The Surgeon's Surprise Twins (12 page)

Owen was well aware that he'd earned a reputation for being a wizard with unborn babies. Not just in helping women conceive and carry pregnancies, but in dealing with the little tykes themselves. No one understood exactly how it worked, but under his gentle pressure, babies in breech position turned around in time to be delivered safely and obeyed his delicate urging to wriggle the kinks out of umbilical cords. Not always, but often.

He had a theory. He attributed his success to Rodgers and Hammerstein.

Take the twins. They'd grown remarkably in the nearly two weeks since he'd last wanded them, but as their cute little images appeared on the sonogram screen, they were in the wrong position for him to check out their gender. “They could use some encouragement,” he warned Bailey. “Do you mind?”

“Whatever.” She was staring at the screen as if utterly absorbed, but that didn't account for her rapid breathing.

After seeing a handful of patients and then sending Caroline home early—without any mention of her indiscretion—Owen had checked Bailey's blood pressure and heartbeat. Nothing wrong there. “I'm going to sing. Any objections?”

“Only if you require accompaniment.”

“Not necessary.” He didn't sing for many patients. Some women lacked a sense of humor, and some husbands took things the wrong way. But once in a while the babies needed it.

Usually, he encouraged his patients to join him in song, so the baby could feel the vibrations. This time, instead, Owen bent close to Bailey's abdomen and began to croon the words to “If I Loved You.” With one hand caressing the bulge, he could feel the babies' rhythms shift, become dreamy. And gradually, as he prodded them, they yielded and rearranged themselves.

Bailey released a sigh. He sensed her heart rate slowing also. How sweet she looked, lying there trustingly, her eyelids half-shut, lost in the moment. Owen nearly forgot the purpose of the sonogram, until he felt another ripple beneath his hand. The natives were getting restless again, the ultrasound showed.

“Okay, little one.” He manipulated the probe until he could plainly see one baby's shape. “It's a boy! Hold still now, little guy.” Making sure he had a good view, he saved a shot.

“Both boys?” Bailey asked.

“Don't know yet.”

“If you take requests, I'd like to hear ‘There Is Nothing Like a Dame,'” she said.

“You think that will help?” Releasing the pressure, Owen sought a different angle while his mind played over what he'd just learned. He was going to have a son. A little boy to tussle with, a young man who'd grow up to chart a worthwhile course through life, like his father.

Like Boone?

The thought jolted Owen. What had he done by donating sperm to his brother?
I trusted him to deserve a child, that's what.

With every passing day, his doubts were growing. He'd heard nothing about his brother returning from that unexplained trip. And Bailey still wasn't receiving regular medical care.

This little boy might grow up with his father in jail. And an uncle who, he recalled with a twinge of unease, might have helped to put him there.

“What happened to the music?” Bailey prompted.

“Sorry.” But before he could launch into another tune, Baby Boy's sister presented a clear anatomical image. As he preserved the shot, Owen said, “You got your wish.”

“It's a girl?” She beamed. “Phyllis will be thrilled.”

“Talked to her lately?” Owen removed the device.

“Not for a few days.” She tensed as if ready to argue, but he busied himself cleaning up.

A girl. They were having a girl, too. Lively and vulnerable like her mother. Owen averted his face to hide the flush of emotions.

He and Bailey ought to be picking out names and making plans. These were
their
kids, no doubt endowed with musical talents and a sense of humor and…

You can't keep them. Don't even think about that.
What would he do with kids? Also, the very idea of him and Bailey trying to make a go of a family was preposterous. They couldn't even share a bathroom without squabbling.

He helped her sit up and wipe off the gel. “You feeling okay?”

“Why shouldn't I?”

“You've been awfully quiet.” Normally, Owen would take his leave from a patient at this point. Instead, he slid his arms around Bailey and eased her down from the examining table. Round and solid, she smelled like a whole meadow full of beauty products.

“Don't you have to rush off somewhere?” She stood close against him in the flimsy gown.

He had emails to return, reports to read, decisions to make. “Not particularly. Want to grab a bite to eat?”

“Kind of early.” The wall clock indicated a little past four.

“I never took you for a slave to convention.” He brushed his cheek, bristly with end-of-day stubble, across the top of her head.

“Are we going to play nurse and doctor?” she asked.

“Okay.” He grinned at the notion.

“Which one do you want to be?”

The man who takes you home and keeps you safe.
Where had that come from? Owen wondered. He felt tender toward Bailey, and excited to hold her. Was this a reaction to the fact that she was bearing his children? In a phenomenon known as couvade syndrome, dads-to-be experienced pregnancy symptoms such as morning sickness and mood swings. But he didn't think that was it.

She wriggled out of his arms. “Silly idea.”

“What?” He tried in vain to recall the thread of their conversation.

“Playing nurse and doctor.” She snatched her clothes from a chair. “Time for you to go do whatever world-famous doctors do on Friday nights.”

“Eat dinner. Sing duets.”

“Wouldn't that be a quartet, at this point?” she teased.

“You're right. I can hear their little voices chorusing, ‘Take me out to Waffle Heaven.'” Having inhaled tantalizing scents drifting across the rear wall of their property for the past three weeks, Owen could resist no longer.

“Oh, waffles! You're on.” Bailey made shooing motions. “I can't change with you here! Wait outside.”

“Don't be long. I missed lunch.” But as he wheeled the
sonogram machine out of the room, Owen acknowledged that what he hungered for most wasn't some confection of fried batter, fruit and whipped cream.

Still, that seemed a good place to start.

 

B
AILEY WAS CONCERNED
about ending up in Owen's bedroom, but she had to risk it. After all, that was the only route to the spa.

Maple syrup—bacon—all sorts of lovely stuff filled her stomach by the time they came home. Inevitably, one of them, or possibly both, seized on the notion of taking a relaxing dip.

She figured they'd be safe as long as she scurried right through on her way outside. And that might have worked, if she'd ever made it that far.

The problem was having to share a bathroom. With doors on either side, it was hard to remember to lock them both, so she walked in on Owen just as he was pulling his skimpy trunks into place over those narrow hips. The sight stopped her cold. She should have retreated. Really, she should have, but there she stood.

Planning to change after she washed up, she'd thrown a short robe over her underpants, loosely belted at the waist. The robe used to be relatively modest in the days before pregnancy swelled her breasts. Now the panels gapped wide above the belt. As she and Owen stood there eyeing each other, their breathing echoing off the walls of the small bathroom, she could feel the belt untying of its own will and the sides of the robe sliding apart.

The instant his hands cupped her breasts and his thumbs made little circles around the nipples, she was lost. By the age of twenty-eight, she ought to know that a man's distractingly gentle mouth and wonderfully clever tongue promised nothing beyond fleeting pleasure. Actually,
Bailey did know that. But as Owen pushed the robe into free fall and drew her against his rock hard body, she didn't care.

“We're going to regret this,” she murmured as he lifted her onto the counter, knocking his and her paraphernalia into the sink.

“We'll regret it more if we stop.”

Did he have to be so logical? And so right? “Okay,” she said.

He explored her, lifting his head from time to time to observe her reactions. Bailey glimpsed their movements in the side mirror—he had a far better view, of course—but mostly she got lost in the sensations. He was so big, in more ways than one. Tantalizing her, taking his time. Kissing her again and again, expertly parting her and thrusting himself inside her.

She'd never experienced such utter radiant bliss. Right from the start, too. How much better could it get?

To her amazement, she found out. The man moved with grace, never hurrying, instinctively caressing the right places to arouse waves of delight, and then pulling out for a cool moment before starting again. Best of all was the expression of wonder on his face, as if he, too, was reaching a new level.

I could love this man. I might love him already.
How utterly strange to be discovering this while pregnant with another man's children, Bailey thought. Yet as Owen merged with her for the third or maybe the fourth time, it felt as if they were making the babies all over again.

She noticed a change in Owen's expression: thrilled disbelief, and then a wild loss of control as he pushed into her harder. She transformed, fusing with him, and his mounting ecstasy and explosion of joy became hers, too.

They rocked there, holding each other, Bailey nearly
sliding off the counter and Owen making deep moaning noises that vibrated like music. For a long while, the world stood still.

At last he eased back. “What do you say we dispense with clothing for the spa?”

The walls around the yard were high, not to mention the thick shrubbery. “Sounds like a plan,” Bailey said as he carefully lifted her down.

They soaked in the warm water, blissfully naked, then went inside and made love again in Owen's big bed. Afterward, curled against him with her bulge tucked against his hip, Bailey drifted in a happy haze.

Maybe it couldn't last. But it might for a while.

 

A
T
2:27
A.M
.
BY THE BEDSIDE
clock, the rumble of delivery trucks woke Owen. He'd forgotten his earplugs.

The racket failed to stir Bailey, thanks no doubt to maternal hormones. She'd rolled over, facing away, her hair tangled across the pillow.

Owen lay on his back, trying to understand why he didn't have the awkward sense of displacement he usually got when he awoke beside a woman. Not that he ever picked up strangers. His affairs had been carefully chosen, with women he knew well enough to be certain there'd be no misplaced expectations.

Always, there was a constraint, like when he sat in front of the cameras and had to remember to keep his shoulders straight, his gaze forward and his language clear. In the morning, he would be careful with the lady. Carefully polite, cautious not to make assumptions, and ready to escape as soon as he could diplomatically do so.

He had no idea what to expect with Bailey. She might kick him out of bed in the morning, even though it was his bed, or she might race him to the shower. As for escaping,
he wished he didn't have surgeries scheduled starting at 9:00 a.m. They'd brought home an extra waffle, and he wanted to enjoy it with her, slowly.

And with the babies. Yesterday…the ultrasound…his and her children. Those silly little people already loved the same music their parents did.

Their parents.
What a powerful connection he'd forged with those babies. Boone hadn't seen them, hadn't shown any interest in the pregnancy as far as Owen could tell. The idiot acted as if he couldn't care less.

When the man returned from wherever he'd gone, Owen needed to have a straight talk with him.
Declare your intentions.
Old-fashioned, but appropriate.

If his brother wasn't prepared to love these children, then it would be time to tell Bailey the truth, and let the chips fall where they may.

 

B
AILEY AWOKE TO THE SOUND
of a phone ringing. Two phones, one close by and the other in the next room. She recognized the nearby ring tone as Owen's, while from afar came the pop tune she'd reserved for her sister's calls.

“Yes?” said Owen's deep voice, right beside her. “Cancelled? When's the second one? Right. I'll see you then. Thanks, Erica.”

Bailey sat up. Her phone had gone silent. Why was Phyllis calling at…she checked the clock—7:29 a.m. on a Saturday?

“Good news,” Owen reported. “My first patient got pregnant and won't need surgery. That doesn't explain why she failed to tell anybody until late last night, but we can fight over our waffle in peace. How about if I cut it, seeing as I'm such a fine surgeon, and you get first choice of halves?”

“It's too early in the morning for logic,” Bailey grum
bled. Who would have imagined that the tyrant of the operating room awoke in a cheery mood? Of course, some men were that way after they had sock-flinging sex. Make that robe-flinging sex. “I have to go find out what Phyllis wants.”

“Be my guest.”

She stumbled out of bed, poked around for her slippers before remembering she hadn't brought them in, and padded through the bathroom, which was the shortest route to her purse. At some point, they'd straightened the counter, but the image of the two of them going at it must be permanently etched into the mirror, likely to reappear outlined in steam the next time anyone took a shower.

Bailey dug out the phone. Pressing a button, she sat on a chair to wait. Honestly, that futon was way too low down. She might have to sleep in Owen's bed for the duration.

She waited for the call to connect. It did, then rang repeatedly.