Not Quite Married. Christine Rimmer
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“The point is, I’m not going anywhere this evening but to bed.”
Dead silence. Then, “My God, Clara. Are you all right?”
She wasn’t, not really. She felt torn in two. But she was much too tired to do anything about that at the moment. “Dalton, we’ll talk, I promise.”
“When?”
“Soon. I really have to go.”
“I’ll be there by nine at the latest.”
“What? Here? No. Why?”
“I want to see for myself that you’re all right.”
Clara gathered every last ounce of will and determination she had left and she told him, “Don’t you dare, Dalton. You had better not knock on my door tonight.”
More silence. Finally, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
She wasn’t, as a matter of fact. But no way was she telling him that. “Yes. I’m fine.”
“Get some rest, Clara.”
“That is exactly what I plan to do.”
He said good-night then. She breathed a careful sigh of relief as she hung up the phone. Then she dragged her poor, tired body up off the sofa and into her bedroom, where she fell into bed.
In spite of her exhaustion, she didn’t sleep well.
In the morning, she considered taking the day off. But that seemed wrong, after cutting out on her crew the day before.
So she pulled herself together, threw on a comfy blue dress with a handkerchief hem and a sturdy pair of flat-heeled sandals. She gathered her hair up into a scraggly ponytail and went in—and found Dalton there, sitting at a window table, sipping coffee and eating a Tuscan omelet. At the sight of him, in yet another of those beautiful tailor-made suits of his, looking fresh and rested and ready to get right to work bossing her around, her heart actually seemed to skip a beat.
Seriously?
What was the problem with her heart, anyway? It had no business skipping beats over him. She was as big as a barn and her ankles were swollen. The last thing she needed now was to get all excited over the guy who’d gotten her into this condition in the first place.
Some people’s hearts just never learned.
Through a monumental effort of sheer will, she put on her calmest expression and toddled over to deal with him.
The first words out of his mouth were “You look terrible.”
As if that was news to her. Of course she looked terrible. She was beat. Just completely exhausted from the constant, months-long strain of this whole situation.
And her restaurant was packed, as usual. Which was a good thing—except that all of her customers seemed to be staring at her and the big, handsome man in the great suit who gazed up at her critically, as though he, and only he, knew what was good for her.
Wonderful. Just what she needed. The whole town up in her business all over again, the way they were when she almost married Ryan.
And then he did something even more annoying than telling her she looked like crap: he actually put on a smile. And damned if that smile didn’t tug at her silly heartstrings.
“I like your café.” The blue gaze scanned the two-story wall of bookshelves that gave the café its name. He took in the tan-and-coffee-colored walls hung with art by local artists. He glanced approvingly at the many windows, most with mountain views. He nodded at the cast-iron spiral staircase in the center of the room, which led up to a second dining room open to the floor below. “It’s beautiful, Clara. And the food is excellent.”
“Thank you,” she said with careful control, keeping her voice just loud enough to be heard by him and him alone. “Tell you what, why don’t you join me in my office when you’re finished eating? We can speak privately. It’s through that arch on the right as you’re facing the counter.”
He frowned up at her. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Why are you always asking me that?” She spoke through clenched teeth.
“Because you look like you’re about to fall over.”
She lifted a hand and smoothed her scraped-back hair. “I’m just fine, thank you. My office, then?”
“I’ll be right there.”
“No hurry. Take your time.” Take forever. Please.
He nodded and picked up his fork again. She seized the moment and made her escape. Head high, giant belly leading the way, she turned for the back rooms.
In her office, she shut the door, sagged against it and stared blindly at the tiny window high on the back wall that looked out on the alley. Really, she didn’t feel well.
Her hands were chilly; her forehead was sweating. Her stomach churned and her overworked heart pounded away like a herd of wild mustangs trapped inside her chest.
What did he want from her?
To break her heart all over again?
For the past eight months, her previously well-ordered life had veered right off the rails into Crazyland. Her life had been one giant, tangled ball of anxiety and upheaval for way, way too long.
Logically, she knew that it wasn’t Dalton’s fault, that they’d had an agreement on the island and she was the one who’d wanted to make it more than it was. But in her heart, she blamed him. For not being there. For not wanting her more, for not being the perfect man she’d let herself imagine he was.
A tap on the door.
Time to face him again.
She pressed cold fingers to her hot, itchy eyelids and dragged herself up straight.
“Clara?” His voice, from the other side of the door. Gentle, for once. Maybe even a little concerned.
She didn’t need or want his concern. “Yes. Yes, all right.” She pulled the door wide.
And there he was, looking so good she wanted to break down and cry. He couldn’t get away from her fast enough on the island. And now, since she’d told him about the baby, she couldn’t get rid of him.
It was all so very confusing.
She opened her mouth to tell him...what?
She didn’t even know what to say to him.
And then it turned out it didn’t matter that she couldn’t think of what to say. Because before she could get a word out, she fainted dead away.
“Clara?” Dalton watched in horror as her eyes rolled back in her head and she swayed toward him.
Her face had gone dead white; her forehead and upper lip bloomed with sweat. He caught her automatically as her knees buckled, her body folding in over her big belly, gravity dragging her to the floor.
Stunned, he stared down at the top of her head. She was limp as a rag doll, out cold.
He knew terror then. Stark, raw terror. “Clara, my God...”
No response. She sagged in his arms.
Bracing one arm at her back, he bent to get her behind the knees with the other before she could slither from his grip. Then, hoisting her high against his chest, he carried her over to the gray velvet love seat under the window and carefully lowered her down onto it.
“Clara...” he whispered, and put his hand to her damp forehead. No fever. If anything, her soft skin was too cool. The scent of her drifted to him. Sweet as ever. He wanted to touch her stomach, to somehow reassure her and the baby