Expecting A Bolton Baby. Sarah M. Anderson
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met, felt an instant chemistry and followed up on it. He hadn’t been able to hang her picture on the wall with all the others.
He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her.
No, the one thing he knew was that she’d been wrong in the back of her car, when she’d kissed him instead of giving him her number and told him it was better this way.
Her way was not better.
Time to try it his way.
He went to her, folded her into his arms and kissed the spot on the back of her neck.
Her skin was cool against his lips, her body ramrod stiff in his arms. She was going to fight him on this, fight to maintain her icy detachment. I don’t think so, he thought as he kissed his way around her neck until he got to that special spot, the one just below her ear, half hidden by a silver earring. When he traced the area with his tongue, she shuddered.
For a brief moment, her back arched. Her bottom pushed against him. Yes, he thought. Unleash that energy on me.
But then she pulled away from him and said, “Stop.”
Bobby froze. But he didn’t let her go. Instead, he held her even tighter, hoping the steel would leave her body. He let his hands skim over her body until they rested on her stomach. Between the leather bodice of her dress and the fact that she wasn’t very far along, he would never have guessed she was pregnant. But if she’d already seen a doctor, then it was a fact.
He felt the smooth plane of her body—a body that held his child. “Is that what you want? This baby to never know my name? To never know that I loved her?”
She sucked in a hard breath, as if Bobby had slapped her. “This isn’t about what I want,” she said again. But she didn’t sound as if she believed it. “This is about what’s best for everyone involved.”
Damn it, he was done with her forced detachment. They weren’t discussing stock options or a merger or whatever she and her father talked about around the dinner table. This was a life—a baby-to-be—theirs.
Careful not to hurt her, he turned her in his arms as he backed her up against the glass doors. Although she moved, her body was not the soft, welcoming thing he dreamed of at night.
She refused to meet his gaze, though, so once he had her secure, he lifted her chin until she looked him in the eyes. No mistaking it this time—she was terrified of what he might say. “I don’t care what ‘everyone’ thinks is best. I only care about what you want.”
He saw the doubt flash over her eyes right before she shut them. “It’s better this way.”
She sounded as though she was on the verge of tears, but Bobby didn’t care. He wanted to know that she cared—one way or the other.
“Better for who?”
He kissed her, just a touch of two lips.
Just a promise.
Then, in a flash, the cold steel melted from her body. She laced her arms around his neck and pulled him down as her mouth opened, her tongue hesitantly tracing his lips.
He couldn’t deny it. He needed her.
He hadn’t really stopped needing her, not since that night two months ago. She hadn’t been far from his mind, despite the long hours and the crazy schedule and the determination that everything would be perfect.
As she warmed against him, his body responded. For every degree she softened, he got that much harder, that much hotter, until his skin was on fire, desperate to feel hers against him.
It had not been an accident, the first time. The chemistry between them was electric, shocking him again with how strong it was. He wanted to bury himself in her body, to feel the force of her desire unleashed on him again.
Except he had no idea how to get her out of this dress.
He pulled back. Desire warmed her features and she looked up at him through thick black eyelashes. Oh, yeah, that was the woman he’d lost himself in two months ago—sensual, witty, aware of the power she held over him and not afraid to give him a little power over her.
God, he was so glad she was here. He wanted to keep her here—if he didn’t, she might slip away from him and he didn’t think he could handle that a second time.
He kissed her again, letting his tongue trace her lips—tasting what he’d missed. He’d missed her in a way that didn’t make a damn bit of sense. He never got involved. He’d never wanted a relationship—certainly had never wanted to be a father.
But something about her...
Her cell phone chirped from somewhere on the other side of the room. “Sorry,” she murmured as she moved away from him. “Mickey.”
Yeah, he’d sort of forgotten about the leprechaun.
Stella retrieved her cell phone from her coat pocket. “Yes? Yes. No.”
Bobby couldn’t hear both sides of the conversation, but he could guess. Mickey was somewhere nearby, waiting for the word to come in, shoot Bobby in the knee and swoop Stella away. Okay, so maybe he wouldn’t shoot Bobby—but he was here for Stella, one way or the other.
Bobby wasn’t ready for her to leave just yet.
He approached her, hand out for her phone. “May I?”
The look she gave him was almost comical—doubtful and confused and cold and yet still very much tinged with the desire that had reddened her lips.
“I just want to talk to him for a minute.”
“Yes—he’s here. He wants to talk.” Then she handed Bobby the phone.
“Keeping yer cool up there, laddie?”
Bobby gritted out a smile. “We’re doing well, thanks for asking. I’ve been thinking. I don’t know where Stella is staying, but if she’s coming and going at a hotel, the media might pick up on that. They might try to make a story out of it.”
“Is that so,” Mickey said in such a way that Bobby turned to glance out the patio doors, just to make sure the man wasn’t sitting on his small deck, weapon drawn.
“Yes. Perhaps it would be better for Stella’s long-term well-being if she stayed in a more secure location, at least through the weekend.”
Stella gave him a look—one eyebrow raised, lips pursed—that only made him want to kiss her again.
“Are ye speaking the queen’s English?”
Bobby grinned at Stella. “I think you should stay here for the weekend.”
“What?” Stella said.
“What?” Mickey echoed in his ear.
Bobby ignored Mickey. “Stay here with me,” he said to Stella. “Just until we can decide what’s best for everyone involved.”
“Oh.” Stella’s eyes were as wide as the moon.
“Saints help us all, that part I understood,” Mickey muttered. “Let me talk to me girl again.”
That last bit—me girl—struck Bobby as odd, but he didn’t press the issue. What Mickey needed in this negotiation was to know that he had fulfilled his duty to protect Stella. Anything Bobby did that cast doubt on her well-being was, more than likely, a permanent black mark against him.
“Absolutely.” He handed the phone back over, but he didn’t move out of earshot. Instead, he reached down and took Stella’s free hand in his.
“No, I didn’t—but it’s okay. Yes. Yes. If you think it’ll be all right...” She squeezed Bobby’s hand. “Fine.” She ended the call. “He’ll be by with my things.” The nervous look stole over her face again.
Bobby understood. After all, she’d just agreed to what had