In Shady Grove: About That Night Part 11

"Whatever you stole from me that night."

She bristled. "I didn't steal anything from you."

He rubbed his chin, totally confused. "Okay."

"I didn't steal anything from you," she repeated, pacing in front of him with short, agitated strides. "But I do have something of yours." Stopping in front of him, she inhaled deeply and met his eyes. "I'm pregnant."

CHAPTER SIX.

IVY WISHED SHE could take back that deep inhale. She'd gotten a nose full of Clinton's aftershave with it. Her stomach turned. The back of her neck grew cold and clammy.

Well, wouldn't throwing up on his feet take this moment from plain old bad to freaking horrible?

She breathed shallowly. Airplane travel and pregnancy didn't mix-at least not in her case. She'd battled morning sickness for more than two months but hadn't had a bout of it for the past two weeks. Until she'd been strapped in her seat, taking off from Pittsburgh.

Plus, yes, okay, she was nervous. She was dropping a bombsh.e.l.l on him. The night they'd spent together was supposed to be a one-time thing. Now, the child growing inside of her bound them for the rest of their lives.

But as bad as she felt, Clinton looked worse. The color had drained from his face, and he stood there, gla.s.sy-eyed, as if he was seconds from pa.s.sing out, just...bam! Falling flat on his handsome face.

If that big, solid body started tipping, she wasn't going to try to catch him. She was getting out of the way.

The last time she'd been underneath him, things hadn't quite worked out the way she'd planned.

His mouth hanging open like a six-foot-plus blond guppy, he blinked. Shook his head slowly, as if coming out of an intense dream.

"What?"

His voice was low. Calm. And very, very cold.

Good thing she wasn't intimidated by anyone, or else she'd be shaking in her sandals right now. As it was, she had to force her gaze to remain steady, herself not to back up to...oh...somewhere in Kentucky would suffice. "I'm pregnant."

"Am I to a.s.sume that you're trying to tell me I'm the father?"

She raised her eyebrows. She wasn't crazy about his snotty tone-and she preferred the term sperm donor over father-but he'd had a shock, so she'd give him a break. Never let it be said she couldn't be reasonable and tolerant.

At least once.

"No," she said, her tone all sorts of dry, "I internet stalked you, flew to Houston and talked my way into your apartment because I thought you might want to buy me a baby gift. I'll leave you a list of where I'm registered."

His jaw went rigid. "There's no need for sarcasm."

She snorted. "Please. That was such a stupid question it practically begged for sarcasm."

His cool gaze went to her stomach then back to her face. "You're lying."

The man was really testing her limits. "We don't know each other all that well, so I'm going to let that slide."

"Know each other that well?" he asked with a harsh laugh. "Lady, I don't even know your last name."

She nodded slowly. Pressed her lips together because her stomach was roiling again. "Fair enough. Let me fill you in on what you need to know. My name is Ivy Rutherford, and I'm twenty-six years old. I don't lie, cheat or steal, and I'm not big on second chances." She swallowed, but the sick taste in the back of her throat remained. "Something you might want to keep in mind before you speak again. I'm also seventeen weeks pregnant."

She turned to the side and smoothed the loose material of her dress over her stomach. She hadn't shown at all during the first trimester, but at week sixteen, as if overnight, a noticeable baby b.u.mp had appeared.

"Satisfied?" she asked, letting her hands fall back to her sides.

He didn't look satisfied. Or scared, which had been her reaction when that stick she'd peed on two months ago had flashed a positive sign. No, the only word she could find to describe the expression on Clinton Bartasavich Jr.'s face was furious.

And she was alone with him. Maybe she should have chosen a public place to tell him, instead of ambus.h.i.+ng him in his apartment-if you could call what had to be over three thousand square feet of bright, open rooms, million-dollar views and the highest of high-end furnis.h.i.+ngs, counters, floors and appliances an apartment. She'd been half-afraid to even sit on that fancy couch.

"We used protection," he said, his lips barely moving. "That night."

"Yes. I realize what you're referring to. Unfortunately, my eleventh-grade health teacher was right and the only foolproof way to prevent pregnancy is abstinence. We're in the small percentage of cases in which condoms are ineffective. Looks as if you have some sort of supersperm. You must be very proud."

"I don't believe you," he said as evenly as if they were discussing what to have for lunch.

Bile rose in her throat. Okay, no thinking about food, not even in general terms. "You think I have a pillow in here?" she asked, indicating her stomach.

"I don't believe I'm the father."

"Why would I lie?"

He sent her a bland look, and she replayed her words in her head. Winced. Guess he wasn't the only one who could ask a stupid question.

He was a Bartasavich. Oh, she'd heard all about Kane Bartasavich's wealthy family in Houston, but she'd a.s.sumed wealthy meant upper-middle cla.s.s, like Charlotte's parents. Dr. Ellison was an ophthalmologist, and Mrs. Ellison owned a popular boutique clothing store on Main Street. Regular, well-off folk who lived in a big, tasteful home, tipped generously and vacationed in the Caribbean.

The Bartasaviches, she'd learned from her internet searches, were the kind of wealthy that defined the word ostentatious, donated millions to charities and politicians, and owned their own island retreat, a little place to escape the stresses of being richer than G.o.d and as beautiful as the angels above.

And she had to go and sleep with the heir apparent, get pregnant with his child.

She sighed. That was her. Never doing anything halfway.

"I'm not after your money," she told him. It'd be easier, much easier, if he'd been dirt-poor.

His mouth twisted. "You slept with me after knowing me all of what...twenty minutes?"

He was obviously a mistrusting soul, thinking the worst of people.

Not that she blamed him on that score. But he had no right to play the holier-than-thou card.

"Right back at ya," she said. "Not knowing me-and vice versa-didn't seem to bother you when you had me under you in that big old bed. The way I figure it, we both got what we wanted that night. No need to cast blame."

"Maybe you got more than I did."

"What's that supposed to mean?" But she was afraid she knew. She just hoped he was smart enough not to actually say it.

"It means it seems very convenient that you're here, claiming to be pregnant with my child." He closed the distance between them. "You want something from me."

He didn't believe her. Well, she hadn't really expected him to, had she? Still, it stung, and she had to remind herself that he didn't know her. Didn't know she made her own way. She wasn't some gold digger looking for a rich man to take care of her.

She took care of herself. She was the only person she trusted to do so.

"All I want is for you to back up," she a.s.sured him. Before she gagged. Dear Lord, pregnancy wasn't for sissies.

Or, obviously, those with weak stomachs.

"What did you think?" he continued as if she hadn't spoken. "That if you showed up here, I'd blindly accept everything you had to say and maybe toss in a marriage proposal and a diamond ring?"

She snorted out a laugh. Saw he was completely serious. Then again, he probably didn't have much sense for the ridiculous. "The last thing I want is a marriage proposal. From what I've heard, marriages don't work out so well for your family." His father, a serial adulterer, had been married several times. "I hope things work out better for your brother and Charlotte. She's a nice person."

And weren't those the people who got hurt and screwed over the most?

Good thing no one had ever accused Ivy of being nice.

Clinton nodded once, sharply, as if coming to some grand conclusion. Jabbed a finger at her. "Don't move."

He brushed past her and disappeared through a door off the entertainment-slash-media area-or whatever fancy name rich people used for their TV room.

She did move. She went into the kitchen, if only to prove he wasn't the boss of her. But she didn't march out the door the way she should have. Oh, no, her curiosity wouldn't let her leave until she found out what he was up to. Curiosity and maybe a teeny, tiny bit of guilt. She had, technically, broken into his home and sprung the news on him that he was going to be a father.

She needed to stop being so defensive and give him the benefit of the doubt. Had to trust that he wasn't really an arrogant, judgmental a.s.s.

Trailing her fingers over the cool marble countertop, she strolled around the oblong island. Everything about the kitchen-from the stainless-steel appliances to the glossy hardwood floor to the dark mahogany cabinets-screamed "high end." It was beautiful, she had to admit. In a cool, modern, don't-even-think-of-cooking-in-here-and-making-a-mess way.

If this room, this entire apartment with its dark colors, sleek, boxy furniture and gorgeous views didn't say all she needed to know about Clinton Bartasavich Jr., nothing would.

He was untouchable. Cold. On top of the world, looking down at everyone else.

Except...he hadn't been any of those things during the night they'd spent together. Or at least, not only those things. She'd touched him then, his skin warm under her hands, his body hard and responsive. He hadn't looked down at her but had held her gaze, as helpless as she'd been against the undeniable pull between them.

She bit her lower lip and leaned her elbows on the counter, her chin in her hands. Glanced at the doorway where he'd disappeared. Which one was the real Clinton?

More important, why did it matter so much to her?

She straightened when he came out, his expression dark. He slapped something onto the counter, his palm covering it as he slid it toward her. "I believe this is what you came here for."

"I'm almost afraid to look," she murmured, only half kidding.

He spread his legs, an immovable tree of a man. Slowly lifted his hand, then crossed his arms and waited.

Your turn to make the next move.

Here went nothing.

She lowered her gaze. As she'd suspected, it was a check. Facedown, his very own challenge to her.

Pick it up and see what I think you and your child are worth.

Nausea building again, she did just that. The room spun, and she held onto the edge of the counter for support. There went her giving him the benefit of the doubt.

He really was an arrogant, judgmental a.s.s.

Her throat went dry, so she worked moisture back into her mouth. Managed to whistle softly under her breath. "Fifty grand. Wow. Guess I could buy my own diamond ring with this. Save myself from worrying about the husband part of that equation."

"Take it," he said, unemotional and inhuman. "Do whatever you want with it. But remember this, it's a one-time offer. You won't be getting a cent more from me."

"I'm not sure if this is a bribe," she said, waving the check in the air, "or plain old hush money."

He stiffened. "It's neither."

She studied him closely. Lowered her hand. "No, it's not a bribe, is it? It's a test. Aren't you clever?" she murmured, the check practically burning her fingertips. "If I'm lying about you being the father of my baby, I'll take the money and run-glad for a miniscule portion of the Bartasavich fortune-knowing the truth will come out with a DNA test. On the other hand, if I'm telling the truth, I'll get all defensive, tear this check apart and add a suggestion about where you can put those pieces before throwing them into your smug face."

His eyes narrowed to slits. "Smug?"

"Hmm..." She tapped the edge of the check against her mouth. Began to pace the length of the island. "Decisions, decisions."

Part of her, a big, screaming part, wanted to shove the check down his throat. Storm out of there with her pride and self-respect intact. Luckily, another part of her, the rational, pragmatic part of herself, prevailed. Fifty thousand dollars was a lot of money. Oh, maybe not to Richie Rich over there, but to the rest of the population? It was worth a dent in pride.

To her it was a G.o.dsend. Her job at Bradford House provided medical insurance, but there were still other expenses to consider with a new baby. Diapers and clothes and a crib and changing table. A stroller and car seat. Maybe one of those swing things.

Any extra could go into a savings account for the baby. Their own little nest egg for college or, more than likely, the emergencies that would no doubt pop up during the next eighteen years.

The bigger issue, though, was Clinton himself. If she took the money, they'd both be off the hook. He wouldn't have to take responsibility for the baby. And she wouldn't have to deal with having him in her and her child's life.

Win-win.

"Cowboy," she said, making a show of carefully folding the check in half, "it looks like you have yourself a deal."

C.J. STARED, HIS jaw aching, head buzzing as Ivy crossed to the sofa and picked up her purse, tucked his check inside.

The buzzing continued and he realized it was the intercom on the wall, the front desk trying to get hold of him. He ignored it.

"What the h.e.l.l do you mean we have a deal?" he managed to spit out.

"I mean I'm going to take this check with me to Shady Grove and, as per your stipulation, I won't ask for another red cent." She came toward him, hips swaying, heels clicking on the hardwood. "After I walk out that door, you'll never hear from or see me again. You won."

It didn't feel like he'd won. It felt like he'd made a mistake. A big one.

Aren't you clever?