Just A Little Bit Pregnant

The clutch of panic, cold and clammy, added to her anger. When the nameplate outside the last office on the left announced that she’d reached her destination, she shoved the door open without knocking—and stopped two feet inside the room.

Tom sat behind his desk, his thick mustache framing a scowl that held all the friendly charm of a half-starved timber wolf. His office was stark, orderly, all-business—pretty much what she’d expected. The only color came from the row of framed photographs behind him, and the one on his desk—a large, professional photo of a pretty young woman in a checked dress.

Another time Jacy might have had to acknowledge what she felt when she saw that prominently displayed picture. Not now.

She and Tom weren’t alone. Another man, a stranger, grinned at Jacy from where he sat on a wooden chair. He was as dirty, disreputable and smiling as Tom was clean, controlled and angry.

It hurt. It shouldn’t have, not anymore. But Tom truly hadn’t wanted to see her or speak with her. Not even for these few moments. She’d had to threaten to tell the sergeant downstairs why she’d come before Tom would agree to see her—and he still hadn’t bothered to grant her privacy.

Well, so be it. She straightened her shoulders and marched up to his desk.

“I don’t care much for your methods,” Tom growled. “I don’t know what you hoped to accomplish, but—”

“Shut up, Rasmussin.” She slapped the folder she’d been clutching on the desk between them. Then, for the first time in two months, she met his eyes.

Oh, God. His eyes...colorless as rain, looking at her...looking right through her. Her stomach jumped, and lower down a knot of feeling tightened and spread electrically. A hateful, detestable feeling. She couldn’t crave this man anymore. She wouldn’t.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me, Tom?” the dirty stranger asked, still grinning.

“Shut up, Raz.” Tom reached for the folder that held the papers she’d drawn up after some of her research. “What the hell is this?”

Raz? Mr. Law-and-Order had had a brother, she remembered. A brother who worked undercover. She gave the bum in the wooden chair a measuring glance, then turned back to face the neatly groomed bum behind the desk.

Jacy smiled a nasty, satisfied smile. Tom really should have agreed to talk to her privately.

She leaned over his desk and tapped the folder. “This is a summary of my probable medical expenses, with the amount my insurance should cover indicated. I’ll expect you to pay for half the remaining balance. That’s not negotiable. I’ve also made some suggestions about support payments and visitation rights. Do take your time to think this over—just as long as you get back to me by Monday. That way you’ll save us both some legal fees and court costs...Dad.”

His face went as suddenly pale as hers had at the doctor’s. Satisfied, she turned around and marched out.

Two

At 10:20 that night Jacy pulled into the parking lot of her apartment. She wore a yellow T-shirt with the sleeves torn out over a hot-pink leotard and turquoise bike shorts. Her windows were down, though the temperature still hovered near eighty. After a workout she liked to feel the wind on her damp skin as she drove home, even if it was only muggy city air lifting her hair from her neck.

Another woman might have called a friend after the confrontation with her baby’s father. Although Jacy considered a couple of people at the paper good friends, it didn’t occur to her to call them. Not then. Instead, she’d driven for hours, using the excuse of an interview to hit the highway. When that didn’t help, she’d gone to her gym to try to work through her emotions physically.

That hadn’t done much good, either.

Jacy’s neighborhood straddled the line between respectable and scary. Her apartment complex was fifty years old and hadn’t been anything special even when new, but it was centrally located and she liked it. The walls were thick, the plumbing worked and every spring the azaleas burst into exuberant bloom.

No flowers bloomed this late in the summer. Tonight the air smelled of exhaust fumes and charcoal from the fast-food place down the street.

Jacy turned off the engine, rolled up her windows, grabbed her tote in one hand and her pepper spray in the other. She’d taken three steps away from her car when she saw the man sitting on the outside steps to her apartment. Waiting. Watching her.

She froze.

Night and the harsh light from the lamppost nearby laid hard black shadows across the man’s face and form, turning him into a fluidly changing study in black and white as he stood. His hat threw his face in shadow, but she didn’t need to see his features to know whose body uncoiled from one of the lower steps.

“If you have to carry pepper spray to walk from your car to your apartment, you’re in the wrong neighborhood,” Tom Rasmussin said.

The sudden starkness of Jacy’s face hit Tom like a blow to the stomach. He hadn’t meant to frighten her. But then, he hadn’t intended most of what he’d done to this woman, had he?

Guilt had a bad taste, yet there were worse emotions. “We need to talk,” he said.

She walked slowly toward him. Damn, it ought to be illegal for women to wear those exercise clothes in public. Especially a woman like her. Jacy had a body that could make a strong man beg, a body he remembered only too well.

His gaze slid to her belly, mostly hidden now by the yellow T-shirt. It looked flat still.

“You picked a lousy time to talk,” she said. “It’s late.”

“This isn’t exactly the time I picked. I’ve been waiting here two hours.”

For the first time she smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant expression. “You would have waited longer if I’d known you were here.”

He didn’t doubt that. “I’d like to come up.”

She studied him a moment longer before nodding. He didn’t need to be a mind reader to know how reluctant she was to let him in—every stiff muscle of her body as she passed him on the stairs spoke clearly of how little she wanted to be around him. He didn’t much blame her. The night probably wouldn’t get any better for her, either, considering what he had to say.

Her apartment made him jumpy. The large living area overflowed with color and clutter... and memories of the one other time he’d seen it. Books and magazines were scattered everywhere, from the hedonistic couches crowded with pillows to the small dining table where her computer sat.

The book on top of the nearest pile had a picture of a mother and a baby on the dust jacket. Tom looked away.

She’d told him no that night. After a long, hot kiss, she’d told him he was going too fast. His hand had been on her breast. She’d looked up at him with eyes slumberous with hunger and shiny with feelings he should have respected—and he’d never hesitated.

It hadn’t been hard to change her mind.

Tom took a deep breath. He’d known this wouldn’t be easy, hadn’t he? He took off his hat and bent to set it on her coffee table.

“You want a drink?” Jacy asked.

He looked at her, standing stiff and wary at the other end of the red couch. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders as if she’d just climbed out of bed. He had a sudden, visceral memory of her, of how she felt from the inside—and he wanted her. Oh, yes, he did want her, wanted to touch her one more time, wanted the thrill and insanity of losing himself in her, letting the fire have them both until everything else, past and future, was burned away. He’d never experienced fire like hers before that night, their one night together.

Memory melted into fantasy. What would it be like if he reached for what he wanted and tumbled her down onto one of the brightly colored couches? What if he slid his hand up under that yellow T-shirt as they fell...

Hell, was he completely crazy? He ran a hand over his hair, shaken by how quickly he lost control. “You shouldn’t drink, in your condition.”

Her lips tightened. “You have a pretty low opinion of me, don’t you?” She turned. “I’m having a diet soda. Join me or not, as you choose.”

He watched the sweet sway of her hips in that skintight thing she was wearing and hardened even more. She damned sure didn’t look like a mother-to-be. Jock, he thought, but didn’t say. He’d called Jacy that on more than one occasion, giving her a hard time because she liked to work out—partly because it bugged her, but mostly because it had helped him pretend he didn’t see her as a woman.

He forced his eyes to move up, and said the first of the things he’d come there to say. “How sure are you that I’m the father?”

She stopped a few steps away and turned slowly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I used protection. Both times. Before I accept responsibility, I want to know why you picked me for the father instead of one of your other lovers.”

She moved fast. He would have had to really work at it if he’d wanted to stop her. He didn’t.

Her slap rocked his head back. When her arm drew back to repeat the action, he caught her wrist. “I’m sorry,” he said as gently as he could while struggling with his own pain—a dull, terrible ache trying to swallow him, an ache that had nothing to do with the way his cheek stung from her blow. “I had to ask.”