Claimed: The Pregnant Heiress. Day Leclaire

distance from the unfolding events. He’d managed to convince himself that Emma had made an understandable mistake, one rectified by a simple test. After all, why stress until there was something to stress about? Well, there sure as hell was something to stress about now.

      “All?” he repeated.

      “Every last one. Look, I’d rather not discuss this dressed in a towel, if you don’t mind,” Emma said in an excruciatingly polite tone of voice. She pushed herself upward. “I need to get dressed.”

      His brain switched to automatic, processing and stringing words together in a seemingly calm and coherent manner. “You can wear your dress from last night, although it’s pretty wrinkled. Or I have a T-shirt and running shorts you can borrow.”

      “Thank you. I think the tee and shorts would be more comfortable.”

      He realized he blocked her exit and stepped back into the bedroom. Emma trailed after him. Still moving on automatic pilot—dear God, a baby—he opened a dresser drawer, retrieved the promised clothes and set them on the bed.

      He gave her a searching glance. She remained ghost-pale, though not as shell-shocked as he undoubtedly looked. In fact, her poise impressed the hell out of him. “We need to talk,” he announced.

      “In all honesty, I’d rather go home. Perhaps we can meet in a few days and discuss the situation then. That will give us time to assimilate the information.”

      Assimilate the information? What was he, a Borg? He’d already assimilated all he needed to know. Emma was pregnant and she’d pasted a big, fat red arrow over his head, labeled Daddy. Still, it wasn’t worth arguing with her, not when she didn’t feel well. Since she couldn’t go home without his driving her there, she couldn’t very well control what he chose to say or discuss between now and then. Nor would he allow her to leave without feeding her first. Feeding their child. He shot a hand through his hair. Aw, hell.

      “Get dressed, sweetheart. I’ll freshen up your tea and crackers.”

      “Thanks. I’m actually starting to feel a little hungry.”

      She joined him a short time later and he smiled at the droop of his running shorts on her daintier frame, while something visceral swept through him at the sight of her breasts outlined by the thin cotton of his T-shirt. Were they larger due to the pregnancy, or was it his imagination?

      “Since you said you were hungry, I opened up a very mild bean dip to go with the crackers, if you want. Or, if you’re in the mood for eggs, I can scramble up some more.”

      “More?”

      He shrugged. “I made some earlier. The trashcan says thank you.”

      She smiled at that. “Believe it or not, the bean dip sounds great. Do you have any fruit?”

      Good thing he’d decided to pick up a few of the basic necessities from each food group. Even better, he actually considered fruit a food group. “In the fridge.”

      She pulled out an orange and proceeded to strip away the rind and section it, then went back for a kiwi and some black grapes. Satisfied with her selection, she arranged the dip, crackers and fruit onto plates, her artistry impressing the hell out of him. Then, with uncanny accuracy she crossed to the cupboard that contained place mats and linen napkins and proceeded to set the table with the same style and eye appeal.

      “Okay, how do you do that?” he demanded.

      Her smile grew. “Years of practice entertaining my father’s clients. My mother—” She faltered for a split second before continuing. “My mother was an artist. I guess I inherited her eye for color and space.”

      “Do you paint?”

      Emma took a seat at one of the chairs surrounding the glass breakfast table and waved him to the one opposite her. “Not so much as a brush stroke.” She unfolded the napkin and placed it in her lap. Even when enjoying a casual breakfast dressed in his running clothes, she exuded a natural elegance in the way she sat and moved. “I’m lucky if I can draw a straight line.”

      “But you wish you could draw,” he guessed shrewdly.

      She nibbled on a cracker smeared with bean dip. “You’re right. I do.”

      “Maybe our baby will inherit her abilities,” he said, deliberately introducing the subject of Emma’s pregnancy.

      “Let’s hope that’s all he or she inherits,” Emma murmured.

      His gaze sharpened and he made a mental note to research Ronald’s late wife. Chase vaguely remembered some sort of scandal from his youth, but couldn’t quite recall the details. It must have been after he’d moved to New York to live with his father. He didn’t think his mother had ever mentioned it, though she hadn’t moved in the same circles as the Worths then—or now.

      “Fair enough. You don’t want certain characteristics of your mother to show up, and I have to admit there are a few anomalies I’d just as soon any son or daughter of mine didn’t chip off the old genetic block.” He paused, then asked, “Should I assume you plan to keep the baby?”

      “That’s the only part of this you can assume. I will have the baby and I’m not considering adoption. I …” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t give my baby away.”

      “Our baby. At least, I assume it’s ours.” He wished there were a less awkward way of asking his next question. “You implied I’m the father.”

      “There’s no other possibility.” She made the statement with calm certainty.

      “You’re sure?”

      She jabbed an orange slice in his direction. “All right, Money Man. Let’s put this in terms even you can understand. One woman who’s had a rather lengthy sexual dry spell plus one man who ended aforementioned dry spell, minus one condom equals oops. In case you missed it, I double-checked my math twelve different times. It came up baby on every test.”

      He would have laughed if the situation weren’t so serious. “I’m not questioning your math.”

      Her expression froze over. “You’re just questioning which of my many lovers is the father, is that it?”

      He cautiously moved the question aside and out of reach. “I assume you won’t object to a paternity test?” he asked instead.

      “Of course not.”

      “In utero?”

      Her brows drew together. “They do that now?”

      How the hell should he know? He’d never been in this situation before. Had done everything within his power to prevent it from ever happening. “We can ask your doctor.”

      Emma shoved her plate aside. “There is no we.”

      “If there’s a baby, there sure as hell is a we.” He leaned forward to give emphasis to his words. “Perhaps this is a good time to explain that I won’t walk away from my child. If it’s mine, I’ll be intimately involved every step of the way.”

      “First things first. I—and I do mean I—go to see my ob/gyn and confirm the pregnancy. Then we’ll discuss the best way to handle the situation after that.” She rose, the dame at her most grand. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go home.”

      He did mind. He minded more than he could express. But he hadn’t gotten where he was in the world by losing his temper or indulging in a knee-jerk reaction when someone gave him a verbal shove. Chase relaxed back against his chair and studied Emma, while making a swift analysis. She was beautiful and clever and fascinating. But, she was also a Worth, which meant she came from money. Unfortunately, that small detail made her the last person he’d have chosen as mother to his child because he’d had so many bad experiences with others who came from that rarified world of inherited wealth.

      The irony didn’t