Baby Fever

Maggie sighed. “Why is it we complain about wanting men to admire us for our minds, then we spend a fortune on makeup?” She turned toward her sister. “You’re as transparent as spun sugar, you know. Not only did you spend time talking to that gorgeous hunk of masculinity, you only had to put one quarter in the jar the whole evening and that was before you met him.”

“So?” Jasmine leaned into her locker to exchange shoes.

“So…you’re good for three or four slams against the male gender every night. How am I supposed to buy myself a wedding dress if you stop maligning men? I’ve only saved two hundred and sixty-two dollars so far. I’m counting on you.”

Jasmine tossed her street shoes into the locker. “You might find it handy to get yourself a fiancé first.”

“By my thirtieth birthday I—”

“Better hurry up.” Jasmine shut the door and gave the combination lock a twirl.

Maggie sniffed at the reminder. “Obviously, you don’t want to discuss your gentleman caller.”

“There’s nothing to say. He came, he ordered, he left. Same as a thousand other men before him.”

“Except you didn’t have conversations with the other nine hundred and ninety-nine.” Maggie pushed open the door and preceded Jasmine down the hall and into the kitchen.

“Only one out of a thousand men is worth engaging in conversation.”

Maggie pointed dramatically at the Michelangelo jar labeled Men Are The Scum Of The Earth, with its handprinted addendum, Except J.D. “Two hundred and sixty-two dollars and twenty-five cents.”

Compact. Patrick had finally come up with a word to describe Jasmine that wouldn’t get him into trouble. Maybe. She probably wouldn’t think it much of a compliment.

He’d spent the day contemplating her behavior. She hadn’t wanted to be interested in him, yet she was. She hadn’t flaunted herself before him, yet he’d been more attracted than he’d been in years to any woman. He hadn’t let her catch him eyeing her—he’d learned that women either loved or hated that kind of attention—but he’d observed her thoroughly.

As he followed the maître d’, a dark-haired man by the name of J. D. Duran, to the same table as the previous night, Patrick realized he was nervous. That in itself was a rarity. He’d always had an abundance of self-confidence. Suddenly he felt like a teenager at his first school dance, and he didn’t know any of the steps.

He’d just been served his club soda when Jasmine made her way to his table.

“So. Your daughter isn’t back yet,” she said, looking at his glass.

“I made you a promise.”

She lifted her gaze. “I didn’t know whether to believe you.”

“Now you know.” He said the words lightly, not wanting the conversation to get too serious, and he was rewarded by seeing her shoulders relax.

“Still recovering from jet lag?” she asked. “Club soda again?”

“Drinking alone is a sobering thought.” Nurse Crackwhip could keep her stickpins to herself, too, he thought. “I slept twelve hours straight last night. I guess I needed this vacation more than I realized.”

“How’d you spend your day?”

He grinned. “Doing something I haven’t done in years. Watching television.”

“San Francisco is a beautiful city. You should get out and see it.”

“If I had a companion—”

“Well, hello again, honey.”

“Miss Magnolia,” Patrick drawled, shifting his glance to the dark-haired woman.

“Did you come back for more of our tasty morsels?”

The ambiguous words made Patrick smile. “My appetite’s healthy.” His gaze flickered to Jasmine, who was watching her sister indulgently.

Maggie eyed his suit jacket. “It appears you favor Italian tailors.”

“Not unless Geoffrey St. Clair has stopped telling the world he’s the only important African-American designer.”

“Really? It’s a St. Clair?”

Patrick leaned forward. “I knew him when he was Jeff Troutner He gives me suits to buy my silence.” He laughed at the expression on Maggie’s face. “I’m kidding. Well, not about his name, but that’s common knowledge. He and my daughter went to school together from kindergarten on.”

Jasmine let them talk for a minute as she looked him over, noting more detail this time. His hair was a little long but well cut, his clothing already noted as designer. When he showed Maggie the trademark St. Clair logo embroidered in the lining of the jacket, Jasmine spotted a discreet monogram on the stark white dress shirt, which was probably made of the finest cotton known to man.

What had she been thinking? She couldn’t intentionally deceive this man. He was a power unto himself, she could see that now. He probably headed up some high-revenue computer company or high-visibility law firm. He wouldn’t be welcomed at the Carola unless he had money and power to back him, no matter who his son-in-law was.

What in the world would he want with her—some waitress who saved fifty percent of her income in the useless hope that she could have a second chance at motherhood? He probably made in a month what had taken her seven years to save. He was so far out of her league, they weren’t even playing the same sport. She’d already played a mismatched game once in her life. And lost.

You only need him for a day, maybe two. The reminder slithered from her conscience to her brain, her practical side emerging to tamp down the emotional side. It only mattered that he be attracted for a couple of hours, maybe two nights in a row. Then he’d have his visit with his daughter and return to his life in Boston. Surely a couple of nights in bed together would satisfy his curiosity about her. He might even pick up on the fact she was faking it with him and not want a repeat performance.

And maybe she would end up with a child from their brief affair. But perhaps she could give him something, too—the human contact missing in his life since his wife died.

That was the way to look at the situation, of course. A brief, life-altering bisecting of lives, then each could move on. No broken hearts, just a moment out of time.

“Jasmine.” Patrick watched her seem to shake herself back into the real world. Maggie had left half a minute ago, yet Jasmine had stayed frozen in place, her eyes glazed.

“I’m sorry,” she said with a slight smile. “Are you ready to order?”

She angled toward him and tossed her head, a gesture he would expect her sister would make. Every time he decided Jasmine was just being friendly, she would do something obviously flirtatious—and look uncomfortable doing so.

On her recommendation he ordered the fresh fish of the day, his mouth watering for the steak he’d watched her place in front of another customer just before she’d come to his table, but Crackwhip’s pin jabbed him just as he’d been about to order. He slid out of his jacket and started to lay it across the seat beside him.

She reached for it. “I’ll hang that up for you, sir.”

“Patrick,” he said. “Patrick O’Halloran.”

“Mr. O’Halloran.”

“Patrick.”

Three (#ulink_31e6f625-6773-5013-af43-f835a9993a79)

Patrick O’Halloran. Her baby would have an Irish father. And maybe his beautiful auburn hair and all that emotion she could see in his eyes.

Jasmine accepted the jacket and took a step back. “I’ll bring your salad,” she said, then walked to the coat check cubicle, trying to control her reaction. For the first time, genuine hope filled her.