That thought sent a spike of pain through her, though, so she pushed it aside as she stood.
He didn’t let go of her hand. They stood there, her hand in his, less than a foot of space between them. Heat flared—the same heat that had gotten her into this fine mess. Why had she let something as ridiculous as desire ruin everything? She should pull away, break this connection between them. She should have pulled away two months ago, too.
Despite her heeled boots, he was still tall enough she had to look up at him. His sandy-blond hair was tousled, week-old scruff on his jaw, his eyes a tad bloodshot. Not quite the player from her memory, but his mussed state didn’t detract from his handsomeness. Instead, it made him more real.
And he hadn’t yet told her this was her problem to deal with.
Stella’s throat caught with unexpected emotion. For some ridiculous reason, she wanted to thank him for not rejecting her outright. Ludicrous hormones, she thought, shaking off the feeling. Just because he hadn’t kicked her to the curb yet didn’t mean he still wouldn’t. He was just in shock, that was all.
And the fact that she felt that same pull—the one that had started all the trouble to begin with...? How she’d been drawn to his wide smile? How, even though she knew she had no business flirting with a man in a club, she’d been unable to resist him—his laugh, his touches? She’d tried to tell herself that she just needed a little fun and he fit the bill, but she wasn’t sure that was true anymore—if it had ever been. She’d had no intention of picking up a man that night. But he’d changed everything from the very moment his smile had sent flashes of heat across her body.
That was all irrelevant now. She was not here for him, no matter how handsome he looked or how stunningly good he had made her feel two months ago. She was here for the baby.
Then he said something that took everything she thought she understood about the situation and turned it upside down.
“It’s really great to see you again.”
She froze, afraid to move, afraid to break the spell of the moment. Why on earth would he say that? It couldn’t be because he was actually thrilled by her pronouncement. No, there was too much fear in his eyes for that, despite the admirable job he was doing of hiding it.
What if that was what he thought he had to say? What if the fear wasn’t so much because she was expecting, but because of who she was—David Caine’s daughter? What if he was being a gentleman about this because he was afraid of what her father would do when he found out?
She couldn’t keep this quiet forever. Even if she managed to avoid her father for the duration of her pregnancy—which would probably be easy enough—sooner or later someone would notice that she was packing around an infant to photo shoots. Sooner or later, Mickey would break.
The time would come when she’d have to deal with her father. She wanted—needed—to deal with Bobby first. If she didn’t have everything arranged... Bobby’s promise to keep her secret was first. She’d like to get a promise of support from him, too, but she wasn’t about to set up the baby for the heartbreak of being rejected by a father. She’d had enough of that for one lifetime.
In the middle of this thought, Bobby’s other hand brushed under her chin and he kissed her cheek.
Stella heard herself say, “Even though...?”
It sounded pathetic and needy and everything she didn’t want to be. Everything she wasn’t, by God.
“Even though,” he agreed, the scruff on his chin scratching her cheek. Then he seemed to realize that, despite the fact that he’d promised comfort and privacy, they were still standing in a minimally heated, semipublic car park. “Come on.”
He tucked her hand under his arm, a perfectly chivalrous thing to do under the circumstances. But she felt the heat flow between them. She remembered how he’d acted in the club—suave, sophisticated. Fun. Sexy. Tonight he was...different. Even more appealing.
No.
She’d made that mistake once. She couldn’t let her attraction to him cloud her thinking again.
He led her past a rather dramatic, electric-blue motorbike and to an elevator. “That yours?”
He nodded as they waited for the doors to open. “Built it myself. But I don’t ride it when it’s this cold. Probably won’t take it out until April. It’s been winterized.”
The doors opened and they stepped in. The whole time, he kept his grip on her hand.
They rode to the top in silence.
Even though.
Even though she’d been foolish enough to get pregnant. Even though she’d been foolish enough to break one of her long-standing rules about clubs and parties and men and sex. Even though she was David Caine’s daughter, for crying out loud, he was still glad to see her.
Sure, they’d had a lovely time at that party, an even lovelier time in her car afterward. In fact, it had been fun. Not just the sex—and that had been amazing—but the whole evening, from the very moment she’d seen him.
The music had been far too loud, of course, but that had given her a good reason not to talk to anyone. From her perch at the bar, she’d had an excellent view of the front door and was busy mentally preparing what she would say to her father when he came in. But Bobby had walked in instead, his blond hair and light gray suit standing out in the sea of New York black. She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him.
Which had been why he’d caught her staring. She remembered the first moment, the way his face had registered shock—no, surprise. Excitement. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had been excited to see her.
Bobby had kept his eyes on her as he made the rounds of the club. He had been popular, that she could tell. He chatted with everyone—a handshake, a slap on the back, a joke, from the looks of all the laughing. But his gaze had always returned to her. And once he’d made his rounds, he’d made his way to her.
She’d braced herself for the come-on—for him to say, “So you’re David Caine’s daughter—I had no idea you were so beautiful,” or something ridiculous like that. She’d heard them all and had long since learned not to take the so-called compliments personally.
But the line hadn’t come. “I have a feeling there’s more to that dress than the front,” he’d said, leaning in close so he didn’t have to shout over the music.
Her dress. The one she’d designed.
So she’d stood and done a small turn for him, feeling ridiculous. Until she’d gotten back around, facing him, and had seen something unexpected on his face.
Appreciation.
He’d been close enough to touch her then, but he hadn’t. He’d waited until she’d given him the permission that came with her touching the seams of his suit—that came with her running her hands over his shoulders and down his back.
She shouldn’t have touched him, shouldn’t have allowed him to touch her back. Small touches that had set her head spinning, clever observations that had made her laugh. A drink. His hand around her waist, leaning in close to whisper. His lips grazing her ear, then abandoning all pretense, his teeth scraping her lobe.
Her,
