Expecting a Bolton Baby

He couldn’t deny it. He needed her.

He hadn’t really stopped needing her, not since that night two months ago. She hadn’t been far from his mind, despite the long hours and the crazy schedule and the determination that everything would be perfect.

As she warmed against him, his body responded. For every degree she softened, he got that much harder, that much hotter, until his skin was on fire, desperate to feel hers against him.

It had not been an accident, the first time. The chemistry between them was electric, shocking him again with how strong it was. He wanted to bury himself in her body, to feel the force of her desire unleashed on him again.

Except he had no idea how to get her out of this dress.

He pulled back. Desire warmed her features and she looked up at him through thick black eyelashes. Oh, yeah, that was the woman he’d lost himself in two months ago—sensual, witty, aware of the power she held over him and not afraid to give him a little power over her.

God, he was so glad she was here. He wanted to keep her here—if he didn’t, she might slip away from him and he didn’t think he could handle that a second time.

He kissed her again, letting his tongue trace her lips—tasting what he’d missed. He’d missed her in a way that didn’t make a damn bit of sense. He never got involved. He’d never wanted a relationship—certainly had never wanted to be a father.

But something about her...

Her cell phone chirped from somewhere on the other side of the room. “Sorry,” she murmured as she moved away from him. “Mickey.”

Yeah, he’d sort of forgotten about the leprechaun.

Stella retrieved her cell phone from her coat pocket. “Yes? Yes. No.”

Bobby couldn’t hear both sides of the conversation, but he could guess. Mickey was somewhere nearby, waiting for the word to come in, shoot Bobby in the knee and swoop Stella away. Okay, so maybe he wouldn’t shoot Bobby—but he was here for Stella, one way or the other.

Bobby wasn’t ready for her to leave just yet.

He approached her, hand out for her phone. “May I?”

The look she gave him was almost comical—doubtful and confused and cold and yet still very much tinged with the desire that had reddened her lips.

“I just want to talk to him for a minute.”

“Yes—he’s here. He wants to talk.” Then she handed Bobby the phone.

“Keeping yer cool up there, laddie?”

Bobby gritted out a smile. “We’re doing well, thanks for asking. I’ve been thinking. I don’t know where Stella is staying, but if she’s coming and going at a hotel, the media might pick up on that. They might try to make a story out of it.”

“Is that so,” Mickey said in such a way that Bobby turned to glance out the patio doors, just to make sure the man wasn’t sitting on his small deck, weapon drawn.

“Yes. Perhaps it would be better for Stella’s long-term well-being if she stayed in a more secure location, at least through the weekend.”

Stella gave him a look—one eyebrow raised, lips pursed—that only made him want to kiss her again.

“Are ye speaking the queen’s English?”

Bobby grinned at Stella. “I think you should stay here for the weekend.”

“What?” Stella said.

“What?” Mickey echoed in his ear.

Bobby ignored Mickey. “Stay here with me,” he said to Stella. “Just until we can decide what’s best for everyone involved.”

“Oh.” Stella’s eyes were as wide as the moon.

“Saints help us all, that part I understood,” Mickey muttered. “Let me talk to me girl again.”

That last bit—me girl—struck Bobby as odd, but he didn’t press the issue. What Mickey needed in this negotiation was to know that he had fulfilled his duty to protect Stella. Anything Bobby did that cast doubt on her well-being was, more than likely, a permanent black mark against him.

“Absolutely.” He handed the phone back over, but he didn’t move out of earshot. Instead, he reached down and took Stella’s free hand in his.

“No, I didn’t—but it’s okay. Yes. Yes. If you think it’ll be all right...” She squeezed Bobby’s hand. “Fine.” She ended the call. “He’ll be by with my things.” The nervous look stole over her face again.

Bobby understood. After all, she’d just agreed to what had the potential to be a highly intimate weekend with someone who was little more than a stranger. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“I don’t want to put you out.”

But he could see by the look on her face that she was pleased he wasn’t pinning her against a wall and giving her no choice. Sort of like he’d done about ten minutes ago. And a lot like he wanted to do right now.

“It’s not a problem. But there’s still a lot we need to talk about. Right now, I only know a few things. I know that I met you eight weeks ago, that there was something between us—something good. I know that I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind since then. I know that I’m glad to see you. I know that your father doesn’t know where you are and that we both want to keep it that way until we have a plan. I know you sew and make your own lace. But beyond that—”

He leaned forward, brushing the sharp angle of hair away from her cheekbone, marveling at the pale blush that sprang up wherever his fingertips touched. She could pretend that she was some sort of ice princess, but he knew better. Buried beneath her cold detachment was a woman whose blood ran as hot as his did.

“Beyond that, I don’t know you like I need to. That’s what I want to work on this weekend.”

This time, she didn’t look away, didn’t close her eyes. She met his gaze straight on. “What if it takes more than a weekend?”

If the baby was his, then they had all the time in the world. For Bolton men, family came first. Family was everything. Of course, he hadn’t quite figured out how that was going to work while he built a resort, produced a reality show and helped run a company.

That’s why he needed the weekend. That, and he wanted to keep her as close to him as possible.

He grinned and was rewarded with a smile that got so, so close to wicked. “Then we’ll make a damn good start.”

Four

Bobby drew her a bath. At first, Stella had scoffed when he’d offered to fill up the tub. But he’d done so, anyway, insisting that she should relax.

So here she sat, nude, stretched out in a tub that had jets. The water covered her body, the warmth seeping into her bones. The whole time, she was thinking, What am I doing?

Because taking a warm bath, sleeping in Bobby Bolton’s bed—even if he wasn’t in it with her—was not the plan. Although, with her stomach happily full and the bath doing an admirable job of making her sleepy, she was having trouble remembering what, exactly, the plan had been. Show up. Inform him of his contribution to her situation. Determine if he would be supportive of the child or not. Decide what she was going to do. Go home.

Alone.

But this? Soaking her toes in his bath? Sleeping in his very large bed? Eating the meal that he’d made for her? Seeing the photo of the two of them so prominently displayed on his table?

Feeling as if he cared for her?