The Daddy Decision (17 page)

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Authors: Donna Sterling

BOOK: The Daddy Decision
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She halted in the circular driveway, a good distance from the house. When she released his hand, he immediately missed the contact. Placing a firm, guiding hand on his arm, she turned him toward the house's fanlighted,
pedimented entrance. “Now, Cort,” she said from close beside him, gazing at the house with an air of solemn importance, her voice lowered in a reverent hush, “this,
this
, is your kingdom. And that entrance is its threshold—the first taste of home you'll have every time you enter. The first impression your guests will receive every time they visit. Ask yourself—what feeling do you want to evoke, to experience, when you walk through that door?”
He tried to keep his gaze on the house, as he felt sure she wanted him to do, but it wasn't easy. She was, after all, touching him, and speaking with low-key passion, and asking him what he wanted to feel, to experience, whenever he came home. Only one answer came to mind.
Her
. He wanted
her
here. The rest didn't matter.
She was gazing at him now, he realized, waiting for his reply. She was so intensely involved in the moment that if he said something profound, he could probably bring tears to her eyes.
He slanted her an indulgent glance, then looked back at the house. “Okay,” he said with a nod. “I'm getting a pretty good picture of how I'd like to see the place.”
She focused entirely on him, awaiting his vision. “How?”
“It might take some exterior remodeling,” he warned.
“Really? Exterior work?” Her interest couldn't have been more piqued. “That will require research into the rules of historic preservation. Since this neighborhood is on the historic register, rules are very strict.” Her curiosity fairly blazed. “But we can certainly try. What's your idea?”
He regarded the house with deep contemplation again, rubbing his chin. “A pirate ship, I think,” he mused. “Yeah...a pirate ship. We can build up the front to look like its bow. You know, put a masthead above the door.
Raise a pole on the roof, and fly a skull and crossbones from it.” He glanced at her. “What do you think?”
She slugged him in the arm. Hard. “Damn you, Cort! I thought you were going to be serious about this.”
“Aw, Laura, I'm trying, but I'm not the one with artistic vision about these things. A house is a house to me. Sure, this is a damn nice one, but—”
“Don't you care how this project turns out? Doesn't it matter if you like what I do with your home?”
He immediately sobered at the hint of hurt in her gaze. “Of course it matters. I wouldn't have hired you if it didn't.”
“But I can't do a good job without your input. The most important part of decorating a home is incorporating the tastes and personality of its owner.”
“Doesn't pleasing the owner count for anything?”
“Well, yes, of course, but—”
“You know how you can please me?”
She cast him a wary glance, as if she was afraid to ask. “How?”
Gripping her shoulders, he turned her to face the house, his gaze aimed at the entrance. “I want you to see this as
your
house, Laura.
Your
haven. Your personally tailored space. Do whatever you want with it. Cater to your artistic spirit.” His gaze shifted from the house and locked with hers. Vehemently he whispered, “Make it the place you most want it to be.”
Her gaze intensified. Searching, delving into his...yet somehow growing more unreadable. He sensed heat, but it could be his heat. He sensed surprise, and uncertainty. And...alarm?
He'd said too much. Gone too far. “I trust your instincts implicitly,” he said, striving for damage control. “You took the ramshackle old house on Hays Street and made it
into a home. A warm, comfortable home. If you do that now, Laura, you can't fail to please me.”
He lapsed into tense silence. Held his breath. Searched her eyes.
A sheen slowly welled there. “Thank you,” she whispered. She looked deeply honored and emotionally moved. Pressing her lips together, she subdued the threat of tears and smiled. “I'll do my very best for you,” she solemnly swore.
And before he could manage another breath, she walked back to the house without so much as a backward glance at him, lost in thought and glowing with creativity.
The door closed behind her. Cort shook himself out of a trance, then ruefully cocked his head. Perhaps he'd made a mistake. Now she didn't need him around at all. He'd blown his chance to work with her, side by side, possibly for days.
Nice work, genius
.
Before he reached the house, she reappeared at the door. “Don't think you're off the hook.” Her voice lilted with a gentle chiding. “If I'm going to ‘cater to my artistic spirit,' I'll need your input to inspire me.”
He twisted his mouth in mock dismay, purely for dramatic effect. He couldn't remember ever feeling quite this happy, and for no clear-cut reason.
In a remarkable show of mercy, she didn't try to force him into making selections of wallpaper, fabric and carpet, as the previous decorator had. She did, however, shepherd him from room to room, asking what he liked best, and how he intended to use the room, and whether its current layout seemed less than perfect.
She had him survey each area from a variety of angles, directing his attention to certain features. She coaxed him into feeling samples of fabrics and describing what each
brought to mind. They sprawled out on the plush, Oriental carpet in the library with stacks of books and magazines, and she had him point to scenes that caught his eye. She asked whimsical questions that seemed irrelevant—what were his favorite scenes in movies, the most intriguing places he'd visited, the childhood memories he considered the happiest.
He humored her. And teased. And forced her into sharing her opinions, memories and reactions. They laughed themselves silly. She slugged him a few times. He caught her in the middle of a mock scolding and kissed her.
She threaded her fingers through his hair. He pulled her closer. The kiss turned from playful to erotic. He pressed her down against the plush library carpet, and their kisses grew hungry. Ravenous. He ran his hands beneath her clothes.
The beast in him took over. He unbuttoned her sweater; unzipped her slacks. The urgency burned within him. He wanted her naked again...and to be inside her, deep inside, in any way he could....
Before he'd managed to strip off even the first piece of clothing, a distraction came in the form of a phone call. The answering machine, which he'd hooked up to the intercom to screen for important calls, blared a familiar masculine voice throughout the house.
“Laura, it's me. Fletcher.”
She stiffened in Cort's arms.
“I really need to talk to you,” boomed the annoyingly urgent voice, “so call me as soon as you can.”
Laura uttered a soft cry, pushed away from Cort and sat up, fumbling to readjust her clothing. “I have to call him. It sounds like something's wrong.”
Cort cursed beneath his breath and helped her button her sweater.
ZIPPING HER SLACKS, Laura rushed from the library, feeling hot and disoriented, and highly aware that the call had probably saved her from herself. She'd been lost again; lost in the heat and mindless desire that Cort provoked so easily. Would she have stopped before going too far? Would Cort have diverted their passion in some creative way, as he had last night?
One thing she knew for sure: they couldn't carry on like this for long. She had to either be strong and keep him at a safe distance, or...or what? Resort to the use of condoms and pray they wouldn't break?
The chance of a defect is slim,
she told herself.
Millions of people rely on condoms every day.
But one
had
broken on them before, and scared the joy right out of their relationship. An accident like that would certainly scare her now. Too much!
She was already reading profound emotion into things he said and did. The warmth she'd thought lost forever had somehow blazed back to life, and not only because of their sexual chemistry. Or so she could too easily convince herself....
She closed her bedroom door, drew her calling card out of her purse and placed a call to Fletcher from the bedside phone. She had to be strong enough to resist Cort, as well as her own inclination to read meaning into his casually caring ways. She had to be smart enough to guard her heart and control her own future.
“Fletcher,” she said into the receiver, relieved to hear his voice again. He was part of the sane, orderly world she'd left behind, and the sane, orderly future she had carefully planned. She desperately needed a reminder of both right now. “Is something wrong?”
“Laura, I've been worried sick about you. Are you okay?”
“Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?”
“I've been thinking about what you said. About Cort's motivation. Maybe I was wrong to encourage you to go. Has he tried anything with you? Does he expect you to sleep with him?”
She sank slowly onto the bed, stunned by the questions. Her first impulse was to reprimand him for talking about Cort that way. Cort didn't deserve the disrespect and suspicion that those questions implied.
Has he tried anything with you. Does he expect you to sleep with him
. Her very heart flinched. But how could she admonish Fletcher when she herself had been the one to first question Cort's motivation?
“Laura? Oh no...I
was
wrong to send you, wasn't I?”
“No, Fletcher. I'm glad I'm here. Things are going fine. There's no need for you to worry.”
“Are you telling me he's been keeping it strictly business? ” He let out a dry laugh. “I find that hard to believe.”
Sharp, conflicting emotions tore at her. The strongest was indignation. How dare he pursue the issue when she'd told him not to worry? How dare he question Cort's behavior in his own home? At the same time, she knew he was asking out of concern for her, and maybe guilt that he had pushed her into an awkward situation. She was being unfair to Cort and to Fletcher by not making it clear that her relationship with Cort had changed.
“Uh, Fletcher...” Laura cleared her throat, feeling inexplicably awkward. Why should she hesitate to tell Fletcher the truth? They prided themselves on their honest, open relationship. “You don't have to worry about what Cort does in that respect.
I′m
not worried.”
Liar!
“What I mean is—” What did she mean? “Cort and I have reached a personal understanding. And because of it, we've become... closer.”
“Closer? Does that mean you're sleeping with him?”
Anger stirred in her, and she bit back a sharp reply. But then confusion set in. Didn't Fletcher have the right to ask her that? As the chosen father of her future baby—her parenting partner—perhaps he did have a moral right. He wouldn't want her conceiving another man's baby if he planned to claim paternity. “No,” she finally answered. “I'm not sleeping with him.”
“You hesitated,” he charged. “Why?”
“Fletcher! Do you think I'm lying?”
“No, not lying,” he said, clearly miserable. “I know you wouldn't lie. But there's something you're not belling me.”
“I'm not sleeping with him, and he's not behaving in an inappropriate manner. What else do you need to know?”
A few beats of uncomfortable silence passed. “I saw the video.”
She frowned. “Pardon me?”
“B.J, gave me the computer disk with pictures from the Hays Street house. I knew you and Cort were a couple before I moved in, but you didn't seem especially close while I was there. Not like in those pictures.”
Laura immediately realized why. Fletcher had moved in after the condom crisis; her relationship with Cort fell into two distinct categories—before and after the crisis. “What do those pictures have to do with anything, Fletcher?”
“You were all over each other. Constantly. And the way you looked at him... The way you kissed him...” A sick, anxious feeling wormed its way into Laura's stomach. Fletcher was upset. Far too upset. He'd never spoken to her with such bleak emotion. “You were so damn in love with him.”
A pang went through her. “So what?” She clutched the phone tightly. “What does that matter now?”
“Are you still in love with him?”
″No.”
“Can you swear to that, Laura? We're supposed to have a baby together, you and L Raise a child. Start a family. What's going to happen to us if you're with Cort?”
“I won't be with Cort!”
“I wish I could believe that.” His voice broke, and she pressed her hand to her heart, terribly afraid that he was fighting tears. “Those pictures explained a lot.” He sounded so forlorn, she could have wept. “I've been with you for fifteen years. Fifteen years, Laura! While Cort was off doing his own thing, I was there for you.”

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