Текст книги "About that Night"

Автор книги: Beth Andrews

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CHAPTER SIX

IVY WISHED SHE could take back that deep inhale. She’d gotten a nose full of Clinton’s aftershave with it. Her stomach turned. The back of her neck grew cold and clammy.

Well, wouldn’t throwing up on his feet take this moment from plain old bad to freaking horrible?

She breathed shallowly. Airplane travel and pregnancy didn’t mix—at least not in her case. She’d battled morning sickness for more than two months but hadn’t had a bout of it for the past two weeks. Until she’d been strapped in her seat, taking off from Pittsburgh.

Plus, yes, okay, she was nervous. She was dropping a bombshell on him. The night they’d spent together was supposed to be a one-time thing. Now, the child growing inside of her bound them for the rest of their lives.

But as bad as she felt, Clinton looked worse. The color had drained from his face, and he stood there, glassy-eyed, as if he was seconds from passing out, just...bam! Falling flat on his handsome face.

If that big, solid body started tipping, she wasn’t going to try to catch him. She was getting out of the way.

The last time she’d been underneath him, things hadn’t quite worked out the way she’d planned.

His mouth hanging open like a six-foot-plus blond guppy, he blinked. Shook his head slowly, as if coming out of an intense dream.

“What?”

His voice was low. Calm. And very, very cold.

Good thing she wasn’t intimidated by anyone, or else she’d be shaking in her sandals right now. As it was, she had to force her gaze to remain steady, herself not to back up to...oh...somewhere in Kentucky would suffice. “I’m pregnant.”

“Am I to assume that you’re trying to tell me I’m the father?”

She raised her eyebrows. She wasn’t crazy about his snotty tone—and she preferred the term sperm donor over father—but he’d had a shock, so she’d give him a break. Never let it be said she couldn’t be reasonable and tolerant.

At least once.

“No,” she said, her tone all sorts of dry, “I internet stalked you, flew to Houston and talked my way into your apartment because I thought you might want to buy me a baby gift. I’ll leave you a list of where I’m registered.”

His jaw went rigid. “There’s no need for sarcasm.”

She snorted. “Please. That was such a stupid question it practically begged for sarcasm.”

His cool gaze went to her stomach then back to her face. “You’re lying.”

The man was really testing her limits. “We don’t know each other all that well, so I’m going to let that slide.”

“Know each other that well?” he asked with a harsh laugh. “Lady, I don’t even know your last name.”

She nodded slowly. Pressed her lips together because her stomach was roiling again. “Fair enough. Let me fill you in on what you need to know. My name is Ivy Rutherford, and I’m twenty-six years old. I don’t lie, cheat or steal, and I’m not big on second chances.” She swallowed, but the sick taste in the back of her throat remained. “Something you might want to keep in mind before you speak again. I’m also seventeen weeks pregnant.”

She turned to the side and smoothed the loose material of her dress over her stomach. She hadn’t shown at all during the first trimester, but at week sixteen, as if overnight, a noticeable baby bump had appeared.

“Satisfied?” she asked, letting her hands fall back to her sides.

He didn’t look satisfied. Or scared, which had been her reaction when that stick she’d peed on two months ago had flashed a positive sign. No, the only word she could find to describe the expression on Clinton Bartasavich Jr.’s face was furious.

And she was alone with him. Maybe she should have chosen a public place to tell him, instead of ambushing him in his apartment—if you could call what had to be over three thousand square feet of bright, open rooms, million-dollar views and the highest of high-end furnishings, counters, floors and appliances an apartment. She’d been half-afraid to even sit on that fancy couch.

“We used protection,” he said, his lips barely moving. “That night.”

“Yes. I realize what you’re referring to. Unfortunately, my eleventh-grade health teacher was right and the only foolproof way to prevent pregnancy is abstinence. We’re in the small percentage of cases in which condoms are ineffective. Looks as if you have some sort of supersperm. You must be very proud.”

“I don’t believe you,” he said as evenly as if they were discussing what to have for lunch.

Bile rose in her throat. Okay, no thinking about food, not even in general terms. “You think I have a pillow in here?” she asked, indicating her stomach.

“I don’t believe I’m the father.”

“Why would I lie?”

He sent her a bland look, and she replayed her words in her head. Winced. Guess he wasn’t the only one who could ask a stupid question.

He was a Bartasavich. Oh, she’d heard all about Kane Bartasavich’s wealthy family in Houston, but she’d assumed wealthy meant upper-middle class, like Charlotte’s parents. Dr. Ellison was an ophthalmologist, and Mrs. Ellison owned a popular boutique clothing store on Main Street. Regular, well-off folk who lived in a big, tasteful home, tipped generously and vacationed in the Caribbean.

The Bartasaviches, she’d learned from her internet searches, were the kind of wealthy that defined the word ostentatious, donated millions to charities and politicians, and owned their own island retreat, a little place to escape the stresses of being richer than God and as beautiful as the angels above.

And she had to go and sleep with the heir apparent, get pregnant with his child.

She sighed. That was her. Never doing anything halfway.

“I’m not after your money,” she told him. It’d be easier, much easier, if he’d been dirt-poor.

His mouth twisted. “You slept with me after knowing me all of what...twenty minutes?”

He was obviously a mistrusting soul, thinking the worst of people.

Not that she blamed him on that score. But he had no right to play the holier-than-thou card.

“Right back at ya,” she said. “Not knowing me—and vice versa—didn’t seem to bother you when you had me under you in that big old bed. The way I figure it, we both got what we wanted that night. No need to cast blame.”

“Maybe you got more than I did.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” But she was afraid she knew. She just hoped he was smart enough not to actually say it.

“It means it seems very convenient that you’re here, claiming to be pregnant with my child.” He closed the distance between them. “You want something from me.”

He didn’t believe her. Well, she hadn’t really expected him to, had she? Still, it stung, and she had to remind herself that he didn’t know her. Didn’t know she made her own way. She wasn’t some gold digger looking for a rich man to take care of her.

She took care of herself. She was the only person she trusted to do so.

“All I want is for you to back up,” she assured him. Before she gagged. Dear Lord, pregnancy wasn’t for sissies.

Or, obviously, those with weak stomachs.

“What did you think?” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “That if you showed up here, I’d blindly accept everything you had to say and maybe toss in a marriage proposal and a diamond ring?”

She snorted out a laugh. Saw he was completely serious. Then again, he probably didn’t have much sense for the ridiculous. “The last thing I want is a marriage proposal. From what I’ve heard, marriages don’t work out so well for your family.” His father, a serial adulterer, had been married several times. “I hope things work out better for your brother and Charlotte. She’s a nice person.”

And weren’t those the people who got hurt and screwed over the most?

Good thing no one had ever accused Ivy of being nice.

Clinton nodded once, sharply, as if coming to some grand conclusion. Jabbed a finger at her. “Don’t move.”

He brushed past her and disappeared through a door off the entertainment-slash-media area—or whatever fancy name rich people used for their TV room.

She did move. She went into the kitchen, if only to prove he wasn’t the boss of her. But she didn’t march out the door the way she should have. Oh, no, her curiosity wouldn’t let her leave until she found out what he was up to. Curiosity and maybe a teeny, tiny bit of guilt. She had, technically, broken into his home and sprung the news on him that he was going to be a father.

She needed to stop being so defensive and give him the benefit of the doubt. Had to trust that he wasn’t really an arrogant, judgmental ass.

Trailing her fingers over the cool marble countertop, she strolled around the oblong island. Everything about the kitchen—from the stainless-steel appliances to the glossy hardwood floor to the dark mahogany cabinets—screamed “high end.” It was beautiful, she had to admit. In a cool, modern, don’t-even-think-of-cooking-in-here-and-making-a-mess way.

If this room, this entire apartment with its dark colors, sleek, boxy furniture and gorgeous views didn’t say all she needed to know about Clinton Bartasavich Jr., nothing would.

He was untouchable. Cold. On top of the world, looking down at everyone else.

Except...he hadn’t been any of those things during the night they’d spent together. Or at least, not only those things. She’d touched him then, his skin warm under her hands, his body hard and responsive. He hadn’t looked down at her but had held her gaze, as helpless as she’d been against the undeniable pull between them.

She bit her lower lip and leaned her elbows on the counter, her chin in her hands. Glanced at the doorway where he’d disappeared. Which one was the real Clinton?

More important, why did it matter so much to her?

She straightened when he came out, his expression dark. He slapped something onto the counter, his palm covering it as he slid it toward her. “I believe this is what you came here for.”

“I’m almost afraid to look,” she murmured, only half kidding.

He spread his legs, an immovable tree of a man. Slowly lifted his hand, then crossed his arms and waited.

Your turn to make the next move.

Here went nothing.

She lowered her gaze. As she’d suspected, it was a check. Facedown, his very own challenge to her.

Pick it up and see what I think you and your child are worth.

Nausea building again, she did just that. The room spun, and she held onto the edge of the counter for support. There went her giving him the benefit of the doubt.

He really was an arrogant, judgmental ass.

Her throat went dry, so she worked moisture back into her mouth. Managed to whistle softly under her breath. “Fifty grand. Wow. Guess I could buy my own diamond ring with this. Save myself from worrying about the husband part of that equation.”

“Take it,” he said, unemotional and inhuman. “Do whatever you want with it. But remember this, it’s a one-time offer. You won’t be getting a cent more from me.”

“I’m not sure if this is a bribe,” she said, waving the check in the air, “or plain old hush money.”

He stiffened. “It’s neither.”

She studied him closely. Lowered her hand. “No, it’s not a bribe, is it? It’s a test. Aren’t you clever?” she murmured, the check practically burning her fingertips. “If I’m lying about you being the father of my baby, I’ll take the money and run—glad for a miniscule portion of the Bartasavich fortune—knowing the truth will come out with a DNA test. On the other hand, if I’m telling the truth, I’ll get all defensive, tear this check apart and add a suggestion about where you can put those pieces before throwing them into your smug face.”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “Smug?”

“Hmm...” She tapped the edge of the check against her mouth. Began to pace the length of the island. “Decisions, decisions.”

Part of her, a big, screaming part, wanted to shove the check down his throat. Storm out of there with her pride and self-respect intact. Luckily, another part of her, the rational, pragmatic part of herself, prevailed. Fifty thousand dollars was a lot of money. Oh, maybe not to Richie Rich over there, but to the rest of the population? It was worth a dent in pride.

To her it was a godsend. Her job at Bradford House provided medical insurance, but there were still other expenses to consider with a new baby. Diapers and clothes and a crib and changing table. A stroller and car seat. Maybe one of those swing things.

Any extra could go into a savings account for the baby. Their own little nest egg for college or, more than likely, the emergencies that would no doubt pop up during the next eighteen years.

The bigger issue, though, was Clinton himself. If she took the money, they’d both be off the hook. He wouldn’t have to take responsibility for the baby. And she wouldn’t have to deal with having him in her and her child’s life.

Win-win.

“Cowboy,” she said, making a show of carefully folding the check in half, “it looks like you have yourself a deal.”

* * *

C.J. STARED, HIS jaw aching, head buzzing as Ivy crossed to the sofa and picked up her purse, tucked his check inside.

The buzzing continued and he realized it was the intercom on the wall, the front desk trying to get hold of him. He ignored it.

“What the hell do you mean we have a deal?” he managed to spit out.

“I mean I’m going to take this check with me to Shady Grove and, as per your stipulation, I won’t ask for another red cent.” She came toward him, hips swaying, heels clicking on the hardwood. “After I walk out that door, you’ll never hear from or see me again. You won.”

It didn’t feel like he’d won. It felt like he’d made a mistake. A big one.

Aren’t you clever?

Hands fisted, he shoved them into his pockets. He’d always thought so. Had never had trouble coming up with the right solution to a problem.

Until he’d come face-to-face with the woman claiming to be pregnant with his child. He hadn’t been able to think straight, let alone figure out how to handle this situation or her.

His answer had been to pay her off. While he was used to throwing money at certain problems, he didn’t make a habit of writing checks to women he’d slept with. She was right. It had been a test. And she’d failed.

Why the hell was he so disappointed?

“That’s it?” he asked, the buzzing finally stopping as she brushed past him. He followed her. “You’re not going to try to convince me you’re telling the truth?”

Sending him an amused glance over her shoulder, she kept right on walking. “Nope. You’re going to believe what you want anyway. And as I’ve been insulted quite enough for one day, I’ll just go on my way.”

Because she was lying, he assured himself.

“Did you know you were pregnant that night and think you could sleep with me, pass someone else’s baby off as mine?” They turned the corner to the foyer. That night he’d hoped she was different, that she wanted him for himself, but it turned out she was like everyone else. A user. Manipulative. “Or maybe you don’t even know who the father is,” he said quietly.

Her shoulders snapped back, her spine going rigid. She turned, inch by slow inch, her narrowed eyes flashing. But her face was white. Her mouth trembling.

He wanted to take his ugly words back, retract the horrible accusation, but he couldn’t.

“You,” she said, slowly. Succinctly. “Are an ass.”

“So I’ve been told.” But he’d never agreed. Until now.

She whirled around, her hair fanning out. With a low moan, she pressed her hand against the wall next to the front door. Her head was down, her shoulders rising and falling heavily.

He winced. His gut tightened. She was crying. Because of him.

Shit.

“Maybe, we should start over,” he said, edging closer.

“Back. Off.”

He couldn’t. He had to fix this. “Let’s sit down. Talk this through.” Rationally. Reasonably. Neither of which he’d been so far. He laid his hands on her shoulders. “Come on.”

She yanked away. Stumbled to the other side of the hall, pressed her back against the wall. “Oh my God,” she groaned, then swallowed audibly. “Don’t touch me.”

And now she was scared of him. Holding his hands up as if to prove he was harmless, he stepped closer. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Stop right there,” she snapped and raised her head. Her eyes were huge, the delicate skin around them bruised and dark, her cheeks colorless.

She wasn’t crying. She was ill. “Are you all right?”

“Do I look all right?” she ground out from between her teeth. She tipped her head back, inhaled slowly through her nose. “It’s your cologne.”

“What?”

“Your cologne or—or aftershave.” Another swallow. “It’s making me sick.”

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, sounding like some damn uptight prick. But it was hard not to get offended when a woman said you made her want to throw up.

“Bathroom,” she gasped, pushing away from the wall, her eyes frantic, her hand covering her mouth. “Now.”

Grabbing her by the elbow, he led her the few steps to the half bath off the foyer. Flipped on the lights and was debating whether or not to try to squeeze into the tiny room with her when she slammed the door in his face. He heard the lock click, then the unmistakable sound of retching.

He rubbed the back of his neck. Shut his eyes when the sounds behind the door continued. Damn it. He hated feeling this useless.

Hated that he’d made such a mess of things with her.

He hurried into the study, pulled out a bottle of ginger ale from the mini fridge below the bar and poured it into a tall glass. Considered adding ice but didn’t want to take the chance of being gone too long.

If he wasn’t there to stop her, she’d take off. Again. The way she had that night.

He had a right to be suspicious, he told himself, his strides long. To wonder about her motives. But he could have handled this whole situation better. He saw that now. And he would. When she came out, he’d convince her to stay.

He’d get to the truth.

But a niggling part of his brain insisted she could have already told him the truth. That the baby was his.

And he’d given her fifty thousand dollars to never see him again.

He let his head drop, blew out a heavy breath.

He was in such deep shit.

Someone knocked on the apartment door. More than likely whoever the front desk had been buzzing him about.

What the hell was the point of living in a secure building if the front desk was going to let anyone and everyone in?

The latest visitor knocked again. He glanced at the closed bathroom door. Heard the water running. Another, harder knock. More insistent.

“Coming,” he grumbled, then opened the door.

And would have slammed it shut again if Carrie hadn’t thrown herself into his arms, forcing him to take several steps back to regain his balance, ginger ale sloshing over the edge of the cup and onto his forearm.

“Oh, C.J.,” she wailed against his neck.

He glanced up at the heavens. Mouthed the word help but no assistance was forthcoming, not even a well-timed lightning bolt. He’d have to get out of this on his own.

Story of his life.

Except he was usually fixing other people’s mistakes. Today, the mess he needed to clean up was all his.

He kept his free hand at his side, held the glass away from them with the other. “Who the hell let you up here?”

She leaned back, looking beautiful as always, despite her trembling lower lip and the tears glistening in her eyes. “The nice gentleman at the front desk. He knew you were home and since he recognized me, he buzzed me through.”

“He shouldn’t have. This isn’t a good time.”

“I didn’t know where else to go.” She sniffed. “Everything is such a mess.”

C.J. stepped back, keeping a decent distance between them, in case she decided she needed to latch on to him again. “Carrie, what do you want?”

“I need a place to stay. Just for a night or two,” she added quickly.

He raised one eyebrow, knew it made him resemble his father even more than usual, but maybe that’s what she needed—a reminder of who he was. And who her husband was.

“Something wrong with my father’s house?”

A swipe and another reminder about where she came in the pecking order of things. The mansion she’d redecorated after her marriage to Senior, the bed she slept in, the place she called home wasn’t hers. Every piece of furniture, every pair of overpriced shoes in her closet, every nickel she spent came directly from Senior.

Without Clinton Bartasavich Sr., she had nothing. Was nothing.

Just as Senior wanted. As he’d planned.

She pressed a crumpled tissue to the inner corner of her eye. “I need a break. Seeing Clinton that way. Watching him suffer is just so...hard. So much work. He needs so much time and attention. What about me? What about what I need?”

“I’m sure it’s very difficult for you,” C.J. said flatly, “having a full-time staff and nurses taking care of his every need while you sit back and watch them. You want a break? Try a hotel.”

Sending him a look from under her lashes, she sidled closer, and he realized he’d backed himself into a corner. Or, to be more specific, against the wall. She laid her hand on his chest. Lowered her voice. “Why should I stay at a cold, lonely hotel when you have all this space?”

She tipped her head back, her lips parted. She was beautiful, no doubt about it. Then again, all of his stepmothers had been beautiful. Beautiful and, as the years had gone by, younger and younger.

And this one, barely twenty-eight years old, was making him feel a hell of a lot older than thirty-six.

C.J. snagged her wrist and held her away from him. “Lonely? Guess your friend Chip is out of town.”

Carrie’s eyes widened. “Wha-what do you mean?”

He almost felt sorry for her. Almost. Then again, she’d brought all of this on herself. “Chip Foxworth. Your ex? The man you visited last weekend at his room at the St. Regis?”

With a gasp deep enough to use up half the oxygen in the hallway, she laid a hand over her heart. “Are you spying on me?”

“Save the faux outrage. No one needs to spy on you. You paid for Foxworth’s room with my father’s credit card. His business manager alerted me to the charges. You should be more discreet.”

Then again, his father hadn’t married his last three wives for their brains.

C.J. had planned on talking to his brother Oakes about what to do with the information that their invalid father’s wife was cheating on him. Instead, the problem had landed on his doorstep. Literally.

“What are you going to do?” Carrie asked, sounding small. Afraid. Which was understandable. After all, she was about to lose everything. “You...you can’t tell Clinton. It’ll kill him.”

“The old man’s stronger than you think.” But C.J. didn’t relish the idea of sharing the news. “Be out of the house by Sunday afternoon, and I won’t tell Dad. You can file for divorce, citing irreconcilable differences, and move on with your life. Or, I can hire a private investigator to find proof of your affair. Which, I believe, would mean you would no longer be eligible for the generous settlement allotted in the prenup you signed.”

She blinked rapidly. “You wouldn’t tell him. Not in his condition.”

“I wouldn’t want to,” he admitted, leading her to the door. “But if it came down to telling him or letting you continue to make a fool of him, I’ll choose the former.” He opened the door, nudged her into the main hall. “Do yourself a favor. Take the money and run.”

She made a squeaking sound, which he took for agreement, and he shut the door on her.

“Your life is a bona fide soap opera.”

He couldn’t argue with that. He turned, saw Ivy leaning against the wall next to the bathroom door, her face pale, her eyes huge and rimmed red. “How are you feeling?”

“Dandy.” Her voice was rough.

“Here.” He offered her the ginger ale. “This might calm your stomach.”

“How am I to trust you didn’t poison it?”

“You have a very creative imagination.”

“Hey, you’re the one who could give Dallas—the TV show, not the city—and J. R. Ewing a run for their money. For all I know, you regularly poison women and hide their bodies in a bedroom closet.”

To appease her, he took a long drink. Held out the glass. She accepted it and took a tiny sip but that probably had more to do with her having just been sick and not her naturally suspicious nature.

“I want proof the baby is mine,” he said, crossing his arms, feeling like an idiot for not just saying that outright when she’d first claimed to be pregnant with his child. “We’ll have paternity testing done.”

She took another sip. Licked her lips. “It’s as if you don’t trust me.”

“It’s a reasonable request.”

“It certainly is. Reasonable. Rational. Completely understandable.” Another sip. “I would have happily agreed to it had you brought it up earlier. Unfortunately, that ship has long since sailed.”

She shoved the glass at him, giving him no choice but to take it.

“How am I to be sure the child you’re carrying is mine?”

With a shrug she walked past him, her heels clicking, the sound loud to his ears. “Thanks to the check you wrote me, that is no longer my problem.”

She opened the door. She was leaving. Walking out of his life, just like that.

Exactly what he’d wanted.

Reaching past her he slammed the door shut, and then stepped in front of her. “We’re not done.”

“When I’m done, I leave. And, believe me, buddy, I am done with you.” He didn’t move. She raised her eyebrows. “Don’t make me kick you in the shin.”

It wasn’t the threat of violence that had him moving aside, it was the exhaustion on her face. Knowing she’d just been ill.

“In other words,” he said, when she opened the door again, “you can’t prove you’re telling the truth.”

“You don’t get it. I came here because I thought it was the right thing to do. This pregnancy came as a shock to me, too, but I thought we could sit down, discuss our options and come up with some sort of plan on how to proceed. Together. Instead you treated me like dirt, accused me of being a lying, manipulative slut.” She shook her head, her hand gripping the doorknob as if it were a lifeline. “You didn’t have to be such an arrogant ass. You didn’t have to make me feel so cheap. So beneath you. None of it had to be this way,” she continued quietly. “It didn’t have to end this way. I hope you remember that long after I’m gone.”