor next to the shirt she'd removed earlier. All that remained was his underwear. Dark blue briefs.

  Sinking back on her heels, she paused to catch her breath. Stripping a man who was mostly sinuous muscle and heavy bone had turned out to be hard work. Especially when he hadn't so much as twitched.

  It had been a novel experience, she realized, watching his face.

  Empowering to the max, Ginny would no doubt call it. But then Ginny was fearless when it came to her relationships with men.

  Raine was anything but. Her parents had raised her to be a lady. An ornament and an asset. A helpmeet.

  It was an archaic view of the world, but then her parents had both been raised by gentle, scholarly educators. Her maternal grandfather had been an expert on Regency England. On her tenth birthday, her mother had given her a leather-bound collection of Jane Austen's works. A tacit lesson in proper behavior. Raine cringed now to think of the romantic notions she'd had spinning in her head when she'd met Morgan.

  Not once in their married life had she ever felt in charge in the bedroom. Or anywhere else where he'd taken a notion to make love to her. He'd been the one to undress her. The one to set the pace. To assume control. She doubted he would allow her to take charge.

  Still, the thought seemed to shimmer in her mind. Of Morgan quivering under her touch as she'd once quivered under his. Mindless with hunger. Helpless.

  She realized she was holding her breath and let it out in one slow jagged stream as she leaned forward. The heat of his body enveloped her as she slipped the tip of the scissors between the hard-packed muscle of one thigh and the sturdy blue cotton.

  He frowned as the cold scissors touched his skin, and she froze. Then slowly she cut away the cloth, baring the lighter skin of his groin to view. The thatch of thick hair framing his shaft was darker, a rich honey gold, and as wiry as the hair on his chest was soft.

  She felt her breathing change and realized she was becoming aroused. Biting her lip, she quickly snipped him completely free of the underwear and tugged the scrap of blue from beneath his heavy buttocks.

  He was beautiful. A classically magnificent statue fashioned from warm, vibrant flesh and densely layered muscle roped with steely sinew. It was the body of a warrior, crafted for strength and endurance.

  Raine felt tears springing to her eyes and frowned. How she had loved this man, she thought, shaking her head.

  She cupped her hands over her belly and closed her eyes. Once, just once, she wished Morgan loved her enough to give up his precious control to her. To put her first. To give what she would never again ask of him.

  But that was a dream and a fantasy, and she'd had enough of both.

  Chapter 7

  « ^ »

  She had merely intended to close her eyes for a moment to rest them. The next thing she knew she was being jerked out of a sound sleep. After a momentary disorientation, she realized that Morgan was thrashing around on the narrow sofa, muttering incoherently.

  She sat up so quickly, she felt light-headed and had to grab the arms of the armchair where she sat to keep from overbalancing. As she waited for the room to stop its giddy spin, she kept her gaze fixed on Morgan as though somehow the sight of him anchored her.

  The quilt she'd ever so gently tucked around him from his big feet to his stubborn chin was now a jumble of color bunched at his navel, with one end trailing to the floor. One big hand was clenched tightly around a wad of the material, as though he'd gotten too hot and jerked the cover away from his chest.

  His breathing was labored, as if he'd been running, and his facial muscles were taut, giving him the look of a man trapped in a some horrible maze with monsters around every corner and with no way out. A quick look at her watch told her that a little less than four hours had passed since he'd fallen into a drugged sleep.

  The room was brighter. To the west the sky was still crowded with clouds, but a sliver of blue was threatening to push them aside. Finally! Something was going right, she thought as she cast her gaze in Morgan's direction again.

  The muttering had stopped and his breathing had eased slightly. His face was flushed now, instead of deathly pale, but it was an odd sort of flush. Like a swath of dusky red swabbed over his cheekbones with a broad brush and ragged at the edges.

  Mike had looked that way sometimes when he'd been running a fever.

  Frowning, she eased to the edge of the seat, then used the arms to push herself to a standing position. Thirty extra pounds of babies, most of it sticking out ahead of her like the softly rounded prow of a ship made graceful movement impossible.

>   Instead of kneeling by the sofa, she sat on the heavy oak coffee table, wincing when it creaked ominously under her weight. Ever so gently, so as not to wake him, she pressed her wrist to his forehead, testing for heat. His skin was warm, but not overly so. It was also faintly damp. Not clammy, per se, but close enough to give her pause. Still, anything was better than that awful ghostly pallor.

  Tomorrow she would do some browsing through the While Away shelves, she decided, watching his big chest rise and fall in jerky movements. She was pretty certain she'd taken in a medical encyclopedia in trade at the end of the semester. A heavy, impressive tome with tiny print and thin pages, if she recalled correctly. With all those pages it was sure to have a section on headaches.

  Just to make sure Morgan was truly all right now, she sat there a few more minutes, then realized she was hungry. And no wonder. Her usual lunchtime had come and gone. The babies were probably fuming at their mama's lack of concern for their welfare. Smiling faintly, she pressed a gentle hand to her tummy. What would it feel like to nurse two babies at once? Or was that possible? She was still pondering that with a sense of wonder when Morgan suddenly turned his head and cried out.

  "No … no!"

  He drew one leg up, then let it drop. He flung out an arm and his clenched fist hit her breast so hard, she gasped. Instinctively she grabbed his hand and held it fast between both of hers. His hand went slack, then tightened, gripping with an almost crushing strength.

  She winced, but refused to pull away. Something told her that at this precise moment, he needed the touch of a human hand.

  "Morgan, it's all right," she crooned in the same voice she'd once used to soothe away their son's bad dreams. "You're fine. You're safe."

  He drew his sun-bleached brows together, and his lashes fluttered, but remained closed. He seemed to hold his breath for a dangerously long time, then slowly expelled the air.

  Where was he? she wondered. In Vietnam? Or one of the other war zones that seemed to draw him with such unremitting power? He'd had nightmares before. Gristly, bloody reruns of scenes he'd witnessed firsthand.