her. If he stayed, she’d be in danger.
He hadn’t wanted their goodbye to be final. Someday, she could be part of his life. But not now. Not while she was carrying his child.
“Are you …” His voice strangled in his throat. “Are you …sure?”
“I’ve taken five pregnancy tests. The result is always positive.”
“But you haven’t been to the doctor.”
“I’m sure,” she said angrily. “My periods are as regular as this Swiss watch you gave me. When you left on your assignment, I was a week late. Ten more days after that, I faced facts, peed on a stick and voila!”
Dumbfounded, he couldn’t help but stare at her stomach. “How did this happen?”
“Good question. I’m on the pill, and it’s supposed to be ninety-nine percent effective.”
For a moment, he considered that his seed was as invulnerable as the rest of him. But that couldn’t be. He’d been to bed with plenty of women who hadn’t turned up pregnant. It had only happened once before. “But I used condoms.”
“Except for that one time,” she said. “There’s no point in second-guessing what we should have done or who was at fault. Spilt milk, you know. No use in crying over it. And it’s pretty clear how you feel about this.”
“Give me a minute. I’m not sure how I feel.”
“I’d like for you to leave.”
He gazed down at her delicate face. The beautiful eyes he’d toasted only a moment ago flared with righteous anger. He couldn’t blame her; he wasn’t handling this well. “I’m not going to abandon you. Whatever you decide is—”
“Spare me the phony nobility, okay? I’m going to have the baby, and I have no intention of roping you into support payments or anything else.”
He started to object, to tell her that he wasn’t the kind of man who cut and run. But that was exactly his plan: to leave her until there was no possibility of danger, which might take a long time. Hell, it might never happen. “Let me explain.”
“No explanation necessary. I told you about my pregnancy because it was the right thing to do. You deserve to know. That’s the end of it.” She went to the door and held it open. “Please go.”
Hostility crackled around her in a ring of fire. Still, he reached toward her, hoping to connect. “I’m glad you told me.”
“Don’t touch me.” She had never looked so beautiful, so powerful. “At least show me the respect of doing as I ask.”
As soon as he stepped into the hallway, the door slammed with absolute finality. Slowly, he trudged up the wooden staircase to his third-floor apartment, fitted the key in the lock and went inside. The halogen lamp on his desk shone down on his battered laptop, which probably wasn’t going to survive immersion in the Mediterranean—the dunking that had taken place when he was being chased by dangerous men who wanted to do him harm. How the hell could he explain that to Melinda? How could he tell her that he was a superhealing machine, and a dark, faceless enemy was after him? He never shared his secrets. If anyone else knew, they might also be targeted. No way could he drag Melinda into the maelstrom of his life.
Stretched out on the leather sofa, he stared up at the high ceiling with the old-fashioned, frosted glass fixture. He’d chosen this old, brick apartment building because of the prewar charm and the fact that the landlord was willing to issue his lease to one of Drew’s fake identities. None of his mail came here; it was delivered to a P.O. box in Manhattan. He paid his bills online. This apartment was untraceable—a safe haven where he could hide while he dug into his past and found out what had happened to him when he was growing up in South Dakota.
And that was exactly what he should continue to do: find the answers. He should take Melinda’s advice. Leave her alone. Let her have her own life.
As a rule, he kept his relationships short-term and uncommitted. He hadn’t expected to get involved with Melinda, hadn’t expected to care so much about her.
But he did care. He wanted her in his life. And their baby. My God, I’m going to be a daddy.
An incurable ache squeezed his heart. He’d suffered a lot of injuries in his life, but losing Melinda and his unborn child was a scar that his miraculous, regenerative blood couldn’t heal.
MELINDA GLARED angrily at the ceiling. As far as she was concerned, Drew Kincaid could go straight to hell. She’d never forget the look of terror on his face when she told him. What happened to the daredevil who skied down an avalanche? Was he scared of a baby?
Apparently, yes.
She needed to burn off some of this anger. Though it was chilly and dark outside, she’d go for a run. In the bedroom, she peeled off her clothes, threw on her sweats and jammed her feet into well-worn running shoes.
Before she left, she decided to put away the dinner she’d prepared for him so she wouldn’t have to face it when she came home.
She picked up the unused china from the table. Her mother had given her the delicate Wedgewood blue-patterned plates for her hope chest. They were supposed to be for after she got married. That wasn’t likely to happen now. Melinda was seven months away from becoming a single mother.
This wasn’t the way her life was supposed to work out, but she wasn’t totally miserable about the prospect. She wanted children, and she had to admit—though she was furious at Drew—that he was an excellent sperm donor: healthy enough to tackle all those extreme sports he seemed to love. Smart enough to be a decent reporter. Motivated enough to make a success of his life. I could have done worse.
A heavy sigh pushed through her lips. Drew’s flaw was his inability to make a commitment. A man like him didn’t want to be tied down, and it wasn’t as if he’d made her any promises.
Neither of them had ever declared their love. Do I love him? The word had been poised at the tip of her tongue once or twice. But she hadn’t actually said it.
With the plates put away, she surveyed the massive dinner. All this food would go to waste; she didn’t have the appetite to sit down and eat.
But Drew probably did. He must be starving and wouldn’t have food in his house after being away for three weeks.
On a paper plate, she put together helpings of pot roast and rutabagas. Might as well give him the entire apple pie. Being pregnant meant she ought to concentrate on healthy foods that would nourish the baby. And, of course, she should return his wine.
With both hands full, she climbed the stairs to his apartment, intending to place the food outside his door then return to her apartment, call and tell him dinner was served.
As she approached his door, it opened.
She held out the plates. “You might as well have this food. I’m not hungry.”
He took her by the arm and pulled her forward. “We need to talk.”
“Be careful. I don’t want to spill.” She allowed herself to be led into his apartment, where she set down the plate, the pie
