Not Quite Married Page 6

Agnes barreled right on. “Of course, after the way your father behaved, I can see why you might be a bit confused as to your responsibilities as a parent, Clara.” The way her father behaved? Dalton made a mental note to find out more about that. Agnes kept on. “And I can’t imagine how difficult these past months must have been for you.”

  “You’re overdramatizing, Aunt Agnes,” said Clara.

  “No. No, I am not. I am sympathetic. I love you. I’m a traditionalist at heart, so I can’t say I approve of your becoming pregnant without being married first, but I—”

  “Aunt Agnes, stop!”

  Agnes put her wrinkled, perfectly manicured hand to her chest. “There is no need to shout.”

  “Then listen to me. Are you listening?”

  “Well, of course I am, dear.”

  “I love you, Aunt Agnes, but I want you to stay out of it, please.”

  “But I—”

  “Please.”

  Agnes sputtered a little more, but she did finally back off—which was too bad, really, as Agnes had been arguing his case for him. The old lady stayed for half an hour. She talked the whole time, gossiping about people he didn’t know and delivering several grim pronouncements concerning the frightening state of the world today.

  Right after Agnes said goodbye, one of the nurses came in to check on Clara. Dalton left them alone.

  When the nurse emerged from the room, she told him dinner would be served soon. Would he like a tray? He thanked her and said he would appreciate that and went back in with Clara.

  He’d no sooner settled into the chair by the bed than yet another visitor appeared in the doorway. Tall and broad-shouldered with light brown hair, the guy was too damn good-looking. He carried a large stuffed teddy bear. In the teddy bear’s fist were three red satin ribbons attached to three big red, shiny heart-shaped balloons.

  Dalton knew instantly who he was. He’d seen the pictures of him in that private investigator’s report back in December: Ryan McKellan, the one Clara had almost married.

  “Ryan!” Clara cried his name with way too much delight. She held out her arms.

  “Damn, Clara.” The guy went straight to her, dropped to the side of the bed, propped the teddy bear on the bed table and gathered her into his arms. “I just heard.”

  “Thanks for coming,” She hugged him way closer than Dalton thought was appropriate and the guy hugged her right back. The hug went on for far too long.

  Finally, Ryan pulled back and Clara settled onto the pillow again. He touched the side of her face, a gentle touch that made Dalton want to break something—preferably that too-handsome face. “Are you all right?”

  She had her hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Did she really need to keep touching him that way? “Honestly, Rye,” she said. “It’s not a big deal. I’m fine...”

  Dalton wasn’t letting that stand. “As a matter of fact, she fainted. She was dehydrated. And her doctor’s keeping her here overnight for observation.”

  Ryan turned to look at him then. Frowning, he glanced at Clara.

  Clara sighed, “Ryan, this is—”

  “I’m Dalton Ames. The father of Clara’s baby.”

  The other guy didn’t look happy. Not happy in the least.

  Clara didn’t, either. Too damn bad. But then she said, “Dalton, will you leave us alone for a few minutes, please?”

  It was the last thing he intended to do. “What for?”

  The other guy tried to smooth things over. “Clara, it’s all right. We can talk later.” He started to rise.

  But damned if she didn’t grab him back. “No. We’ll talk now.” She shot Dalton a look of mingled exasperation and defiance—a look that asked, Now, don’t you feel guilty for being a complete ass?

  He didn’t feel guilty. Not in the least.

  She said, “Dalton, will you please step out of the room—and close the door when you go?”

  He stayed where was, though he knew he’d pushed the issue to the limit.

  She asked him again. “Dalton. Please.”

  He longed to simply tell her no, that he was going nowhere, not as long as this Ryan character was in her room.

  But if he did that, it would cost him. He could see it in those big brown eyes of hers. If he didn’t do as she’d asked, she was way too likely to tell him to get out—and not come back.

  So he rose without a word and left them, pausing only to swing the door shut in his wake.

  Chapter Four

  Once the door had shut behind Dalton, Clara took Ryan’s hand. “Thank you for the teddy bear...and the balloons. I love them.”

  Ryan lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. She knew the guarded look on his face. He was hurt. “So. That’s him, huh? At last.” He pulled his hand from her grip.

  She suppressed an unhappy sigh. “It’s him.”

  “You finally told him.”

  “That’s right. Ryan, I’m sor—”

  “He gonna do right?”

  Exasperation curled in her belly. “I really, really wish that everyone would stop asking that. What does it mean, anyway, do right?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Of course I know.”

  “Then why’d you ask?”

  “Because I’m tired of hearing it. Because marriage is not necessarily the right way to go in a situation like this.”

  Ryan made a face—one that meant he didn’t agree with her, but he wasn’t going to argue the point. “The kid needs a dad who’s around, a dad who’ll be there for her.”

  “Judging by the way Dalton has behaved since I told him about the baby three weeks ago, I don’t think we need to worry about whether or not he’ll be around.”

  Rye grunted. “Three weeks since you told him, huh?”

  She waited until he met her eyes and then said softly, regretfully, “I should have talked to you, kept you up on what was going on, I know. I just...felt so tired. And I didn’t know where to begin.”

  Another half shrug. “Where’s he from?”

  “Denver. He’s a banker.”

  Ryan chuckled dryly and shook his head. “He looks like a banker.”

  She took his hand again. At least he let her keep it that time. And then she told him all the stuff she should have shared earlier, so he would have been prepared when he and Dalton finally came face-to-face. She went through the basics of what had happened on the island, and the misunderstandings that had kept Dalton from contacting her, and her from getting in touch with him.

  At the end, Ryan said, “So he turned you down, on that island?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What an idiot.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Spoken like the best friend any girl could ever have.”

  “He messes you over again, he answers to me.”

  “Rye, come on. He’s trying.”

  “Trying isn’t enough.”

  “Give the guy a break, huh?”

  “He needs to know you’ve got people looking out for you.”

  She blew out her cheeks with a hard breath. “Are you serious? The family was here. All my sisters, all but one of my brothers. Aunt Agnes. And Rory. And now you. Believe me, at this point he’s very well aware that there are people looking out for me.”

  “Good,” he said. “As long as he knows.” He gazed at her for a long moment. “Is he staying the night here? Or do you need me to come get you in the morning?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Clara. You want me to stay?”

  She thought of Dalton, out in the hallway. He really was trying and he was the baby’s father. She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “No. You go.”

  “You sure?”

  As if on cue, there was a tap on the door and Dalton stuck his head in. He scowled right past Ryan and locked eyes with Clara. “You need to rest.”

  She opened her mouth to tell him to butt out.

  But Ryan spoke first. “I suppose he’s right.” And then he pulled her close for a second hug
—and whispered in her ear, “I mean it. He gives you grief, send him to me.” There was humor in that whisper and her heart felt lighter.

  When he pulled back, they grinned at each other and she said, “Will do.”

  And then he got up. “You need anything, you call.”

  “Thanks, Rye. I will.”

  Dalton stood by the door wearing a smoldering expression that said only his excellent breeding was keeping him from punching Rye’s lights out.

  Rye paused a couple of feet from Dalton. “You’d better take good care of her.”

  “I intend to.”

  Rye did that ridiculous two-finger, I’m watching you gesture, playing the moment for all it was worth, and then glanced back at her one more time. “Later, Clara.” He said it lightheartedly, with his famous sexy grin.

  And then he was gone.

  She waited for Dalton to start quizzing her about what had been said in his absence.

  But he only asked, “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

  Which made her feel way too tenderly toward him.

  She thanked him and assured him there was nothing she needed.

  He took the chair by the bed. She settled back and dozed for a while. Dinner arrived. After the meal, he went out for half an hour or so and came back with a leather duffel.

  When she asked what it was, he said, “A shaving kit, something to sleep in.”

  “So...you’re staying the night?” She wasn’t really sure how she felt about that.

  He looked at her intently from under his dark eyebrows. “You have a problem with that?”

  Did she? She still couldn’t decide and ended up saying kind of limply, “I think it’s unnecessary, that’s all.”

  “Do you want me to sleep on a chair in the waiting room, then?”

  “I—”

  “Because I’m not going anywhere until we’ve seen your doctor in the morning.”

  She gave in. Because, really, she wanted him there more than she wanted him gone. “No. You can stay here in the room with me.”

  “Thank you,” he said in a tone edged with irony.

  At a little before nine, the nurses rolled in a bed for him.

  He took his duffel into the bathroom and came out wearing sweats and a blue Henley shirt that hugged his powerful shoulders and arms and made an absurd little ache in the center of her belly—to have those arms around her again, holding her close, the way they had done every night on the island.

  Clara banished that ache. She took her turn in the bathroom and then he switched off the light and they settled in for the night.

  She expected to lie there awake for hours, staring into the darkness, listening to the unfamiliar hospital sounds all around her, wondering what he was thinking, wishing she didn’t care.

  But she shut her eyes and pulled the blankets up more snugly around her—and that was it. Sleep just kind of mowed her down.

  * * *

  They drew her blood again very early in the morning. Dr. Kapur came in several hours later, at nine thirty. Dalton went out so the doctor could give Clara a quick exam.

  He came back in to hear the prognosis.

  “You’re simply under too much stress,” the doctor said. “Your cortisol levels are elevated and your blood pressure’s higher than it should be. You need to take it easy.”

  Clara gulped. “What, exactly, does that mean?”

  “I want you on modified bed rest until the baby’s born. No working, no driving, limited activity. You may sit on the sofa and surf the Web, stand up long enough to take a shower or make a sandwich. Basically, you’re going to be splitting your day between the couch and the bed. Catch up on your daytime television,” the doctor advised with a grin.

  “I don’t watch daytime television.” Was this really happening? “I don’t have time for daytime television.”

  “Now you will,” said Dalton a little too firmly. Clara opened her mouth to tell him to stay of it.

  But then Dr. Kapur asked, “Are there stairs at your house?”

  Clara’s head was spinning. “Yes, I...”

  “Avoid going up and down them.”

  “I... No stairs? And no working? At all?”

  “None. That’s of major importance. Whatever arrangements you’ve made for the birth and recovery go into effect as of now. You’re going to be taking it very easy.” Dr. Kapur turned to Dalton. “Reducing her stress is the key. We need to keep a close eye on her. Lots of liquids, too.”

  “Of course,” Dalton answered gravely. “I’ll see to it she gets proper care.”

  Clara wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. But there was no point in arguing with him in front of her doctor. “No driving, even?”

  “That’s right. No driving,” Dr. Kapur confirmed. “I’ll want to see you again in one week. Call my office and set up an appointment.”

  Clara sputtered out a reluctant agreement.

  “All right, then,” said the doctor. “I’ll release you. Take it easy and I’ll see you in a week.”

  * * *

  Dalton was ready for her objections. And to be told he could go.

  The minute the doctor left them alone, she turned a rather frantic-looking smile on him. “Thanks so much for everything, Dalton. But I know you have to go back to your own life and I’ll just call—”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he cut in before she could really get rolling, rising from his chair to move to her side. “My driver’s waiting to take you home.”

  She gulped and stared up at him. “Home?” Her dark eyes sparked. “You mean to Denver?”

  He asked, gently, “Would you like to come to Denver to stay until the baby comes?”

  “Of course not. I told you. I live here.”

  “Well, then. That’s where I’ll take you. To your house.”

  She drew in a slow, shaky breath. “Really, it’s okay. You don’t have to—”

  He sat down on the bed beside her. “Let me take you home, Clara. Come on. I’m here and I’m willing.”

  Her face was flushed. “God. Modified bed rest. I don’t believe it.”

  “You’re three weeks from your due date.” He kept his voice even and calm. “Really, don’t you think it’s time you cut back?”

  Her slim shoulders slumped. “I... Well, yeah. You’re right. Dr. Kapur is right. I know that. It’s just, I like to keep busy. And I’m used to being independent. And now I’m suddenly supposed to be home all day, lying around watching TV.”

  “There are other options. You could read. Knit. Do you knit?”

  “I tried once.” She pulled a pouty face, which he found way too adorable. “I was lousy at it.”

  He took her hand and felt a small surge of triumph when she didn’t jerk away. “It’s only for a few weeks.”

  She gave a little laugh that sounded way too much like a sob. “Right. And then the baby will be here. And then I’ll never sleep again.”

  He chuckled. “It’s not going to be that bad.”

  “How would you know? You’ve never had a kid, either.” And then her big eyes got bigger. “Or have you?”

  He reached out with his free hand and guided a few soft strands of hair out of her eyes, tucking them behind her ear. Her skin was cool and smooth as velvet. “No. Our daughter is my first.”

  She nibbled nervously on her lower lip. He wanted to bend close and steal a kiss. But he knew it was too soon. She whispered, “You’re being so nice to me. Why?”

  He told the truth. “I want to take care of you.”

  Her eyes were so wide, her mouth so damn soft. “Right now you remind me of how you were on the island. It’s kind of disorienting. Whatever happened to that guy, anyway?”

  He didn’t really know how to answer that question. So he ignored it. Instead he rubbed his thumb lightly across the back of her hand and insisted very gently, “Let me take you home, Clara.”

  “I...” A small, soft sigh. And it happened. She gave in. “All right.”

  * * *<
br />
  At her house, he herded her straight to the downstairs master suite, which was large and comfortable, with a walk-in closet on the other side of the roomy bathroom.

  In one corner of her bedroom, she’d set up a bassinette, a changing table and shelves and a rocking chair. She explained, “For the first weeks after the baby comes home, she’ll stay here in my room. Eventually, I’ll move her to her own room upstairs.”

  Did she have the baby’s room set up and ready? If not, he would take care of it.

  But they would get to that later.

  The bed was a king, a four-poster in dark wood with a cheery quilt for a bedspread. He went right over and folded the covers back.

  She stood in the doorway, cell phone in hand, looking recalcitrant. “I need to call the restaurant. Then I want a shower.”

  “You can call the restaurant from bed.”

  “I want a shower before I get in bed. And I don’t want you ordering me around.”

  He kept his tone mild. “Please.”

  She pointed at the easy chair by the window. It had a nice, soft-looking ottoman. “I’ll sit in that while I make the call.”

  “That’ll work.” He waited.

  “Oh, fine.” With a huff and an eye roll, she went over and lowered herself carefully into the chair, cupping her big stomach in a spread hand as she did it. “There. Happy now?” She leaned back against the cushions. But she still had her sandals on and her feet on the floor.

  He dared to approach. Slowly.

  She watched him coming, narrow-eyed. “What?” He dropped to a knee beside her chair. She blinked down at him. “What in the...?” She looked pretty worried.

  He figured it out. She feared he might be about to propose again.

  No way. He might be overbearing. But he wasn’t stupid. It hadn’t worked the first time, to whip out that big ring out of the blue. Next time he asked her, it wouldn’t be on the fly.

  Gently, he picked up one of her feet—the one nearest the ottoman—and slid off the sandal. “Just helping you get comfortable.” He eased that foot onto the ottoman and reached for the other one. She allowed him to remove that sandal, too, but she swung it over to the ottoman on her own.

  She rotated her right foot, wiggled her pink-painted toes. “Ugh. Cankles.”

  “Cank...?”