A Baby For Emily

“Keith called me from his car a couple of hours before he died.”

Emily’s shoulders slumped. She sank down onto the arm of a nearby chair and cupped her hand over her forehead. She should have known. Though they had been as opposite in personality as any two men could be, Keith and Dillon had always been close.

“I see,” she said finally. “Well, if it will put your mind at ease, the baby is fine. So you see, there’s really no reason for anyone to stay.”

“Give it up, Emily. I’m not leaving.”

“Why are you doing this?” she snapped in frustration. “You don’t even like me.”

For an interminable time he simply stared at her. Then he tipped his head toward the stairway in the foyer. “Go to bed, Emily. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She opened her mouth to argue, then shut it again. With a sigh, she turned and headed for the stairs. She simply didn’t have the strength to do battle with him right now.

Dillon remained where he was and watched her go. When she was out of sight he walked over to the drinks cart and poured himself two fingers of Jack Daniels from the crystal decanter. He tossed back half the drink in one gulp, then refilled the glass and wandered over to the window.

He gazed past his reflection into the gloomy night. Sometime since they’d left the cemetery a Texas “blue norther” had blown in, turning the weather nasty. Wind whipped the bare trees into a frenzy and sleet clicked against the window panes. Dillon sipped his drink, his face somber, Emily’s last words ringing in his head.

You don’t even like me.

He snorted. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that she believed that. In a way, by his actions these past seven years—avoiding her whenever he could, keeping his distance during family gatherings—he had made it appear that way.

Dillon turned away from the window and ambled over to the arched doorway. He leaned a shoulder against the jamb and looked up the stairway in the direction of Emily’s bedroom. How would she react, he wondered, if she knew the truth—that all these years, since before his brother had swept her off her feet, he had been in love with her.

And that the baby she carried was not Keith’s, as she believed. It was his.

Chapter Two

Emily had barely slept since Keith’s death, and that night was no different. Merely knowing that Dillon was across the hall made her uncomfortable, but mostly it was grief and anger that kept sleep at bay.

She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, tormenting herself, imagining her husband with his mistress, laughing with her, kissing her. Making love to her.

Why, Keith? she asked over and over. Why? How could you do this to me when you claimed to love me?

Had she missed something? Had there been signs all along? Subtle indications that her marriage was in trouble? Emily scoured her memory and spent hours soul-searching, but over and over she came up empty.

Keith had seemed perfectly happy with their life together. They never fought, rarely ever exchanged so much as a cross word. They enjoyed each other’s company, and their sex life was good.

He had often talked about their future, how, someday he would take a leave from his practice and they would spend a whole summer traveling through Europe, and how when he retired they’d buy a boat and sail around the world.

Emily frowned. Was that it? Could he have been worried that having a child would tie them down?

That didn’t seem likely. Keith had been as eager to start a family as she. Well…almost as eager. She had been thinking of little else for the last couple of years. But certainly he’d been overjoyed when Dr. Conn had telephoned them on Monday with the good news.

“So why did you turn to someone else,” she whispered to the shadows on the ceiling. Was it her? Something she’d done? Or hadn’t done? Wasn’t she pretty enough? Smart enough? Interesting enough? Oh, Lord, wasn’t she woman enough?

Like bees buzzing in her brain, Emily’s thoughts bedeviled her into the wee hours of the morning, until finally exhaustion overtook her. She slept fitfully, and woke a little before eight feeling sluggish and headachy. She was vaguely aware that something was different this morning—something besides Keith’s absence—but she was too muzzy-headed to work it out.

She staggered into the adjoining bathroom, downed two Tylenol and stepped into the shower.

Emerging a short while later wrapped in a long, terrycloth robe, her wet auburn hair combed back from her face, she headed downstairs for a wake-up cup of coffee. The instant she stepped into the hallway and her gaze touched on the guest room, she remembered Dillon.

She stopped and caught her lower lip between her teeth. The door was open, and after a moment she crept across the hall and peeked inside. The bed was made and the room was neat as a pin. There was no sign of Dillon.

Of course, she thought with a sigh of relief as she glanced at the clock on the night stand. This was Friday. He had left for work hours ago.

Tightening the tie belt on her robe, she headed for the stairs.

The aroma of coffee and sausage drifted from the kitchen as she approached the door. Evidently Dillon had made himself breakfast before he left. Emily hoped he’d brewed a full pot of coffee and left some for her.

Pushing open the swinging door, she stepped inside the kitchen and came to a halt. “Dillon. What are you doing here?”

He turned from the stove and cocked an eyebrow at her. “Good morning to you, too.” He looked absurdly masculine with a mixing bowl in one hand, a wire whisk in the other and one of Ila Mae’s ruffled aprons tied around his lean middle.

He went back to whipping the contents of the bowl with brisk efficiency. “Why are you surprised? I told you last night that I was going to stay here.”

“Yes, but…I thought you would be at work by now.”

“I’m not going in for a few days.”

“Oh, please. You don’t have to do that on my account. Haven’t you just started an important job? An office complex or something?”

“An indoor shopping mall.”

“I see. Well, I wouldn’t want to take you away from that.”

“No problem. I have an excellent crew. My foreman can handle things for a few days. If something comes up, he has my cell phone number.”

He turned back to the stove. “You’re just in time for breakfast. I was about to cook pancakes.”

Only then did Emily notice that the table was set for two.

Dillon set the bowl and whisk aside, then filled a mug with coffee and plunked it down on the opposite side of the island counter and motioned for her to join him. “The coffee is decaf, so you don’t have to worry about hurting the baby. Come on over. You can keep me company.”

Keeping company with Dillon was the last thing Emily wanted, but she was still too muzzy-headed to think of an excuse to leave. Giving the belt on her robe another tug, she reluctantly crossed the room and hitched up onto one of the high barstools on the opposite side of the kitchen island from where he was working.

“I, uh…I had no idea you cooked,” she said, watching him pour batter onto a hot griddle.

Dillon darted her a look, his blue eyes glinting beneath ebony eyebrows. “There are a lot of things about me that you don’t know.”

“Yes. I suppose there are,” she murmured. Oddly, she felt as though she’d just been chastised, though she couldn’t imagine why. Falling silent, she cradled the mug in both hands and sipped her coffee while she watched him deftly flip perfect, golden pancakes.

Despite his success and wealth, she had always thought of Dillon as tough and brawny, slightly rough around the edges, but yesterday at the funeral he had looked astonishingly smart in his custom-made suit. However, this morning, dressed in jeans and an old gray sweatshirt, he looked more like the Dillon she was accustomed to seeing—that is, if you overlooked the apron around his waist. That bit of ruffled material might have made some men look effeminate, but not Dillon. If anything, by stark contrast, it emphasized his compelling maleness.

The sleeves of his sweatshirt were pushed up to his elbows, and Emily’s gaze zeroed in on his muscled forearms and broad wrists, sprinkled with short black hair. His big, workman’s hands wielded the spatula with amazing grace and dexterity that spoke of long practice.

As always, just being in the same room with Dillon made Emily uneasy. His great size and that staggering masculinity alone were intimidating. Added to that, he was too intense, too remote and brooding.

It was funny how siblings could be so different, she mused, sipping her coffee. In looks, Dillon was a rough-cut version of Keith, bigger, brawnier, more intense, but with the same black hair and clear blue eyes, the same strong facial bone structure. In Keith’s case the combination had added up to debonair and handsome, whereas in Dillon’s the same features had produced a rugged, harshly masculine face.