My Babies and Me (5 page)

Read My Babies and Me Online

Authors: Tara Taylor Quinn

BOOK: My Babies and Me
10.47Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Besides, there was a small part of him that was afraid she'd be hurt because he'd accepted a job that required no familial obligations, even though he'd agreed to father her child. And the fear wasn't just born from an aversion to hurting Susan. If she was hurt, that would mean she'd been harboring some desire for him to share more than just the conception of her child.
And he couldn't do this for her if he thought, for one second, that she'd be asking for more than he had to give.
Staring out the window at the expanse of anonymous farmland passing beneath him, Michael forced
his mind back to the loyal staff he'd built over the years. He'd pretty much decided on the person he was going to promote, and he looked forward to breaking the news. That thought gave him the balance he'd been seeking.
Business was the only thing he felt sure about. The only way he knew how to cope. To shut off the fears and concerns that were nagging at him, the uneasiness he couldn't seem to dissipate with logic.
A man could only think so much about sex without embarrassing himself.
 
SETH'S DARK-BLUE Bronco was parked in front of the condo when Michael pulled up in his rental. Fond as he was of Susan's brother, Seth sure as hell could have picked a better time to come visiting.
“I heard you were going to be in town,” the big blond man greeted him as Michael let himself in. “Thought I'd stop by and see if you two wanted to take in a movie or something.”
Susan, curled up on the couch, raised her brows and grimaced behind her brother's back.
Michael shrugged out of his overcoat and hung it on the brass tree by the front door. “Don't think so, buddy,” he said. There was no way in hell he'd be able to sit through a movie right now.
“The new Star Trek movie's playing downtown,” Seth coaxed.
Exchanging glances with Susan, Michael shook his head. Trekkies though they were, a movie was still a two-hour wait in the dark. “It was just released,” he told Seth, pulling his keys out his jeans pocket to drop
them on the hall table. “And it's Saturday. The theater' ll be full of kids.”
Dressed in beige khaki slacks and a black longsleeved fleece shirt that hugged her waist, Susan looked great. And eager. Her eyes were glowing as she shared an intimate glance with him.
“How about a game of basketball, then? I can call for a court.” Seth picked up the phone and dialed.
“I didn't bring gym clothes,” Michael said, disconnecting the call. He met and held his friend's gaze. “Seth, go home.”
“There's a new restaurant on the other side of the river I've been meaning to try,” Seth said, still clutching the phone. “We could have lunch....”
Turning his ex-brother-in-law toward the door, Michael grabbed Seth's coat off the rack and handed it to him. “Go home.”
Seth took his coat, put it on, and turned back, looking from Susan to Michael. “I think we should talk about this.”
“I think—” Susan began.
“Go home,” Michael interrupted her, giving Seth a little shove.
“You're sure?” Seth asked quietly.
Hell no, he wasn't sure. But Susan was. And he'd never be able to live with himself if he forced her to ask another man to do this.
“Go home.” he said one last time.
Swearing, Seth let himself out, slamming the door.
Michael locked it behind him.
 
SUSAN STARED at Michael's back. He was still staring at the door he'd just locked, almost as though he were
thinking about heading out himself.
“You want something to eat?”
He turned, walking slowly back into the living room, not meeting her eyes. “Nah, I had breakfast at the airport.”
He slipped his hands into his pockets, stretching the denim of his jeans taut across his fly. Susan couldn't help noticing how attractive he was. She'd never been able to look at Michael without thinking about sex. But today there was more. Today she saw the man who was going to give her his baby.
The thought scared her just a little. What if this changed things? Not her life; of course
that
was going to change. But what if things between her and Michael weren't the same afterward?
“We don't have to do this if you don't want to,” she blurted suddenly.
His gaze swung to hers, intent, hopeful. “You've changed your mind.”
“No.” Susan shook her head. She needed to be a mother. “But it doesn't have to be now, today,” she said even as she realized that putting it off wasn't going to make any real difference. “It doesn't have to be you.”
But she wanted it to be. She couldn't imagine carrying anybody's baby but Michael's.
“Are you having doubts?”
Looking down, Susan studied the pattern in the tweed fabric of her overstuffed couch. “Not about the baby.”
“You're having doubts about me?”
She'd hurt him. Damn, it was getting messy already and they hadn't even
done
anything yet.
“Could you sit down or something?” she asked as he continued to hover over her, the hands in his pockets distracting her. “Please?”
Michael sat. On the very edge of the couch, knees spread, his elbows on his knees.
Susan couldn't look at him. She hadn't felt this tongue-tied with Michael since before the first time they'd made love. She'd been crazy with wanting him. And a little frightened because of her virginity. Her inexperience. A little frightened that she wouldn't be able to satisfy him. After all, he'd had the prettiest girls in college chasing after him.
She'd been a boring little tomboy bookworm.
Not knowing what else to do, she'd been honest about her feelings then. And been honest with Michael every day since.
“I can't imagine anybody but you as the father of my child.” The words, though softly uttered, were filled with the emotions tumbling through her.
She wasn't looking at him, but she felt him flinch.
“I'm not asking you to
be
a father, Michael. I'd never do that to you. Any more than you'd ask me never to be a mother.”
Chancing a peek at him, she quickly looked back down at her hands. He was staring straight ahead, the muscles in his jaw working fiercely.
“I'm fully prepared to raise this child myself. In fact, I'm intent on doing so,” she assured him. Just as she'd been assuring herself for months.
“I just want it to be your baby growing inside me.”
She wasn't doing this very well. “I want my son or daughter to be a part of you.”
The more she talked to her silent ex-husband, the more her needs became clear to her. She didn't just want a baby by the year 2000. She didn't just want a baby, period. She wanted
Michael'
s baby. Even though she knew that having Michael's baby meant raising the child herself.
“What I—” she said, stopping and then trying again. “What I don't—” She reached across to lace her fingers with his, willing him to meet her eyes, waiting until he did. “What I
don't
want...is to lose you in the process.”
He seemed about to say something but didn't.
“You're my best friend, Michael. I don't want that to change.”
Slowly, tenderly, he brought his lips to hers. Kissing her softly. “In seven years I haven't learned to stop caring about you,” he said, his lips still brushing hers. “I don't think I ever will.”
Susan tried to block her mind as she gave herself up to his kiss, but for the first time, she wasn't in a hurry to make love with Michael.
And that frightened her most of all. Things were changing already.
 
SETH TOOK the corner so hard he felt his outside tires leave the road. How could they be so
stupid?
The sister who'd never made a mistake in her life, as far as Seth was concerned. And his friend, who was exactly like Seth himself. It was as if he didn't know either one of them anymore.
By what right could they bring a new life into the
world without the means to nurture it? Children needed parents. Two of them. Full-time.
Rounding another curve, he heard a grinding in his steering column and lightened up on the vehicle. His Bronco didn't deserve this abuse. It was faithful to him. Loyal. There when he needed it. And it never asked more from him than he could give.
Some gas. A wash every month. An occasional new tire. Tune-ups. All stuff that could wait until he happened to be in town.
Seth drove until he calmed. down enough to stay within the speed limit, then slowed even more. He wanted a drink. And he'd have one. Maybe, considering that it was Saturday, and the day before the Super Bowl to boot, he'd have two. Or three.
Keeping the Bronco out of sight of the field, he slid in behind the big weeping willow across the street and to the west, and put the truck in park. But he didn't turn it off. He wasn't staying. Couldn't. He couldn't risk being seen.
He also couldn't seem to stay away.
Every week that he was in town he tried. And every week he ended up right in this same place. He'd thought that maybe today, in his efforts to prevent his sister from making the biggest mistake of her life, he'd be spared this little sojourn.
But even that peace had been denied him.
So here he sat, champing at the bit as he watched Mitch's dad massacre what had promised to be a damn good soccer team. The city league was sponsored by the Y and played all year, no matter what the season, in an effort to keep kids off the streets and in organized activities.
Last year, Seth had been their coach.
“Use your head!” he yelled. And then, ducking his own head, looked around furtively to see if anyone had heard.
Someday he'd learn to keep his big mouth shut. He'd have been a lot better off if he'd done that
before
he volunteered to coach soccer for underprivileged kids. Before he'd met Jeremy Sinclair. Or his mother.
“Finesse, Jeremy,” he muttered fiercely. “Keep your eye on the ball and your feet in motion.”
The boy watched the ball, but he was practically tripping over his feet in his hurry to get down the field.
“Dance, son.”
Seth itched to get out of the car. To stand at the side of that field and holler. He noticed Peter Adams sitting on the bench, his lower lip jutting out like he was going to cry. None of the boys were smiling. Wishing he could motivate their butts, Seth swallowed instead.
And saw Jeremy glance over. There was no way the kid could see him. He was too far away, camouflaged by a tree. But it was time to go. He couldn't risk practice ending early. Couldn't risk Jeremy finding him there.
Anyway, he wanted that drink.
CHAPTER FIVE
T
HE MAN WAS enough to drive her to drink. Two o'clock Saturday afternoon and they'd spent barely a moment at home. So, of course, Michael still hadn't made love to her. He'd touched her. Hell, he could hardly keep his hands off her. Yet the second things started to progress, he'd find something to talk about.
Without really talking about anything at all.
And Susan thought
she
was nervous about taking that final, irrevocable step.
This morning, after he'd thrown Seth out, he'd decided he was hungry, after all. So they went to the new restaurant Seth had recommended for lunch, and a couple of hours disappeared. Then he'd asked to see her office on the way back to the condo, giving as his reason the fact that he hadn't been there since she'd moved her desk in front of the window.
Eventually, they'd ended up back at the condo. It was either that or go see the Star Trek movie.
“Let's make a gingerbread house,” Susan said as they pulled in the drive.
“What?” He looked over at her as though she'd lost her mind. Putting her Infiniti in park, he shut off the engine and handed her the keys.
“Come on.” She grinned at him. “It'll be fun.” And it would give them something unthreatening to
do—at home, where there was at least a possibility of babies being made.
“You need special candies and stuff to do that,” Michael told her as he followed her into the house.
“Got them.” She'd meant to make a gingerbread house with Spencer and Barbara's five-year-old daughter, Melissa, at Christmastime. Thank goodness she'd never mentioned her intentions to Melissa, because she hadn't had a Saturday off in the entire month of December.
Hanging his coat on the rack, Michael reached for hers. “Gingerbread houses are for Christmas.”
“If you promise not to tell Santa, I won't.”
“Susan.” Michael took her in his arms, pulled her against him. Kissed her once—and let her go. “A gingerbread house isn't something you finish in an afternoon. They take hours of planning.”
Hurt by Michael's unwillingness to make love to her, Susan headed for the kitchen. “Then we'll design a simple one.”
Michael had always had artistic flair. His doodles were proof of that. But he'd hardly ever stopped working long enough to do more than doodle. She'd like to see him turned loose on a gingerbread house.
“Just waiting for the gingerbread to bake and cool takes all day,” Michael said, walking into the kitchen.
“We've got all day.” Susan was taking ingredients from cupboards, piling them on the kitchen counter. “Besides, it won't take that long. We can always pop the pieces in the freezer when they come out of the oven.” She had to stand on tiptoe to get the molasses from the cupboard above the stove and Michael was suddenly there, reaching over her, bringing it down.
He brushed his body against hers, then let her go. And told Susan something she desperately needed to know. He wanted her. He was hard as a rock.
But before she could so much as turn in his arms, he'd stepped away from her to study the recipe she'd put on the counter.
“It says you have to chill the dough overnight before you cut it.”
“So we'll pop it in the freezer
before
we bake it, too.”
“Susan, I'm telling you, if you start this now, you'll still be at it tomorrow afternoon.”
“Not with you helping me I won't.” She grinned at him to hide her hurt. “You want to mix or dump in the ingredients?”
“Dump.” Michael didn't sound any more excited about that than he had about the baby. She hoped he was a little quicker at the dumping or they
wouldn't
get the house made.
 
HE'D BEEN RIGHT, of course. There was no way they were going to finish her damn gingerbread house that day. They'd been working on it for a couple of hours already and he was still at the designing stage.
But he had to admit the idea had been a good one. He couldn't remember the last time he and Susan had laughed together like this.
“You have flour on your nose,” he told her, reaching up to brush the dab of white away. His fingers lingered. He'd always loved the softness of her skin, the contrast between it and his rough stubble.
“Remember that time we were fooling around in the trees outside my dorm, and Connie Fisher dumped
that bag of flour all over us?” she asked now, leaning over his shoulder as she surveyed his drawing. He'd been sitting at the table with paper and pencil for the better part of an hour.
“She was lucky she was up three flights,” he grumbled, remembering all right. Susan had just let him under her shirt for the first time and right before he'd had his first real handful of the breasts that had been driving him to distraction all semester, they'd been ambushed.
And she'd been donned the rest of the week for missing curfew. He'd had to wait another five days to finally touch her.
She'd been so worth the wait....
“I think this is it.” He reined in his thoughts, not trusting himself to travel along the road they'd taken. Which was ironic, considering the fact that sex with Susan was his whole reason for being there.
“I love the turret,” she said, smiling at the intricate drawing.
He handed her a stack of pages. “Your pattern pieces, madam.”
Taking them, she headed over to the dough she'd rolled out on the counter and said, “This is great, Michael. I can't wait to see the finished product.”
And because she sounded so happy with herself, neither could he.
 
THE PIECES were all cut out, baked and cooling in layers in the freezer. Susan was washing the last of the dishes. It was still only seven o'clock.
Too early to go bed. Or at least, Michael amended that last thought, to go to sleep.
“I'll dry,” he said, grabbing a towel out of the drawer and moving to the sink beside Susan. She had a perfectly good dishwasher, but Susan preferred to wash the dishes by hand. He'd long since concluded that she just liked playing in the suds.
He couldn't count the number of times he'd seen her standing at that very same sink, her arms elbow-deep in warm sudsy water. Or the number of times he'd stood beside her, drying the dishes as she washed, wanting her.
He
could
count the number of times it had happened since their divorce. Not once.
“Why is it that we always seem to eat out when I come to town?”
Shrugging, Susan focused on the task at hand. “Guess it's just easier.”
Maybe. Or had she been keeping a distance between them? A distance he hadn't even noticed until now.
Her arm accidentally touched his side. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” He continued to dry. And to watch the curve of her neck. She always shivered when he kissed her there. And tightened inside. He'd made that particular discovery years ago.
Rinsing a dish, she glanced over at him. “I've got this case I'm working on...” she began, then stopped. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said, but he continued to hold her gaze with his own. He couldn't stand it anymore. He had to love her.
The consequences be damned.
She was going to do this with or without him. And though he had a feeling he might hate himself for the
rest of his life, he couldn't let her do it without him. He also couldn't spend another minute standing beside her, sharing her space, sharing their memories, without making love to her.
So he would. He'd leave his sperm inside her as she wanted. He just wouldn't think about what changes that might bring. Except, perhaps, to pray that there wouldn't be any changes at all.
Susan, with her heart in her eyes, fell into his arms as he reached for her, clinging to him. And opened her mouth for his kiss.
He didn't want this to happen. But, God help him, he was only a man.
 
FINALLY. Susan's quivering body cried out the word. Picking her up without even taking the time to dry her arms, Michael carried her down the hall to her bedroom—their bedroom—and put her on the bed. He followed her down, still fully dressed, kissing her again before either of them could speak.
Not that she had anything to say. He was coming at her so fast she couldn't even think. But she could feel. Oh, could she feel. His hands glided over her possessively, knowingly, hungrily. It was almost as if he were trying to possess all of her at once, to claim her, and she couldn't succumb fast enough. For either of them.
She wanted to touch him, too, to reassure herself that he still felt familiar, that he was still hers. But he was consuming her senses with his urgency and it was all she could do to keep from splintering into a million pieces. She held on—to him, to the covers beneath her, to whatever she could clutch in her fists.
There wasn't room for gentleness. Not that he hurt her. He didn't. He never would. He was careful with his passion, but not controlled. Not at all controlled.
His shirt came off one arm at a time but his searching caresses didn't stop for a second. Susan helped him with the waistband of her slacks, pulling her shirt up to her neck. She helped him with the waistband of his pants, too, needing him desperately, needing to finish what they'd started. Before she could think about it. Question. Worry.
She knew in her heart that this was right, that something far stronger than either of them was driving her to her eventual goal. And that was all she knew. Michael left her no time for any further thought.
Because of the day's frantic and—until now—unrelieved tension, she climaxed before Michael had even straddled her. Her gaze traveled his body as he suspended himself above her, loving the firm lean lines she knew so well, the dark hair tapering down his belly, the sweat on his brow.
Entering her with one quick thrust, he lowered his body to hers. Then, chest to chest and belly to belly, there was nothing left but feeling. He was so strong, so confident in his strokes, his caresses, she came a second time, experiencing wave after wave of sensation, until she was only aware of how much she loved the man in her arms.
And as the waves passed, as the sweetest peace followed, Susan felt him empty himself into her unprotected body. He groaned as he held himself deep within her and she knew he was doing that for her. Only for her. He was giving her the most precious
gift, the gift she'd wanted, and Susan did the only thing she could.
She wept.
Silently, softly, the tears dripped off the sides of her face onto the mattress beneath her. Her arms still wrapped tightly around Michael, she prayed that he wouldn't know, that he wouldn't ask her to explain her tears. Or worse, be angry with her...
Michael began to move again, to settle himself inside her, to caress her body as thoroughly as he had before. Whether he knew about her tears or not, she wasn't sure, but they dried, forgotten on her lashes, when he loved her again.
And later, as she was sleeping in his arms on top of the covers, he woke her and made love to her a third time.
There was still, in spite of their satiation, something frantic in Michael's loving. Something that called out to Susan even though she didn't want to hear its voice. Something she answered even as she denied its existence.
Almost as though he were telling her goodbye. And she was accepting that he had to go. That he wouldn't be back. Not as she knew him that night Not as she'd ever known him before.
It shouldn't have mattered. They were, after all, divorced. Living separate lives in separate states. It shouldn't have mattered.
But it did.
She was deathly afraid she'd just made the biggest mistake of her life.
 
As MISTAKES WENT, the gingerbread house ranked right up there. All day Sunday, Michael and Seth
were in her living room, roaring along with the players on the field at the Super Bowl. While Susan was stuck in the kitchen building, frosting and decorating the dream house she'd never, ever own in real life.
That house, scaled up to size, would take a big family to fill. A single mom and one kid didn't qualify. A divorced woman living alone even less so.
She didn't even have a use for this mammoth gingerbread house now that it was finished. The original plan had been to send it home with Melissa.
“Seth's gone, and I'm about ready to head out.” Michael stood in the kitchen doorway, his hands in those damn jeans pockets again.
Not trusting herself to speak, Susan nodded. She'd been weepy all day and she couldn't blame that on Michael. He'd done exactly what she'd asked him to do—and only because she'd pushed so hard. Regrets were hers alone.

Other books

Little Lola by Ellen Dominick
Wraith Squadron by Allston, Aaron
A Taste of Heaven by Alexis Harrington
Dreamer by Charles Johnson
The Name of the World by Denis Johnson
The Moretti Arrangement by Katherine Garbera
Destiny's Road by Niven, Larry