The Expectant Secretary (10 page)

“Maybe that's what I was looking for,” she said, thinking back to when she decided to marry James. “Something opposite of what my parents had…that is, before my dad left us.” She shoved away those painful memories. She couldn't dwell in the past. Not when she had the future of her baby to worry about. “It's not easy creating a marriage like that. That kind of love, that kind of relationship, seems as rare as a perfect gem.”

“I'm willing to wait for that perfect lady.” His eyes shone like marbles, solid, durable, unforgettable.

She wasn't perfect. And she wasn't the woman for Brody!

Hot piercing jealousy stabbed her heart. Was he thinking of Gail? “It takes more than finding the right
person. It takes commitment.” She aimed the next blow at James's memory and directly at Brody's conscience. “It takes fidelity. Responsibility. Trust.”

Unflinching, he met her gaze as if he had no guilt whatsoever. “I'm not James.”

No, she thought, you're Brody. The damage he'd caused had cut her deeper, caused more scars. Because she'd truly loved him.

But was he really so callous as to not care or be aware of the hurt he'd caused? Or had he changed? Really changed. Could a man transform himself that much? Or was the fabric a man was made of constant and durable, only the cut and stitching variable over time?

Finally she asked herself the starkest question, the one that struck at the heart of her concerns. Could she ever trust Brody again? With her love? With her baby's?

Her answer made her more nervous, more agitated, more afraid. Staring across the table into his deep gray eyes, she knew she could. Not that it would be wise. Not that she would. She simply knew she might. That was troubling enough.

With trembling hands, she held on to her anger, her resistance. Touching her slightly rounded stomach, she refused to make another foolish mistake. As she had with James. As she had with Brody before her marriage. She'd done a lot of growing up since then, especially in the past few months. With careless bumps and bruises and more painful scars and scrapes to show for her foolishness, she'd learned her lessons the hard way.

Now the stakes had been raised. She wouldn't be
the only one hurt by reckless decisions made in the heat of the moment.
If
she ever decided to remarry, she'd have to be one hundred percent sure. No questions. No doubts. No mistakes.

But it was a moot point. She was
not
in love with Brody. And she was not going to fall in love with him, either.

 

Fitting the key into the lock, Brody unlocked the door to her room. Jillian stood next to him in the shrinking confines of the hallway. Sounds magnified. She heard the metal key slide into the brass knob, the chambers shift into place, the lock give. The hinges creaked. Her heart raced. Blood roared in her ears.

Say good-night and close the door. Quick.

Eager to end the evening, she stepped over the threshold. For some reason she felt like a teenager on her first date.

This is not a date.

A nervous giggle gurgled in her throat, making the moment more awkward. “Seems weird that we don't have any luggage.”

“Uh-huh.” His gaze was intense, his body too close.

Her nerves rattled against each other. “I guess we'll—I mean, I'll have to sleep in my clothes.”

“Not necessarily,” he said, his voice dipping low, offering a suggestion she didn't want to consider or him to imagine. Not that he would. But he was looking at her as if he could devour her in one blink.

Heat flashed inside her. “Well, um, thanks, Brody, for dinner. For, uh, everything. I—I haven't been out in a long while.”

Shut up! He doesn't need to know that.

“You shouldn't be alone, Jillie. Maybe in the future you won't be.” The sureness in his tone made her feel suddenly weak.

“Uh, um, I guess I'll see you in the morning.”

“Or in the dunny.” He gave her a flirtatious wink that sent her pulse skittering. “Ladies first, though.”

He poked his head into her room, and she stepped back. Still only a foot separated them but she could feel his heat through her clothes, making her skin tingle.

“That must be the door to the dunny.” He nodded toward a far door. “The manager said there's shampoo and soap. Even spare toothbrushes. Must have a lot of spur-of-the-moment travelers. Just give a knock when you're through.”

“Sure. Okay.” She put her hand on the door as if to close it. But he didn't back away. She felt the pulse at the base of her throat leap erratically as his gaze settled on her mouth.

He's going to kiss me.

Yes!
A delightful shiver rippled down her spine.

No! Oh, heavens. No!

Her body went rigid with indecision. Her need, her desire, frightened her more than the possibilities of kissing Brody, of melting into his arms, of where a kiss might lead. Her gaze cut to the side, and she saw the wide bed waiting…waiting…waiting. She swallowed over the hard lump in her throat.

“Brody—” She stopped him from moving closer with a hand against his chest. Her hand itched to curl inward, to grab his shirt, to pull him toward her. She could feel the urgency of the hormones surging
through her, making her imagine things, feel things, think things that she shouldn't be contemplating, experiencing or wishing for.

“Jillie.” His Aussie tongue rolled over the contours of her name as his bare hand had once explored her body.

Stop this insanity, Jillian, right this minute!
She didn't want another relationship. Especially with Brody. Kissing him, falling in love with him, made about as much sense as bungee jumping without a cord. She wouldn't fall for the same untrustworthy, pulsating desire again. She had to stop him.

But how?

He tilted his head, angled his mouth toward hers. Her lips tingled with need. Her heart pounded with hope. Her mind raced with fear.

Panicked, she blurted, “Brody, stop!” She flung the words at him as her last defense. “I'm pregnant.”

A strange look entered his eyes, turning them dark as a winter sky. His features froze. His gaze cut downward to stare at her abdomen then back to her face.

Oh, God! What had she done now?

“Y
ou're what?” Brody asked, his voice faltering.

“Pregnant.” Saying it out loud finally felt right. An inner strength awakened inside her. She could handle this. If she lost her job, she'd manage. Her confidence grew.

He peered down at her belly again, this time lingering, searching for a clue. When his gaze returned to her face, his eyes were burning.

“You picked a helluva time to tell me.” The sharp anger in his voice made her flinch.

What had she expected? More importantly, what had she wanted from him? Her emotions shifted with uncertainty. “I know.”

“Why didn't you tell me sooner?” His voice deepened with betrayal. “Why didn't you tell me?”

She shrugged, knowing the reason but afraid to voice it. Trembling, she said, “I was afraid. Afraid I'd lose my job.”

Incredulous, he leaned forward, his breath punching her with emphasis. “You'll always have a job as long as you want one.”

His words gave her a modicum of relief but fueled her temper with more fire. Her emotions seesawed, and she blamed it on the pregnancy hormones surging inside her. Not her uncertainty. Definitely not Brody.
“Because I'm pregnant?” she challenged. “Or because I'm a valued employee?”

He rubbed his jaw. His palm made a rasping sound as it stroked the dark stubble. “Jillie, you take the cake. You're scared to tell me you're pregnant because you think you'll lose your job. Then you're mad as a Tasmanian devil because you think your pregnancy might afford you special privileges. Which is it?”

“Both.”

He gave a bold, uncompromising laugh, setting her nerves on edge. His eyes glittered like silver. The lines bracketing his mouth creased his taut cheeks when he afforded a brief smile, giving her an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Figures. There's no way for me to answer that question, then, Jillie, without getting myself in trouble. But I'll give it my best shot.”

His smile disappeared. “Because I know you.”

His voice was husky, sexy…
No!
She shook loose his affect on her. He sounded serious, not sexy.

“Because I like to think of us as friends. Old friends. I want to believe you'll come to me in the future if you need help.” He placed his hands on either side of the door frame. “Because I care for you, Jillie, probably more than either of us wants. I will do anything for you. All you have to do is ask.”

Her body tightened, unsure how to respond. If only she could believe him. Her thoughts twisted with doubts. Would his caring, his concern, change anything? Unnerved by the aching in her heart, she felt hot tears scald the backs of her eyes while her spine
stiffened with defiance. He cared? Did he even know how?

“But,” he added, his voice cracking like a whip with strength and authority, “I wouldn't give you a job. I'd give you money if you asked, friendship, whatever you needed. But not a job. Not unless I knew you could do the work.

“And you can, Jillie.” His gaze bore into her. “You're good. Impressive. You're in your element. If you couldn't do the job, I wouldn't hire you, even if you were my own mother. So don't ever let anyone tell you different. Not even your own doubts.”

She swallowed the sharp knot in her throat. The truth of his words resonated through her, going deep, shaking apart her distrust. “Thank you, Brody. I appreciate that.”

Taking a step forward, he stopped her from closing the door between them. His hand lifted as if to touch her, curling her insides with anticipation—no, dread—then he dropped his hand back to his side. Disappointment arced through her.

“Are you…doing okay?” he asked.

For the first time since she'd known him, he shifted from side to side as if uncomfortable inside his own skin, as if he, the handsome, sexy, well-known Brody Fortune, didn't know what to say, how to act. “I mean, is the pregnancy going well?”

His concern touched a tender need inside her. She nodded.

“Is that why you fainted? Not because of low blood sugar?”

“Yes.” She sounded breathless.

“Have you been feeling ill much?”

Disconcerted with his intense inspection, she shrugged. “A little. But I'm through my first trimester, so I'm feeling better. You don't have to worry about work.”

“I'm not. I'm worried about you…and the baby. You should have told me.” His voice lightly scolded her. “Will you tell me when…if you have trouble? If you feel sick? If you need anything?”

“Brody—”

“I mean it, Jillie.” This time he touched her, cupped the side of her face, lifted her gaze to meet his when she would have looked away. “I want to know. I want to help. Please…”

“All right,” she said reluctantly, irritated by his insistence, frightened by her own need to lean on someone…on him.

“Good.” He leaned closer, his breath brushing her face in a long, slow stroke.

Aware of all the years, all the questions, all the pain standing between them, she stared up at him, a need welling inside of her. He was going to kiss her. And God help her, she wanted it, welcomed it, even. Maybe it could be different between them now. Maybe…

He pressed his mouth to her forehead, tenderly, gently, brotherly. “Get some sleep, love.”

Her heart throbbed with a new sorrowful ache as she watched him turn away and disappear into the room next door.

He'd kissed her like a brother. Not a lover.

With shock, she realized she much preferred thinking about Brody in an intimate way. Not as a boss.
Certainly not as a sibling. But any possibility of intimacy seemed as remote as the Australian Outback.

And it was her fault.

 

Brody paced his room, the length of his bed, his thoughts tossing and turning.

Jillie's pregnant. With James's baby!

He came to a halt beside the window and stared out at the night sky. Wispy gossamer curtains stretched across the blackness, shrouding the stars and moon. His soul felt dark, stormy, unpredictable.

Shucking his shirt, he tossed it onto a chair in the corner. One truth pounded inside his head…and heart. He cared for Jillian. More than he'd realized. More than he should.

After all those years of wondering if he'd made more out of her memory, if he'd conjured up feelings out of thin air, he knew his heart. But it brought him little comfort at the moment.

He'd told her the truth. He would do anything for her. Anything at all. Except…

A light rap on the door made his muscles tense. He realized it was her signal that she'd finished in the dunny. Needing a distraction from the direction of his thoughts, he jerked open the door.

A gasp resounded off the peach tiles. Jillian twisted around. Her startled eyes opened wide. She stood by the sink, clutching a towel to her chest. She looked rumpled, sexy.

No, he corrected, sweet. Maternal, right?

Having washed off what little makeup she wore, her face was bare. She curled her bare toes toward the tile floor. His gaze raked over her, noticing the
stiffness in her neck, the tension in her hands, her white bra straps stark against her fair skin. His gaze shot back to her eyes, read the panic there.

Feeling a tightness, need, desire in his abdomen, he aimed his confusion at her. “You knocked.”

“I did?” She shook her head. “N-no, no I didn't.”

“I heard it.”

Her gaze shifted toward her belt lying on the floor beside the door to his room. Understanding brightened her eyes. “My belt… I-it must have fallen off the doorknob. I didn't knock.”

“I'm sorry, then.” He started to back into his room, pulling the door closed between them. “I'll wait—”

“It's okay. I'm leaving.” She reached for her makeup bag on the counter.

The towel covering her chest started to slide. He caught sight of a well-rounded breast pushed above the lacy top of her bra. His heart started to jackhammer. Feeling like a gawking teenager, he discreetly averted his gaze.

She clutched the towel to her.

“Um…uh,” he stammered, “maybe I better wait outside.”

She gave a terse nod, her eyes wide. “I'll gather up my things. Th-then it's all yours.”

He started to turn away.

Again she stopped him with, “Brody, what's the procedure—er, plan for tonight. I mean, how will we know if one of us needs to…to use…to come into the…”

“Knocking first is always a good idea. I'll do that next time.”

A heated blush rose on her cheeks. “Good.”

Questions piqued his curiosity, his concern about her condition. He'd never been around a pregnant woman. He wondered when her stomach would swell. How long would it be until she'd be a mother? She certainly didn't look very far along. “Do you get up often in the night?”

“More than I used to,” she answered. “But I guess it'll only get worse from here on out.”

Not knowing anything about pregnancy, he simply nodded and stepped back into his room. He waited this time a full five minutes after he heard a distinct knock. When silence met his inquiring knock, he entered the dunny again.

He tried not to think about her on the other side of the door, sliding between the sheets. Had she removed the rest of her clothes? Or covered herself after the towel incident?

It didn't matter. He couldn't—wouldn't—think of her in that way. She was pregnant, for God's sake! She wasn't sexy. She was pregnant. With another man's baby.

But he couldn't get the image of her wrapped in that damn thick towel out of his head. Later, as he lay on top of his sheets, the ceiling fan sifting cold air over his naked body, he burned with an intensity he could only blame on Jillian. He'd never felt so much for any woman. He knew he'd loved her once. And he believed he could love her again.

But one thing stood between them. The baby. James's baby.

Guilt wrapped around him, strangled him. He cursed himself, forced himself to look deeply for the
answers to the question that plagued him. Could he raise another man's child? James's child?

On the surface his fears seemed selfish, priggish, ludicrous. But they were all too real for him to ignore. He knew the pain and damage his own father had suffered. Teddy had been raised by his uncaring, overbearing grandfather. There was no question that Brody could ever treat a child that way himself.

But then, he also knew his brother Griff. The Fortunes had adopted him after they'd found him as a young child wandering on their property like a lost puppy. In spite of the unconditional love Brody's family had offered Griff, he'd never truly joined the family. He'd kept himself distant. That's what worried Brody now.

Would Jillian's child always feel awkward and distant toward a stand-in father?

Maybe his fears were irrational. Or maybe fate had stepped in once again. Maybe it was good he'd learned of her pregnancy before he'd kissed her again, before he'd taken their relationship to a new level, before he'd made another mistake.

But could he follow his first instinct and walk away now? A hollowness opened inside his chest, and more questions and doubts filled the empty spaces.

 

Where the hell was she?

Clint Lockhart waited at the designated spot. With the tips of his fingers, he flicked another cigarette butt onto the rocky ground beside Betsy's battered Ford. A dozen or so cigarette butts lay among the ashes and dirt like a jumble of headstones in a cemetery. The
end of the latest cigarette sparked red, hot, angry. He crushed it with the toe of his boot.

Damn. He glanced at his watch. She said she'd be here at three. It was already three-thirty. His insides twitched.

Had she lied? Had she turned him in? He gave a look over his shoulder, searching for any cars or helicopters. As far as he could see, he was alone. This stretch of deserted land was rugged, rocky, treacherous, dotted only by sparse cedar.

Hell, Betsy wasn't going to turn him in. She loved him. At least, that's what she'd said. Not that you could ever put a woman's words in your wallet and bank on them. Still she hated the cops as much as he did.

But you could never trust anybody.

He struck another match on his belt buckle and lit the end of the cigarette, sucking in the bitter taste. He'd made sure Betsy believed her romantic feelings toward him were mutual. He'd hinted they had a future together. Readjusting his cowboy hat, angling the brim to shade his face from the glare of the sun, he chuckled to himself at how gullible some women…most women…could be. Hell, that was something he could count on, like finding spare change in sofa cushions.

He heard the sputtering of the engine first. Toward the end of the two-mile stretch of road he'd been watching, he saw a puff of hazy smoke. Slowly, a faded red truck came into view, rattling toward him.

Yanking open the driver's door, he slid behind the steering wheel of Betsy's car, careful not to bump his sore leg. He started the engine and waited. His hand
hovered near the gearshift, his foot poised above the gas pedal. Just in case.

He watched in the rearview mirror as the truck approached. It stopped about fifty yards away. The hood shook as the truck idled.

After a couple of minutes, with Clint's nerves stretched taut as barbed wire, Betsy climbed out of the cab, gave a wave toward the driver of the truck who'd given her a lift and a recommendation at the Double Crown, then started toward him. He kept his gaze on the truck as it turned and headed back down the road it had come, puffs of smoke coughing out the exhaust pipe. When he was sure the driver was gone, he alighted from the car.

“Well?” he asked.

She gave him one of her lopsided grins. Red lipstick smeared her front tooth. The sun shone on her dusty brown locks. “I got it. I start work at the Fortune ranch tomorrow, cleaning in the big house.”

He gave a whoop of delight. Hauling her into his arms, he twirled her around, feeling her bony frame rub against him suggestively. He preferred a woman with more meat on her bones, with more curves, with big boobs. But hell, he couldn't complain too much. At least she was willing. And eager.