plainly didn’t want to be in here with her. Grimacing with good-natured humor, he eyed Cinda’s girth. She would have held her stomach in, but there weren’t enough muscles in the human body to make that feat possible.
“I’m pregnant, not contagious,” she tried helpfully.
That embarrassed him. His color heightened, but he laughed. “Okay, you win, pretty lady. I may as well chance it.” With a confident gait that exuded masculine sensuality, he walked into the car, hitting the buttons labeled Lobby and then Door Close.
Nothing happened. Not for several heart-stopping seconds. Cinda froze. The good-looking guy froze. Then, exhibiting a flair for drama, the doors belatedly shut. The elevator, coughing and wheezing like an asthmatic locomotive, begrudgingly set them on a slow-motion downward journey. Cinda clutched at the iron handrails and tried not to look afraid—or like she’d been flattered by the handsome man’s calling her a pretty lady. She’d needed that. For a very long time…she had needed that.
Just then her fellow passenger turned to her. With a disarming smile that confirmed his Southern upbringing, he said, “If you don’t mind me asking, when’s your blessed event due? And don’t say yesterday.”
“Okay. My due date is a week from today.” That was all she meant to say, but his smiling sigh of relief had her conscience railing at her to tell the man the whole truth. “However, I’m in labor right now, so I’m on my way to the hospital.”
His expression fell. He looked so disappointed in her. “And we were getting along so well.”
“I know. Trust me, it wasn’t my idea. Sorry.”
“That may be, but I feel it only fair to warn you that, as a pit crew mechanic on the Jude Barrett stock car racing team, I can take an entire car apart and reassemble it in five minutes. But nowhere on my resume does it say anything about delivering babies. So unless you need an oil change and your tires rotated, you just stand over there and behave yourself, you hear?”
Now he’d made her laugh. “You poor man. I’ll try to hold on.” Now more at ease with the stranger, Cinda heard herself asking him a personal question. “You’re Southern, aren’t you?”
He sent her an arch expression. “What gave me away?”
Cinda pointed to him. “That package of grits sticking out of your coat pocket.”
He actually patted down his pocket as humor sparked in his blue eyes. “Damn. I meant to take that out.” Then he stuck a hand out for her to shake. “I’m from Atlanta. Well, actually a little town just west of there that nobody’s ever heard of called Southwood. My name is George Winston Cooper the Third, but my friends call me Trey. And you are…?”
“Not from Atlanta.” Cinda clasped his hand. His flesh was warm, his palm slightly callused. While his grip was firm, he didn’t squeeze too hard, and her swollen fingers appreciated that. “I’m Cinda Cavanaugh of Canandaigua, New York. It’s just outside of Rochester. But I live here in Manhattan now.” He nodded, but didn’t let go of her hand. Cinda melted…and added, stupidly, “But I have a house in Atlanta.”
As if fate had been waiting only for her to admit that, the diabolically evil elevator stopped dead between floors with a sick grinding crunch of something metallic and a prolonged twanging of cables that just didn’t bode well at all. The ensuing lack of movement taunted its passengers. Cinda gasped, clutching harder at the man’s hand. “Oh, no.”
Trey Cooper voiced her fears. “This is not happening.” He untangled his hand from hers and turned to the panel of buttons, every one of which he proceeded to push. And still nothing happened. He glanced bale-fully at her and then tried to wedge the double doors open. But despite his evident strength and his concerted effort, they wouldn’t budge. He muttered beneath his breath and changed tactics, now beating on the doors with a fist. “Hey, out there! We need help. We’re stuck. There’s a woman in here in labor—and a man about to have a heart attack. Hello! Can anyone hear me?”
Apparently no one could. Trey Cooper turned to her, eyeing her as if he’d known all along that she carried some mutant strain of virus that threatened humankind. Cinda stared soberly back at him. His eyes pleaded for her to reassure him. “So, Mrs. Cavanaugh, how are you feeling right about now?”
Scared, her heart pounding—and her abdomen cramping—Cinda lied. “Fine.” The man gave her a doubting stare. She caved. “Okay, so I could explode any minute here. Trust me, I am not any happier about this than you are, Mr. Cooper. We’re in real trouble.”
“Beyond the obvious, you mean?”
“Way beyond the obvious. My baby is in a breach position, which means I can’t deliver her in the normal…well, on my own. I will need help.”
His frown deepened. “And me without my toolbox. Darn.”
Cinda’s fear and pain turned to testiness. “Oh, like you’re the one scheduled for a C-section delivery in a nice, safe hospital surrounded by people who know what they’re doing…only you can’t get there.”
“No one wants you to get there more than me, Mrs. Cavanaugh. So you just stand there and keep your baby where it is.”
Cinda’s retort was on her lips, but then a twinge of building discomfort made her grimace. She bit down on her bottom lip. “Oh, God. A labor pain. I don’t think I can hold on. Please. You need to do something—and do it now.”
His eyes widened. “Got any suggestions?”
Was she not busy enough already? Did she have to do everything? Cinda clutched reflexively at her abdomen. “You said you know something about cars. This is an elevator car. So do something.”
“Ma’am, my expertise is with the four-wheeled variety that tear around racetracks for huge amounts of money.”
Suffering a pang of doubt about this heroic-looking man’s ability to cope in this situation, Cinda breathed through her physical pain and pointed to the emergency phone behind its glass case. “Try calling someone, Mr. Cooper.” She took a few more puffing breaths. “Because if my labor progresses much further, the two of us are quickly going to become the three of us.”
He blanched. “Then you have got to stop doing that whole labor pains thing.”
Cinda tried not to double over. “I would if I could, trust me. My baby’s early. We didn’t expect this. So do something—and do it before I have to name this child Otis.”
“Otis?”
“After the man who invented the elevator. Now, do something.”
“Good idea.” Trey Cooper whipped around, opened the case, and lifted the telephone receiver. But before he put it to his ear, he treated her to a surly “why-me” expression. “So where’s your husband? I’m of a mind to throttle him but good for not being the one here with you right now.”
Cinda’s labor pain receded. She inhaled deeply, relaxed, leaned against the wall behind her, and said, very matter-of-factly, “It wouldn’t do much good. Richard is dead.”
Instant dismay and sympathy radiated from Trey Cooper’s blue eyes. “Oh, hell, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect. You’re just so young. I never thought you’d be a widow.”
She
