The Baby Bonus. Metsy Hingle

to where she stood with her back ramrod straight, her hand on the doorknob. He stood so close to her, she could smell the spicy scent of his cologne. As he stared at her, a devilish glint came into his eyes. Slowly, he slid his gaze down the length of her, then back up again, and Regan’s pulse began to stammer. When his eyes locked with hers again, his mouth twisted into that crooked smile that had made a seventeen-year-old girl fall head-over-heels in love. “Don’t worry. Liz will confirm my story.”

      “We’ll see.”

      His smile widened, giving her the full benefit of that killer smile. “One more thing, princess,” he murmured softly, catching her chin and leaning in close.

      “What?” she asked breathlessly, far too aware of his nearness and the feel of his fingers on her skin.

      “Forget about having your lawyer call.” He brushed his mouth against hers, a featherlike caress that sent tremors through her body, awakening memories and needs buried ages ago. When he lifted his head, he took her hand and pressed a card into her palm. “My cell phone number’s on there. You call me.”

      But Regan didn’t call—not that afternoon or the next. Nor did she respond to any of the messages he’d left at her office, her home or on her car phone. Caught somewhere between irritation and concern, Cole half-listened on his cell phone to the hotel operator as she read off a string of new phone messages to him. Apparently everyone wanted to speak with him—his assistant, his banker, his stockbroker. Even the luscious redhead he’d met in Paris last week who had somehow managed to track him down at the hotel in New Orleans. Everyone wanted to speak with him—except Regan.

      As the hotel operator droned on, Cole paced the length of the veranda at the front of the St. Claire estate, where he’d spent the past two hours waiting for Regan. Leaning on the banister, he stared up at the sky. The sun had set long ago, leaving a slight nip in the air. A full moon lit up the heavens, and stars splattered across the skyline, shimmering like diamonds on beds of black velvet.

      “That’s the last of this batch, Mr. Thornton,” the operator said.

      “Um, thank you,” Cole murmured, rubbing his weary eyes. “Just leave those in my box at the front desk with the others. But if Ms. St. Claire should call—”

      “We’ll have her phone you on your cellular right away,” the operator said, then read off the number he’d left the other half-dozen times he’d checked in with the hotel on the off chance that Regan had tried to reach him there. “Don’t worry, sir. Everyone at the front desk’s been alerted that you’re expecting a call from Ms. St. Claire. The minute she calls, we’ll be sure to have her contact you.”

      “Thanks,” Cole muttered as he ended the call, chagrined that he’d obviously made a nuisance of himself. “Dammit, Regan. Where are you? And why in the devil haven’t you called me?”

      But he had a feeling he already knew the answer. It was the kiss. Kissing her had been a mistake. He still wasn’t sure what had possessed him to kiss her in the first place. The blasted woman had reminded him of a spitting cat yesterday afternoon with her green eyes flashing, that stubborn chin of hers poking up in the air while she ordered him to back off. He’d only meant to ruffle her fur a bit. Instead he’d been the one to get ruffled. Hell, ruffled didn’t come close to what that one kiss had done to him. A simple case of attraction had turned into full-blown lust and short-circuited his brain.

      Dammit, he’d frightened her. Hell, he’d scared himself, he admitted. Because he’d wanted her with a fierceness that bordered on pain. And she’d known it, too. That was the reason she hadn’t called him. He’d pushed her too hard, too fast—just as he had twelve years ago when he’d used her pregnancy to bind her to him in marriage. She hadn’t been ready for marriage. He’d known it, but he’d pushed her anyway because he’d been afraid he would lose her. Thinking back to that time, to the mistakes that he’d made, Cole cursed his impatience and all that it had cost him. Regan had been so innocent—part girl, part woman and pure temptation. She’d been caught up in the flush of her first passion and too blinded to know the difference between lust and love. He, on the other hand, had been born old and was long past innocent. The four-year difference in their ages might as well have been forty. He had known from the time he was six years old what he wanted in life—to be rich, successful, respected—and he’d made up his mind to do whatever was necessary to make it happen. He’d allowed nothing and no one to deter him from the path he’d set for himself.

      Until Regan.

      He hadn’t counted on her coming into his life…on him wanting her, needing her, loving her. She was everything he’d ever dreamed of in a mate. Only she had come into his life too soon—before he’d been able to make himself into somebody, before he’d had a right to love her, to expect her to love him. But he’d been selfish and loved her anyway. And for the short time that she’d been his, he had felt less alone. He’d almost believed that she truly loved him, that who and what he was didn’t matter.

      Of course, it had mattered. He grimaced as he reflected upon his self-delusions. Even now, the admission of his stupidity left a bitter taste in his mouth. How had he ever allowed himself to believe that a sharp mind, a strong back and ambition would wipe out the fact that he was the bastard son of a woman who cleaned houses for a living? He hadn’t belonged in Regan’s world of black-tie dinners, designer gowns and blue bloods. Just as she hadn’t belonged in his world of two jobs, rundown apartments, and no time to hit the study books. So he’d pushed her. And in the end, his impatience had cost him not only Regan, but the life of his unborn child.

      The hollow ache that always came with thoughts of the baby daughter who had died before she’d ever had a chance to live threatened to claim him now. Dwelling on the past was the last thing he needed. He couldn’t change the past, Cole reminded himself. He needed to think of the future, of the new baby growing inside Regan.

      His baby. Regardless of the circumstances, they had conceived another child together, which meant he and Regan were once again a part of each other’s lives. Once again, Regan and their unborn baby were his responsibilities. And, unlike his own father, he intended to live up to his responsibilities—even if it meant fighting Regan to do it. No child of his was going to be subjected to taunts and whispers, made to feel his or her birth had been a mistake. His child was never going to wonder who daddy was because his child was going to have his last name. A fact which he intended to make clear to Regan—just as soon as she got home.

      If she got home. Cole stared at the cell phone, willed the thing to ring. It remained silent instead. Impatient, he flipped the phone open and started to punch in Liz’s number again. Just as quickly he slapped the thing shut. If Liz had heard from Regan, she would have called him—especially after he’d taken his well-meaning friend to task for meddling in his and Regan’s lives. Besides, Liz had said that when Regan had stormed out of the clinic four hours ago, she’d been royally miffed with her aunt and had claimed that she needed to think about what she was going to do.

      So where the devil did you go to do your thinking, princess?

      A late March wind, heavy with the scent of night jasmine, whistled through moss-draped oak trees that stood along the property that had been in Regan’s family since the turn of the century. The familiar scents of New Orleans brought back a rush of memories. Memories of the tiny, dank apartments where he had lived with his mother as a boy, places that had been sweltering hot in the summer and freezing cold in the winter. Other memories washed over him like scenes in a kaleidoscope—memories of his mother working, struggling to make ends meet by scrubbing floors in other people’s homes until her hands were worn and wrinkled. Unable to stop the flood of memories, he squeezed his eyes shut as the scenes tumbled behind his closed lids. His mother serving the fancy guests at parties in the beautiful homes. His mother shuffling him off to a corner in a kitchen and telling him to be a good boy while she worked. Him sneaking peeks at the party guests and wanting to join the other kids there. Him wishing he could be like those other kids, wishing that he belonged.

      Cole opened his eyes and drew in a cleansing breath. Bracing his back against one of the home’s stately columns, he listened to the tinkling of