.

      Two

      He must be out of his mind. He sure as hell was out of his element, at least when it came to fathering a child. After all, what did he know about raising a kid? Not a thing.

      At the moment, he tried to immerse himself in the familiar—his job as head architect and vice president at Manning Development Corporation. But he couldn’t concentrate on much of anything, so he sat at his desk in his cushy downtown office, his skull gripped firmly in his hands. He had a meeting with the design team in twenty minutes and a headache pounding his temples as if he’d been on a four-day drinking binge. But he hadn’t had a drop to drink. He had spent one restless night tossing and turning and worrying that agreeing to Mallory’s pregnancy plan had been a huge mistake.

      One thing he did know, Mallory was right about his commitment phobia. So far his marriage examples had fallen short. His father had two failed marriages on his resume and a third that didn’t look promising, and his mother had left her only child behind. One year after the divorce, Julia Manning had taken off for parts unknown with only the excuse that she needed to “find herself.” He’d gone to live with his dad after that and had befriended the O’Brien family. The O’Briens had been great, his proverbial port in the storm, but he’d never gotten over his mother’s abrupt departure, or the fact that she’d stopped all communication beyond an occasional birthday card. No congratulatory phone calls after his graduation from high school or college. Not even a “Hi, I’m still alive and kicking and I think about you often.”

      In a way he’d blamed his father’s need for control for his mother’s quick exit. Yet Whit had to admit that his dad had taught him everything he knew about architecture, even if he did have the temperament of a demonic drill sergeant. Taught him every facet of building—from design to construction—as a matter of fact. Since that time, Whit had felt he owed his father a debt. But that debt was costing him his dreams. Someday soon, it would have to end.

      Too bad it wasn’t today, Whit decided when Field breezed into the room, looking golf-tanned and prosperous, his hair silver sleek, his expression royally pissed off.

      When his father shoved his hands into his pockets and strolled toward the desk, Whit braced for the usual weekly lecture. “You’ve screwed up, son.”

      Hadn’t he heard that before? “Good Monday morning to you, too, Dad. What did I supposedly screw up this time?”

      “Barclay told me last week you only incorporated three conference rooms into the design instead of four. That kind of mistake is unacceptable.”

      Whit clung tightly to his anger but kept it secreted away for the moment. “Actually, old man Barclay changed his mind after the initial design was complete. And I fixed it while you were off on your little weekend getaway with the new wife.” Whit’s new stepmother, Rebecca, who was all of six years Whit’s senior.

      Whit enjoyed these moments the most, when Field Manning knew he’d been bested. But as always, his father recovered quickly in order to get in another dig. Today it came in record time.

      “You look like hell, Whit. Obviously you’ve been spending a lot of time bed-hopping. That’s a distraction you can’t afford, especially during this particular project.”

      Whit held back the string of curse words clamoring to climb out of his mouth. “You know something, Dad. What I do in my off time is none of your business. But for your information, I’m not involved with anyone right now. If that changes, rest assured you’ll be the last to know.”

      Field’s jaw went as rigid as his frame. “I’m glad you’re not involved with anyone. You’re not ready to settle down.”

      Whit shoved aside the latest issue of an architectural magazine and clamped his hands together on the desk. “You’re right, I’m not ready to settle down. Considering the example I’ve had, I may never be ready.”

      Anger flashed in Field’s dark eyes, the only true sign of his slipping composure. “I’m not even going to justify that with a response. I had valid reasons for ending my marriages. I just happened to spare you the dirty details.”

      “Details as in your need to keep a tight rein on everyone in your life and if they dare challenge you, they’re history?”

      “Believe what you will, Whit, but at least I’ve had relationships that lasted longer than a few weeks.”

      In other words, it wasn’t Field Manning’s fault. It never was. Whit made an exaggerated show of checking his watch before turning his attention back to his father. “Anything else you’d like to criticize, Dad? I’ve got a full schedule today. But I could mark off a few hours for you tomorrow. You might want to bring a complete list of my shortcomings.”

      “Sarcasm is unbecoming, Whit.”

      “You taught me that, too.”

      Field stared at him for a long moment. “Maybe I have made my share of mistakes, but I deserve more respect considering everything I’ve done for you since your mother left.”

      You owe me, echoed in Whit’s mind, even if those hadn’t been his father’s exact words. He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Yeah, Dad, I know what you’ve done for me. You remind me often enough. But it seems to me that’s what you do for your kids, help them out. And you shouldn’t expect someone to bleed in return.”

      “I don’t expect you to bleed. I do expect you to be grateful for what you have. And it would be nice if you’d grow up.”

      With a palpable arrogance, Field strode out of the room and closed the door behind him with more force than necessary. Whit contemplated his father’s words for a few moments and then came to a surprising conclusion. He could be responsible and he had the prime opportunity to prove it—both to himself and to his hypercritical father. He could be a better father, and in turn, a better man.

      He would give Mallory the baby she wanted and, by doing so, rise above Field Manning’s continuous condemnation. He would stick around to help raise his child, unlike his own mother. And he planned to enjoy every moment, making the whole process pleasurable for both him and Mallory. That consideration might be the only thing that would get him through this godforsaken day.

      Mallory was on edge, starving and exhausted. To make matters worse, she had a gorgeous, seminaked man in her kitchen. His kitchen, she conceded. But did he have to drop in wearing only a skimpy black towel draped low on his narrow hips? Odd thing was, she’d seen him in a towel before, but at the time she hadn’t been planning to be impregnated by him. That alone made her curious about certain aspects, namely what he had lurking beneath that towel. Just the thought made her feel as if she had warm, male fingers drifting up and down her body. Maybe there was hope for her hibernating libido yet.

      To provide some distraction, she lifted the lid on the pan and stirred the array of mixed vegetables. Distraction was short-lived when a very masculine hand came to rest on her shoulder and the very male specimen pressed against her back. “Smells good,” Whit said.

      So did he, Mallory thought, only he smelled like summer-fresh soap. He radiated heat like a hot summer sidewalk. She replaced the lid but didn’t dare turn around. “It’s carrots and peas and potatoes.”

      “What’s in the oven?”

      “Halibut.”

      He stepped away from her, providing some relief from the heat. “You know I hate any kind of seafood.”

      Mallory turned and folded her arms across her chest. “You told me you haven’t eaten it since you were in grade school. I think it’s time you give it another shot.”

      “Why?”

      She opted for a fractional truth. “Because it’s good for you.” If she knew what was good for her—which she didn’t—she’d stop staring at the tuft of hair centered in the middle of his chest. Stop staring at the indentation of his navel peeking out from the low-slung towel. Stop her gaze from going any lower, which, of course, she didn’t.