Baby Fever

They ran the short distance, splashing through potholes of trapped water that was accumulating quickly in the deluge. He tugged her around a three-story house that had been converted into a hotel, then followed a pathway until they ended up at a brick cottage nestled in an Edenlike garden of greenery behind the building.

“Quick,” he said, urging her forward with a hand at her lower back as he unlocked the door.

“I can’t go inside like this!” Jasmine pressed herself against the building, under a short overhang, as he swung open the door.

“Why not?”

“I’ll get everything soaked. So will you.”

“People will clean it up.”

The patient exasperation in his voice made her smile. “Men. You know, if you had to do the cleaning, you wouldn’t be so blasé.” She glanced inside. “Go get some towels from housekeeping.”

“At this hour?”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought about the time. Well, I guess—”

Patrick swept her into his arms and carried her over the threshold, then kicked the door shut. He walked directly into the bathroom and set her in the claw-footed tub. “Take off your shoes. I’ll get towels.”

“Take yours off, too,” she said, grabbing his arm. “You’re squishing water out with every step.”

They sat on the rim of the tub and each pulled off soaked leather sneakers. The intimacy of the act struck Jasmine as soon as they both set their bare feet flat in the tub and looked at each other.

“Do you want to take a hot shower?” he asked finally.

“Okay.”

He sat up a little straighter. After a few seconds he climbed out and grabbed the hotel-provided, navy blue velour bathrobe, laying it within arm’s reach of the tub. “You don’t need to lock the door behind me,” he said carefully. “I won’t come in.”

Why, he’s nervous, Jasmine realized, more nervous than she was. The thought relaxed her. She smiled. “I trust you.”

He nodded. “I’ll fix something to warm us. I’ve got coffee and tea, or—”

“You.”

His head jerked back a little and his nostrils flared. “Me.” Not a question, but a statement of controlled surprise.

Jasmine stood and moved close to him. She lifted her hands to brush back his wet hair, not daring to look at his face until she thought she could actually get words out. She settled her hands at the back of his neck, letting her thumbs brush his skin from his ears to the base of his throat. “I haven’t made love in seven years.” If his pulse hadn’t started pounding in the neck veins beneath her fingers, she never would have known how her words affected him. She tried not to smile. “I’d like to end the drought.”

“With me?”

She laughed. “No, with the president.”

“It’s just…You don’t know me.”

“I know what I need to know, and I’m afraid if I wait, there won’t be a chance at all. Am I right?”

“Maybe.”

“You probably don’t like forward women,” she said as she pressed her lips to his throat. “You probably like being the one who initiates everything—”

“No.” Ba-boom. Patrick’s heart announced its reaction. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. The sound vibrated in his chest and echoed in his ears. He took a deep breath. Her rainsoaked hair smelled of strawberries, inundating him with anticipation of the sweetest dessert in his memory. “Your full participation is welcome,” he said finally, putting his arms around her as she laid her head against his shoulder. “But I can’t help wondering, why me? Why now?”

“Why not you? Why not now?”

Ba-boom. Her arm snaked around his waist and glided under his sweater to stroke his damp skin. Ba-boom. He clamped his hands on her elbows, pushing her back a little. “I don’t have protection,” he said.

“You don’t need any.”

He searched her face, seeking answers she either didn’t have or didn’t want to give. “I’m forty-seven years old. I don’t have any desire to become a father at this age.”

“I should have phrased it differently,” she said, calmly meeting his gaze. “You don’t have to worry about my getting pregnant. I’m no spring chicken, either. I’m not going to trap you. I just want to be with you.”

“And when I go home?”

“I know you live a life totally different from mine. You belong with your own. I belong with mine. That’s it.”

“But for now—”

“For now, we can ease the loneliness for each other.”

Because he couldn’t wait another minute, he kissed her, softly, briefly. Ba-boom. “I’ll be waiting,” he said, then turned to leave.

“Patrick?”

He faced her and saw shyness as she twisted her hands together, an action distinctly at odds with her boldness of just a minute ago. “I have just one favor to ask.”

“What’s that?”

“Could you, just for tonight, pretend you love me? Just a little?”

Ba-boom. Ba-boom. He hadn’t loved a woman in twenty-five years, not since Priscilla. She had died because he’d gotten her pregnant again when the doctor had said she might not survive another pregnancy. “I’m not a monster, Jasmine. I’ll treat you with respect.”

Jasmine closed her eyes for a moment, waiting for lightning to strike her at her half-truths. But all she felt was a sense of rightness. She wanted her baby created in a loving moment, if not out of love. It was important that he or she be conceived in a night of beauty, not just physical pleasure. She looked at him, the man she had chosen to father her child. He was a good man, and strong. A kind man who didn’t deserve to be lied to. But didn’t she deserve something, too?

His silence unnerved her. She almost told him to forget it—she didn’t need this extra tension.

“This is the honeymoon cottage,” he said at last.

Hope filled her again. “Is it?”

“My son-in-law arranged the room. He told me he hoped I enjoyed my visit as much as he had.”

“What does that mean?”

“He and my daughter—” He looked around, obviously uncomfortable with the sudden thought. “They were here.”

“For their honeymoon?”