nonlovely prospect of a squalling, shrieking baby, Bobby would do what any good player would do. He’d turn tail and run.
But he hadn’t.
Maybe he’d wait until he knew which way the wind was blowing—until he knew what her father would do. He hadn’t gotten to where he was by being a shoddy businessman, after all.
She wasn’t here to destroy Bobby by bringing her father’s wrath down on him. Why would she? For one night, in Bobby’s arms, she’d felt free. Beautiful. Loved.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have come. She should have gone straight to her father, claimed she had no idea who her baby’s father was and insisted that she would raise the child on her own. Her father would have been unable to connect her and Bobby. She thought. But she couldn’t be positive. As one of the richer men in England, David Caine had plenty of resources to backtrack her movements for months at a time.
And that, more than anything, was why she was here. If she was going to bring the dogs of her father’s conservative-marriage war down on Bobby, she at least owed him a warning. Her baby was his, too.
Bobby ushered her down a long hallway and unlocked a door that looked just like all the other doorways they’d passed. He went in first and turned on the lights before closing the door after her.
“Here we are.”
Stella took as deep a breath as she could in this bodice and stepped into Bobby’s home. The place was quiet, with no signs that anyone had been here in a great while.
“Yes. Lovely.”
The apartment wasn’t what she’d expected, but that was starting to be a running theme when it came to Bobby. The lines were sharp, the colors—shades of gray and white, with splashes of vivid red abstract paintings for accent—were bold. The furnishings wouldn’t be out of place in a New York loft—much like the one she lived in. None of those hideous overstuffed recliners that Americans seemed so fond of. Instead, a black leather seating group was tastefully arranged. The dining table was polished black glass, big enough to seat eight, with only a small picture frame set on one end. The whole place was spotless, nary a mote of dust to be seen. It looked as if he could host a cocktail party at a moment’s notice.
This space was something he’d clearly put a great deal of thought into. Suddenly, she wished she’d taken him up on his offer to look at the blueprints for his resort.
He moved to stand behind her, and she quickly undid the belt of her coat. Her fur skimmed down her shoulders, as sensual a feeling as she’d had in the past two months. She could feel Bobby’s warm breath on the back of her neck. All she wanted to do was lean back into his arms and feel his body pressed against hers. Could he tell? Did he know the effect he had on her? He might. He’d kissed her there before, after she’d made the impulsive decision to have a little fun, for once.
It was an impulse she should have ignored.
The coat pulled free of her arms, leaving her shivering. Which she tried to convince herself was due to the sudden change in core body temperature—not the memory of Bobby kissing her. Then Bobby’s hand was on the small of her back, guiding her toward the kitchen.
“Have you eaten?”
“Beg pardon?”
She saw the hint of a smile—warm and inviting—curve up the corners of his mouth. “I haven’t had dinner. I’ll make us something.”
There it was again, that odd feeling that she couldn’t quite name. Was he being his charming self or...was he taking care of her? It was the same feeling she’d gotten when he’d wheeled his desk chair out for her in that terrible trailer.
No one, aside from Mickey, had taken care of her since her mother died seventeen years ago. Stella had only been eight. By now, the memories of her mother were hazy around the edges, so much so that Stella was no longer sure what had happened and what she’d created. But she had fond memories—memories she clung to—of Claire Caine wrapping her in a fluffy towel after a nice bath, drying her off, helping her into her favorite pair of Hello Kitty pajamas and tucking her into bed with a long story. Claire had done all the voices, too.
Stella had felt warm and safe and loved. Very much loved.
Then it had all gone away.
She blinked away the memories of the cold years that had followed Claire’s death. Bobby was rummaging around in a rather large icebox. If he hadn’t been home for a week, what on earth did he have in there that would be edible? Just thinking about it made her delicate stomach turn.
She backed out of the kitchen before any punishing scents could assault her nose. The morning sickness—a comical term if she’d ever heard one—had been manageable all day, unlike the day she’d flown out here. She’d spent all of Wednesday and most of Thursday in bed at the hotel, sipping ginger ale and nibbling dry toast.
“Beg pardon, but where’s the loo?”
His arms full, Bobby’s head popped up. “The what? Oh, yes. Sorry. Last door down the hall. Feel free to look around.”
It’s not as if she would snoop, really. He had given her permission to at least open a door or two.
So after she used the loo, she opened. One room had a pool table in it; another had a rather large telly and stadium seating. The third had a crisply made bed that was so large it had to be a California king.
Did he have someone sleeping in it with him? Perhaps he was the sort of fellow who brought home a different girl every night. It was entirely possible, after all. All she really knew about him was that he was the sort of fellow who left a club and had sex in a car.
When she walked back into the kitchen, the smell of food—eggs and cheese, bacon and veg—hit her. Suddenly, she was ravenous.
Bobby stood at a small island, whisking something. He had a dish towel draped over one shoulder, a chopping board and a knife in front of him. She could see a stove with several pans heating behind him. He seemed completely at ease doing all of this—not fumbling about, as she might have expected.
“Smells delicious.”
His head popped up, a pleased smile on his face. “Veggie frittata and bacon.”
“You...cook?” It wasn’t the most diplomatic statement, but perhaps they were past the point of diplomacy. “No offense.”
“None taken.” His grin seemed heartfelt. “It doesn’t mesh with my image, does it?”
“Not really.”
“Promise me you won’t tell my brothers, okay? They don’t place a lot of value on cooking.”
Ah, yes. The brothers. His show, The Bolton Biker Boys, was about the whole family. The press release she’d found said so. She didn’t watch telly much and hadn’t looked him up on YouTube—couldn’t bear to watch her father’s shows and know that he’d spent more time on them than he had with her. “Then how did you pick it up?”
“I spent more time with Mom,” he replied, checking on a pan. He flipped something—peppers?—before continuing. “Billy’s eight years older than me, Ben’s five. They were always off doing their own thing while I was still in grade
