Текст книги "About that Night"

Автор книги: Beth Andrews

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

C.J. SHIFTED THE bottle of champagne he was carrying to his left hand, which already held a dozen red roses. He knocked on Ivy’s door. Blew out a breath to calm his pulse. He was nervous. Like a teenager on his first date, waiting on the porch for the girl’s father to answer the door, carrying a shotgun.

He thought of the phone call he’d gotten yesterday. Holy hell, he could be one of those fathers in a few years.

He really, really hoped Ivy was right and the baby was a boy.

He knocked again. Her crappy car was in the parking lot, so he figured she was home—such as it was. The building itself wasn’t too bad, and it was in a nice part of town, residential, a few stores nearby. But it wasn’t exactly the place he’d imagined his child being raised.

He wouldn’t say anything about it to her, though. He wanted her to trust him. To think of him as a partner, not her enemy. He was making headway there, he thought. Extremely slow but steady progress. He’d had to go back to Houston for work the day after their dinner date, but he’d called her every night he’d been away to check in. To talk.

To hear the sound of her voice.

During their conversations, he hadn’t pushed. Had kept the topics neutral, the tone light, in an effort to get them back on even ground. He’d risked a setback with that good-night kiss when he’d walked her to her door last week, but he hadn’t been able to resist.

He wasn’t a man used to denying himself. When he wanted something, he went after it. And got it. Always. But pushing Ivy, going too fast only resulted in him running headfirst into those walls she had built around herself. Her sarcasm. Her cynicism.

He was floundering, he admitted, shifting in agitation. Struggling to find a balance between his physical attraction to her and his appreciation of her humor, intelligence and strength. Fighting to think rationally and control his feelings, only to have her muddle his thoughts, to reveal some new appealing aspect of herself.

He was about to knock again when she opened the door. She stunned him. Stole his breath, even with her hair pulled back, her face clean of makeup. Her snug peach tank top showcased her full breasts, the gray yoga pants molded the slight bump of her belly, which he found alternately alluring and terrifying as hell.

“You’re back,” she said, sounding less than thrilled.

“I’m back.” He cleared his throat. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” he said smoothly.

She eyed him warily. Would there ever be a time when she looked at him with trust? With affection? Or even with joy?

He could only hope.

“I was just finishing up my yoga routine.”

An image of her bending that amazing body of hers into certain...positions...slammed into him. He went instantly hard. Yeah. Just like a teenager.

“Is that safe for the baby?”

“I got the doctor’s approval. It’s good for the baby for me to exercise, and since yoga centers me, helps reduce my stress, the baby gets those benefits, too.” She frowned at the flowers and champagne in his hands. “Don’t tell me you just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

“Not exactly. Dr. Conrad called me yesterday. I got here as soon as I could.”

Ivy nodded, still blocking his entrance into her home. “Yes. She called me first, said she was going to let you know officially. That why you’re here? Because I’m in no mood right now to hash out a custody or support agreement.”

“I’m here to celebrate.”

She blinked several times. “Excuse me?”

He liked that he could fluster her. Not that it happened often, but when it did, it proved she wasn’t as immune to him as she’d like him to believe. As she probably preferred to believe herself.

“We’re having a baby, Ivy,” he said quietly. He held up the flowers and champagne. “That’s something worth celebrating.”

She studied him, her mouth pursed. He wished like hell he knew what she saw when she looked at him. What she thought.

“You’re right,” she finally said. “It is worth celebrating.” She made a slight bow, gestured grandly. “Please. Come on in.”

He stepped inside. A long, narrow living room opened into a small kitchen. An air conditioner in the window to his left hummed softly. A hallway to the right must lead to the bedroom and bathroom.

“I asked the doctor if it was okay for you to have champagne and she said a small glass wouldn’t hurt the baby,” he said. “But if you’d rather not take the chance, we can put it in the fridge. Open it after the baby is born.”

A small smile played on her lips. “I’m sure a sip or two won’t hurt the baby, as Dr. Conrad said. Besides, the baby’s not due until November. Who knows what could happen between now and then?”

He bristled but kept his voice calm. “What do you mean?”

“Just that a lot can change in five months.”

“You don’t trust me to be around at all when the baby’s born,” he murmured.

“I think you believe you will be. But good intentions have a way of falling by the wayside when real life intervenes. You have a job, a life in Houston. No one expects you to drop everything and run back to Shady Grove when I go into labor. No one expects you to change your life in any way once the baby is here.”

“No one?” he repeated softly. “Or you?”

Could she really have no expectations of him? Did she really think so little of him?

“Just because you have the proof you needed,” she said, crossing her arms, “doesn’t mean anything has to change. You can walk away now. I can raise this baby on my own.”

Don’t push. Do not push her. But it was tough not to do just that, especially when he wanted to make her see that he wasn’t going anywhere. That he’d be there for her and their child—days, months and years from now. He wanted to demand she believe him.

Instead he had to earn that trust.

He edged closer until she had to tip her head back to maintain eye contact. “You’re right,” he said. “A lot can change in five months, and good intentions don’t mean anything without actions to back them up. I can’t force you to trust me just because I say you can. So I won’t try to convince you.”

Something like disappointment flashed across her face. “Can’t say I blame you for giving up, but I must admit I’m surprised you folded so easily.”

He grinned at how disgruntled she sounded. Try as she might to get him to believe she didn’t want him around, her tone said otherwise.

“I’m not giving up. But I won’t make promises, either.” Promises were useless. Given in the heat of the moment and too often broken. He brushed the back of his hand along her cheek, needing to touch her. “I’m going to prove myself to you. That enough fight for you?”

She swallowed and stepped back.

“I’ll put these in some water,” she said, taking the roses from him but avoiding his gaze.

She went into the kitchen, and he set the champagne on the coffee table. Rocked back on his heels as his smile slid away. She’d tried to take a few giant steps back from where they’d been last week by tossing out the reminder that she didn’t need him. That she didn’t necessarily want him in her or their child’s life.

But she hadn’t kicked him out. A small victory in and of itself.

He caught sight of a long-haired black cat draped across the back of the sofa, giving him a considering look. “A man has to celebrate even the tiniest wins. Especially where women are concerned.”

“Did you say something?” Ivy called.

“Just talking to your cat.”

She raised her eyebrows as she came back into the room, carrying two wineglasses. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type of man to chat up animals.”

“That’s because you don’t know me.” Hadn’t she said as much the last time they’d been face-to-face? He intended to change that. He opened the champagne almost as expertly as she had that night in his hotel room. “But you will.”

Their baby tied them together for the rest of their lives. There would be plenty of time for them to learn more about each other. He found himself looking forward to it.

“I like your apartment,” he continued as he poured champagne into the glasses she still held.

“Now, don’t ruin this special moment by telling lies, Clinton. My whole apartment could fit into that living room of yours back in Houston.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate what you’ve done with the space.”

It was warm and welcoming, done in soft greens and beige, the walls cream. He’d expected her home to be...darker. Decorated in glossy blacks and reds, with shiny fabrics and bold accents. Something that screamed seduction and power. Not a place that looked like a very comfortable home.

Guess he didn’t know her, either.

He raised his glass. Had to speak around the emotion tightening his throat. “To our child. May he or she be blessed with good health, my looks and your intelligence.”

Her lips twitched as if she was fighting a smile. “You sure you want your kid to be that much smarter than you? Think of the teen years.”

“I see your point. Better just toast to his or her health and leave the rest up to God.”

She raised her glass. “Sounds good to me. To our child.”

“To our child,” he repeated, “and to you. To my son or daughter’s beautiful mother.” He touched his glass to hers, his voice a husky whisper. “Thank you for carrying my child. For telling me I’m going to be a father. But most of all, thank you for giving me a second chance.”

She didn’t look as if she appreciated his compliment, as if she wanted his gratitude or his honesty. Skepticism twisted her mouth. She was still suspicious of him, of his motives. Frustration simmered in his veins. He wanted to call her out on her distrust, to insist she give him the chance he was fighting so damned hard for, but the confusion and fear in her eyes stopped him. Told him he wasn’t the only one trying to find their footing here.

Averting her gaze, she took a quick sip of champagne. Licking a drop off her lower lip, she hummed in appreciation, and he gulped his own drink to drown the groan that wanted to escape. “You rich and fabulous sure know how to pick a fancy wine.”

“We take a course on it in elementary school,” he told her straight-faced. “Wine selection is after How to Properly Order Caviar at a Five-Star Restaurant but before The Art of Looking Down on the Little People.”

She rolled her eyes, then laughed, a burst of sound that went through him. Warmed him. “Just when I think I have you pegged, you do or say something that takes me by surprise. Makes me rethink everything I thought I knew about you.”

Despite her laugh, he couldn’t tell if that was good or bad.

“Seems only fitting,” he said more gruffly than he’d intended, “seeing as how you’ve had me twisted up since the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

Her mouth worked for a moment before she pressed her lips together. Cleared her throat. “Well, anyway...thanks. For this—” she waved a hand at the wine, her words hesitant, her gaze averted “—the flowers and champagne and for...for wanting to celebrate the baby.”

“We’re having a child together, Ivy. It may not have been planned. It might not have happened the way we would have preferred, but I’m not going to blame the baby or resent him or her. I’m not going to pretend it’s a horrible thing when it’s not. It’s something worth celebrating.” He stepped closer, unable to resist the temptation of sliding his hand up her arm. Of rubbing a loose wave of her hair between his fingers. “Don’t you agree?”

“When you look at me like that,” she said, her tone knowing and just a bit breathless, “you’re not thinking about celebrating.”

“There are all sorts of celebrations,” he assured her as he set his glass on the table. He placed hers there, too, before wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her to him.

He expected her to stiffen and was gratified when she went soft, her hands on his chest. He lowered his head, but she was already there, on her toes, her hands sliding behind his neck. Their lips brushed. Parted. Then met again.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping into her mouth as he smoothed his hands up and down her back. Settled them at her waist, loving the indentation there, the swell of her hips. He rubbed his thumbs over the hard points of her hip bones, curled his fingers into the upper slope of her ass. Rolled his pelvis against her.

She moaned, the sound reverberating in his own throat.

He broke the kiss, pressed his mouth to the side of her neck. Flicked the tip of his tongue against her rapid pulse. Her head fell back.

“Let me show you,” he murmured, trailing his teeth along the sensitive skin beneath her ear. “Let me touch you.” Raising his head, he held her gaze. “Let me celebrate you.”

* * *

IVY SWALLOWED. She could still taste Clinton, champagne and mint from his toothpaste. The feel of his body against hers was temptation itself, his hand on her stomach a warm reminder of what they’d made together. His words about celebrating had touched her. He was starting to mean something, and that made the next step much more important.

“It would be so easy for me to say yes,” she admitted, her body thrumming with need, her lips tingling from his kiss, her hands wanting to touch him everywhere, to explore his body again, this time as someone who’d come to know him. “So very easy but...”

“But?” he asked quietly when she remained silent.

She sighed. “It’s too important. When we take this next step—and I don’t doubt we’ll take it; there’s too much between us not to—I want it to be right. I don’t want it to be just because we’re attracted to each other, because we have an itch to scratch.”

“I can guarantee you that this is more than just an itch for me.” His voice was sincere, his gaze intense. “But I don’t want to push you, Ivy. I don’t want a repeat of our first night together.” He stepped back, though it seemed to cost him, and Ivy’s heart soared because she knew, could feel how much he wanted her. “So we’ll slow down.”

Because she was worried about what he meant by that—because she wasn’t sure what she wanted him to mean—she linked her fingers together at her waist. “I guess I’ll see you later, then. Thanks for the champagne.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you kicking me out?” His expression darkened. “Swear to God, Ivy, if you tell me you have plans I’m going to wring your gorgeous neck.”

She laughed. “Calm down, cowboy. I don’t have any plans. I just figured you’d want to be on your way since you’re not...since we’re not...”

“Since we’re not having sex, you figure I’ll just skip on out? That that’s the only reason I’m here?” He shook his head. “I’m not sure if I’m pissed you think so little of me. Or of yourself.”

“Oh, believe me, I think quite highly of myself, thank you very much. I’ve just been around enough men to know where their priorities lie.”

He trailed a finger down her cheek, and it was all she could do not to lean into him. “You’ve obviously been hanging out with the wrong men.”

“No argument there.” He was the first man she actually wanted to hang out with.

He checked his watch and her heart sank. He probably was just saying those things to be polite. Now he’d make an excuse, an appointment he forgot about, a phone call he had to make. He smiled at her. “It’s close to dinnertime. Want to go out? Get something to eat?”

She smiled, her relief way bigger than it should be. If she wasn’t careful, if she wasn’t smart, this man would have the power to crush her. She cleared her throat. “Actually, I picked up the ingredients for a new chicken dish I’ve been wanting to try. You could...stay here. I mean, we could eat dinner here. Maybe watch a movie after.”

She held her breath wondering if that was a stupid thing to ask a millionaire to do. Did they even sit at home and watch DVDs? On regular televisions on regular couches, instead of some media-slash-theater room complete with professional sound system and picture?

“A homemade meal? Sounds great to me,” he said with a smile. “I can’t tell you the last time I had someone cook for me. Who wasn’t paid to do so.”

“Well, this meal won’t be free. Not exactly. If you want to eat, you’ll have to pull your weight in the kitchen.”

He blanched, looked at the kitchen as if it was her personal torture chamber and he was next in line for water boarding. “Can’t I just do the dishes?”

She took his hand. “Come on. I’ll show you the ropes, and I’ll even be gentle with you. I promise.”

An hour later, chicken thighs were simmering in tomato sauce laced with cinnamon while a pot of rice bubbled on the back burner. Her kitchen was a disaster area. She usually preferred to clean as she cooked, but she was too busy supervising her assistant to keep her work area tidy tonight.

Clinton hadn’t been kidding about being nervous in the kitchen. At first she’d thought maybe he was just against doing something as domestic and, well, blue-collar as cooking for himself. But then she’d given him the task of chopping an onion, and she’d realized he didn’t think he was too good for the chore. He was just completely inept.

And embarrassed by it.

It had been sweet and had endeared him to her even more—more than was wise, that was for sure. Especially when she was still so wrapped up in his earlier words, in how he’d accepted her rejection by being so kind. So understanding. So charming. As if he cared about her, about her feelings. As if he, too, wanted to make sure the next time they were together it was right. Special.

She turned the burner down under the rice and cursed to herself. Oh, she was in so much trouble here.

“How old were you when you started cooking?” he asked from the sink, elbow deep in suds. Hey, just because she’d put him to work didn’t mean she wouldn’t take him up on his offer to do dishes.

She faced him. Leaned against the counter, Jasper at her feet. “I’d mastered the art of grilled cheese sandwiches and scrambled eggs by the time I was six.”

“Six? Isn’t it dangerous for a kid that young to be using the stove?”

“Probably. Melba—my mother—wasn’t too concerned as long as I didn’t burn the apartment down.”

Clinton rinsed a bowl, set it in the drainer, then emptied the sink. “You must have really enjoyed cooking.”

Ivy snorted. “More like, I enjoyed eating, and if I wanted to eat something that wasn’t out of a can, I had to cook it.”

He nodded. “Your mother didn’t know how to cook?”

“For all I know, she may have been a gourmet chef, had the skills to be one, but she didn’t bother making meals. She preferred to have someone else doing things for her.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like my mother.”

“Well, having only seen your mother that one time, I can’t say for sure, but I’d guess there were plenty of similarities. Vanity, for one. Fear of ageing, of being old and no longer seductive. Of losing the power she’d held over people since she first learned how to bat her baby-blue eyes.”

He stared at her, and Ivy wished she could tell what he was thinking. “You just described my mother perfectly.”

Ivy nodded. Smiled. “Yeah, I figured they were cut from the same cloth.”

“I’m almost glad they won’t ever have a chance to meet,” he muttered. “They’d probably bond, and a friendship like that could ruin the world.”

“No need to worry. My mom would have hated yours. She didn’t like competition. Besides, your mom has everything Melba always wanted. The wealth. The big house. Melba would have thought your mom had it made. No worries, no having to wait on drunks, no flirting for tips.”

“She was a waitress?”

“Since she was old enough to serve alcohol.” Ivy had taken to the trade earlier than that, having worked the breakfast shift at a local diner during high school. Having the same profession was where any similarities between Ivy and her mother ended. Melba had hated waiting on other people. But there was no shame in being a waitress. In working hard. Something her mother had never understood. “To Melba, her job wasn’t a way to get ahead—it was a way to meet the man who would finally give her everything she’d ever wanted. Everything she deserved. Taking care of herself wasn’t her priority.”

“What about taking care of you?”

Ivy forced a smile. Took two plates from an upper cabinet. “That, too, was a necessary evil. A burden. Don’t get me wrong. She wasn’t abusive or even neglectful. I was clothed and fed—though not well, until I started cooking for us. She was just...vain. Self-absorbed and focused solely on what other people could do for her. How they could help her. Focused on finding a man to take her away from her life. Give her everything.”

The timer buzzed and Ivy pushed away from the counter to turn off the rice. Set the plates on the table. “My mother was beautiful. Stunning, really. One of those women people stop and stare at, the kind who turn men into slobbering idiots. She knew how much power she had, and she used it whenever she could. She loved attention and went through men like gum.”

“Like...gum?”

“She chewed them up, then spit them out. She was always looking for something better. Someone better-looking, more exciting, richer.” Ivy pretended great interest in folding a paper napkin, matching up the corners, getting the crease just right. Part of her was afraid to let Clinton hear about her past, about her mother. She cared what he thought, she realized, and that grated. But another part wanted him to know where she’d come from. Needed him to see her clearly. “She loved me—in her way. As much as someone so narcissistic can love anyone else. But as I got older, she viewed me less as a daughter and more as a rival. All women were competition to her, and for that competition to be her own daughter...? She hated it and began to resent me for being younger. For taking attention away from her. Things between us were tense, and as soon as I graduated high school, I moved out. We weren’t close during those last few years.”

That was an understatement. About the only time she and her mother spoke during that time was when they happened to run into each other.

“How did she die?” Clinton asked.

“Car accident. She’d been seeing a local businessman who was going through his midlife crisis by buying a sports car and taking on a beautiful cocktail waitress as his mistress. The roads were icy. He took a corner too fast and went off the road. She died instantly. He survived. One of those freak things where he walked away with a few bruises and scratches. He came to see me after,” she heard herself admit. She’d never told anyone about her mother’s lover visiting her. “And offered to pay for her funeral expenses.”

“Generous of him. He must have cared about her quite a bit.”

“More like he was worried if he didn’t at least offer, I was going to take him to civil court, fleece him and his family of all his hard-earned money. It was payoff, pure and simple. I declined.”

“You paid for your mother’s funeral? She didn’t have insurance?”

“When you live paycheck to paycheck, you can’t afford luxuries such as life insurance or even health insurance. I paid to have her buried.”

She’d used the money she had saved for culinary school. Now she was saving again.

“I take after her, you know,” Ivy felt the need to point out. “In looks. In temperament. But I promise you this—I’ll be a better mother.”

Studying her in a way that made her nervous, Clinton slowly closed the distance between them. “I’ve never met your mother, but I know the type of woman you’ve described. As you said, your mother and mine have quite a bit in common, and I can tell you that you’re nothing like them. You haven’t been sitting around waiting for some man to take care of you. You’re one of the smartest, hardest-working people I’ve ever met. I know you don’t need me to take care of you or to make you happy, but I’d be damned lucky if you let me in your life.”

And then, millionaire Clinton Bartasavich Jr., with his designer jeans and shirt that cost more than she made in a week, did the most wonderful thing a man had ever done. He kissed her forehead and hugged her. Just...held on.

She wanted to resist, to assert her independence. It was scary being that vulnerable, but in the end, she couldn’t fight the emotions flowing through her. She relaxed, wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head against his chest.

She wasn’t sure how long they stayed that way, wrapped in that embrace, his chin resting on the top of her head, his hands making soothing circles on her back, her cheek pressed against the softness of his shirt. His warmth seeped through the material to her cheek. She could hear his heart beat strong and steady.

When she finally lifted her head, she gave him a wry smile. “And that’s the story of my mother.”

He laughed. “My mother doesn’t seem so bad now.” He frowned, scratched his cheek. “Don’t get me wrong—she’s a lunatic sometimes, and if she collects one more boy-toy boyfriend, I’ll probably go insane, but at least she didn’t blame me or Kane for her mistakes. Just our dad.”

Ivy laughed, remembering his mother in that little dress at the engagement party. “I’m glad I could help you realize you don’t have it so bad, after all.”

“Your mother didn’t know what she was missing by not being a part of your life,” he said gruffly. “Don’t ever think you’re like her.”

“I don’t want to, but I have used my looks to get attention, to get certain things in life.” Admitting it was hard, but somehow, making this confession to Clinton seemed like the right thing to do. “When I was younger, it was easy to charm the boys a bit to make myself feel good. Oh, look how many boys want me, want to date me, have me on their arm, but then I realized that they were using me as much as I was using them. I became cynical. I couldn’t tell who was with me because they really liked me and who just wanted to use me. For a while, I couldn’t even tell that about myself. I used them and told myself it was fair because they were doing the same.”

Maybe Clinton had been right earlier. Lord knew she hadn’t given those men or herself nearly as much credit. Especially herself.

She forced herself to face Clinton. “But I don’t expect you to take care of me. Your child, yes. But I already know you’ll take care of your responsibilities. I don’t want you to think I’m trying to trick you into a relationship with me. If you want to go your way, I understand.”

He kissed her. Hard. Just swooped right down and claimed her mouth, the kiss stealing her thoughts and her breath. When he finally broke away, he scowled at her, took hold of her upper arms as if he wanted to give her a shake. “Does that feel like I want to leave? I’m the one who came here, asking you to give me a chance. Don’t push me away, Ivy.”

He wanted assurances she couldn’t give him, so she hugged him. But even as she held on, she knew she’d have to let him go eventually.