About That Night (11 page)

He squashed the joy that tried to wiggle its way into his chest. Yeah, he may have thought of her once or twice or a hundred times in the past four months. May have dreamed of her. Relived their night together. May have considered making another trip to Shady Grove, to King’s Crossing, to find her. But in the end, his pride had stopped him from hunting her down like some infatuated fool.

Thank God.

“Mother,” he said into the phone, his eyes never leaving Ivy, “I have to go.”

“But, C.J.—”

He hung up and, knowing she’d call back—and lecture him on his rudeness—turned the phone off.

“How is your mama?” Ivy asked while he stood there staring at her as if he’d never seen a woman before. “Still dating the beefcake?”

C.J. walked toward her as though he was a trout she was reeling in, unable to resist her pull. He stopped in front of her, forcing her to tip her head back. “What are you doing here?”

Ivy shrugged her golden shoulders. Smiled. “I came to see you. Now, be honest. Did you miss me?”

The question hit him with equal parts fury and embarrassment because, damn it, while he hadn’t missed her—hard to miss someone he didn’t even know—he had thought of her.

And the confident gleam in her eye told him she knew it.

“Don’t tell me,” he managed to drawl in an even tone. “You’re a mild-mannered waitress by day, a cat burglar by night.” He regretted the words as soon as he said them. Mainly because he’d envisioned her, quite clearly and in great detail, in a snug black outfit. “Breaking and entering is a crime.”

She laughed. He couldn’t say he didn’t like the sound.

Damn her.

When she finally wound down, she leaned forward, still swinging that foot. Winked at him. “I don’t have to break in anywhere.” She slowly uncrossed her legs and stood in one smooth motion. Looked up at him from under her lashes, a trick she’d probably learned in her crib. “Let’s just say I have certain...charms...that open a lot of doors for me.”

So much for his apartment building’s advanced security system.

He should be pissed—rip-roaring, teeth-gnashing, hair-pulling pissed—not mildly irritated. Not wondering how, exactly, she’d managed to talk her way into his home. Not wanting to find out more about her.

Not wanting to reach out and rub one of those loose curls between his fingers. To step closer and breathe her in. Touch her.

He shoved his hands into his pockets. Stepped back. She’d really screwed him up. Had him retreating. It grated his pride, which had kept him sane and controlled all these months.

“So, you were in the neighborhood and thought you’d look me up?” he asked, wanting badly for that to be true.

She strolled over to the glass doors leading to the balcony. “Houston isn’t exactly one of my regular hangouts. But for this view,” she said with a nod at the twelve-acre park his suite overlooked, the city of Houston behind it, “I might have to change that.”

“How did you find me?” he asked.

“I did some digging. You’d be amazed what a woman can find out with a Wi-Fi connection, a name and a few clicks of a mouse.”

“What are you? Nancy Drew?”

“Not quite that innocent. As you well know.” She looked around. “Not going to offer me a drink?”

This entire experience was so surreal, he almost did. “No. What are you doing here?”

“It seems I have something of yours.”

He hadn’t noticed anything missing from his wallet that night. He had his watch. His phone. All the personal belongings he’d brought with him to Shady Grove four months ago. “Still playing games, I see.”

“Oh, but you know how much I enjoy those games,” she purred, walking toward him, all sex appeal and artifice. She touched his chest, the warmth of her fingers burning him through the material of his shirt. “You didn’t mind when you took me to bed.”

He caged her wrists, wished her skin wasn’t so soft. “I should call security. Have them toss you out.”

“Do you often have women thrown out of your apartment?”

“You’d be the first. You said you had something of mine?”

She swallowed. Tugged herself free. “You could say that.”

He waited, but she just stood there looking almost...nervous. Scared.

What was that about? Had she stolen from him without him noticing? He wouldn’t have thought she was a petty thief—even if a flash of conscience had brought her here to make amends. “Just return whatever it is, and I won’t call the authorities.”

Now she frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Whatever you stole from me that night.”

She bristled. “I didn’t steal anything from you.”

He rubbed his chin, totally confused. “Okay.”

“I didn’t steal anything from you,” she repeated, pacing in front of him with short, agitated strides. “But I do have something of yours.” Stopping in front of him, she inhaled deeply and met his eyes. “I’m pregnant.”

CHAPTER SIX

I
VY 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.