Expecting a Bolton Baby. Sarah M. Anderson

She remembered the first moment, the way his face had registered shock—no, surprise. Excitement. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had been excited to see her.

      Bobby had kept his eyes on her as he made the rounds of the club. He had been popular, that she could tell. He chatted with everyone—a handshake, a slap on the back, a joke, from the looks of all the laughing. But his gaze had always returned to her. And once he’d made his rounds, he’d made his way to her.

      She’d braced herself for the come-on—for him to say, “So you’re David Caine’s daughter—I had no idea you were so beautiful,” or something ridiculous like that. She’d heard them all and had long since learned not to take the so-called compliments personally.

      But the line hadn’t come. “I have a feeling there’s more to that dress than the front,” he’d said, leaning in close so he didn’t have to shout over the music.

      Her dress. The one she’d designed.

      So she’d stood and done a small turn for him, feeling ridiculous. Until she’d gotten back around, facing him, and had seen something unexpected on his face.

      Appreciation.

      He’d been close enough to touch her then, but he hadn’t. He’d waited until she’d given him the permission that came with her touching the seams of his suit—that came with her running her hands over his shoulders and down his back.

      She shouldn’t have touched him, shouldn’t have allowed him to touch her back. Small touches that had set her head spinning, clever observations that had made her laugh. A drink. His hand around her waist, leaning in close to whisper. His lips grazing her ear, then abandoning all pretense, his teeth scraping her lobe.

      Her, saying, “Would you like to get out of here?”

      She should have stopped it then.

      But she hadn’t wanted to. He’d been a stranger—only when she’d done a little digging over the next few days, wondering if the wonderful man from the club would look her up or not had she realized who he was. A reality-TV star. On her father’s network. Which meant he’d signed a contract with her father’s world-famous morals clauses.

      So she’d stopped digging. Ignorance was bliss and she had no intention of harming him. She’d let that night live on in one perfect memory.

      Then she’d missed her period.

      Now, here she was again, knowing it was foolish to want him and wanting him all the same. He was glad to see her. And she wanted another moment of connection, of impulse. Of doing something she wanted for no other reason than she wanted to. She hadn’t stopped wanting it. Not since she’d refused to give him her number, not since she’d missed her period and not since she’d gotten the positive test result.

      But she didn’t want to feel that pull again. Wanting Bobby would only muck up the works. She’d convinced herself the drinks had given that evening such a rosy glow. Faced with the decidedly nonlovely prospect of a squalling, shrieking baby, Bobby would do what any good player would do. He’d turn tail and run.

      But he hadn’t.

      Maybe he’d wait until he knew which way the wind was blowing—until he knew what her father would do. He hadn’t gotten to where he was by being a shoddy businessman, after all.

      She wasn’t here to destroy Bobby by bringing her father’s wrath down on him. Why would she? For one night, in Bobby’s arms, she’d felt free. Beautiful. Loved.

      Perhaps she shouldn’t have come. She should have gone straight to her father, claimed she had no idea who her baby’s father was and insisted that she would raise the child on her own. Her father would have been unable to connect her and Bobby. She thought. But she couldn’t be positive. As one of the richer men in England, David Caine had plenty of resources to backtrack her movements for months at a time.

      And that, more than anything, was why she was here. If she was going to bring the dogs of her father’s conservative-marriage war down on Bobby, she at least owed him a warning. Her baby was his, too.

      Bobby ushered her down a long hallway and unlocked a door that looked just like all the other doorways they’d passed. He went in first and turned on the lights before closing the door after her.

      “Here we are.”

      Stella took as deep a breath as she could in this bodice and stepped into Bobby’s home. The place was quiet, with no signs that anyone had been here in a great while.

      “Yes. Lovely.”

      The apartment wasn’t what she’d expected, but that was starting to be a running theme when it came to Bobby. The lines were sharp, the colors—shades of gray and white, with splashes of vivid red abstract paintings for accent—were bold. The furnishings wouldn’t be out of place in a New York loft—much like the one she lived in. None of those hideous overstuffed recliners that Americans seemed so fond of. Instead, a black leather seating group was tastefully arranged. The dining table was polished black glass, big enough to seat eight, with only a small picture frame set on one end. The whole place was spotless, nary a mote of dust to be seen. It looked as if he could host a cocktail party at a moment’s notice.

      This space was something he’d clearly put a great deal of thought into. Suddenly, she wished she’d taken him up on his offer to look at the blueprints for his resort.

      He moved to stand behind her, and she quickly undid the belt of her coat. Her fur skimmed down her shoulders, as sensual a feeling as she’d had in the past two months. She could feel Bobby’s warm breath on the back of her neck. All she wanted to do was lean back into his arms and feel his body pressed against hers. Could he tell? Did he know the effect he had on her? He might. He’d kissed her there before, after she’d made the impulsive decision to have a little fun, for once.

      It was an impulse she should have ignored.

      The coat pulled free of her arms, leaving her shivering. Which she tried to convince herself was due to the sudden change in core body temperature—not the memory of Bobby kissing her. Then Bobby’s hand was on the small of her back, guiding her toward the kitchen.

      “Have you eaten?”

      “Beg pardon?”

      She saw the hint of a smile—warm and inviting—curve up the corners of his mouth. “I haven’t had dinner. I’ll make us something.”

      There it was again, that odd feeling that she couldn’t quite name. Was he being his charming self or...was he taking care of her? It was the same feeling she’d gotten when he’d wheeled his desk chair out for her in that terrible trailer.

      No one, aside from Mickey, had taken care of her since her mother died seventeen years ago. Stella had only been eight. By now, the memories of her mother were hazy around the edges, so much so that Stella was no longer sure what had happened and what she’d created. But she had fond memories—memories she clung to—of Claire Caine wrapping her in a fluffy towel after a nice bath, drying her off, helping her into her favorite pair of Hello Kitty pajamas and tucking her into bed with a long story. Claire had done all the voices, too.

      Stella had felt warm and safe and loved. Very much loved.

      Then it had all gone away.

      She blinked away the memories of the cold years that had followed Claire’s death. Bobby was rummaging around in a rather large icebox. If he hadn’t been home for a week, what on earth did he have in there that would be edible? Just thinking about it made her delicate stomach turn.

      She backed out of the kitchen before any punishing scents could assault her nose. The morning sickness—a comical term if she’d ever heard one—had been manageable all day, unlike the day she’d flown out here. She’d spent all of Wednesday and most of Thursday in bed at the hotel, sipping ginger ale and nibbling dry toast.

      “Beg pardon, but where’s the loo?”

      His arms full, Bobby’s head popped up.