about was making it through the night and hoping Granny wouldn’t decide to spend any extra time in Houston.
“I’ll get you something to eat while you put away your things,” she said.
“No, I can’t let you do that, especially since you’re hurting. Go ahead and lie down again. I’ll just make a sandwich. In fact, I’ll make two—one for each of us.”
“Well,” she said, “as long as it’s no trouble…”
“It’s not.” And that was the absolute truth. Hell, he needed to keep his hands busy and his thoughts on something else.
Otherwise, he was going to spend the next umpteen hours stressed out of his ever-lovin’ mind.
Connie’s back had been aching like crazy, but it had seemed to ease some over the last hour. Her heart was still skipping and jumping all over the place, though.
She’d been sound asleep when Greg had entered the house. And while she’d known he was coming, she hadn’t been expecting him until later this evening.
I’m Greg, he’d said. Granny’s son. We met at her birthday party a few months back.
Connie hadn’t needed the introduction. She’d known exactly who the tall, dark-haired man was. His handsome face had adorned the covers of several of her favorite CDs, and his voice had been a regular on KCOW, the radio station she’d always listened to when she’d lived near Galveston.
In fact, Greg might never understand why, but when she realized that her employer’s son was the Greg Clayton whose hits were tearing up the charts, Connie had nearly given two weeks notice and begun looking for a new job.
Not that Greg would have any idea who she was. Her singing career, as short-lived as it was, had been limited to gigs at seedy, two-bit bars. It had also been a surreal time in her life she wanted to forget.
After Ross’s last drunken rage, Connie had made up her mind that she wouldn’t ever let him hit her again. That she was going to make some changes in her life. Some big ones.
“Do you want to press charges?” the first officer on the scene that night had asked, as his partner called for an ambulance.
She’d nodded. “Yes, I do.”
The violence had started as a push here and a shove there. Over time, it had escalated to a twist of her arm, which had been so hard that she’d thought he might have broken something. At that point, she’d told herself she wouldn’t tolerate any more rough stuff.
The first time he actually struck her and split open her lip, he’d cried like a baby and been so remorseful that she’d softened and gone against her best judgement.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he’d said. “I just love you so much.” Then he’d apologized and promised it would never happen again.
It was a promise he hadn’t been able to keep.
Connie hadn’t grown up in a violent home, so the next time he’d blown up had been the last. She’d refused to live with a bully any longer.
As the officer read him his rights, Ross had grown even angrier. While being helped into the back of the patrol car, he’d yelled to Connie, “You’re going to be sorry for this.”
She’d been sorry already. Sorry for getting involved with him in the first place, sorry she hadn’t left him the very first time he’d raised his voice and had given her a shove.
A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, drawing her from the dark memories, and she padded to the window to peer out into the rain.
Her mother always said that this kind of day called for a pot of soup and homemade bread.
Connie agreed, even if she wasn’t all that good at whipping anything up in the kitchen that wasn’t a dessert. She was getting better at fixing meals, though, thanks to Granny’s insistence that she do the bulk of the cooking in spite of her limited experience.
“You’ve got to learn sometime,” the older woman had said, “especially since you’re going to be a mother in a few short months.”
Connie blew out a sigh and rubbed the small of her back, which had begun to ache all over again.
Had she done too much or pulled something? Or was this just one of the many discomforts associated with the last weeks of pregnancy?
For a moment, she wondered if she might be going into labor. After all, the books she’d read mentioned something about a backache. But it seemed as though she’d been plagued with a similar pain off and on for the past few days or so.
She had a doctor’s appointment tomorrow, so she’d have to ask about it. Especially since it seemed to be hurting worse today than before.
Maybe sleeping on the soft sofa hadn’t been good for her.
Thinking that it might be better if she moved around a bit, she headed to the kitchen where Gregwas fixing sandwiches for them.
Earlier, she’d baked a cake, but she’d put off preparing anything else to eat until after she’d taken a nap, which made her feel somewhat remiss now. She’d been hired to cook the meals, so she didn’t want anyone to think she was slacking off. Neither did she want anyone to think that her pregnancy—or the baby—would hamper her ability to work and pull her own weight. She needed this job and a safe, out-of-the-way place to live.
As she stepped into the doorway, she found Greg standing at the counter, his long, dark hair pulled back with a strip of leather and hanging past his broad shoulders.
He was loading up slices of bread in Dagwood style, with ham, turkey, cheese, sliced tomatoes and whatever else he’d been able to find by rummaging in the fridge.
It was strange to see someone of his caliber standing so close, to see a talented, sexy man engaged in a run-of-the-mill task. He appeared to be one part cowboy, one part warrior, and she found herself in awe.
But she was determined not to fawn over him like a starstruck groupie.
“How about a piece of apple-spice cake?” she asked, shrugging off any misplaced attraction as she entered the kitchen.
“Sure, I’ve got a real sweet tooth, so that sounds great.” He glanced over his shoulder and tossed her his trademark smile, which did a real number on her hormones. And not the maternal kind.
Weird, she thought. Even nine months pregnant, with her thoughts and her body focused on a new baby and upcoming childbirth, she was still flattered by his attention in a male/female sort of way. But she did her best to ignore it and went to work.
After cutting two pieces of cake—one large and one small—she placed them on dessert plates.
“Let’s eat in the living room,” Greg said. “It’s getting chilly, and I want to start a fire. Besides, you’ll probably be more comfortable in there.”
He was right about that.
Ten minutes later, as several flames licked the logs Greg had stacked in the hearth, Connie reached for the
