Bombshell For The Black Sheep. Janice Maynard

love to you, Fee. You can’t blame a guy for wanting to re-create the magic.”

      “The magic is gone. You killed it.”

      Her words were harsh, but she was still sitting in his car. He took that as a good sign. “I love spaghetti,” he said. “What time?”

      “Six o’clock. Don’t assume you’ll be able to coax me into letting you spend the night. That’s off the table.”

      “Yes, ma’am. You’re cute when you’re busting my balls.”

      “Grow up, Hartley. I’m immune to you now.”

      I’m immune to you now. Fiona had never told a bigger lie in her life. She slept poorly and woke up the following morning disturbed by the vivid dreams that had plagued her. Being with Hartley again kindled a hunger in her belly that no homemade spaghetti was going to fill. She wanted him. Still. After everything he had done. It was a shocking realization.

      Despite her unsettled mood, she was a professional artist. That meant working regular hours even when her muse had taken a hike. Today was a case in point. It was harder than it should have been to concentrate on her new project...three massive panels that would hang in one of the main rooms of Charleston’s visitor center.

      Commissions like this one were her bread and butter. They paid the light bill and kept food in the fridge. But they weren’t humdrum. Never that. She poured her heart and soul into every brushstroke.

      Because of the size of the canvases, she’d had to buy a special easel that held the work in progress secure. At certain moments, she would have to stand on a ladder to complete the highest portions. Her sketch—the one the city had approved—included historical images all the way from Charleston’s founding up until modern times.

      A giant undulating current swept through the center of each panel, propelling the milestones of progress from decade to decade. Included in the visual telling were some very painful periods in time. She could see the finished product in her mind. The challenge she faced was being able to successfully translate her vision into reality.

      It was her habit to paint for a couple of hours when she first awoke and then take a break for coffee and a light brunch. After that, she would typically labor for another five or six hours and quit for the day. Hard work and determination had brought her to this place in her career. She was conscious that her success was based on a great many things beyond her control, so she was determined to make the most of her current success.

      This morning, though, she found herself swamped with inexplicable fatigue and a draining lethargy that forced her to go in search of calories after only forty-five minutes in her studio.

      In the kitchen, an unexpected déjà vu brought her up short. She and Hartley had stood in this very spot and made bacon and eggs amidst much laughter and many hot, hungry kisses.

      She put a hand to her chest, trying to still the flutters of anxiety. Hartley wouldn’t force her to do anything she didn’t want to do. Her problem was far closer to home. It was her. Fiona. The woman with the deep-seated need for love and acceptance.

      Hartley made her happy, but more than that, he made her wish and dream, and that was dangerous.

      The fact that she had slept with him twice was no big deal. They’d had fun. Their sexual chemistry was off the charts. He was smart and kind and amusing, and she had never met a more appealing man.

      But it was the long view that worried her. Like the deadly undertow out at the beach, Hartley had the power to drag her under...to tear apart the life she had built for herself. She was proud of her independence. She didn’t lean on any man for support.

      The danger lay in the fact that without even trying, he made her want to throw caution to the wind. When she was with him—and also when she wasn’t—the smart, careful, cautious side of her brain shut down.

      Even now, all she could think about was how much she wanted to share a bed with him again. Naked and wanton. Losing herself in the elemental rush of sexual desire. Hartley made her alive. And she loved it.

      But with great joy came the potential for great heartbreak.

      With the way she was feeling, it was too much trouble to cook anything. Instead, she opted for cereal and a banana. A cup of hot tea warmed her cold fingers. When she was done with breakfast, she carried a second serving of tea to the living room and curled up on the couch.

      Cradling the china cup in her hands, she debated calling off tonight’s dinner. Who was she kidding? If Hartley came over, she would sleep with him. Wouldn’t she? Did she have it in her to say no?

      Sitting here alone, it was easy to see all the problems.

      The Tarletons were Charleston royalty. They and J.B.’s family, the Vaughans, had endowed libraries and funded hospital wings and sat on the boards of half a dozen philanthropic organizations across the city. Their bloodlines went back to pre–civil war times.

      Fiona appreciated her own worth, but she was a pragmatist. Hartley appeared to have the attention span of a moth. He was interested in Fiona at the moment, because his life was in crisis. And because they had shared a couple of encounters that had all the earmarks of a romantic comedy.

      Life wasn’t like that, though. In the long run, the chances that he would actually come to love Fiona were slim. Maybe she was his flavor of the month right now, but when the novelty paled, he would be off on another adventure, with another woman, and Fiona might be left with a broken heart if she were foolish enough to fall for him.

      Despite all her hashing and rehashing of the facts, she couldn’t bring herself to text him and say don’t come. How pathetic was that? She desperately wanted to see him. And then, of course, there was her curiosity about where he had been all these months.

      He had never struck her as a liar. If he had explanations to make today, she had a hunch they would be true. Fantastical maybe, but true.

      She finished her tea and stood, only to have the room whirl drunkenly.

      With a little gasp, she reached behind her for the arm of the sofa and sat down gingerly. Had she poured bad milk in her cereal? Her stomach flipped and flopped. What was going on?

      Five minutes later, she tried again. This time the familiar outlines of her furniture stayed put, but the nausea grew worse. At the last moment, she made a dash for the bathroom and threw up, emptying her stomach again and again until she was so weak she could barely stagger to her bedroom.

      She curled up in the center of the mattress, shaking and woozy, and pulled the edge of the comforter over her.

      Then it hit her. A possibility that had never once crossed her mind...though it should have. Was she pregnant? She’d had these odd episodes for several weeks now...had written them off as a virus or inner ear trouble or low blood sugar.

      Her heart hammered in her chest. Her periods were not regular...never had been. At her gynecologist’s urging, Fiona typically noted them on a paper calendar she kept in the bedside table.

      When she thought she could move without barfing, she reached for the drawer, extracted what she needed and stared numbly at the unmarked boxes. Back one month. Then two. Then three. At last, she found it. A brief notation in her own handwriting. She’d had her period about ten days before Hartley last showed up at her house.

       Dear Lord.

      He’d used protection. Hadn’t even balked at the idea when she told him she wasn’t on the pill. In fact, he’d used protection that night after the wedding, too. He’d been a generous, thoughtful lover.

      But no method of birth control was 100 hundred percent. And now that she thought about it, three months ago, they had made love multiple times during the night when they were both half-asleep. Had they messed up? Was there one of those times when his body had claimed hers skin to skin?