Baby On The Way (8 page)

“Now the lower back,” Amelia instructed. “This is where most pregnant women feel the greatest strain from the weight of the baby.”

Del obediently moved his palm down to Libby’s hips and lower back, pressing carefully with the heel of his hand. She sighed a little, her eyes fluttering shut, and something inside him eased on a wave of tenderness. Wanting to comfort her, Del kept up the soothing motion. The span of his hand easily encompassed the width of her back, and he could feel the delicate ridges of her spine through the thin cotton of her—his shirt.

He smiled faintly. He liked it when she wore his clothes. She’d been wearing one of his shirts the first
night he’d met her, when he’d inadvertently startled her in the hall as she came out, damp and fresh from her bath.

She hadn’t known
that
shirt was his, either. She’d clutched the neck in an instinctive gesture of feminine alarm. The material had pressed across her breasts, revealing the circular shadows of small dark nipples.

Had her nipples changed? he wondered now. Were they darker, bigger,
sweeter,
than they’d been before? The position in which she lay had caused the top couple buttons of her shirt to come undone, while a third strained across her plump bosom. His brooding gaze lingered there, craving a glimpse of the soft skin he’d kissed and caressed.

“Okay, Mommies, roll to the other side.”

Libby turned over, her movements slow and lethargic with the heaviness of relaxation. She looked tousled and sexy, her eyes drowsy, her lips red and full.

As she lay down again, the button across her breasts gave up the battle. Her shirt gaped open. Involuntarily, Del’s hungry gaze fastened on the plump curve of her breast. A nipple pressed against the thin lace of her bra in a rigid peak. Surprised at the small sign of arousal, his glance shot to her face.

For a brief moment, her unguarded gaze met his. Her eyes were slumberous, filled with remembered passion. Then she flushed, and her lashes fell, shielding her gaze as she reached up to clutch the front of her shirt closed.

Del’s body hardened and his gaze narrowed on her averted face. Had he imagined the desire he’d seen there?

He put his hand on her ankle. She flinched, then
froze, like a little rabbit caught in a trap. Beneath the fan of hair on her cheek, her color deepened, and her breath emerged between parted lips in short pants.

His own breathing quickened in response. So she felt it, too—this desire that sparked between them.

Suddenly, the lights went on. Libby pulled free of his grasp and sat up. “That’s it. We’re done now.” She rose to her feet. Del did too, reaching out a hand to help steady her, but she avoided his grasp and hurried toward the door, holding her pillow in front of her like a shield.

Del remained where he was, watching her, a small smile curving his lips.
No, we’re not done yet, Libby,
he promised silently.
We’re not done at all.

W
as Del pursuing her?

The question flashed through Libby’s mind with increasing frequency and alarm during the rest of the week.

Most of the time she was able to scoff at the notion. Why would he be? He’d accepted the situation between them. He was satisfied with the financial agreement they’d reached, and was allaying his conscience further by taking her to the childbirth classes.

At the thought of the classes, her nipples tightened. She couldn’t help remembering how good his hands felt stroking her skin. It has been so long since she’d been touched.which was probably the reason she was overreacting. It wasn’t as if she were any kind of femme fatale, after all—especially almost eight months’ pregnant. She had three outfits to her name, her skin was blotchy and her breasts and belly were huge. Hardly any man’s idea of a dream lover.

No, she was imagining his interest, she’d tell herself. But then she’d look up suddenly from frowning over her knitting, or gazing out the window at the falling leaves, and she’d find his eyes fixed on her with
the same hungry, sexual intent that she’d seen at that class—and so long ago during that storm.

Sitting on Christine’s bed, watching her friend pack for her flight that afternoon, Libby said, “I wish you didn’t have to go,” and then bit her lip. She hadn’t intended to voice the thought. The words had slipped out unintentionally.

Christine looked up in faint surprise. “I’m sorry, too, Libby, but you don’t have to worry. I know you’ll be safe with Del here.”

As safe as a mouse in the care of a hungry cat, Libby thought ruefully. She glanced down at her stomach. A fat, clumsy mouse at that.

Christine added, “I hope he doesn’t get called back unexpectedly. His beeper’s gone off a couple of times, and it seems to me he’s been getting a lot of calls the past few days.”

Libby had noticed that, too. She’d answer the phone and a clipped, hard masculine voice would demand, “Mr. Delaney, please.” Del took the calls in the study, and every time he came out, Libby waited for him to say, “I need to get back right away. Something’s come up,” the way he’d done the morning after they’d made love.

“Where is he now? Working on his computer?” she asked. All the time he’d been gone, the computer had sat lifeless in a corner of the study. Now, however, Del had booted the system up, spending hours working in front of the blue-lit screen.

Busy pawing through a pile of hosiery to find the unruined pairs, Chris answered absently, “He went out to the hardware store to get a new faucet for the leaky one in the kitchen and was waylaid by Susan, who
persuaded him to come over and take a look at her new Jacuzzi.” Glancing over at Libby, Christine wrinkled her nose with a wry grin. “She made it sound as if it were broken, but that’s just an excuse to get Del alone. Ever since her divorce, she’s been chasing him almost as avidly—but a lot more subtly—then Mrs. P. does for Dorrie Jean.”

Which put her own worries in perspective, Libby

thought. Feeling a sudden need to be busy, she refolded Christine’s favorite blue dress. Christine declared the thin blue sheath was uncrushable, but Libby

couldn’t believe the fine, silky material would benefit

by being wadded into a corner of the suitcase the way

Christine had done. She laid the now neatly folded dress in the case. Why would he still be interested in her when Susan—with her slim, blond good looks—was available? He’d accepted that Libby wanted a husband who was around all the time; she’d accepted that he wasn’t going to give up his job. No, like he’d said. He was simply staying for a little while for the baby’s sake.

She maintained that belief on Monday, since nothing changed much with Christine gone other than Del’s sudden interest in her eating habits. He arrived to oversee her consumption of “the proper nutrients” at breakfast, lunch and dinner, but otherwise left her pretty much alone while he fixed various things around the house. In the evening, when she sat down with her knitting before the television in the parlor, he disappeared into the study, saying he had reading to catch up on.

On Tuesday, he caught her standing on a chair, while she searched for a mixing bowl in a high kitchen
cupboard. He lifted her down and handed her the bowl along with a few choice remarks. She’d simmered with anger the rest of the day, but arrived at the conclusion that no man who claimed a woman was a “little idiot” could possibly be interested in her.

On Wednesday, the firmness of her conviction wavered a bit when he unexpectedly brought her roses—huge, beautiful pink blooms. “The color matches your cheeks,” he said, thrusting the fragrant mass into her arms. Her suspicions rising, she might have accused him of flirting with her if he hadn’t added, “I always pick a bunch up for Christine when I’m in town. She gets a kick out of them.”

Okay, so he equated her with his sister. That thought reassured her through Thursday—until their childbirth class that evening. Libby sat through a video of an actual birth in growing alarm. Thank goodness Del wouldn’t be around long enough to really go through the process with her. She’d
never
let him see her looking sweaty and desperate like the woman on the screen. Why, Libby wondered, had she never noticed before how
big
babies’ heads were?

She expected Del to be disgusted by the film; instead, he was fascinated. The cheerleading couple, who’d originally answered all the teacher’s questions, could barely get a word in edgewise between Del’s quick replies. Did he spend
all
his time reading pregnancy books?

Later, as they went through Amelia’s “relaxation massage,” she glanced covertly around. None of the other coaches’ touches seemed to affect the women the way Del’s affected her. Under his hands her skin flushed and tingled, her nipples hardened with excitement.
Was it her imagination, or did his fingers linger as they stroked her legs, climbing toward her hips and buttocks? When he massaged her arms, she glanced sharply at his face. Had she imagined the brush of his thumb against her breast? The innocence in his expression
seemed
genuine.

And she believed
that
up until Friday night, when she returned from a long evening walk and an unexpected run-in with Mrs. Peyton. By the time Mrs. P. had grilled her on her weight gain, eating habits and even more personal topics, Libby had been more than thankful to escape into the house.

Unsuspectingly, she walked through the kitchen and pushed open the dining room door. She froze, looking into the shadowy room.

There were candles on the supper table.

Flames danced atop the slender white tapers, casting a flickering golden glow over the table set for two. No light shone from the electric chandelier. Only candlelight glinted off the silverware and the creamy white china. A single yellow daisy nodded lazily in a glass of water.

Libby tried to swallow. Her mouth felt dry. She’d seen this scene before. Her mouth felt dry and her palms grew damp. Even the delicious smell of roasted chicken was familiar. Her heart began thumping in slow, painful beats. This was the exact same scene she’d created the night she’d decided to make love with Del.

“Hello,” he said behind her.

She whirled around. He was standing close-too close.

“Oh! Hello. I didn’t see you there,” she stammered, taking a nervous step away. “Let me get the lights.”

She lunged for the switch on the wall.

Click. Click—click. Nothing happened.

She stared at the switch. “It seems to be out,” she said, her voice hollow.

“So it does. Good thing I got out the candles,” Del said cheerfully. “Come on and sit down, while I bring in the food. I have everything ready.”

He did. Roasted chicken and mashed potatoes. Sweet green peas and baby carrots. Even a luscious double-chocolate cake for dessert.

“More chicken?” he asked, politely proffering the platter.

“No, thank you.” She could barely finish the piece she had. He’d cooked the bird perfectly, roasting it to a smooth golden brown. Much better than the slightly burned one she’d made for dinner months ago that they’d laughingly demolished with their fingers.

“How ‘bout carrots?”

“Love them,” she said brightly. They hadn’t had carrots at the
other
dinner—the only vegetables she’d been able to find in the pantry were canned green beans. Del loved green beans; she hated them. But she’d eaten one off his fork when he’d coaxed her to and been rewarded with a slow, lazy smile that had made her breath catch.

“Mashed potatoes?”

“Umm, thanks.” She pushed them around, sculpting a small mountain on her plate. Not one lump! He’d claimed her lumpy potatoes were full of “substance.”

She refused the cake, ignoring his lifted eyebrows. He knew she loved chocolate. She’d insisted on making
ing “s’mores”—gthe one talent she’d emerged with after a two-year stint in the Girl Scouts—and had piled the chocolate bars high between oozing melted marshmallows they’d toasted in the fireplace. The marshmallows had dripped on to her fingers. Del had sucked the stickiness off each one.

“Are you sure you won’t try a piece?” he asked. He forked up some cake, gooey with icing, and held it temptingly close to her lips.

“Well.” She hesitated. It did look good. The thick icing swirled around the top of the rich, moist bite of forbidden pleasure.

Her lips parted.

“It’s delicious,” he murmured. “Susan brought it over.”

Libby’s head jerked back. The fork wobbled. Icing plopped down on her breast. “Oh, no!” Libby said, staring down at the glob.

Quickly, Del reached over. Scooping the icing up, he popped it in her mouth with his finger. Her lips closed automatically over the tip. His skin felt excitingly rough against her tongue. Her nipples puckered.

His eyes, staring into hers, dilated.

Pushing his hand away, Libby jumped up, scrubbing furiously at the spot with her napkin. “I told you I’m not hungry!”

“At least not for food,” Del murmured. His eyes were half-shut, filled with a slumberous satisfaction as he leaned back in his chair.

Libby threw down her napkin and fled to the parlor. Night had fallen in earnest now, and only a few small candles glowed in the darkened room. She considered snatching one up and going upstairs, but reluctantly
abandoned the idea. It would look too much like fleeing. She didn’t want Del to know how his presence alarmed and—oh, all right!—excited her, too.

She hurriedly reached into the sewing basket by the chair, arming herself with her knitting. She’d keep the conversation impersonal—no more suggestive comments.

Del strolled casually into the room. Barely sparing her a glance, he went over to the fireplace, crouching down to light the logs piled on the hearth. The tangysweet scent of pine filled the room.

“The days are getting chilly again,” he said.

“I know. I’ve started putting extra blankets on the bed.” She bit her tongue. Why did she have to mention
bed,
when that was the last subject she wanted brought up?

Sure enough, he turned her way. Worse yet, he rose. Libby’s pulse quickened as he slowly walked toward her. He looked big and broad—and dangerously sexy outlined by the growing glow from the fireplace behind him.

He leaned over her. Funny how in the darkened room her other senses felt heightened. She could feel the warmth of his body, hear the steady hush of his breathing, smell the enticingly musky scent of his skin.

It had been like this before—during the blackout. The same, almost painful awareness had shivered through her body, tightening her nipples, flushing her skin. She held her breath.then released it with a gasp as he reached into the basket next to her chair. He pulled something out and dropped it in her lap.

Libby picked it up. Pink booties. She frowned in
confused surprise. “They’re darling. Did Christine make these?”

“I did.”

“You!” She stared at him in shock. “I didn’t know you could knit.”

“There’s a lot,” he drawled, echoing her words, “that you don’t know about me.”

Libby studied his handiwork. The rows were neatly even, the corners straight. “How did you learn to knit so well?”

He dropped into the wingback chair next to hers, slinging a long leg over the plump arm. “Mom taught me one winter along with Christine-probably to keep us from tearing around the house so much. She fooled me into thinking we were tying fancy knots. By the time I realized it was ‘sissy stuff,’ I’d already learned the basics.”

“Christine’s never mentioned it,” she said faintly.

“I swore her to secrecy as a kid-under the direst of penalties.” His eyes narrowed. “I guess I’ll have to swear you to secrecy now, too,” he said softly.

Her fingers clutched the booties. She didn’t want to share a secret with him. She didn’t want to share
anything
with him.

Her face must have revealed her thoughts, because he leaned closer, his eyes reflecting tiny flames from the fireplace. “Do you swear?” he whispered menacingly. “Or do I have to tickle you into compliance like I did with Chris when she was six?”

“I swear,” she promised hurriedly.

He grinned and moved away a little. She lifted her chin, recovering her composure. “Like I said, these
are very nice.” She added kindly, “Too bad they’re pink. I’m having a boy.”

“A girl.”

“A boy!”

He eyed her thoughtfully, then suddenly reached over and plucked her knitting from her hands.

She gave a startled squeak. “What—”

“I think you need a break,” he said, smoothly overriding her protest. Standing up, he grabbed her hands and pulled her to her feet. “Come on, let’s practice that relaxation massage Amy taught us.”

“No, thank you. I am relaxed,” she said through gritted teeth, trying to loosen his grasp.

“This will help you even more,” he promised. He pulled her over to the fireplace, grabbing a couple of pillows to put down on the rug. “Sit down—”

“I don’t—”

“Sit
down.
”

She sat down. “You’re so bossy,” she said as he hunkered down behind her. He began to work her shoulders. She stiffened at first but soon relaxed a little. He was massaging just the right spot. To hide her pleasure, she added in a grouchy tone, “I
^{knew that}
you would be.”