The Daddy Decision (11 page)

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Authors: Donna Sterling

BOOK: The Daddy Decision
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Liked the place so much.
Cort gritted his teeth. She could have been on a frozen tundra and the guy would have decided to live there. “Did he have a problem with you coming here—” his voice grew unavoidably huskier “—staying with me?”
Laura turned a searching glance on him. Why, she wondered, was he asking? Had he noticed something in Fletcher's demeanor before they'd left Steffie's, or was he
simply trying to further his contention that Fletcher felt more for her than friendship?
“Of course he didn't mind,” she replied. “He's thrilled.” Not exactly a lie. He
had
been thrilled at the prospect of all that money, but also anxious regarding her stay with Cort. His concern, Laura knew, had been prompted by her hesitation to accept Cort's offer. Fletcher hadn't wanted her to feel pressured or put into an awkward position.
Little did he know how awkward that position really was. Her newly realized need to explore her repressed sexuality warred with the defenses she'd built up over the years. The conflict grew more desperate with every glance at Cort, every elusive whiff of his appealing, masculine scent, every casual touch of his hand. The warm southern sunshine and the smell of Georgia pines didn't help, either, evoking memories of the love-crazed days they'd spent together.
She couldn't help seeing him as the intense young man he'd been—the street-toughened loner whose every hard-earned penny went to pay for the house, food and tuition for his kid sister. Looking back, Laura realized he'd carried quite a weight on his young shoulders. She hadn't fully appreciated that at the time.
Emotion stirred in her heart. A sudden desire to touch him, hold him. A tingling of fear...
He stopped beside a car, nodded to a nearby security guard and unlocked the trunk for the skycap to load her luggage.
Soon they would be alone.
“A convertible,” Laura remarked, glad for the distraction presented by the handsome, gleaming, butter-yellow automobile.
Cort escorted Laura to the passenger door and slanted her a curious glance. Did she know it was a Rolls-Royce
Corniche convertible, and a very limited model at that? If so, she gave no sign as she settled into the soft, fragrant leather seat. If she knew, would she enjoy the ride more? Disapprove of the extravagance? Think he was trying to impress her?
Cort realized with a start that he
was
trying to impress her. To “dazzle her,” as she'd put it. Ensconce her in luxury beyond any she'd ever experienced.
What the hell was wrong with him? He'd moved beyond that stage of his life, when the approval of others had meant something to him. He no longer strove to impress, please or gratify...except to gain a psychological advantage in business. On a personal level, he didn't give a damn who liked what.
“Do you know how long it's been since I rode in a convertible? ” A smile of anticipation curved her lips. “Thank goodness it's warm enough to ride with the top down.”
An irrepressible gladness rose in him. He
had
pleased her. With a wry, self-deprecating shake of his head, he took his place behind the wheel, guided the Rolls out of the airport, turned away from the expressway and headed down a back road, toward a scenic route.
The wind roared above their heads; the loose tendrils of her hair whipped wildly about her face and she dazzled him with a smile of pure enjoyment.
“Does this mean you don't hate me anymore?”
″Not at the moment,” she temporized.
He smiled, and they rode in companionable silence for quite a few miles. They stopped at a red light, and he noticed a paperback book wedged in a side pocket of her purse:
Preparing For Pregnancy.
Dismay pulsed through him, and the topic he'd been struggling to forget roared to the forefront of his mind. He tried to think of a way to broach the subject. Not an easy
thing to do. He couldn't very well ask,
Did you, by any chance, sleep with Fletcher?
Instead, as they waited at the intersection for the light to change, he remarked, “Sorry I couldn't be more flexible with our starting date. I know you had to cancel your appointment. Were you, uh, able to reschedule?”
After a slight hesitation, she replied, “Don't worry about the appointment. I'm not.”
He turned in his seat to face her. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Why wasn't she worried about it? Because she'd slept with Fletcher and no longer needed the clinic's services?
Another possibility occurred to him then; one he preferred to believe. One that he could actually ask her about. “Does that mean you've decided against your parenting plan?”
Her cheeks took on a rosy hue. “No, I haven't decided against it. I only meant that my appointment is not a top concern of mine at the moment So please, forget it.”
A tight, heavy ball formed in his chest. He couldn't possibly forget it. “Laura...” He struggled to find a delicate way of phrasing the question he had to ask “Is there a chance that you're...already pregnant?”
“Already pregnant?” She whipped a startled gaze to him. “Of course not. I haven't been to the clinic at all yet.” Her eyes widened. “Oh! You mean...” Her color heightened. ”No! Fletcher and I have agreed that we wouldn't...I mean, we feel very strongly that we shouldn't...well...”
“Good.” Never had a piece of information filled him with such intense relief. He felt almost light-headed with it. “That's smart. Mixing sex and parenthood...well, it's...it's just not a good idea.”
“Oh, I know.” She nodded in agreement.
He firmly shut his mouth and tried not to wince.
Had he
ever said anything more stupid?
The car behind him honked and he realized that the traffic light had changed to green. Turning his gaze back to the road, he said, “What I meant was, sex could really mess up a relationship that's based on parenthood, just like parenthood could mess up a relationship that's based on sex.” There. At least that made sense.
“Yes, but can we please change the subject now?” She glared at him in mild exasperation. “I feel uncomfortable talking about this with you.”
Uncomfortable. She felt uncomfortable talking about her pregnancy plans with him, but perfectly at ease
making
those plans with Fletcher. Perfectly at ease
making a baby
with Fletcher.
Cort couldn't stand the thought.
They lapsed into silence as he turned off the side road and drove down a busy stretch of Peachtree Street, past restaurants, nightclubs and congested shopping areas. It wasn't until they were riding down wide, tree-canopied residential roads that either of them spoke again.
“Cort?” she called over the noise of the wind, peering through the windshield toward the hood ornament. “Is this. . .” she hesitated, her golden eyebrows drawn together ″. . .a Rolls-Royce?”
Glad for the distraction from his thoughts and pleased that she'd finally noticed the car, he nodded. And waited for a comment. None came.
When he glanced at her again, she was gazing at the lush green scenery and the sprawling old mansions, her expression giving no clue as to her reaction. Vaguely disappointed, he reminded himself that she never had been one to pay much attention to cars. Back in their Hays Street days, he'd considered that a blessing. He'd been lucky to
own a twelve-year-old clunker with a threadbare interior and a jammed passenger door.
An unpleasant memory surfaced of the cars her other admirers had driven. Porsches, Corvettes, classic sports cars. Rich boys who had known her from her college classes, with their wallets full of cash to take her places he could never afford to take her.
She hadn't gone with them. She'd spent her free time with him, between his two jobs and her classes. The places they'd gone together hadn't required a car, or money. Or clothes.
He found himself gripping the steering wheel with unnecessary force as he turned into the elegant, woodsy neighborhood where he lived. He wanted to lavish her with luxuries now. Spoil her so badly that only a very, very rich man could afford her.
But she hadn't been visibly impressed with his car.
What would she think of his house?
As they motored up the driveway that wound between towering hardwoods and massive magnolias, he tried to see his home through her eyes. Through the widely spaced trees, across a rolling grassy knoll, the white stucco mansion came into view, surrounded by smoothly mounded boxwoods, blooming camellias and lush winter gardens.
He'd bought the place because of the investment value and the serenity of the neighborhood, but mostly because he'd fallen in love with it. The house, the woods, the gardens stirred a vague, restless yearning in him that somehow brought to mind warm, golden feelings from long ago. A need had seized him to share this sense of place, of home, with someone close to his heart.
But he had no one close to his heart...except Steffie, who'd been busy with her job and mired in divorce proceedings at the time he'd bought the place.
Although he was careful not to look directly at Laura as he parked the car in the circular driveway, he surreptitiously watched her. She gazed at the house with patent interest, but remained stoic and silent.
He had no idea how she, a connoisseur of architecture and design, would perceive the place. He himself knew little about aesthetics. He recognized a solid investment when he saw one, but what did he know of truly fine things?
Growing up, he'd been exposed to grandeur only through the back stairwells of the houses in which his mother had worked as a housekeeper. That glimpse of elegance had given way to the grimness of shabby apartments and inner-city streets.
He'd had no cultured upbringing, and money couldn't buy one. The wealthy impressed each other not with the making of the money, but with the spending of it. He was a newcomer at the art.
Maybe he'd made a mistake in describing the house to her. Maybe he'd raised her expectations in a way he didn't understand.
He led her up the flight of stairs, unlocked the door and gestured for her to precede him. She stepped into the tiled, circular entrance hall and gazed around at the high ceilings, the curved staircase and the ornate archways that led to the main rooms. He hung back, allowing her to take the lead. He could have directed her through the house, pointed out the features that had impressed him, but he didn't
He shoved his hands into his pockets and followed her. Although he'd been present for the moving of his furniture, he still hadn't gotten used to the vast emptiness of the place. The echoes of their footsteps added to the disconcerting sense of the unfamiliar.
She took her time looking around. When they had toured through most of the main level, she stopped in the one downstairs room that contained a carpet and piece of furniture—the library, a massive chamber with dark, carved woodwork gracing walls of built-in bookcases. An antique mantel presided over a tiled fireplace. A cream, rose and gold Oriental carpet spread nearly wall-to-wall over the hardwood flooring.
Her gaze traversed the rich landscape of the room, then locked with his. Still, she said nothing. He struggled to keep his patience. Common courtesy required a comment of some kind, damn it. He was very near demanding one.
Then he noticed a sheen springing to her eyes. She pivoted away, as if to study the antique mantel.
″Laura?” He frowned, pressed closer and peered around her shoulder to see her face. “Are you disappointed with the house?”
“Of course not. It's...” she swallowed spasmodically ″. . .beautiful,” she croaked.
He stared at her in absolute confoundedness.
She averted her face again, and after a moment, in a strained voice that seemed to be holding back tears, said, “How could I be disappointed? The details are exquisite. Like the carving in here—the mantel, the cornices, the overdoor swags. It's the work of a master carver. Probably Millard.”
He nodded. He'd been told as much.
She faced him, her eyes glossy, her bottom lip noticeably taut. “And did you know that the tile in the dining room mantel is James M. Beath's artwork?”
“No, I didn't know,” he replied cautiously. “But that's not a bad thing, is it?”
“And the chimney breast in the drawing room...well, it's. . .” she shrugged, as if unable to find words “. . .it's a
nineteenth-century masterpiece.” A tear escaped and rolled down her cheek.
Bewildered, frustrated and helpless in the face of feminine tears, he spread his hands out wide. “Then what's wrong?”
“Nothing,” she whispered, dashing away a teardrop as another formed. “It's just that I remember when you slept on a mattress on the floor because you didn't have a frame and box spring. And you drove a c-crummy old Chevy with a cracked windshield, and sometimes ate peanut butter sandwiches or oatmeal for days.”

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