Winning Wyatt (The Billionaire Brotherhood Book 1) (16 page)

Four
weeks later, Kara sat on her bathroom floor, forcibly recalling what the term
“morning sickness” meant. Holding the home pregnancy test indicator closer to
the window, she turned it this way and that for a different view. But no matter
how she looked at it, the display revealed a positive reading.

Feelings
of sadness and confusion battled with her initial reactions of jubilation and
anticipation. Her head and heart hurt from trying to sort out her contradictory
moods. Well, okay, welcome to the world of irrational hormonal mood swings.

The
one person she wanted to be with while she put her jumbled emotions into order
was the one person who shared responsibility for them. And that she most
fiercely didn’t want to see. Oh, she wanted to see him, all right. And to talk
to him. And be comforted by him. But she couldn’t. Not yet. Not until she was
ready to tell him about the baby.

As
luck would have it, Wyatt reappeared long before she was ready to face him.
When she returned from some errands that afternoon, a town car and driver
lurked on the street outside her building.

Uncharacteristically
rumpled and extremely gorgeous, Wyatt slouched in the doorway. Damn him. Her
heart fluttered at the sight, but she kept her face impassive and just barely
managed to refrain from flinging herself into his arms.

She
stopped several feet away from him and crossed her arms instead. “Why are you
here? I asked you not to do this.”

He
reached out to her like it was his right to touch her at will. But when she
evaded his hands, he merely held up a thumb drive. “I brought you something. Can
we go inside or would you rather go someplace else to view it?” He pointed to a
briefcase at his feet. “I’ve got a laptop with me.”

Tough
choice. Fearing she would end up sobbing her heart out in public, she didn’t
trust what might happen between them if they were alone in her apartment
either. Normally, they stripped down and were in bed together within moments of
meeting.

But
surely she’d learned to control herself better than that. All she had to do was
think about NPD. She dug her keys out of her pocket and led the way up. “Let’s
go on up.”

Inside
the elevator, the three flights passed in strained silence. While she could
feel Wyatt’s eyes on her, she kept hers trained straight ahead. Inside her
miniscule apartment, she offered to make coffee as he perused the stark,
bare-bones interior. She flipped on the light in the galley kitchen.

“How
long have you lived here?” he asked while she inserted a K-cup into the
coffeemaker.

“Three
years.” She looked over her shoulder at him waiting for his comments. If Mr.
Wyatt Everything-I-Own-Is-Perfect Maitland didn’t find her apartment up to his
standards, well then, he should have stayed home. She wished he had.

She
wished he’d stayed half a world away from her rather than come here and look
all concerned while leaving his fingerprints all over Adam’s baby picture. His
presence made her feel like a whacked-out shrew for being rightfully upset
about the destruction of her family. And worse, made her feel guilty for not
sharing news he had every right to know.

“It
doesn’t have your stamp on it.”

Irrational
annoyance ran up and down her spine because his expression flashed
understanding. Couldn’t he be unreasonable for once?

She
reached for a coffee mug and grappled for composure as she filled it. “I’ve
never made it my home. I just take up space here. I existed, I mourned, and I
hid from the people I cared about. I lived this way for three years, on
purpose, because of National Package Delivery. Your family’s company.”

His
lips tightened against anger or irritation. She didn't know which. “Is the
house you’re renovating in Connecticut very different from this?”

“Oh,
yes.”

“That’s
because of me, too.” He stepped forward in the small space, caging her against
the counter. She could move, if she wanted to, but she would have to touch him
to do it. If she reached out and touched him now, she might not ever let him
go.

“You
did give me something very special,” she agreed, “but you took it away again.”

Overwhelmed
by his nearness, Kara looked with longing toward the door, but he trapped her
inside his arms, placing a hand on each side of her. Leaning into her space, he
placed his face so close to hers that his breath whispered against her cheek.
The heat of his body pressed against her. Kara braced herself for a kiss, but he
didn’t attempt one. “I didn’t take anything from you, then or now, Kara. Admit
it.”

“I
won’t.” She used her resentment like a shield, the only one she had against her
feelings for him. “I can’t.”

Muttering
an oath, he swung away from her, returning to the couch in the living space
where he’d left his briefcase on a small coffee table. He sipped his coffee
while he powered up the sleek laptop then inserted the thumb drive. “Read
this.” He angled the screen in her direction.

She
eyed him and the laptop warily.

“It’s
why I’m here.”

“You
could have emailed it to me.” Glaring at him, she sat at the other end of the
couch and pulled the laptop toward her. She recognized the National Package
Delivery letterhead and pulled back her hand as if her fingers had been burned
and jumped up.

He
stood beside her. Placing his hand on her shoulder, he encouraged her to return
to the couch. “Read it, Kara. It’s NPD’s official report on the accident.”

Reluctantly,
she seated herself on the couch and began scanning the screen. She quickly read
the lines of cold fact.

 
The document identified Charlie Watson as the
driver. Thirty years old. Married with a six-month-old daughter. Employed by
National for five years. Worked second shift. On February third, the day of the
accident, Charlie met his brother at a bar for lunch. The brothers each ordered
a beer with their meal. Charlie drank one then switched to Coke. He ate, played
some pool, and left for work.

National’s
monthly maintenance schedule for all vehicles gave Charlie’s truck a
satisfactory rating only a few days before. He hadn’t been on his route more
than an hour when Charlie received instructions to return to the terminal due
to unfavorable weather conditions.

Coming
up the exit ramp, the truck tires slid on an icy patch sending him into the
barrier. The guardrail gave way, and the truck plunged into the
bumper-to-bumper traffic below.

Unconscious
at the time emergency vehicles reached him, he’d been cut out of the truck and
taken by helicopter to St. Vincent’s hospital. After multiple surgeries and a
lengthy rehabilitation on his legs from a spinal-cord injury, there were no
guarantees that he would ever walk again.

The
police officer at the scene ordered a blood-alcohol test that registered well
below the legal limit. Jackson Wyatt prepared for a possible lawsuit from Mike
Enderley’s widow. Sympathetic to the loss of life as well as heading off a
prolonged legal battle, he offered a substantial settlement.

According
to the investigation, the State of Indiana’s faulty roadside barrier and the
hazardous weather condition had been responsible for the tragic accident, not
any discoverable wrongdoing on the part of the driver, NPD, or their delivery
truck.

Just
reviewing the impersonal account made Kara’s blood run cold. The bone-chilling
numbness of that day seeped through her. Not only for her own loss, but for the
driver as well. She hadn’t known he’d been paralyzed. Why hadn’t she thought to
find out?

She
really recalled nothing from the day, week, or month of the accident except for
the sense of irreparable loss. Paralyzed with grief for months afterward, she
had been unaware of events in her family, neighborhood, or the world around
her.

But
she hadn’t been the only one to suffer. How could she have been so
self-absorbed? So insensitive? Perhaps, because she had wanted to blame
someone, anyone, and she couldn’t do that if she sympathized or identified with
the driver.

It
didn’t surprise her to find that an internal company investigation had
exonerated both of her favorite scapegoats.

“This
is about what I expected a report by National to say.” She closed the document.
“How do I know you didn’t dummy this up yesterday?”

“There
are dated copies of the police and insurance report included with our official
investigation.” A muscle flexed in his jaw. “And because whatever else you may
think of me, you know I’ve never lied to you.”

“I
know I’ve never caught you in a lie.” The charge sounded lame even to her.

His
glare challenged her to take back her accusations. She wasn’t prepared to do
that. “How’s the driver now?”

“He’s
still in a wheelchair, but back at work.”

“Driving?”
Despite her sympathy for the man, she hoped he wasn’t back on the streets
again.

“Dispatcher.”

“Why
didn't you know anything about the accident before?”

He
hesitated, choosing his words with care. “I’m not involved with any of the
businesses on a daily basis. Uncle Jackson handled this personally, in the
manner he believed most effective. The matter was discussed at Wyatt
Enterprises board meetings, but I was out of the country the first six months
of that year. It was resolved before I returned.”

He
pushed his hands through his hair and drew in a deep breath. “I must have read
or heard about it, but I had no reason to connect it with you.” He sat beside
her and took her hands in his. “Kara, I understand your grief, I understand
that you need to blame someone, but you shouldn’t blame me.”

In
all fairness, she couldn’t continue to do so. Even before today, she had
trouble justifying that rationale. After the shock of finding out that Wyatt
Enterprises owned National Package had worn off, she probably would have put it
into perspective. But now, with her secret about the baby between them, NPD was
the excuse she needed to keep him at arm’s length.

“Not
you specifically, but I can’t help resenting you for owning the company that
caused so much misery.” She hurried to forestall his objection. “Inadvertent
though it may have been.”

Retaining
one of her hands in his, he played with her fingers like they were pieces of a
Chinese puzzle. “Where does that leave us?”

“It
leaves me in New York and you in California.”

“I
want more than that.”

Kara
gaped at him. “What are you saying? You always said you didn’t want any strings
or commitments.”

“I
know. I don’t understand it either. But since you left Atlanta—before that,
really—I came to realize that I care about you. More than I believed I could
care about anyone. Something special has happened between us, Kara. You can’t
tell me you don’t feel it, too.”

He
gripped her shoulders and pulled her toward him. His declaration was so much
more than Kara had ever expected from him. Too stunned to think or react, she sat
dazed as he trailed gentle kisses across her face. His lips skimmed her eyes
and cheeks then teased the corner of her mouth and nibbled her chin.

Maybe
we could have it all. A home. A future. A family. That last word drew her up
short. He didn’t want a family, and she didn’t need a husband.

She
planned to have the baby on her own. But if he’d changed his mind about being
with her, perhaps he’d changed his mind about becoming a father, too. The idea
of letting him into her child’s life terrified her. On the other hand, he had a
right to know. If he wanted a child.

She’d
have to approach the subject cautiously. “There is something special between
us. I do care about you and am more grateful than I can say. But I don’t see
any kind of future for us. We don’t want the same things.”

“We
wanted the same thing all spring long.” The fingertips he stroked down her neck
produced a delicious string of goose bumps.

She
held his hand between hers, taking comfort from the link. “True, but I learned
a lot about myself while I was with you. One thing I learned was that I want to
have another baby. I desperately want to be a mother, Wyatt, and you still
don't want to be a father.” She studied him carefully. “Do you?”

Was
that revulsion, disappointment, or just plain disinterest that turned his eyes
from their usual shades of gold to a muddy brown? “No.”

“I
didn’t think so.” She stood and moved toward the door. “It’s probably best if
we don’t see one another again.”

As
she opened the door, she braced herself for a poetic or literary assault. But
as always, he surprised her.

“Your
choice.” He merely flicked a finger across her cheek. “If you change your mind,
Kara mia, call me.”

He
stepped toward the boxy, no-frills elevator then suddenly turned back and
gathered her into his arms. He captured her mouth in a determined kiss. As his
lips moved over hers with love and longing, she answered him with restraint
then uncertainty, and, finally, a wellspring of desire.