Necessary Secrets. Barbara Phinney

“Yes, sir.”

      But cornered in this stifling birthing room, she could do neither. Nor was it in her nature to lie. She had kept herself as honest as possible in a trade that had more thieving bin rats than it had army boots.

      Try as she might, she couldn’t ignore the intimidating man who filled the doorway, any more than she could have ignored him when he scooped her up like a child and walked calmly across the street to the clinic.

      Oh, she hadn’t been so fully unconscious that she didn’t realize she was being carried. She’d felt his arms around her, the heat of his chest penetrating deep into her…and, well, if truth were told, she hadn’t minded it one bit.

      They say one’s whole value system changes when one faints; it certainly had with her. But not to the point of telling this man she was carrying his nephew or niece. What if he asked more questions? What if he wanted to know how serious she’d been with Rick? What if he learned the truth?

      She turned her attention to the window, wishing it could open and let in the strong mountain breeze she so desperately needed. “What did the receptionist tell you?”

      “Nothing you could use in a formal complaint, if that’s what you’re thinking. I put two and two together. I’m right, aren’t I? You’re pregnant.”

      If she opened her mouth, she’d tell the truth, the way she’d always done. She pursed her lips.

      Jon continued, his arms folded over his chest. “I’ll take that as a yes. I didn’t know you and Rick were so close. He always spoke highly of you, but in a supervisor-subordinate sense. Or so I understood.”

      She slid off the bed, ignoring the sharp pang of hunger that booted away her fading nausea. “Look, yes, I’m pregnant, okay? But as to who the father is, that’s my business, not yours.”

      She tried to brush past him, but he stepped in front of the door and at the same time kicked it shut with the heel of his shoe.

      The sharp click echoed around the hot, quiet room.

      “We’re not done talking, Ms. Mitchell.”

      Her head shot up. For the first time, she stared hard at him, forcing herself to notice every little detail of his handsome face.

      She’d like nothing better than to fire back that he had no right to decide when she was done talking. She leaned in close….

      Too close and way too personal for her liking.

      Well, maybe not totally against her liking. If circumstances had been different…

      His coal-black hair wasn’t neat the way his smooth polo shirt and pressed pants were. Maybe he was the kind of man who ran his fingers constantly through it.

      She peered into his narrowed eyes, recognizing in the dark, brittle-blue irises a hint of Rick. Although Rick’s would have narrowed in the sunlight only, not out of mistrust like this man. She’d rarely seen Rick without one of his trademark, handsome grins. He had trusted so easily, she thought, her stomach tightening again.

      Shaken by the memories she’d conjured up, she stepped back from Jon.

      Somewhere from down the corridor, a baby wailed. Jon snapped his head around, listening. The crying stopped almost immediately.

      Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at her. “I wonder if it was the father or the mother who picked that baby up. What do you think?”

      “I’m sure it was the nurse.” She took another step forward again. “Now, please excuse me, Mr. Cahill.”

      “Call me Jon. Because you’re going to see a lot of me in the future,” he said in a smooth-as-silk voice.

      She shot a sharp glare into his calm features. “I haven’t confirmed your suspicions, Mr. Cahill.”

      “It’s my business to read people’s faces, Sylvie. Yours is no different. I’m not condemning you for carrying my brother’s child. I’m just telling you I will be a part of its life.”

      “You didn’t tell me how you came to suspect such a thing.”

      “The receptionist gave me a date when you’ll be ‘cured,’ and from your commanding officer, I learned when you left Bosnia. You retired eleven weeks ago immediately after Rick’s memorial service. You’ve been pregnant about twelve weeks, haven’t you?”

      What could she say? She nodded.

      “You told me you and Rick got stuck overnight more often than not, confirming what Rick had already told me in his e-mails.” He drew in a deep breath, as if controlling some troubling part of himself. “Rick died March twenty-sixth. All of these facts plus the way you reacted when I mentioned him made me suspicious. Am I correct?”

      Hunger kicked at her again, but this time she fought off the pangs. She could stand on a parade square for days, shifting very little, never feeling hungry, tired or woozy. Yet today, feeling like the stuff at the bottom of a horse stall, she could barely nod her head.

      She managed to anyway. What was the use? It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that this guy…with eyes like frozen diamonds, who had cradled her in a way she hadn’t figured she would want to be cradled…he wouldn’t give up until he knew the truth.

      “Yes,” she whispered, shocked that she was relenting. “This is Rick’s baby.”

      Wait. She’d plowed through a tour of duty in one of the world’s worst war zones without ever weakening, and yet one moment of Jon’s questioning and she’d caved. What was wrong with her?

      For starters, she hadn’t plowed through the whole tour of duty without weakening. There was that one night…when she’d thought only of herself. And how she hadn’t wanted to die a—

      Jon folded his strong-looking arms across his powerful chest and nodded. Sylvie’s knees wobbled, and she recalled briefly how good it had felt being carried, her head sagging against his firm, warm shoulder.

      “Good.” Leaning forward, he took her arm and steered her into the corridor without so much as looking her way. “Now that we have that confirmation out of the way, I’ll drive you home. On the way, you can tell me what everyone said about the age difference between you and Rick. It must be more than ten years.”

      Jonathan Cahill was a bastard. And Sylvie knew bastards. They came a dime a dozen in the army. This man cut to the quick, wasted no words and had a damn annoying expectation that his questions would be answered truthfully and immediately.

      And he scared her. Rick had told her once that his parents were both dead, leaving him and his brother alone. What he had neglected to tell her was that his older brother was as possessive of Rick’s memory as he was downright nasty.

      She would have protested the way he directed her out of the medical center, but she didn’t want to call attention to herself, or her condition.

      The hot Albertan sun beat down on her when they stepped outside. How she managed to reach Jon’s rental car was beyond her. Of course, his firm grip on her elbow had helped.

      No! She didn’t need his help. She shrugged off his hand and with a deep breath, managed to stay upright as Jon unlocked the car with the touch of a remote control. She took the opportunity of his averted attention to recover her faltering independence. If he had thought of helping her inside, he was mistaken. She threw open the door and climbed in.

      Oh, my. Leather seats. Cool, smooth, yielding to her hot, aching form like the surf on the Adriatic beach where she’d taken her four-day R&R, back in November.

      Jon Cahill had rented the best car in town.

      She sank against the backrest.

      “Good thing I parked in the shade,” he said, climbing in beside her and starting the engine. He glanced up at one of the large red maples that lined the parking lot. “It would be hot enough to have you faint again.”

      She