Detective Daddy. Mallory Kane
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head snapped up. “Checking the time frame?” she asked bitterly.
He shrugged and dropped his gaze. His jaw quivered with tension.
“I’m eight weeks pregnant. My ob-gyn told me I probably conceived around the last week in July. His guess is July 22.” She threw the date down as a challenge and waited to see what Ash said.
He knew as well as she did the exact date he’d broached the subject of seeing other people. She’d never been a maudlin person, but that date was branded on her brain. It had been Saturday, August 7, two weeks after their honeymoon-like trip to New Orleans. He’d couched the conversation in terms of friends talking about what they had planned for the fall, but Rachel had recognized it for what it was—the casual, charming brush-off. It had been nine days later when she’d realized she was pregnant.
Now she met his gaze. “But in case you’re wondering, I didn’t rush out and find myself a new man the next day. In fact, I haven’t found one at all.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Look, Ash, I have no intention of making demands on you. I’m choosing to have this baby and it’s my decision and mine alone. You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Listen to me. If it’s my baby, then I will take responsibility for it.”
Rachel didn’t hear what he said after the word if. She stiffened. “If?” she repeated. “If? You don’t believe me?” There came the tears, clawing their way up from her throat. She swallowed hard. “Well, that makes all of this easier.”
She opened the passenger door and got out. She felt Ash’s hand brush her elbow.
“Rach, wait. Of course I believe—”
But she kept going. Right to her car. She climbed in, started the engine and backed out of the driveway. When she turned the corner, heading toward her own apartment, Ash was still sitting in his car at the curb.
ASH DOUBLED HIS FIST and took a swing at the steering wheel. His hand stung, but luckily, his car was sturdy enough to withstand the blow.
Idiot! How in hell had he let Rachel get pregnant? Of course before the question even formed, he knew the answer. He remembered it as if it were yesterday. Friday, July 22. They’d flown down to New Orleans for the weekend. They’d had a couple of Hurricanes, the deceptively sweet drink so popular on Bourbon Street. They’d gone back to the hotel and made love—a lot.
When Ash had woken up the next morning, he’d vaguely remembered rolling over deep in the night and coaxing Rachel awake. They’d done it two more times. It had been spontaneous and satisfying and—he now knew for sure—without benefit of protection.
He cranked the car and drove to the mansion, bypassing it and heading straight for the guesthouse, where Natalie lived. On the way he called her and asked if she was decent.
Natalie had on a black T-shirt and drawstring pants with red chili peppers on them. She’d twisted up her long blond hair into a knot.
He kissed the top of her head as he stepped inside. “How’re you doing?” he asked.
She preceded him into her small living room and flopped onto her couch, her legs crossed beneath her. She was drinking something red.
“Cranberry juice,” she said. “Want some?”
He shook his head and sat in a chair next to the couch.
“I’m doing okay, Ash. Better than I thought I would be.”
He assessed her. “You sure, squirt? Because you look tired.”
“Thanks.” She laughed. “I didn’t sleep well last night. My brain wouldn’t stop whirling.”
“I know what you mean. Our brains were probably whirling in unison. Bad dreams?”
Natalie looked down at the glass in her hand. “No. Not really. Just couldn’t get to sleep.”
“Have you thought any more about seeing the company psychiatrist?”
Natalie’s pleasant expression darkened. “I really wish you’d drop that idea,” she said. “I am fine. If you just came over here to bully me, you can show yourself out.”
“Apparently this is the week for surprises. I got some weird news tonight.”
“Weird? What do you mean, weird?”
He took a deep breath, opened his mouth and closed it again.
Natalie watched him, a small frown wrinkling her forehead. “Okay, Ashton, spit it out,” she snapped—her version of encouraging and sympathetic.
He smiled wryly. “Rachel—Rachel Stevens—is pregnant.”
To his surprise, Natalie’s mouth didn’t drop open in shock. In fact, while her expression at first reflected surprise, it morphed quickly to thoughtfulness to what he could only describe as sheer joy.
“Wow!” she exclaimed. “My first niece—or nephew. Good job!” She leaned forward, her right hand in the air. Did she really think he felt like high-fiving her over this?
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Nat—”
She pulled back her hand but her enthusiasm didn’t dampen. “This is the best news I’ve heard in a while. I’m going to be an aunt!”
He scowled at her.
“And look,” she said, gesturing at him. “Talk about irony. The Kendall playboy is the first to fall. Congrats! Have you told Dev or Aunt Angela?”
“Nat, stop it! This is not something I want to tell anybody. For sure not Aunt Angie. It is not a good thing. Be serious, would you?”
Natalie beamed at him. “I am being serious. This is seriously fabulous news. Are you getting married right away?”
“No!”
When he saw the shock on Natalie’s face, he realized how loud and sharp his answer had been. “I’m sorry, but I just found out not even an hour ago, and I’m not sure what I’m going to do about it.”
“Do about it? You think you’re going to do something about it? Unless by do something you mean ask Rachel to marry you and buy a house and get ready to be a husband and a father, I can tell you right now, there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Ash leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees and running his fingers through his hair. He sat there, palms cradling his head. “Tell me about it. But, Nat, I have never been careless. Ever.”
Natalie frowned at him, her head cocked to one side. “Come on, Ash. Haven’t we had this conversation? Not even condoms are one-hundred-percent effective.”
He stared at her. “I know that, but—”
For a short moment, Natalie held his gaze. Then she stood. “But what? Do you think the baby’s not yours?”
He blew out a breath between his teeth. “Oh, I know it’s mine. Rachel wouldn’t lie. Plus, I know exactly when it happened.”
“Great. So when are you two—you three—getting married?” Natalie grinned at him.
Ash sat up, rubbed the spot on his chest where the hollow feeling resided. He clamped his jaw and forced his mind away from the confusing question of how he felt about Rachel.
“There’s another issue,” he muttered. He wiped his face and looked up at her. “Rachel’s the one who ran the DNA.”
Natalie looked puzzled. “The baby’s DNA?”
“No, no,” he said, leaning forward and again propping his elbows on his knees. “She’s the one who ran the samples from the murders against Campbell’s DNA.”
Natalie’s