Reclaiming His Pregnant Widow (11 page)

Something about how the intensity affected her must've shown in her face because Brand murmured, “Let's go home.”

 

The sun glinted on the brass Welcome Home plaque on the front door. Inside a phone was ringing.

Clea keyed the security code into the pad, then Brand pushed open the door before following her in. The phone had died, the house was quiet.

It
was
home. Warm, welcoming and blessedly empty. Curtis didn't work weekends, and Smythe had retreated to his apartment over the garage complex.

In the bedroom upstairs, shafts of afternoon sunlight
turned the air warm and golden. The subtle hint of jasmine in the air made Brand's chest expand with yearning.

Halting beside the large sleigh bed, piled high with pristine white linen and trimmed with lace, he turned his head to see Clea hovering in the doorway, her eyes holding a sudden trace of uncertainty.

“Come here!” Brand opened his arms, and Clea flew into the circle.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“God, yes!” Smiling down at her, Brand said, “I never forgot for a minute how beautiful you were.” Leaning forward he punctuated the statement with a kiss, then raised his head and caught the sparkles dancing in Clea's eyes.

She started to say something, so he took advantage and kissed her open mouth. Clea fell silent. Cupping her face in his hands as he had beside the lake, he angled his mouth across hers and delved deeper, until his breathing quickened.

At last Brand lifted his head.

Clea's cheeks were flushed.

Brand threaded his fingers through her dark hair, the soft curls twisting between his fingers.
How he had longed for this.
Untangling his fingers, he moved his hands along her back in a lazy, sensual caress until he reached the ruffled edge of her top.

“I want to look at you—all of you.”

Clea shimmied out of his embrace. “You first.”

For a moment she thought Brand was going to object, then he gave a slow, sexy grin.

“Whatever the lady wants.”

Whatever she wanted?
Clea gulped. This was supposed to be for him.

Then she watched, dry-mouthed, as he yanked the shirt
they'd shopped for—had it only been this morning?—loose from his pants, and impatiently fumbled to pull it up.

With the shirt off, his muscled torso gleamed in the dazzling afternoon light. Tanned by the desert sun, she surmised. For a moment, she thought about what he must've endured, but the grin Brand gave her as he shucked off his new jeans and the boxers underneath held enough want and wickedness to eradicate all thought.

Clea's heartbeat picked up.

Shaken by more hunger than she could ever remember experiencing, she whispered, “Let me help.”

He groaned. “Turn around.”

“Turn around?” But she was already complying.

The rasp of the zipper was shockingly loud. Clea felt her top give. Then his lips were against the sensitive skin at the back of her neck, tracing a line of fire along the erotic spot only Brand knew about. She shuddered in mindless delight.

She'd missed this…she'd missed
him
.

He spun her around in his arms and murmured, “You can help by getting rid of that blasted top. I'm likely to wreck it right now—and it's too beautiful to be a casualty to my desperation.”

Her hands went to the hem and she eased it up, over her head, leaving her breasts covered only by the flimsiest bra.

“Damn, you're beautiful.”

Brand drank her in with thirsty eyes.

The bra was a wisp of pale yellow lace, cupping breasts that were full and voluptuous, the nipples darker than he remembered. He bit back a groan. Reaching out, he caressed the curves of her shoulders, her rib cage, her
waist…all the way down to her hips with hands that trembled.

At her hip, his fingers tugged clumsily at the zipper and the skirt dropped into a crumpled heap on the floor. Brand scooped her off her feet, and Clea gave a shriek of surprise. Holding her close to his chest, acutely aware of how scantily clad she was, he made for the endless stretch of bed and gently laid her down.

Naked, he sank down on the bed beside her. Propping himself up on one elbow, he leaned over Clea and nuzzled the curve of flesh that spilled over the top of the lace.

Her skin was soft beneath his lips, and under the delicate lace he could see the dark flesh of the nipple hardening, forming a pointed peak.

His hands shook as he dealt with the clasp at the front of her bra. Once loosened, the scraps of lace fell away. Cupping her breasts, he ran his thumb gently across the swollen tips.

Clea tilted her head back and moaned. Brand leaned forward and replaced his right thumb with his mouth and sucked gently, until her moans grew louder.

His mouth trailed down the side of one breast, planting kisses in the valley between then ascending the other, all the way to the crown.

This time Clea was ready for the wild, sweet sensation. Yet still she couldn't stop the hoarse sound that broke from her throat.

“I'm fighting for restraint,” he muttered as he drew her to the edge of the bed, slipping off the last garment separating them, and parting her legs. Brand moved forward into the space he'd created between her thighs. “But I promise I'll take it real slow. I'll be careful. You tell me what you want.”

“I'm only pregnant, so I'm hardly likely to break. But
if you want to know, I want you,” she murmured taking his head between her hands. “Inside me. Now.”

As he moved forward, the light flickered along his tanned limbs, burnishing his skin to the color of polished bronze. Halting, he positioned himself at the entrance to her body.

“Are you sure?” he whispered. “You don't want to wait, to play a little more?”

“There'll be plenty of time to play later. Right now I'm hungry.”

“I'm starved, too,” he admitted. And, leaning on his elbows, he lightly licked her sensitive lower lip before settling his mouth across hers. Minutes later, he said huskily, “That's just an appetizer.”

Her heart thudding with desire, Clea responded through well-kissed lips, “I need a meal.”

Brand choked on a burst of laughter. “I've already fed you, insatiable woman!”

It was the first time she'd heard him express such unrestrained joy since his return. It acted as the headiest of aphrodisiacs. She undulated against him, until she felt the pounding of his heart against hers.

When Brand eased one hand between their bodies, she jerked under the stroke of his fingers. Then the touch relaxed, only to be replaced by a familiar blunt warmth.

Clea held her breath. Pushing forward, he slid into her with an ease she hadn't expected.

“Tell me if it hurts.”

“It won't hurt,” she whispered against the side of his face, relishing the scrape of his jaw on her skin.

They moved in unison, like an unforgotten dance. An intimate dance for lovers. The pace grew quicker, the thrusts of Brand's body deeper. Pleasure twisted,
tightening in Clea's body. Until, with a final thrust into her, the release came, sending them both spinning into a realm of color and blinding delight.

I
n the early hours before dawn, Brand woke, hot and sweating, gripped in the clutches of a vivid nightmare. Ugly visions of violence played through his consciousness, and he reached for Clea, pulling her close.

She wriggled beside him with a sleepy sigh, her back spooned to his torso. He kissed her nape and she arched against him like a cat. His body leaped instantly to life.

This time their passion was less playful. It held a fierce and relentless edge. Afterward, Brand wound his arms around her and pulled her up against his body, his eyes drifting shut. Under the hand that rested on her belly something moved.

Brand started, shocked, his mind reeling in turmoil. A baby. A family.
His
family…

In his embrace Clea shifted in her sleep, murmuring restlessly before her breathing settled into a regular rhythm.

But it was a long time before sleep claimed him.

Brand was wakened by a woodpecker drumming in the chestnut tree outside the window.

Beside him, Clea didn't stir.

Turning on his side, he propped himself up on an elbow and watched her as the day brightened. At last her eyes opened, and in the early morning light he caught the first flare of surprise. There was joy, too. And something more…

Clea stared back at him.

Then, before he could gather his defenses, she blurted out, “In the night…you woke me. I felt you touch my stomach.” She rolled toward him, reaching for him. “Brand, you need to know, it's not Harry's baby.”

Brand shuddered. He didn't want to talk about anything that might bring discord—not after the closeness they'd shared last night. “I will never delve into the circumstances of your baby's conception. I can understand how it might have happened. You must've been lonely.”

“Wait!”

Clea bounded out of the bed. Brand couldn't stop himself from admiring the beauty of her naked curves, the fluidity with which she appeared to float rather than walk.

Across the bedroom, she flung open the closet doors. Seconds later Brand heard the safe open with a ping. She drew out a manila folder and opened it. With a single piece of paper in her hand, she came toward him.

Settling back on the bed, she handed it to him then pulled the covers around her nakedness.

Brand's body twisted. “I don't need—”

“Yes, you do.”

He glanced down at the black-and-white print, and his signature, a blur at the bottom.

“What's this got to—”

“Look at it!”

He took it from her and then scanned the header,
Client Depositor Storage Agreement.
As he processed the possibilities, he lifted his disbelieving gaze to hers. As from a distance he heard himself saying, “What are you trying to tell me?”

“
You
are my baby's father.”

“Impossible.” But he could hear the lack of conviction in his own voice. He waved the agreement. “Where did you get this?”

“I found it among the papers in your study when I was going through them—” she swallowed “—last year after I got your ring. I knew the time had come to finalize…things.”

“Jesus.”

It was a scenario he'd never contemplated.

“Finding it then seemed so right.” Clea made a little movement and the covers fell back from her shoulders, exposing pale, creamy skin. “As if it was meant to be. It gave me a purpose to the helplessness I was experiencing. And I was one of the lucky ones—I conceived immediately.”

Years ago when he'd first considered storing his sperm, it had seemed fatalistic. A death wish. Yet, some part of him had cautioned that it had little to do with death—and everything to do with life. He could not exclude the likelihood that he might serve in a region where chemical warfare might affect his future health. It had been insurance…for a future. Just in case.

But this…

This—he couldn't take it in.

“You're going to have to let me absorb this,” he said at last.

With a small sigh she said, “Blind faith never was your style. And of course you'll want me to undergo paternity testing—I'll find the documentation for the IVF for you, as well. Later. But now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take a shower.”

 

Steam billowed through the bathroom in great white clouds.

Brand squinted through it and headed straight for the shower, where he could make out Clea's pale shape through the spray. Without hesitation, he stepped into the tiled cubicle.

The green eyes she raised to his were bright with tears.

“Don't cry!” Brand closed the space between them and wrapped his arms around her sudsy body as the water beat down on them. Bending his head, he could smell the sweet, elusive jasmine that clung to her.

“I'm not crying,” she snuffled against his chest.

“You could've fooled me.”

She lifted her face. “Brand, I lost my ring—”

It was the last thing he'd expected. Clearly it had upset her immensely. But losing it explained why it wasn't on her finger. “Shh. I'll get you another one.”

“It won't be the same.” She gave a heartbreaking sob. “I took it off to wash my hands and left it in the ladies' room at the museum. When I went back, it was gone.”

He didn't allow her to get another word in. He claimed her mouth. Tasted her tears. And his own eyes grew moist. Shutting them tightly, he kissed her deeper, then lifted his mouth—to draw a breath—before resuming to plant a row of desperate kisses along her lips. Finally, he whispered, “Clea!”

She tilted her head back and water streamed over her cheeks, washing away the tears. “Yes?”

He looked deep into her eyes. “You should stop me. Say something. You want to talk. Remember?”

“I find I need this more.” She placed a finger on his lips, silencing him.

At her touch, Brand groaned against her fingertip. “Clea, you finish me.”

“I haven't even started,” she whispered, drawing the tip of her finger across his bottom lip.

“Stop!”

But Clea only raised herself onto tiptoe, her eyes so close, Brand could see the flecks of gold that made the green sparkle with luminous intensity.

“Before—” he hesitated “—before you regret not talking more first.”

“I won't regret this,” she assured him, her wet fingers smoothing the hollows below his cheekbones. “We can talk later. You've lost weight. Your cheeks never used to be so defined. But I have to admit that I like the look. Incredibly sexy. Makes you look lean and hungry.”

He gave a growl.

Clea laughed.

And, with a surge of yearning, Brand knew this was what he'd longed for during the hot, dry, dark nights more than anything on earth. He loved this woman…with all his heart.

Clea.

He didn't know whether he spoke her name out loud. Or not. All he knew was that she was melting against him, soft and pliant and so very feminine.

“We should—”

“Go to the bedroom?” Brand groaned inwardly at the idea of waiting another minute.

She clung to him.

“You want to make love here? In the shower?” But first
he had to tell her that he believed her. Before he touched her again in a way that would bind them together forever. With tenderness. With reverence. With love.

His distrust…he'd been wrong. Horribly wrong.

He had to make that up to her.

“I can't stop thinking…” Brand palmed her sleek, wet stomach. The curve had grown since that first time he'd recoiled from the shape of the baby the night of the exhibition opening. “About the baby.”

“And?” Her hands fell away from his face. Her body had gone stiff, her eyes wide and dark as she waited for his reaction.

With fear?
Contempt for himself surged through Brand. “Don't look like that!”

Cupping her stomach with both hands, he moved his attention from her face to the new life that lay between his hands.

His child…

Clea's stomach rose and fell, revealing her emotional reaction to his touch.

“I believe you.”

Her mouth rounded in surprise. “You accept that my child is yours?”

He stroked her belly with his fingertips, feeling the solid roundness that could only be the baby's head. There was a ripple of movement under his hands. Brand's heart lurched.

Driven, he lifted his head to meet Clea's wary eyes.

“I think we both know I'm too analytical, too much of a skeptic to ever have accepted the baby without a reasonable explanation.” He didn't pause as she opened her mouth to speak. “But I'm not going to demand DNA tests or reports about the IVF—you deserve better. My trust. For me to
believe you for no other reason than because you tell me it is so.”

Her indrawn breath whistled between them. “It is. And as your wife, your widow, there was no problem with retrieving…the deposit.”

Beneath his hands the baby moved. A sense of wonder filled Brand. “I
know
this is my baby.”

He slid his hands down, over her bottom, and hoisted her off her feet into his arms, ignoring her squawk of objection. Reaching out, he shut off the water. “Enough talk. Time to carry you over the threshold back into our bedroom.”

 

When Brand finally strolled into the breakfast room on Monday morning, everything appeared more vivid.

Everything had been brightened by the news that he was going to be a father…he and Clea were having a baby. His baby.

His life had changed forever.

In the garden, summer flowers made bold splashes of color, and he blinked against the gold rays slanting through the open French doors. The round table was covered with a stylish tablecloth printed with sunflowers and laid for one. There was no sign of Clea. Brand hadn't expected her to still be here—according to his newly acquired cell phone, it was almost nine. Yet, as on every other morning, she'd been his first thought.

But today it was different.
The baby Clea carried was his.

He reached out a hand to capture the closest sunbeam. It danced over his fingers, untrapped.
No matter.
He'd awakened for years in a darkened hellhole; he'd never take sunshine for granted again.

Clea.

Drawing his cell phone out of his pocket, he called her number. She answered instantly, and her voice lilted when she heard his voice, causing Brand considerable satisfaction.

“Have dinner with me tonight?” he said huskily, his heartbeat picking up as he waited for her response.

“That would be lovely. Oh, hang on.” Brand heard Clea talking to someone in the background. “Brand, I have to go. Alan says the TV crews have arrived to interview us. The Museum Mile Festival is so close everything's happening at once around here. I can't talk now. I'll see you later.”

“Good,” he purred. “I'll meet you at the museum at five.”

“I should come home and change first.”

That made him laugh. “Clea, you will look beautiful whatever you wear.”

“Thank you.” There was a note in her voice that brought a smile to his face. “In that case, I'll see you at five.”

As he set the phone down, Brand saw there were messages. He replayed them. One, in particular, piqued his interest.

When Curtis arrived with a pile of blueberry pancakes, Brand had taken note of the place and time to meet his contact. Finally, with the messages played, he picked up his fork and started to eat.

 

“I've been calling you all weekend.”

Clea glanced up from checking the final proof of the glossy Museum Mile Festival program to find Harry standing inside the door of her office.

“I left messages,” he continued, aggrieved. “You never called me back.”

The weekend had been a magical escape for her and
Brand to discover each other anew. To lay the foundation for their future. But she couldn't possibly explain that to Harry. Instead, Clea said, “I got your messages…” There was an awkward pause. “It's been crazy this morning with the Museum Mile Festival just around the corner,” she added lamely.

Harry crossed to stand in front of her desk. “I thought I'd take you to lunch.”

Clea pulled a face. “I haven't got time today.” Every moment she saved today would go toward escaping to dinner with Brand, Clea thought with a touch of guilt. But she needed to talk to Harry, to tell him there was no need for any charade—Brand knew the truth. Clea glanced at her watch. “I could take a short coffee break downstairs in the courtyard.”

“Better than nothing.” But Harry looked crestfallen.

“They make a mean pastrami on rye if you want a quick snack,” Clea reminded him as she rose from her chair.

Five minutes later they'd found a table in a corner of the busy courtyard beside a planter filled with a riot of summer flowers and shaded by a large green-and-white-striped umbrella. Clea ordered a fruit smoothie while Harry settled for a sandwich and a light beer.

“Isn't this nice?” Clea said when their orders arrived.

Harry was too busy extracting something from his pocket to answer. When he straightened, he said, “I wanted to take you out to lunch to give you this.”

This
turned out to be a glittering solitaire that had to be at least two carats.

Clea's eyes flew to his face. “I can't accept that, Harry.”

“Because Brand came back from the dead?”

There was a note in his voice that caused a chill of dread to feather down her spine. “I can hardly agree to marry you while I'm still married to someone else.”

“You were happy to pretend you were going to marry me before.”

“It was a stupid stunt to pull—unfair to both you and Brand.”

And unworthy of her.

In that first blood-rush when she'd told Brand she was going to marry Harry, she'd wanted to wound him. She'd reacted badly. Retaliating for the bewilderment and loss she'd experienced when he disappeared. Punishing him for devastating her with his distrust when he'd discovered that she was pregnant. The truth was she'd been so angry with Brand that she'd wanted to let him know that even if he couldn't love her, didn't want her, there were other men out there who felt differently. It had been all about her anger—and her damn pride.