Her Pregnancy Secret Read online

  She’d forgotten how impossibly stuffy Michael’s building was with its rules that had been dreamed up for decades—to keep out the wrong elements.

  Michael caught up to her at the elevator. “Behave,” he whispered, “at least, while we’re in the lobby.”

  Ignoring the splendor of marble and chandeliers, she shut her eyes and swallowed a deep breath. When she opened her eyes she focused on the bronze elevator doors.

  Wrong move.

  Elevators! Why did he have to live in a penthouse? Why had she ever agreed to stay here? Even for one night?

  Her wild eyes must have betrayed her fear because he said, “You ever going to tell me why you’re scared of elevators?”

  “Maybe someday,” she said trying to make her voice light.

  After her cousin Jeremy had locked her in that dark closet for hours, she’d disliked all closed spaces, but a second childhood experience had further refined her phobia so that elevators had become her number one terror.

  When her mother had taken Bree along to sign a paper at her attorney’s office, Bijou had gotten off on the attorney’s floor while talking to another woman. Bree had dropped a bunny and rushed back inside the elevator for it. Unfortunately, the doors had closed and the elevator had whooshed upward. She’d become too hysterical to punch the buttons, and the thing hadn’t stopped until she’d reached the top floor. By then she’d been lost and alone and terrified she’d never find her mother.

  Michael must have sensed her desire to bolt when the elevator doors opened because his hand closed gently over her elbow and he nudged her inside. When the bronze doors shut them inside, she clenched her hands and shut her eyes and tried not to think that they were shooting up dozens and dozens of stories in a closed box at rocket speed.

  Sensing her growing panic as the elevator ascended, he muttered something that might have been meant to reassure her, but she felt too on edge to comprehend anything.

  She didn’t realize she’d begun to shake until his arms closed around her, and he drew her close to steady her. She should have fought him, but instead she clung gratefully.

  Then the doors opened, and she came back to herself. Pushing free of him, she all but jumped out into his elegant hall. When he caught up with her at his door and unlocked it, she raced toward her suite and shut herself inside. Sagging against the door, she waited for her heart to slow down.

  No sooner could she breathe normally than she heard him in the kitchen, slamming cabinet doors. When the rich aroma of bacon and eggs frying and bread toasting wafted into her room, she realized that even though she’d been at the bistro, she hadn’t eaten in hours.

  Her stomach growled. Why couldn’t he have gone upstairs so she wouldn’t have to think about him out there enjoying eggs and bacon while she was trapped in here?

  When he kept stomping about, she removed her phone from her purse and attached it to a set of external speakers. Soon the suite was flooded with pulsating rock. She’d shower. By then maybe he would have finished his meal and gone upstairs and she could safely raid his kitchen.

  * * *

  Hearing the roar of her rock music, Michael’s thoughts turned to the woman in his guest suite.

  Hell, why couldn’t he forget the taste of her sweet mouth in the car? Forget the sharp bite of her nails digging into his back?

  He wanted her, his brother’s pregnant widow, this woman he’d sworn he’d protect.

  But she was injured, and a gold digger, so he fought not to think of her stripping in her bathroom, showering and then slipping into her bed wearing the transparent nightgown he’d selected. Or maybe she’d wear nothing.

  It drove him crazy to remember how warm and soft she’d felt curled against him that night after they’d made love. He’d wanted to hate her, but he hadn’t been able to. The truth was, he’d give anything to hold her close like that again.

  Who was she? The gold digger or the sweet voluptuous siren who’d enchanted him with her innocence?

  Who had seduced who? He still didn’t know.

  Had Michael really been her first? Had he? Why did he care? She’d wasted no time getting herself pregnant so Will would marry her.

  But Michael’s questions wouldn’t stop. Something was wrong with his picture of her. The pieces to the puzzle didn’t fit.

  Was she dedicated to the bistro for noble reasons? Or was she as low and conniving and greedy as he kept telling himself? She’d damned sure signed those documents on her wedding day. Did she kiss him in the car merely because he was rich?

  Hell, she’d damn sure responded when he came on to her.

  Michael’s mind and emotions raged as he tore his hand through his hair. He had to get a grip.

  When he finished his dinner, he rinsed his dishes and left them in the sink for Betsy Lou, his cleaning lady, who came every morning to tidy up.

  Long after he’d climbed the stairs and endured a long, icy shower, he thought about Bree. Only in sleep did he have what he craved, when she came to him in his dreams and lowered her naked body over his and did everything that he desired.

  Just as he was about to find his release, he heard a scream from two floors below.

  Six

  One minute Bree was sound asleep and happily dreaming that she was back in Michael’s Mercedes wrapped in his arms as he whispered such sweet words.

  Then her dream twisted, and she was shut out of his Mercedes. Standing on the sidewalk. Feeling lost and abandoned, she watched him inside his car kissing the beautiful Natalia whose slanting eyes glittered in triumph as she stared at Bree over Michael’s shoulder.

  Hurt washed over Bree. Thrashing against her sheets and pillows, she came awake in Michael’s moonlit guest suite.

  Sitting up amid tangled covers, she gave herself a minute to settle. Then she forced herself to think about her dream because she believed that dreams were a form of truthful self-talk. If she didn’t think about it immediately the most telling details would recede.

  She chewed on her bottom lip. The dream was worrisome. It told her that she wanted Michael even though she couldn’t believe he really wanted her.

  So what else was new?

  As she lay there feeling frustrated and unable to sleep, a fierce craving for sardines—for anything salty and fishy—compelled her to arise, shrug into the enormous man’s robe she’d found earlier in her closet and pad into his kitchen.

  Remembering seeing a can of sardines sitting right by a big jar of peanut butter in the pantry, she found them easily. Smiling, she grabbed the can.

  A sandwich would be good. A sandwich with mayo and pickles and maybe mustard and onions. Now that she thought about it, a white creamy cheese...Camembert. Almost tasting the rich, gooey French cheese, she headed toward his refrigerator. Her head buzzing with food fantasies, she wondered if Michael had chips, as well.

  Disappointed when she found only an old onion, some cheddar and a jar of mayo but no pickles—she could never be with a man who could live without pickles—she grabbed the mayo. But as she turned to close the door the overlong sleeve of her borrowed robe snagged on the handle. The mayo jar along with the cheddar cheese and onion slipped out of her hand and smashed to jagged bits on the granite floor. Off balance, she grabbed for the counter and dropped everything else into the mess. When she moved to start picking up after herself, a shard of glass sliced into her heel and she screamed.

  She froze when she saw the pool of scarlet oozing out of her torn heel. Just when she spotted his paper towels on the far side of the kitchen, a bare-chested Michael, wearing only blue pajama bottoms, stepped into the kitchen.

  Why did he have to be so heart-stoppingly sexy? “Stay where you are,” he ordered in that tone that made her feel gauche and then bristle defensively. His black eyes darkened dangerously at the sight of her blood as he strode toward
her.

  “I don’t want to be a bother. I can take care of myself,” she protested.

  “Right,” he grumbled testily as he stared at her bloody foot. “I can see that.”

  “I was just about to get the paper towels—”

  “Do think I would risk you cutting yourself again before we even know how bad it already is?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I intend to make sure of that.”

  Lifting her into his arms as if her weight was nothing, he crushed her against his chest as he carried her out of the kitchen and then down the hall.

  Pressed so close to his hard bare flesh, she couldn’t help but inhale his clean male scent. The smell brought back the night she’d spent in his arms when they’d made love. He was too virile and too sexy when he was being so nice, and she was a sucker for nice.

  “Put me down,” she whispered even as he headed for the stairs. “Blood is dripping behind us.”

  “Good thing I have stone floors and a maid coming in the morning.”

  “Only one maid for this place?”

  “I’m not nearly as messy as you are.”

  Stung, maybe because she could see that about him, she rushed to her own defense. “My apartment isn’t always the way it was when you saw it. I...was sort of...preoccupied last month.”

  “I wasn’t criticizing you. I was stating a fact. Do you think I care about your apartment?”

  “Put me down. Where do you think you’re going? What are you doing?”

  “I need to clean up your foot, and the nearest bathtub is on the second floor. Since you don’t like elevators, I’m carrying you up.”

  “But I can handle elevators,” she said testily, perversely annoyed at his thoughtfulness.

  “Right.” He grinned down at her. “You do them so well.”

  “I practice.”

  “How? Like one would a piano?”

  Her lips twitched. She fought not to smile. “Sort of.”

  He wasn’t nice. She didn’t like him. She didn’t find him amusing. He was making fun of her neurotic fear, a fear that was perfectly logical considering what had happened to her. She should be furious.

  But it felt much too marvelous to be in his arms, much too nice to have him pretending that he cared.

  Be careful. He’s tricky. He was nice the night he seduced you. And here you are—pregnant.

  As he climbed the stairs, he went more slowly at the top, and she noted with satisfaction that his breath came a little harder.

  She smiled. So he was human after all.

  When he reached the lovely white marble bathroom accented with gold, he helped her sit down on the edge of the tub. Kneeling, he ran his hands over her ankle before he lifted her foot and examined it.

  “It’s not too deep,” he said as he gently removed a couple of pieces of glass. “I think I got them all. Don’t watch, or this will hurt more,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Shut your eyes. I need to make sure I got all the glass.”

  “Ouch,” she cried when he yanked out a third sliver.

  “Sorry about that. It was a little deeper than the others. But I think that’s it. I’ll just wash your foot now and bandage it.”

  She’d never imagined a man stroking her foot could make her feel so sexy, especially when she was bleeding, but apparently he could make any activity sexy.

  “If you give me your first-aid kit, then I can take it from here.”

  “No,” he snapped in that forceful tone that could so annoy her. Only it didn’t annoy her now.

  Turning on the water, he held his hand under the stream until it was cool enough to suit him.

  “That’s too cold,” she cried when he stuck her foot into the flow.

  But his grip on her ankle remained firm. “Hold still. Cold water helps blood clot.”

  “I think you just enjoy torturing me—Dr. North.”

  “That, too,” he teased. Ignoring her, he let the icy water stream over her heel for another minute. Then he found towels. After drying her foot, he deftly applied ointment, butterfly stitches, and a bandage.

  “There,” he said, after he’d finished. “I don’t think we need to go to the E.R.”

  Feeling a little chagrined, she studied her expertly bandaged foot and then the wreck they’d made of the lovely bathroom. But after the car accident, she felt truly grateful that he’d taken care of her. The last place she wanted to visit was an E.R.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “You’re welcome. Now what exactly were you doing in my kitchen in the middle of the night?”

  It started with a dream about you kissing Natalia, she thought. Aloud she said, “It couldn’t possibly matter.”

  “Tell me.”

  For no reason at all she found herself staring at the black hair on his bare chest in fascination. “I woke up with this...er...craving.”

  When he turned, she couldn’t resist watching the play of his muscles as he folded the towels.

  Brilliance flashed in his black eyes when he glanced at her lips. “For what?”

  Heat crept up her throat before she could avert her eyes. “If I tell you, you’d better not laugh at me.”

  With some effort he made his handsome face severe. “I won’t—I promise.”

  “A sardine sandwich.”

  He struggled not to laugh, he really did, but he couldn’t help himself. The rich rumble of amusement made him seem slightly less formidable.

  “You promised,” she whispered.

  “Well, since I broke my promise—I owe you. After all that you’ve gone through tonight and now my sin of laughter, you damn sure can’t go back to bed without your sardine sandwich.”

  “It’s okay. The cheese and onion are ruined, and you don’t have anything else in your refrigerator. And I really have to have cheese and onions with sardines...”

  “Trust me. There’s more onions and cheese in Manhattan.”

  “It’s late. I don’t want to be a bother. I should let you go to bed.”

  “I’m making you a sardine sandwich, the sardine sandwich slathered in cheese and onions of your dreams...whether you agree to eat it or not.”

  She considered before she said yes. “I’m agreeing to this only because you are too obstinate to argue with. But—I’m taking the elevator down.”

  “You sure about that?” When he grinned, she nodded fervently. “It’s only one floor. What could possibly go wrong?”

  “Famous last words. So, do we go down together? Or one by one?” he asked, humoring her.

  “One by one. That way if either of us gets trapped, the other can call for help.”

  “Right,” he said. “Just for the record, there’s a phone in my elevator, if you’re ever caught in it alone.”

  “But the phone could malfunction.”

  “Are you always a worst-case-scenario thinker?”

  “Always when it comes to elevators.”

  In the kitchen he cleaned up the mess, salvaging what he could, which was the can of sardines. The rest he threw in the garbage while she sat at his table and watched.

  “Tell me exactly what you want on your sandwich, and I’ll call my doorman.”

  “Can you do that? Will he do that? In the middle of the night?”

  “Just tell me what you want.”

  “You must be impossibly spoiled.”

  “I pride myself on it.”

  When she told him the ingredients, he wrinkled his nose.

  “Don’t laugh at me again.”

  He smiled. “I believe you are pregnant.”

  He picked up his phone and made the call. When he hung up, he said, “One sardine sandwich will appear as if by magic
in fifteen minutes.”

  Her opinion of his stuffy building and his uptight staff went up a notch.

  “I’ve been thinking about your restaurant,” he said while they waited for her sandwich. “I could help you turn it around.”

  She remembered he’d said that before—if she became his mistress.

  “But why would you? I mean...” She frowned. “What would you want in return?”

  “Nothing. You’re my brother’s widow. My brother sunk a quarter of a million dollars into it.”

  Her eyes widened. “That much? No wonder you’re—”

  “Didn’t you know?” His voice was grim. “Really, you should know these things.”

  “You’re right. I should have known. It was just that Z handled all that.”

  As he studied her, she would have given anything to be able to read his mind.

  “Okay, then,” she said, knowing she’d be a fool not to let him help her. “What exactly do you have in mind?”

  “For starters, I’d send over an expert in the restaurant business to evaluate what’s going on. Have you ever heard of Luke Coulter?”

  “The genius with seafood on TV? Who hasn’t?”

  Not only was Luke Coulter a successful restaurateur, he was one of New York’s most renowned celebrity chefs. Z had resented that she’d been hooked on one of Luke’s cooking shows.

  “Z considered him a fierce rival. Bijou knows how he felt about Luke.”

  “Well, you’re not Z, and you’re in serious trouble. From what I’ve read, Z was not only creative, he was practical. I’m sure he’d want you to do whatever it takes to succeed. Look, I recently helped Luke restructure the financing of his latest restaurant, which, as you know, is another big hit. So he owes me a favor or two. Why don’t I ask him to come over? He’ll take a look at your books and your costs, watch your staff, observe how you handle them, sample your food and then give you advice. You don’t have to take it—if you don’t think it applies to your bistro.”