The Baby Agenda (8 page)

“Oh, for God's sake,” he snarled. “You're making me crazy.”

“You've already made me crazy.”

They glared at each other.

He sighed. His shoulders relaxed. “I've got to tell you, until recently I thought Charlotte was the most difficult woman in the world.”

“I'm telling her you said that.”

Gray only laughed. “She knows.” He hesitated. “Why won't you let me do anything for you?”

“I will. When I need you,” she said, knowing perfectly well that she
was
being stubborn, but not why.

He stood, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath that she suspected was an obscenity.

“I got a call yesterday,” he told her. “From Reynolds.”

Sam Reynolds was the contractor building both houses in Lake View Heights that she'd drawn the plans for. Moira stiffened.

“He doesn't want you out there again. Says the homeowner won't accept the liability.”

Her eyes widened. “It was Curtis Tate. That creep,” she stormed. “I caught him using lower grade materials than I called for, and he's getting back at me. I'm going to call Sam right this minute—”

“You ever think maybe you scared Curtis?”

“No.”

They were back to glaring at each other. Moira was too mad and too upset, too tangled up altogether, to talk about this as if it was an everyday problem. And she was afraid that if she let Gray have a glimpse of her confusion, all she'd be doing was confirming to him that she was too weak to do her job.

“I'm going home,” she snapped, shooting to her feet. Too fast—her belly bumped the desk and the chair scooted backward several feet. She ignored it, didn't care that her computer was still on or that she had a couple more calls she should make. She grabbed her purse, said goodbye and stomped out.

She thought she was doing well, out of respect for the attorneys across the hall, not to slam the door behind her.

 

W
ILL WALKED INTO
Van Dusen & Cullen, braced to see Moira, but her corner of the big space was unoccupied. There was a guy sitting at the second drafting table, although he wasn't working; he was frowning into space until he heard the sound of the door opening. This must be the partner.

He was good-looking, gray-eyed, with shaggy hair that was almost light enough to be called blond. The minute he saw Will, those eyes narrowed.

“Will Becker,” Gray said slowly.

“Have we met?”

“I found a picture of you on the Becker Construction website.”

Will winced. It was a crappy photo, almost ten years old, and should have been replaced with Clay's by now.

“Met your brother last week, too.” Van Dusen seemed to be musing aloud. “There's a resemblance, although I might not have recognized you just from that.”

“He's better looking.”

“Yeah, he is.”

The other man was bristling, Will could feel it. Could even understand it. Van Dusen and Moira were close. Best buddies, and maybe more. Sister-brother, on a level that had nothing to do with genetics? Will wouldn't have felt real cordial, either, toward a man who'd screwed Sophie then walked away, leaving her pregnant.

But reassuring Gray Van Dusen wasn't Will's priority right now. “Where is she?” he asked.

“She went home.”

Worry speared him. “Is something wrong?”

Gray clasped his hands comfortably behind his head and leaned back in his leather desk chair. Surveying Will, he began to relax.

“She's mad at me,” Gray said. “I was coming down hard on her, probably for the same reason you're here.”

Will's mouth tightened. “Clay emailed me.”

“She's been banned from the Lake View Heights development by the contractor, who claims the homeowner doesn't want the liability for a pregnant woman scrambling around a half-built house on a steep hillside.”

“She could scream sex discrimination.”

“Oh, I'm sure Moira will think about that,” Gray said drily. “Once she cools down a little.”

Will felt the first stir of humor in days, although it didn't last long. “She scared the crap out of Clay.”

“So I gathered. He just called. That's what set her off in the first place.”

Eyebrows rising, Will said, “Clay called?” Apparently his little brother shared Will's overdeveloped sense of responsibility more than he'd realized.

“Had the gall to ask how she was, apparently. Moira's not about to tell anyone that, about midafternoon, it's all she can do to keep from falling asleep across her keyboard.” Gray's expression hardened. “Or that her back aches whether she's been sitting too long or on her feet too long.”

Will sat abruptly in one of the upholstered chairs in their small conference area. He hadn't had any choice; his knees had given out on him. “She swears she's fine. Doesn't need me. Doesn't want me.”

“And you? What do you think?” Gray still lounged in his own chair, but the posture, Will guessed, was all show. Probably he wanted to ram his fist into Will's face. He had to have been seething for long months because Moira was pregnant and alone, and now the guy to blame was right there, in front of him.

It was understanding that allowed Will to meet Gray's
eyes steadily. “I think she's wrong,” he said quietly. “I'm back to stay.”

Moira's partner began to smile. He straightened in the chair, then stood and walked over to Will, who rose at his approach.

Gray held out his hand. “Glad to meet you, Will. I'm Gray Van Dusen.”

Will didn't smile, but shook his hand with a strong clasp. “You going to give me her home address?”

 

M
OIRA HAD JUST LAY DOWN
on her sofa, cozily warm beneath a throw, when her cell phone rang. She'd set it on the coffee table within reach, in case someone needed to contact her. She'd been hoping nobody would—a nap sounded really, really good, even though she'd be sorry come bedtime if she took one. When she saw the number, she almost didn't answer. But on the fourth ring, she sighed and did.

“Gray.”

“What made you think I'd let you get the last word?”

How was she supposed to stay mad at him? But she pretended she was. “Now what?”

“Your doorbell's going to be ringing in about five minutes. Thought you deserved a warning.”

Her eyes widened and she sat up. “What? Who?”

“Will himself. We met, we talked, he persuaded me to tell him how to find you.”

“Will?” she repeated numbly. “He's
here?
”

“Yep.”

“But…why?” she all but wailed.

“Seems he's been worrying about you.”

The undercurrent of amusement in Gray's voice made her grit her teeth. “He wasn't satisfied by his brother's report? He had to come and see for himself? I told him—”
She bit off the rest and closed her eyes.
Breathe. Deep and slow.
Hyperventilating wouldn't help. “Why did you tell him where I live?”

“You're in the phone book, Moira,” he said patiently.

“Without my first name.”

“Hmm. M. Cullen, with a West Fork address. You think he couldn't have figured that out?”

A car pulled into her driveway. No. She stood and peeked. A pickup truck that she recognized. “Oh, God. He's here. Damn it, Gray.”

“Do you want me to come over, Moira? I can be there in a minute.”

“No.” She was being silly. She could handle Will. “No, of course not. He's a nice guy. Just…”

“Stubborn?” Gray suggested, and she knew—
knew
—he was smiling.

With a growl, she disconnected then thought,
Oh, my God, my hair!
Bathroom… No, there wasn't time. Her purse. Where had she put her purse? There, on the kitchen table. She hurried around the sofa to it and groped frantically in the depths until her hand closed on the bristles of her brush. Even as the doorbell rang, she ran the brush through the hair she'd released from a bun the minute she got home.

Then, steeling herself, she opened the front door.

Neither of them said anything for a long moment. He made no attempt to hide his thorough appraisal. She couldn't help feeling a moment of weakness, of—heaven help her—longing, to be wrapped in his arms for a minute. He was so big and solid, and from the moment she'd met him she'd heard something in his deep, slow voice, seen something in his brown eyes, that made her feel as if she'd be safe with him.

Get real.
All she had to do was look down at her belly
to see how deceptive appearances were.
Safe
was the last thing she'd been with him.

“Will,” she said, finally.

His gaze met hers. “You're not surprised I'm here.”

“Gray called.”

“Ah. May I come in?”

“I suppose,” she said, embarrassed at how ungracious she sounded. Okay, she
felt
ungracious, but still had this compulsion to be polite. She stood aside and let him past.

He stepped into her living room and glanced around in an appraisal as blatant as the one he'd given her all-too-ripe figure. “Nice,” he said after a minute.

The interior of her house owed as much as she could afford to the Arts and Crafts movement of the late 1800s and early 1900s. She loved the combination of strong, clean lines and sophisticated sensuality. Mostly her furniture was reproduction, but she'd started collecting pottery from the period. Will went immediately to the glass-fronted case where she displayed her pieces.

“Genuine?” he asked.

“Yes.” Reluctantly, Moira joined him. “That's a Grueby.” She pointed at a particular favorite, a small vase with the classic stylized designs in a matte green glaze, then gestured to a second pot, this one cylindrical with hand-incised, extraordinarily delicate geometric designs drawn in brown, rust and pale orange glazes. “Do you know anything about pottery of the time? That one's from Marblehead Pottery. I like that it was started to teach ceramics as therapy to sanitarium patients.”

“That's interesting,” he said. “I know enough that I'd have snapped one of those up if I saw it at a garage sale, but not enough to identify the pottery.” He turned to face her.

Her interest was caught despite herself. “Do you go to garage sales?”

“Weirdly enough,” he admitted, “I can't resist a garage or yard sale sign. I've found some good stuff at 'em. Mostly tools, but a couple pieces of furniture, too.”

What an odd thing to have learned about him.

“Do they have them in Zimbabwe?” she asked.

His mouth quirked. “Not that I've seen. They have street markets instead. They're as irresistible, in their own way.”

So much for the niceties. She took a deep breath. “Will…why aren't you
in
Zimbabwe?”

“I didn't like how we left it between us,” he said bluntly.

Moira's heart began to hammer. “That's it? You flew home so we could…what? Have a heart-to-heart chat?”

She couldn't be sure, but she thought his expression had become wary.

“No,” he said. “I came home to ask you to marry me.”

M
OIRA COULD ONLY GAPE
at him. “You have got to be kidding.”

Marry
him? Was he nuts?

Dark color streaked Will's cheekbones. “No. I'm serious, Moira. We're having a baby together.”

She backed up to the sofa and sank onto it. “Will… this is the twenty-first century. The word
illegitimate
has pretty much disappeared from our vocabulary.”

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. In dark pants and a rather wrinkled, button-down gray shirt, he was dressed more formally than she'd seen him since the night of the gala. If he'd worn a tie, he'd shed it at some point and rolled up the cuffs of his shirt to expose wrists that had to be twice the size of hers. He looked as if he might have come from a daylong meeting. Or, it occurred to her, straight from the airport. If so, he must be exhausted.

“I'd rather my child have my name,” he admitted, “but I'm more concerned that he knows his parents were both committed.”

Stunned beyond belief, Moira said, “We're not.”

He considered her for a minute, expression unreadable, then said quietly, “I am.”

“I don't understand,” she whispered.

Will came to sit on the coffee table facing her, his knees touching hers. He reached out and took her hands,
engulfing them in a warm, steadying clasp. “I don't want you to be in this alone. I'm not asking you to promise me forever, although I'd like us both to go into this with the idea that we'll try to make our marriage work. But even if it turns out to be temporary, I'd like to stay here with you. I intend to take you to the doctor, do any work that needs doing around the house, cook dinners, drive you to job sites. I want to be there when the baby is born. Take my turn at diaper duty. I want him to know my voice as well as yours. When he's a few months old, then we can talk.”

All she could think to say was, “You're supposed to be in Zimbabwe.”

The deep color of black coffee, Will's eyes held hers. “You're more important.”

“You loved what you were doing.”

“I did.” His pause was awkward. They both knew he couldn't with any honesty say,
I love you more.
Of course he didn't. She'd become a responsibility to a man who took them seriously. “We're having a baby together,” he repeated instead of claiming any feelings for her whatsoever.

“Oh, God.” Moira wrenched her hands away and covered her face with them. “I should never have told you I was pregnant. I knew better. I knew you'd feel stuck.”

“Moira.” He gripped her upper arms, squeezing gently.

“I don't feel stuck any more than you claim you do. I like the idea of being a father. It didn't hit me as soon as it did you, but…I can hardly wait.”

Slowly she let her hands fall, her eyes searching his. “You're just saying that.”

He let out a rough laugh. “No. I admit I've surprised myself. I'd have probably preferred to wait to start a family, but…” His gaze flicked to her belly. “I keep
thinking about the baby moving inside of you. I want to put my hands on you and feel him move again.”

“What if he's a she?”

His smile was curiously tender. “That's more than okay. I hope she has bright red hair and freckles.”

“God forbid,” Moira muttered.

Will lifted his eyebrows.

“I've always hated my freckles. And when I was a teenager I would have killed to have plain brown hair so I could blend in. I would have dyed it, except with the freckles that would have looked dumb.”

He laughed again, more naturally this time. “Moira, honey, you have gorgeous hair and lovely skin. That night, I wished I'd had time to kiss every single freckle on your body.”

Like an idiot, she blurted, “That would have taken—” She stopped before the last word could emerge.
Forever.
That's how long it would have taken.

“Weeks,” he said softly. “Months, maybe.”

Get a grip, Moira Cullen.
“You're crazy,” she told him.

“No. What I am is determined.”

“You're already committed, and not to me.”

Now his tone was completely inflexible. “I'm going to quit my job with the foundation. They can replace me.”

“Midway through the job?”

“I've given them a good start. Someone else can take over.”

He was serious, she realized. She couldn't tell at all from his face how he really felt about walking out on something that had meant so much to him. No, that was stupid; of course she knew how he felt. But Will Becker was made up of bedrock that was…traditional, maybe, but solid enough to be earthquake proof. The fact that the
condom had failed was no one's fault, but he'd still feel responsible.

No. Her forehead crinkled as she kept studying him. That wasn't it. The thing was, this baby was his. It carried his genes. That was what he took so seriously.

“How old were you when your father and stepmother died?” she asked.

A ghost of some emotion passed through his eyes. “Twenty.”

Her suspicion solidified. “Clay's a lot younger than you, I could tell. And he's the next oldest, right?”

“Yeah. Dad didn't remarry right away. Clay is seven years younger than I am.”

“And you said Sophie just graduated from college. So she's…twenty-two?”

“Twenty-one, actually. She got a year of college credits while she was still in high school.” He realized he'd never told her how old he was. “I'm thirty-five, in case you wondered.”

She nodded acknowledgment, but stuck to the point. “Who raised them?”

Other than the flex of muscles in his jaws, Will was expressionless. “I did. I was an adult. There wasn't anyone else.”

“Did you go to college?”

“I dropped out.”

She pictured him, a shocked, grieving kid as immature as she and Gray had been their sophomore year in college, only Will had left behind dorm life and gone home to console three children who'd lost their parents. In the years to come, instead of studying and going to keggers, arguing all night with friends about American policy abroad, dating coeds and soaking up knowledge, he'd been making school lunches, attending parent-teacher
conferences, taking his young brothers and sister shopping for new shoes. His sister for her first bra.

Moira ached for that boy.

“And the construction company. You took it over for your dad.”

“Yes.”

“You gave up everything for them.” She sat looking at this big, kind, sexy man and said, despite the pain in every word, “That's what you meant, isn't it? When you said your worst nightmare was being trapped. Spending your whole life doing what you have to do.”

He didn't respond.

“I can't do this to you, Will. No. No, I won't marry you.”

“This isn't the same.”

“It is.”

“No. No, Moira. Leaving you and flying back to Africa was torture. Right now, all I want is to be with you. I want to hold our baby as soon as he's born. I
want.
” His gaze bored into hers. He leaned forward, took her hands again, his grip tighter this time. “Listen to me. Don't think I'm making a sacrifice I'll regret. Life is full of choices, and I've made mine. I'm not going away, no matter what you say today.”

She couldn't seem to speak. Emotions were rising in her like floodwaters, dark and tumultuous. She didn't know what she felt, only that it was too much. All she could do was shake her head hard.

“Don't say no, Moira.” Like that day outside the obstetrician's clinic, Will's face spasmed with some emotion she couldn't read any more than she could understand her own. His voice was hoarse. “Please. Don't say no.”

When she still failed to say anything at all, he let her hands go and leaned forward until he could draw her into
his arms. Gently but inexorably, he tugged her forward until her brow rested against his broad chest and he could settle his chin on top of her head.

“Marry me, Moira,” he said, so low she barely heard him. “Let me do this for both of us.”

She could hear his heartbeat, as strong and steady as he was. Maybe the powerful rhythm was what allowed the floodwaters of her confusion to subside, the emotions to resettle into their places. She didn't ache anymore when she finally sat back, separating herself from Will.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “If this makes you miserable, I'll know eventually. That would be worse for both of us than being honest now.”

“I've never been more honest in my life.”

“Then…” Well, shoot,
now
she was going to cry. Didn't that figure. “Then yes,” she managed to get out. “Yes, I'll marry you.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” He framed her face with his hands and caught the tears with his thumbs. “I'll try to make sure you're never sorry.”

For some reason that struck her as funny, so that she laughed even as she wept. He kissed her forehead, then pulled her to him again, so that she got the front of his crumpled cotton shirt soggy.

“That's it. Let yourself cry,” he told her, sounding so blasted
comforting
that she did, even though she couldn't help thinking of how often he must have cuddled his brothers and sister when they cried. When he was trapped, being a daddy whether he wanted to be one or not.

 

I
T WAS ASTONISHINGLY EASY
to get married, Will found. Easier than it ought to be, in his opinion. But then, divorce was easy these days, too.

He didn't want to think about that.

They got married in the church the Becker family had always attended. Will couldn't claim to be much of a believer—nothing had happened in his life to make him one—but his parents had insisted on Sunday attendance, and for their sake he'd done the same with Clay, Jack and Sophie. Moira resisted initially the idea of a church wedding, which annoyed Will. Was she trying to make sure she felt less guilt when she walked out on him a few months from now? But she eventually gave way, as most people did when Will dug in his heels. They were getting married, and they were going to do it right.

They did it on a Saturday so her mother could fly over from Missoula for the ceremony without missing any work. She was trying to save her vacation to be available when the baby was born if they needed her. Sophie came from L.A., too. There was no maid of honor. Instead, there were two best men—Gray for Moira, Clay for Will. There were only a handful of other attendees: a couple of friends of Moira's, Dennis Mattson, a good friend of Will's, Gray's wife, Charlotte, and her twin sister, Faith, who'd also brought her husband, Ben, the police chief of West Fork. Jack and Sophie, of course.

Moira had refused to make a big deal out of walking up the aisle, which was fairly short anyway in a church that was in temporary quarters while the congregation was remodeling and expanding the original building. Instead of preceding her, Gray walked her the short distance, her hand resting on his arm.

Will was stunned by how much he felt at the sight of her. She hadn't worn white, which annoyed him in one way, but he suspected the rich shade of cream was a better color on her anyway, setting off her fiery hair and redhead's skin. She was so gorgeously rounded with pregnancy, full with his baby, he found himself both choked
up and aroused as he held out a hand to her. Then she looked at him, her green eyes scared and worried and vulnerable, and damned if it wasn't like being shot by a nail gun in the chest.

Somehow, from somewhere, he found a smile for her as she searched his face anxiously for that brief moment when it seemed as though they were the only two people there. He didn't know if the smile reassured her, but she did take a deep breath, square her shoulders and turn to face the pastor. Will did the same.

The church might be modern, but the promises they made were the same ones their grandparents and great-grandparents would have made. That's the way Will wanted it.

When Pastor James said, “You may kiss the bride,” and Will drew Moira gently to him, her stomach lurched and bumped against him. Startled, he looked down, and Moira laughed. He liked kissing her when her lips were curved with pleasure. His lingered, and she didn't object. She was breathless and startled by the time he eased back.

My wife,
he thought, undecided whether this felt unreal or more astonishingly real than anything else he'd ever done.

Clay hugged Will, giving his back a good, firm whack, then kissed Moira's cheek. Jack followed suit, and Sophie, tears in her eyes, rose on tiptoe to kiss Will then turned to embrace Moira. Moira's mother—good God, his mother-in-law—kissed them both, too. Moira all but disappeared in the bevy of women, leaving Will at Gray's side.

“I'm still stunned you were able to talk her into this,” Gray said softly.

Will grinned. “I'm a persuasive man.”

The other man's eyes met his. “Don't hurt her.”

I won't,
snagged in his throat. He had even less idea
what was to come than most grooms did. The best he could do was a quiet “I'll try not to.”

“Good,” Gray said. “Moira is…” He seemed to be searching for the right word.

Thinking of everything he'd seen in her eyes when she was distressed, Will said, “I didn't marry her just because she's pregnant. I'm not stupid enough to do that. It's…Moira,” he finally finished, unable to find the right thing to say himself but hoping Gray understood.

A smile warmed the face of Moira's best man. “Good.”

Will knew the minute she turned, looking for him. He went right to her side. Taking her hand, he said to the small crowd, “Everyone knows where we're going?”

Everyone did. Mom was riding with Moira; Will would be following in his pickup truck. The others were taking their own cars to the restaurant where they'd reserved a private room for lunch.