Expecting at Christmas. Charlotte Maclay

he asked, distracted.

      “It’s like lace except stringier. She makes up hope chests full of her tatting for all us girls. For our wedding presents, you know.”

      He nodded as if he understood. He didn’t. “So if you went home now—”

      “I’d have to sleep on the couch.”

      Griffin’s eyes crossed. A pregnant woman shouldn’t have to sleep on the couch. It couldn’t be healthy. Desperately he drained the rest of the coffee from his cup.

      “You want some more?” she asked graciously.

      “Yes, please.” It was more a groan than a request. Dammit all! He was a business executive running a multimillion-dollar corporation with retail stores in the ten western states. This little waif of a female shouldn’t have him so far off balance with her whimsical stories, floating oxidants and the feeling he was responsible for her. Maybe he ought to hire her to work in one of his stores. That way she’d at least be out from underfoot. “Tell me, Loretta, do you know anything about computers or electronics?”

      She poured from the pot on the tray. “Oh, sure. Lots. What would you like to know?”

      Relief surged through him. There was a way out of the maze he’d found himself in.

      “I play Nintendo with my nephew all the time,” she continued brightly. “Of course, he beats me most days, but I’m getting better.” She looked at Griffin with so much enthusiasm, he didn’t want to be the one to quash her spirit. But what the hell could she be majoring in to have a hundred and thirty-something units and not know squat about computers? Unless she was putting him on.

      “When is your baby due?” he asked. A hopeless sense of futility settled over him. No way was he going to be able to get rid of this woman.

      “Four weeks. And it’s only three weeks until I’m eligible for the insurance I need. See how well things work out when God is on your side?”

      The headache that had only been a threat last night stabbed him right between his eyes. “You’re right.” He shoved back from the table. “I’ve got to go into the office.”

      “On a Saturday?” she gasped.

      “Yeah, on a Saturday.” If it had been Christmas Day, he would have gone into work to get away from the craziness that had invaded his home. Besides, he really did have work to do. He suspected his uncle Matt and his competitive electronics outlets were somehow diverting Compuware shipments to their own Compuworks stores. He needed to track back through the records to see if that was a possibility and if he had a spy in his own firm. The holidays were their busiest season, the sales during the month before Christmas representing a huge percentage of the annual gross. Losses now couldn’t be made up later. The industry changed too fast for second chances.

      Loretta staggered to her feet, out of balance because of her swollen abdomen. “I put your car away in the garage for you last night. Rodgers said it shouldn’t be left out. Vandals and thieves, you know.”

      “Yeah, thanks. I’ll be late getting home. Don’t worry about dinner for me.” With luck, he might be able to recoup his losses with Aileen.

      Upstairs he showered, shaved and dressed casually for his day at work. He hated wearing suits, but the job required it of him when he was dealing with suppliers. Not so on Saturday.

      Feeling refreshed, he went downstairs, hit the button for the garage door opener and gazed in dismay at the dented front bumper and broken headlight on his prize Mercedes 450SL.

      “Loretta!” he bellowed.

      

      Loretta winced. She’d known he was going to yell at her. She didn’t have to like it.

      “I’m coming!” She sped up her waddle to a near run, hurrying to the garage. She couldn’t remember seeing a man truly glower before, all deep lines and grooves that turned his face into a mask of fury. Not until now.

      “Would you care to tell me what happened to my car? My classic car?” he added tightly.

      “I don’t want you to worry about a thing, Mr. Jones. My brother has promised he’ll fix—”

      “Why didn’t you tell me you’d practically totaled my car?”

      “Now if you’ll just be calm, Mr. Jones. Your electrolytes are going to get all in a flurry—”

      “Miss Santana!”

      She swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

      “I want to know how you managed to do that much damage moving my car less than a hundred feet from the front of the house where I parked it into the garage.”

      “I couldn’t find the light switch.”

      He looked at her blankly. “What light switch?”

      “For the headlights, of course. I’ve never driven a Mercedes before. And then when I tried to drive it into the garage—per Rodgers’s very specific instructions—my foot got caught in the hem of my nightgown. I was trying to unhook that when I kind of stepped on the gas pedal with my other foot. That’s when the potted palm over there practically leaped out in front of your car.”

      Griffin closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. He was not going to lose his temper. Nor was he going to picture Loretta running around outside in the middle of the night in a nightgown.

      “You really don’t have to worry about a thing,” she assured him. “Roberto is going to come pick up your car any minute now.”

      “Roberto?”

      “My brother. He does wonderful car repairs. Your Mercedes will be right as rain in no time.”

      “I think I’d rather take it to the dealership that knows how to handle these classic cars. Thanks, anyway.”

      “Oh, but Roberto will only charge you half as much as one of those fancy-shmancy dealerships would.”

      “I’ve got insurance.”

      “All the more reason why you should let Roberto do the work. A dealership would overcharge you, and your insurance rates would go up. You’d end up paying two or three times as much as you would if you had just let Roberto take care of things in the first place.”

      Griffin knew there was a hole in her logic somewhere. He just couldn’t put his finger on it at the moment. The image of her dancing around his driveway in a see-through negligee was like a looping videotape in his brain that he couldn’t switch off.

      “Besides, Roberto is family,” she said with the same finality that an archeologist would use to announce he’d found the key to the Dead Sea Scrolls.

      He glanced at the crumpled fender and broken headlight. “When is your brother coming?”

      “Any minute now. He had to fix his tow truck first.”

      Somehow that did not bode well for the future. But Griffin didn’t have the time or energy to stand around arguing with his pregnant butler about who was going to repair his convertible—the only car he owned at the moment. “Look, I’ve got to get to the office. I’ll call a cab—”

      “Don’t be silly. You can use my car. I’m not going anywhere today.”

      He followed her gaze toward the far end of the four-car garage. A battered compact sat just beyond the last doorway. From what he could see, the vehicle had been cobbled together out of junkyard parts, each fender a different color and a trunk lid that was tied closed with a rope. He never should have sold his Rolls....

      “Does it run?” he asked.

      “Oh, sure. Like a top. Roberto keeps it going for me.” She produced a key from her pocket just as a tow truck came roaring up the driveway, smoke belching from the tailpipe. The driver backed it around, end first toward the damaged vehicle.

      Griffin