green hair and…whatever that geometrically patterned green and pink sarong-like thing was supposed to be. Bettina was rude to him if he wore sweats or brought home fast food.
How had Kitty found his house? He hadn’t known her last name, and he wouldn’t have thought she knew his. In the end, though, how she’d found him was relatively unimportant. Relative, that is, to the real sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.
Why had she found him?
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Marta had slipped on her shoes, and she’d put on her game face, too. As he’d just been observing, Marta was smart as hell. She clearly knew something wasn’t right about this scene.
Half a dozen explanations raced through his head. Could Kitty need a job, a recommendation, a lawyer? Surely not. People didn’t expect their one-night stands to give them career references. His shoulder muscles tightened. Crap—had he picked up a stalker?
Or was she bringing bad news? An STD? He always, always used condoms. Blackmail? God help him, she wasn’t underage, was she? She looked mid-twenties, but you never knew these days. He’d assumed the bar wouldn’t employ anyone…
But assumptions could be lethal. Any good lawyer knew that.
“Of course. Kitty.” Years of poker-faced negotiations saved him from revealing the chill that ran through his veins. “How can I help you?”
It sounded stilted, almost rude. He saw her recoil slightly. But what the hell had she expected? Whatever he’d briefly, brainlessly, believed might be going on between them that night—he’d been wrong. He’d just been her flavor du jour, a tourist novelty to be shared with her horny girlfriends. Fine. He was a grown man. No one had held a gun to his head. No big deal.
But with that kind of cheap treat, no one came back for seconds.
“How can I help you?” he repeated. He didn’t change his tone.
“We need to talk,” she said flatly. Her gaze slid to Marta. “Alone.”
The other lawyer didn’t budge.
He touched Marta’s shoulder. “The reservations are for eight-thirty. If you go ahead now, we won’t lose the table. I’m sure this won’t take long. I can meet you at the restaurant.”
A frown line bisected Marta’s perfect, pale forehead. “David, it might be better if—”
“It’s fine.” He smiled. He hoped he was right. “I’ll meet you there.”
Marta nodded, though she didn’t look convinced. The room rang with silence as she gathered up her briefcase and her coat. She moved to the door, then turned.
She looked at David. “I’ll mention to security that you’re still in the office.”
“Oh, brother.” Kitty dropped her purse on the desk and crossed her arms. “He’s twice my size, and I’m not packing heat.” She glared at David. “But if you’re afraid to be alone with me, I’d be happy to have a group discussion. Invite security. Hey, invite everybody. The alone part was for your benefit, not mine.”
“It’s fine,” he said again, giving Marta a straight look. “Really.”
Marta knew he meant it. She slipped through the door, shutting it behind her.
And then he and Kitty were alone. With Marta gone, he was much more aware of her, of her deep, island tan and a scent with a hint of strawberry. For a minute, he could smell that little beachside bar again. Salt in the air, lemons and limes and kiwi fruit, an undercurrent of barbeque smoke.
She glanced around, and her frown deepened. “Nice office,” she said cryptically.
Did that mean she was surprised? By what? How dull it was? By the decorator-chosen beiges, the bland paintings that even Belle, who was ten times as conservative as Kitty, had hated? Had he seemed more interesting in the Bahamas?
Or was she surprised by how luxurious it was? Half his clients were pro bono, but the other half required impressing. So the decorator had hauled in solid mahogany paneling, carpet like velvet air, a marble bust of Thomas Jefferson for the corner. If Kitty had come for blackmail, this probably looked like the jackpot.
But something in him couldn’t believe that. What blackmail could possibly stick? He wasn’t married, and the sex had been consensual. Even if she’d caught the whole thing on tape, up to and including the second offer from her friend, he’d be nothing worse than embarrassed. Lunches at the University Club would be awkward for a while, with everyone asking why he’d turned down Lady Number Two, but he’d survive.
He watched Kitty as she roamed the room, proving it didn’t intimidate her. She even gave Jefferson an affectionate tap on the nose. But the gesture didn’t ring true. Her body looked tight, as if she were nervous, but hell-bent on hiding it. He wondered how rude Bettina had actually been. Or Amanda. Both women had maternal streaks where he was concerned.
He felt like a blind man playing a game of chess, aware of all the possible strategies, but unable to see the full board. He had no idea what her ultimate gambit was. Surely a polite neutrality was the best first move. No need to assume the worst.
“Would you like to sit down?”
Kitty turned. Her green eyes were bright, sparkling under the overhead fixture. Anger? Or tears?
“No. Thank you.” A hint of a smile played at her full mouth, and it wasn’t a reassuring look. “You might want to, though.”
Ah. Not good news, then. Of course not.
“Thanks for the warning.” He tilted his lips in an equally mirthless smile. “I think perhaps you’d better get to the point.”
“So you can make your reservations? So you can meet your date?” She glanced toward the door. “Is she your girlfriend?”
“I don’t see that my relationship with Marta is relevant.”
“How serious is this relationship? Was she your girlfriend when you…eight weeks ago?”
“Again,” he said, though he had to work to keep a patient tone, “I think you’ll need to establish the relevance before—”
“You want relevance?” She hadn’t ever unfolded her arms, and he saw her fingers tighten until the knuckles were white. “Okay, I’ll give you relevance.”
He waited. The room was so quiet he realized neither one of them was breathing. “I’m pregnant.”
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Kitty nursed a glass of ice water in the restaurant of her hotel, trying to occupy herself by mentally critiquing the bartender. Unfortunately, because the hotel was half empty and down on its luck, nothing much was happening except the occasional request for an after-work beer.
She’d considered booking a room somewhere glitzy—a fancy hotel that would show David Gerard she wasn’t someone who could be pushed around. But that idea had evaporated after a nanosecond. She didn’t have much left in her savings, and she had no idea whether David was the type who might tell her to go to hell, and take the baby with her. She had to hang on to every penny.
Still,
