The Pregnancy Negotiation. Kristi Gold

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      The Pregnancy Negotiation

      Kristi Gold

      MILLS & BOON

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      To Houstonians Sandy and Paul W. who set the perfect

       example of what a good marriage is all about.

      Contents

      Acknowledgments

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Epilogue

      Coming Next Month

      Acknowledgments:

      To the members of West Houston RWA

       for their invaluable information on residing

       in the fourth largest city in the United States.

      One

      “Let’s have a baby, Whit.”

      Most men would be shocked out of their shoes over the abrupt request, but Whitfield Manning IV wasn’t most men. Because of his status and wealth, he’d become accustomed to propositions from various and sundry females, although this particular proposition was a first. Most women were interested in the benefits of consummation, without any possible consequences.

      But Mallory O’Brien, attorney at law, his best friend’s sister and his own roommate of four months, wasn’t like most women. She didn’t fawn all over him, didn’t care about his bank account. She did enjoy handing him grief on a daily basis. Obviously this was just another one of her ploys to get his attention.

      Whit continued to peruse the sports page and muttered, “A bagel sounds great, O’Brien. Add some of that cream cheese, will ya?”

      “I didn’t say bagel. I said baby. B-a-b-y.”

      Fortunately, Whit was a multitasker. He could read the current baseball stats and still humor her. “Sure thing, but my schedule’s pretty tight at the moment.” He studied the ceiling and pretended to think. “I can probably do you at lunch on Tuesday, on top of the conference table, right after I get approval of the Barclay headquarters’ design. I’ll have my secretary mark it down on the calendar.”

      In spite of the randy images rolling around in his mind, Whit went back to the newspaper. But before he even finished the western division standings, Mallory snatched the section from his grasp, wadded it up and cannon-balled it across the room. “Whit Manning, just stop and listen to me for a minute.”

      He glanced up to see her standing over him, all five feet, ten inches of curvaceous female folly with shoulder-length, dark auburn hair and translucent green eyes that she aimed on him in a hard stare. The loose-fitting, red and white heart-spattered pajamas rode low on her hips, giving Whit a gander at her navel, where the skimpy matching top didn’t quite meet the bottoms.

      He should’ve known better than to give her the set for her birthday last month. He really should’ve known better than to walk in on her last week without knocking. But how was he supposed to know she liked to slather her body with lotion while sitting on the end of her bed, naked?

      Big mistake, especially for a man who hadn’t been involved with any woman in months. Oddly, he hadn’t felt the need to find a woman since Mallory had moved in. He chalked that up to establishing a comfortable rapport with his roommate, not his desire for celibacy. Or any real desire to take their relationship to another level. At least he didn’t think so, or really didn’t think about that at all. At least not more than twice a day.

      He needed to end his current dating slump fast, before he did something really stupid, such as try to seduce her. And, in turn, ruin their friendship. Another potential mistake.

      And that “potential mistake” continued to glare at him as if he were primordial slime, which would be justified considering his primitive thoughts.

      Whit gave her a champion scowl, not difficult because right now he was pretty ticked at himself for staring at the big heart decal centered between her breasts, his gaze wandering right, then left. Next year, he would buy her that damn smoothie machine she’d always wanted. A much safer gift as far as his sanity was concerned.

      He straightened and sent her his well-practiced grin, the one that had saved him from many a woman’s wrath on more than one occasion. “Okay, O’Brien, you have my undivided attention. Did I forget to wash my beer glass? I know I didn’t leave the seat up because I haven’t been in your bathroom.” Not that he hadn’t considered joining her in the shower a time or two.

      She dropped down on the sofa beside him, hugged her legs to her chest and rested her chin on her knees. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Today. And I’m dead serious. I want to have a baby. With you.”

      The shock finally arrived and slammed into Whit full force. If he’d been wearing any shoes, they’d be across the room next to the Sunday Times about now. “Are you insane?”

      After lowering her feet to the floor, Mallory shifted until she faced him, one arm resting over the back of the sofa, one hand fisted on her lap. “No. I’m determined.”

      Her somber expression prompted Whit’s concern. Damn, this was getting even more confusing. “Why the hell would you even consider having a baby with me?”

      “Because I trust you, Whit. Because you’re my friend. And I know you’re safe.”

      He wasn’t feeling particularly safe at the moment, or savvy. “Maybe I’m a little slow on the uptake, Mallory, but you still haven’t fully explained this crazy notion of yours.”

      She squirmed and grabbed a pillow to her chest, covering her breasts and alleviating at least one reason for Whit’s sudden urge to squirm, too. “I’m thirty now. It’s time. My biological clock is getting noisy.”

      “So hit the sleep button. I’m thirty-three, and the thought of having a kid hasn’t crossed my mind.”

      She twisted the corner of the pillow until Whit thought she might rip it open. “Men are different. You can conceive a child in your eighties. Women don’t have that luxury. My eggs are getting older. Your sperm will stay young for years.”

      Instead of the usual legal jargon, the words sperm and eggs coming out of Mallory’s pretty mouth sounded kind of strange. But thinking about the process of joining his and her reproductive parts sounded like an enticement Whit couldn’t refuse. But he had to refuse. This was nuts. He also had to get out of there before Old Man Libido carted off his common sense.

      Without offering a response, he moved onto the nearby ottoman, grabbed up his running shoes, pulled them on and tied them so tightly he expected his