into the secretary. Grace was not on her side today.
“My apologies, ma’am,” the secretary started in a quiet voice. “Mr. Reynaud will be back in a few minutes, but please make yourself comfortable. Can I get you anything while you wait? We have water, soda, tea. And of course enough Gatorade to fill a stadium.”
“Thank you.” As the words left her lips, she settled down. Slightly. “I’m just fine, though.”
“Of course.” The secretary smiled, exiting the room and closing the door with a soft click.
So she was here. In his office without him. While not ideal, it did give her a chance to feel out what sort of man he was. At least in the business sense.
A bank of windows overlooked the practice field below, the lush green grass perfectly manicured with the white gridiron standing out in stark contrast. Silver bleachers glimmered all around the open-air facility with a retractable dome. Funny they didn’t have the stadium roof on today when it was so beastly hot outside, but perhaps the practice had been earlier in the day as there were no players in sight now.
Turning from the wall of windows, she paced around the office. She noted the orderly files, the perfectly straightened paper stacks on the massive mahogany desk. The rows of sticky notes by the phone. The walls were covered with team photos and awards, framed press clippings and a couple of leather footballs behind glass cases. The place was squared away. Tight.
Not too different from the way she kept her own living quarters, either. Impersonal. Spit-shined for show. They might not have done a lot of talking in London, but clearly they had gravitated toward each other for reasons beyond the obvious. After last night she felt as if they had more in common than they realized.
A tightness worked in her chest. So desperately did she want to trust him now that they found themselves preparing to be parents together. But trust came at a high cost. It wasn’t a commodity she candidly bestowed. It was earned—her most guarded asset. Years of being royalty had taught her to be suspicious.
Shoving her past aside, she approached a picture on the farthest corner of his desk. It was different than the rest. It seemed to have nothing to do with the Hurricanes. Or football, for that matter.
The photograph was faded, old—probably real film instead of digital. But she would have recognized him anyway. Gervais. His brothers. A woman. His mother, she assumed. But no Dempsey. Which struck her as odd.
She would have continued to stare at the picture as if it could give her the answers she was after if she didn’t hear a man clearing his throat behind her.
She glanced over her shoulder, through the blond strands of her hair. Gervais stood in the doorway. And he looked damn sexy.
He was disheveled. Not nearly as put together as his office. His hair was still wet from a shower, and his shirt was only half buttoned. For the quickest moment she had the urge to finish undoing it. To kiss him—and more.
The urge honestly surprised her. She had promised herself yesterday that after a good night’s sleep, she would be levelheaded today. She needed logic to prevail while she figured out if he could be trusted. Only then could she decide what to do next.
Leaning against the desk, and looking at his lips with feigned disinterest, she asked as casually as possible, “What is the emergency? Is something wrong?”
He shook his head, closing the door behind him. “Not really. I just wanted to speak with you privately about—” he hesitated “—a...uh...new development.”
Her smile faded. He was leaving. People always did. Her parents, who never remained in town with their kids for long. The vast majority of her friends who hung around only because she was royalty. The dozens of tutors who only helped for long enough to get a good reference before moving on to an easier job than five hell-raising sisters.
Schooling her features to remain impassive, she sat down in a leather wingback chair. She needed the isolation that chair represented. She didn’t need him tempting her by sitting next to her on the sofa or walking up to her to brush against her. Touch her. Weaken her resolve.
“Tell me.” She met his gaze. Steeled herself.
“Remember that I told you I called my father a couple of days ago to tell him about the baby?” His dark eyes found hers for a moment before he stalked toward the wall of windows and looked down at the field. “Apparently, he decided to make a surprise visit.”
“Your father is here? In the building or in New Orleans?”
The tight feeling in her chest returned, seizing hold of her. Erika was as unsure of how to deal with his family as she was her own. Selfishly, she had hoped they would have alone time together—without family making plays and demands—to figure out how to handle their situation. And to figure out if there was something there between them, after all.
“He was in the building but he’s taking his girlfriend out to lunch before coming to the house later. I wanted to warn you in person and couldn’t leave work.”
More confirmation she didn’t want to hear. But she felt compelled to hear it anyway. “Why do I need warning?”
“He’s not a good person in spite of being charming as hell when he wants to be. I just want to make sure you’re prepared. Feel free to steer clear of him.”
“I can take care of myself. If he becomes too much to handle, I will flip him with Krav Maga I learned in the military.” The warrior blood boiled beneath her skin. She would not be taken for a fool.
“You’re pregnant.”
“I am not incapacitated. But if you are concerned, I will simply pretend I do not understand his English.” Uncrossing her arms, she gave him a wickedly innocent grin. Eyes wide for full effect. “It worked on almost half the tutors who showed up at the Mitras household prepared to teach the rebellious princesses.”
“Good plan. Wish I’d thought of that as a kid.”
A laugh escaped him and he turned toward her, a good-natured smile pushing at his cheeks. Funny how that smile slid right past her resolve to let logic prevail. To be levelheaded. That shared laugh stirred a whole wealth of feelings that had been building inside her ever since she’d stepped onto the practice field to face Gervais Reynaud.
Thinking back to the photograph on the desk, she had to admit, she was curious about him. His past. What it was like growing up in New Orleans. She had so many things to learn about him that it could take a lifetime. And wasn’t it perfectly reasonable of her to learn more about him when her children would share his genes?
Emboldened by the rationalization, she thought she might as well begin her quest to know him better right now. “But you did not need to arm yourself with elaborate schemes to outwit the grown-ups around you as a child. You and your brothers are so close—or the three of you I’ve met.”
The faintest pull of unease touched his lips. “We weren’t always. Dempsey didn’t come to live with us until he was thirteen. Our dad... Maybe you already know this.”
“No, I do not.”
“That’s right.” He shifted away from the windows to move closer to her, taking a seat on the edge of the desk. “You’re not a big follower of football and the players.”
“I
