lips tightened. “You have a pretty low opinion of me, don’t you?” She turned. “I’m having a diet soda. Join me or not, as you choose.”
He watched the sweet sway of her hips in that skintight thing she was wearing and hardened even more. She damned sure didn’t look like a mother-to-be. Jock, he thought, but didn’t say. He’d called Jacy that on more than one occasion, giving her a hard time because she liked to work out—partly because it bugged her, but mostly because it had helped him pretend he didn’t see her as a woman.
He forced his eyes to move up, and said the first of the things he’d come there to say. “How sure are you that I’m the father?”
She stopped a few steps away and turned slowly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I used protection. Both times. Before I accept responsibility, I want to know why you picked me for the father instead of one of your other lovers.”
She moved fast. He would have had to really work at it if he’d wanted to stop her. He didn’t.
Her slap rocked his head back. When her arm drew back to repeat the action, he caught her wrist. “I’m sorry,” he said as gently as he could while struggling with his own pain—a dull, terrible ache trying to swallow him, an ache that had nothing to do with the way his cheek stung from her blow. “I had to ask.”
He couldn’t doubt her anymore, as much as he wanted to.
She was carrying his baby. Oh, God, she was carrying his baby. Abruptly he turned away, stalking over to the window, where floor-length drapes closed out the night. He stood with his back to her.
There was no doubt in Tom’s mind what he had to do. Twenty years on the force hadn’t destroyed his belief in certain absolutes. He would do what was right.
He didn’t expect it would be easy, though. Or without cost. “You think I could still have that drink?”
The last thing he expected was her low, ragged laugh. “Sure, why not? Wish I could join you. Scotch, right?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” On the times they’d gotten together for a drink to exchange information, Tom had usually had a single shot of scotch, neat. He wasn’t surprised that she’d noticed. Jacy was damn good at her job—good enough to be a royal pain at times—and reporters of her caliber paid attention to details.
Of course, he knew what she’d had to drink at every one of their meetings, too—everything from orange juice to diet cola to tequila. Jacy liked to have candy bars or greasy hamburgers for lunch and steamed vegetables for supper. She was the least consistent health nut he knew. He’d told her that, too, in the past. Back when they were friends of sorts.
He took his time turning around, waiting until he had himself back under control. When he did, she was nowhere in sight and a brief, absurd spurt of panic stirred in him.
“I can’t find the scotch,” she said. Her voice came from beyond the dining alcove, where an open doorway gave him a glimpse of a tiny kitchen. “Is beer okay?”
What had he thought—that she’d left? Gone to the store? Moved out of town? “Whatever you’ve got is fine.”
He started moving around the room, examining it with his own eye for detail. He wanted—needed—to know more about this woman who would be the mother of his child. He’d lusted after her for nearly two years, but he’d been careful not to learn too much about her.
It was an absence, not a presence, he noticed first. There weren’t any photographs, either framed or in albums. No family photos, because Jacy didn’t have any family.
Emotion welled up inside him like blood from a gut wound, a feeling livid and nameless in its complexity. Guilt was part of it. And fear.
Tom believed in honesty the same way he believed in the rule of law. One was necessary to keep the jackals from taking over; the other was essential to keep a man’s soul clear of the unpayable debt of regrets. Yet in that moment he knew he would do whatever he could to keep Jacy from learning the truth about the night he’d taken her to bed.
The knowledge didn’t comfort him.
Jacy’s tastes in reading were eclectic. She seemed to like everything from Sartre to Garfield the cat. A text on agricultural methods sat on the coffee table next to a ragged Rex Stout paperback and a slim book on aromatherapy... and several volumes on childbirth and parenting.
He took a ragged breath, fighting back the welling emotion.
So. She was bright, and curious about pretty much everything. He’d known that much. She was also messy. In addition to the books and magazines scattered around the living room he saw two pairs of shoes and a shopping bag. The coatrack near the door held an umbrella, a fanny pack, a T-shirt and a towel.
So she didn’t spend a lot of time picking up. That might be a problem, he conceded. He preferred order. But he didn’t see dirt—no unwashed glasses, empty pizza boxes, crumbs or spill marks on the couches or carpet.
Untidy, but clean. He nodded. He could live with that.
The dining table held a computer, printer, printouts, books, newspapers—everything that a reporter might use in a home office. Her mail sat there, as well, in two piles—one opened, one not. He picked up the unopened pile instead of the opened one—his version of respecting her privacy—and was sorting through it when she came out of the kitchen with a glass of pop in one hand, a mug of beer in the other and a scowl on her face.
He wondered if she was going to throw the mug at him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.
He put her electric bill back in the unopened pile. “The same thing you’d do if you were at my place, I imagine. You and I may not have much in common, but we’re both nosy by nature and by profession.”
She grimaced and held out his mug.
He couldn’t help smiling as he took it. She knew he was right, and as much as she wanted to, she wouldn’t deny it. That was one of the things he’d liked about Jacy from the start, one reason he’d fought to overcome his damnable reaction to her to achieve some sort of working relationship—she was scrupulously fair.
It was a rare quality. It was also why he couldn’t doubt her anymore. If she was certain he was the father, then he was.
He lifted his mug and downed half the beer.
“If you’re that eager for oblivion, I’ll be glad to hit you over the head with something.”
“You already have,” he muttered.
“It’s obvious you aren’t exactly thrilled by my news.” Her chin was up, but he saw something in the depths of those jungle green eyes, something very much like fear.
“Hell.” He set his beer on a clear spot on the table. “I’m not going to duck out on my responsibilities.”
“Are you going to sign the child support agreement I suggested, then?”
“Paying child support won’t turn me into a father.”
She
