Pregnant on the Upper East Side? / The Billionaire in Penthouse B: Pregnant on the Upper East Side?

“Not full costume,” she rushed on before he could object. “More of a Mardi Gras in November. We could even have New Orleans cuisine and music, if you like.”

“Sounds like a good plan. Can you get a jazz band?”

“I’ve used a couple of good ones before. This afternoon I’ll call and see if either is available. Since we’ve decided on a theme, I have invitation and decoration suggestions.”

She reached for her laptop, booted up and then picked up the paper file. Inside she’d tucked samples for several different party themes in different pocketed folders. As soon as he made choices she could enter the info online and e-mail it to her supplier.

Alex rose and carried the plates to the wet bar in the corner. When he returned he sat down closer than before, his long legs bracketing her chair and his arm resting along the back of her seat. His position hemmed her against the table. If she leaned back she’d be in his arms—one of the places she’d been avoiding for the past threeplus months and intended to continue avoiding.

She fought to block out his nearness and focused on pulling up the images on-screen. “Here are sample schemes.”

She clicked her mouse, scrolling through each page. He leaned closer. His breath teased her cheek and stirred the hair at her temple. Her mouth moistened and her pulse quickened.

“Stop. Back up.” He spoke quietly, directly into her ear.

It took a few seconds for her brain to relay his words to her fingers. She cleared her throat. “This page?”

“Yes.”

It was no surprise he’d chosen the most conservative of the bunch. She extracted a sample from the folder. “This?”

“Yes.”

She picked up a pen with a hand that wasn’t as steady as she would have liked and made a note, then did the same on the computer. “With that I’d recommend these.”

She flipped to the next item on her list. Thank goodness the program she’d installed prompted her or else she would be floundering. What was wrong with her? She loved planning events. And yet today she could barely connect the dots.

Concentrate. “I’ll make sure to order an assortment of spare masks for the guests who don’t bring their own. Would you like for me to get one for you?”

“Amanda.”

She turned her head at his low-voiced but commanding tone. Their faces and lips were scarce inches apart—the closest they’d been to date. The temptation to close the distance between their mouths streaked across her mind. She forced her gaze to his eyes and dragged a slow breath into her lungs.

Lambent desire flickered in his dark chocolate eyes. “You know what I want.”

Did she ever. Her pulse rate rocketed. She swallowed and nodded. “I have a pretty good idea.”

“I trust you to make the decisions to make it happen.” Firm. Decisive. Not at all seductive.

What? Confused, she blinked and sat back.

“We’ve covered the basics,” he continued. “I’ll leave the rest in your capable hands.”

Work. He was talking about work?

Of course he is. That’s why you’re here. Remember? Get your head out of the ozone, Amanda Crawford.

“I’ll get right on it.” She hastily closed her laptop, then grabbed the file folder and stacked it on top.

Alex shifted again, leaning forward so that his chest and arm pressed her back and shoulder, enfolding her in his warmth and scent. “Before you go, I have something I know you can’t resist.”

Her heart thumped like a bass drum, the beat reverberating off her eardrums and her gaze drifted back to his mouth.

He reached across the table and extracted two small boxes from the take-out bag. “Baklava. Two kinds. Walnut and chocolate. I couldn’t neglect your sweet tooth.”

She wasn’t disappointed. She wasn’t.

Yes, she was.

What is wrong with you? Do you actually miss him trying to get into your pants? How perverted is that?

But she was touched he’d noticed she had a weakness for sweets. Had Curtis? Had any of the men who’d blemished her relationship record in the past decade? Regrettably, no.

And what did that say about her taste in men and her ability to choose them wisely? Nothing good. Which was why her sudden yen for Alex Harper was bad news.

She transferred her attention to the flaky confections cut into bite-size diamonds.

“Go ahead, Amanda. Dive right in. You know you want to.”

Exactly. And that was becoming a big problem.

The police again?

Amanda’s steps faltered on the marble floor as she entered her lobby early Monday evening. She hoped the police presence was more of the same old unsolved investigation and not some new occurrence in the apartment building.

As she passed under the massive crystal chandelier on the way to the elevators she nodded a silent greeting to Detective McGray, who loomed over the doorman’s desk. His green eyes and lean, paunchy body looked tired and harassed.

The detective had been haunting the building since a former resident had been found dead back in late June. At first the police had believed Marie Endicott’s death to be a suicide, but now they suspected foul play. The possibility of someone being murdered in the building gave Amanda the creeps. She shivered and shifted her attention to the doorman.

Poor Henry was sweating and mopping his face with a handkerchief despite the frosty air Amanda brought whooshing in on her heels. She couldn’t blame the guy. The hard-eyed detective could make anyone squirm. McGray had certainly rattled her cage when he’d questioned her after the woman’s body had been found. Amanda hadn’t even known the deceased. But she’d heard everyone in the building had been questioned. And then there’d been an even more uncomfortable Q&A in July when Julia had received a blackmail letter from someone threatening to spill the news of her pregnancy.

Amanda stepped into the waiting elevator. According to her former roommate, the scandals of 721 Park Avenue’s residents could keep the tabloids busy for years. Yet another reason to keep the Curtis situation quiet. She wasn’t ready to involve Alex’s associate and risk exposing her predicament.

Which brought her thoughts back to Alex. As if they’d strayed far from that taboo subject lately. She sighed and leaned into the corner as the elevator shot upward. His enticement with the baklava had almost led her to create a scandal of a whole different kind. How she’d managed not to lick the man from head to toe right there in his office when he’d fed her a bite of chocolate baklava was still a mystery.

Kudos to her for having the good sense to invent another appointment and rush out of there before she devoured him and his baklava. Her willpower was stronger than she’d suspected. But it was worrisomely shaky.

The doors opened. She straightened and prepared to exit but stopped. Jane Elliott, penthouse B’s housekeeper, stood in the opening. Amanda glanced at the floor number. Six. “Hi, Jane. Going up?”

Jane hesitated and then stepped inside and hit the button for the penthouse. “Yes. Good evening, Amanda.”

The doors slid shut. Amanda briefly wondered who Jane had been visiting on the sixth floor and then shoved the question into the “none of her business” category.

She looked longingly at the housekeeper’s long, curly hair and wished—not for the first time—that her babyfine hair would hold a curl. But no. She might have inherited her mother’s height and build, but she’d been cursed with her father’s flyaway locks and pale coloring instead of the thick auburn hair and sultry looks that had made her mother a top fashion model for two decades before she’d traded in that career to become a successful clothing designer.

Bad hair. Just one more way to disappoint her overachieving parents. As if she needed another way.

She shook off the negative thoughts. “Detective McGray is back in the building. I haven’t missed anything new, have I?”