forward again. “Now, please excuse me, Mr. Cahill.”
“Call me Jon. Because you’re going to see a lot of me in the future,” he said in a smooth-as-silk voice.
She shot a sharp glare into his calm features. “I haven’t confirmed your suspicions, Mr. Cahill.”
“It’s my business to read people’s faces, Sylvie. Yours is no different. I’m not condemning you for carrying my brother’s child. I’m just telling you I will be a part of its life.”
“You didn’t tell me how you came to suspect such a thing.”
“The receptionist gave me a date when you’ll be ‘cured,’ and from your commanding officer, I learned when you left Bosnia. You retired eleven weeks ago immediately after Rick’s memorial service. You’ve been pregnant about twelve weeks, haven’t you?”
What could she say? She nodded.
“You told me you and Rick got stuck overnight more often than not, confirming what Rick had already told me in his e-mails.” He drew in a deep breath, as if controlling some troubling part of himself. “Rick died March twenty-sixth. All of these facts plus the way you reacted when I mentioned him made me suspicious. Am I correct?”
Hunger kicked at her again, but this time she fought off the pangs. She could stand on a parade square for days, shifting very little, never feeling hungry, tired or woozy. Yet today, feeling like the stuff at the bottom of a horse stall, she could barely nod her head.
She managed to anyway. What was the use? It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that this guy…with eyes like frozen diamonds, who had cradled her in a way she hadn’t figured she would want to be cradled…he wouldn’t give up until he knew the truth.
“Yes,” she whispered, shocked that she was relenting. “This is Rick’s baby.”
Wait. She’d plowed through a tour of duty in one of the world’s worst war zones without ever weakening, and yet one moment of Jon’s questioning and she’d caved. What was wrong with her?
For starters, she hadn’t plowed through the whole tour of duty without weakening. There was that one night…when she’d thought only of herself. And how she hadn’t wanted to die a—
Jon folded his strong-looking arms across his powerful chest and nodded. Sylvie’s knees wobbled, and she recalled briefly how good it had felt being carried, her head sagging against his firm, warm shoulder.
“Good.” Leaning forward, he took her arm and steered her into the corridor without so much as looking her way. “Now that we have that confirmation out of the way, I’ll drive you home. On the way, you can tell me what everyone said about the age difference between you and Rick. It must be more than ten years.”
Jonathan Cahill was a bastard. And Sylvie knew bastards. They came a dime a dozen in the army. This man cut to the quick, wasted no words and had a damn annoying expectation that his questions would be answered truthfully and immediately.
And he scared her. Rick had told her once that his parents were both dead, leaving him and his brother alone. What he had neglected to tell her was that his older brother was as possessive of Rick’s memory as he was downright nasty.
She would have protested the way he directed her out of the medical center, but she didn’t want to call attention to herself, or her condition.
The hot Albertan sun beat down on her when they stepped outside. How she managed to reach Jon’s rental car was beyond her. Of course, his firm grip on her elbow had helped.
No! She didn’t need his help. She shrugged off his hand and with a deep breath, managed to stay upright as Jon unlocked the car with the touch of a remote control. She took the opportunity of his averted attention to recover her faltering independence. If he had thought of helping her inside, he was mistaken. She threw open the door and climbed in.
Oh, my. Leather seats. Cool, smooth, yielding to her hot, aching form like the surf on the Adriatic beach where she’d taken her four-day R&R, back in November.
Jon Cahill had rented the best car in town.
She sank against the backrest.
“Good thing I parked in the shade,” he said, climbing in beside her and starting the engine. He glanced up at one of the large red maples that lined the parking lot. “It would be hot enough to have you faint again.”
She didn’t comment as he cranked up the air-conditioning.
“Which way?” he asked.
She directed him out of town, uncertainty nibbling at her. She couldn’t imagine the military divulging its secrets, and she doubted that Jon had come all this way to merely find closure. He knew more. Or he suspected more.
He’d said something about not knowing the truth. During the debrief, her CO had told her the military still had to finish their investigation. Considering what she knew, yes, of course, she was expected to keep silent. And for once Sylvie had been in full agreement. She had no desire to discuss what had really happened, especially with Jon Cahill and his obvious deep-seated bitterness.
She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry about your father. My mother died about ten years ago.”
“So you live with your dad on your ranch?”
“Now that I’ve taken over the place, yes. Sort of. I did when I came home on leave, of course.” She sighed at her foolish stumble of words. “I guess I do now. But he and Andrea go south in the winter. A few years ago he remarried. My stepmother…she’s great and all, but…”
“But what?”
Sylvie shrugged. “I don’t know her very well. She’s a lot younger than Dad and loves the great outdoors. They take university students on primitive expeditions all summer long. They’ve been gone for the past two weeks.”
“I see.”
Great. She sounded like a jealous daughter, but she wasn’t. Andrea kept Dad active and alive. She was good for him and had even convinced her father to sign the ranch over to Sylvie, something Sylvie had secretly hoped would happen.
“So you haven’t told your father about your pregnancy yet. And you don’t know how to, either, right?”
“Reading my face again?”
“Among other things.” He turned to her when they stopped at Trail’s only traffic light, and as they lingered at the intersection, his gaze drifted up from her knees, pausing at her hips a moment, before completing the inspection with a journey to her face. “How long will your father be gone?”
“Most of the summer. On and off. And I’m not worried about what he’ll say. Dad is, well, mildly supportive of everything I do. Andrea might want to help a bit too much, but at least she’s never had a baby, so I won’t get too much anecdotal advice.”
He kept staring at her face, as if gauging whether or not she was telling him the truth. Then, as if he’d just remembered he was driving, he noticed the green light and eased the sports car into the intersection.
“What about your mother? Tell me about her,” she
