The Pregnancy Negotiation

He met her gaze, his dark eyes leveled on hers. “That’s true in some instances. But I have good instincts about these things. Sometimes you just know when you’re going to enjoy something. And when you’re not.”

She wanted to ask for examples, but that damnable smoldering look on his face, the suggestion in his voice, told her exactly what he meant. “Just take one little bite. If you find it totally unpalatable, you can make a ham sandwich.”

When he reached for the salt, Mallory grabbed it up and played keep-away. “No you don’t.”

Now he looked confused, understandably so. “Why not?”

“I’ve already seasoned it. And too much salt isn’t good for you.” Too much wasn’t conducive to having a girl, according to the list, a detail she wouldn’t reveal.

He took a bite, grumbled, then took another bite while Mallory began to eat, too, not tasting much of anything. Before she knew it, he was completely through with every scrap on his plate. On the other hand, she had a hard time swallowing more than a few bites.

She sent him a satisfied smile. “Guess it wasn’t so bad after all.”

After pushing his plate aside, he sat back and propped his hands behind his head. “Not too bad. Now what’s for dessert?”

Oh, Mallory could think of several sweet things to offer, if she had the guts to serve herself up on a plate. “There’s some ice cream in the fridge.”

“Got any mint chocolate chip?”

“Yes, but I only bought a pint since you don’t usually eat that.”

He grinned. “I don’t usually imagine my roommate naked, either. And mint comes in handy when you plan to occupy your mouth later with something other than ice cream.”

Mallory shivered as if she’d joined the ice cream in the freezer. “Just two more days, Whit,” she reminded him again.

“Two more days until we consummate. Nothing says we can’t get to know each other better in the interim.”

Good sense told Mallory that might be hazardous and that Whit was somehow testing her. She chafed her palms down her arms, now covered in goose bumps. “I believe we should probably hold off until the appropriate time.”

“Sure thing. If you really think you can.” He came to his feet and rounded the table with a slow, determined gait. After pulling her chair at an angle away from the table, he leaned over and braced both hands on the arms. “Come to the den.”

“I have to take a shower.”

He brushed his hand over his groin. “Can I join you?”

Mallory hopped up and nudged him aside to clear the plates. “I swear, Whit, if this is how you seduce your girlfriends, I’m surprised you’re so successful. I can hear it now. Hi, I’m Whit, let’s have dinner, and afterward I’ll introduce you to Mr. Happy.”

His smile appeared again, a teasing one. “Sometimes I bring flowers first.”

Jerry had always given her flowers after he’d been out all night. The only thing he’d given her during their brief marriage aside from grief. Aside from the baby that wasn’t meant to be. “Does that automatically send them straight into your bed?”

A pall crossed over his face. “I’m just kidding, Mallory. I’m not totally crass and not always on the make. And if you’ll remember, this pregnancy thing was your idea.”

True, Mallory thought. Still, she suddenly felt like a means to an end, and in a way she was. So why did that bother her so much?

With both plates balanced in her hands, she turned to him and tried to smile. “I know you’re kidding. You’ve always kidded me mercilessly.”

“That’s because you’ve always been like one of the…” His words trailed off and so did his gaze.

“One of the guys?” Admittedly, that stung her more than a little. “I realize that. But you’re not going to have a baby with one of the guys.”

He looked highly frustrated. “You don’t think I realize that, Mallory? Believe me, when I imagine what’s going to happen two days from now, the guys are the last thing I think about.” He took a couple of steps toward her. “And you know something else? This is going to be one of those instances where you won’t have to try it to know if you’re going to like it. I guarantee you will, whether you want to or not.”

If only she had his brand of confidence in the bedroom. “It doesn’t matter whether I like it or not. I just want you to make me pregnant.”

“And I’m going to make sure you like it.” He moved forward until he was standing right before her. “One taste, and you’ll want more.”

Her breath caught in her chest. “I want a baby, Whit. That’s all.”

“Sure you do, Mallory. But I’m going to give you that, and more.”

After taking his own plate from her, Whit left Mallory standing alone, her thoughts in a jumble as a few untouched peas rolled onto the deck.

Whit Manning was proving to be a real challenge for Mallory O’Brien. One she hoped she would survive.

Three

The televised baseball game was already well into the third inning, and Whit couldn’t begin to concentrate on it. He was keyed up, combating his libido and concerned over Mallory’s low opinion of him. Yes, he’d escorted quite a few women in his life. But he hadn’t slept with all of them, contrary to popular belief. He’d tried his hand at a couple of serious relationships, but he’d come up short each time. Things would rock along fine for a while until he’d begun to feel suffocated by his need to put up a front. No one really knew the real Whitfield Manning—except Mallory.

And that’s what was bugging the hell out of him. She knew him better than any woman ever had, and maybe everything she believed about him was true. He couldn’t be serious about anything aside from his job. And that’s the way he’d been since his mother’s exodus, keeping up a happy-go-lucky front to cover his pain.

But that was past history and he was damn sure going to keep it in the past. He could do serious if he had to. He’d entered into this baby-making arrangement with the realization that being a father was serious business. He vowed to learn from his own father’s mistakes and try not to repeat them.

He also vowed not to push Mallory too far too fast. He could wait two days to make love with her. He could keep his hands to himself and his hormones in check. Not a problem—until she walked into the room, smelling like gardenias and looking like his own private invite to sinful indulgence.

She had on a pair of pajamas—pink and silky with thin straps on the top and short-shorts on the bottom. Okay, maybe they weren’t that short, but any glimpse of her thigh was enough to send him into orbit. Was she intentionally trying to torture him straight into insanity?

She offered him a bowl. “Here’s your ice cream. Enjoy.”

“Thanks.”

After he relieved her of the bowl, Whit expected her to retire to her bedroom, taking all that female sex appeal with her. Instead, she sat down on the floor, her back resting against the sofa and her shoulder touching his bare leg.

Nodding toward the television, she asked, “Who’s winning?”

Not Whit. To hell with slow. At the moment, he wanted to toss her down on the floor for a little rug rumba. “I’m not sure. I just turned it on.” A necessary lie. He couldn’t tell her about his recent thoughts and concerns. He sure as hell couldn’t tell her that the bats and balls had begun to take on the appearance of phallic symbols from the minute she’d walked into the room. And frankly, he didn’t care about scoring, at least not when it came to the baseball game of the week.

Whit choked down the ice cream in record time, thankful he didn’t receive a bout of brain freeze from his quick consumption. After setting the bowl on the table, he kicked back against the couch and studied Mallory’s profile as she focused on the game. She’d tucked her hair behind her ears, exposing her lobes, which would probably taste as good as the mint chocolate chip. He visually traced the line of her shoulder, then down her back, following the path of her spine until it disappeared where her back met the sofa.

Unable to resist, he laid his palm on the bend of her neck above her shoulder and gave a little squeeze. But when her frame went rigid, Whit dropped his hand into his lap, then dropped back on the sofa again. “This isn’t going to work.”

“I know. Morton’s fast ball has the velocity, but he doesn’t have control.”

“I’m not talking about the game, O’Brien, and you know it.”

“Actually, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said without taking her eyes from the TV.

“Look at me, Mallory.”