The Baby Gift

He shook his head no. “I don’t want the keys. I certainly don’t want Poppa.”

“Then…”

He dropped his hand and met her gaze. He moved to her with a quickness that belied his fatigue. His hands gripped her shoulders. “What I want,” he said, “is you.”

Then his arms were around her, and hers were around him.

They clung to each other so desperately it was as if they were trying to forge their two bodies into one. She wanted to be as close to him as possible.

“Briana,” he said, “oh, Briana.”

Then his mouth was on hers, as hungry and seeking as her own, and she was lost in her need for him.

CHAPTER FOUR

HE WANTED HER. He had always wanted her. But never this much and never this badly.

She was the only one who understood—who could begin to understand—what he felt for his child, the depth of it, the complexity, the pain, the fear. To hold Briana meant he was not alone, that there was one person who shared the unspeakable emotions that tore him.

Yet it was more. She was not just a person, she was Briana, and he loved her. Together they had created a child, and together, God willing, they might save her.

But it was all tangled together in his head, the looming terror of loss, the wild desire to fight for his daughter’s life and his sheer, aching physical need for not any woman, but this woman.

She felt the same for him. He knew she did. He could sense the need and yearning coursing through her body.

He took her face between his hands. Her skin felt soft and flawless as the finest silk. He kissed her so deeply it dizzied him. Behind his closed eyes, lights danced and exploded, dying into darkness, then exploding again.

“Don’t—” she whispered against his mouth.

“Yes,” he said, and when she turned her face away, he kissed the smooth spot beneath her ear.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t—please. Please.”

“I need you,” he said, his lips against the throbbing vein in her throat. “I need to hold you. Hold me. Be with me.”

She struggled to pull away. The movement seemed tinged with both reluctance and determination.

“Don’t,” she said for the third time, and to his despair, she seemed to mean it.

He gripped her shoulders. “We need each other. You know it. I know it. Let it happen.”

He tried to kiss her again, but she drew back, shaking her head. “We can’t. That’s not why I asked you here.”

His clasp tightened. “You said you’d tell people we had an affair. It doesn’t have to be a lie. Let that part be true.”

She refused to meet his eyes. He could feel her body turning more rigid. “It can’t be true,” she said. “We can’t do anything. For lots of reasons. For one, you—you’re supposed to—to refrain from ejaculation for now.”

She’d done it to him again. He was stunned. He could only stare at her, uncomprehending. “I’m what?”

She raised her face to his, her face defensive but stubborn. “Refrain. At the lab they’ll need to test your semen. They’ll want a good sample. And I’ll be taking fertility drugs. I have to. I have to—to give them multiple eggs.”

“Multiple eggs? You make yourself sound like the Easter rabbit.”

“Don’t laugh,” she warned. “I’m serious. We can’t make love. It’s what the lab ordered. We go Monday.”

His groin ached, and his head was beginning to hurt. “What about afterward?”

“No. I told you. I’ll be taking hormones. Something might go wrong. I won’t chance an accidental pregnancy.”

“I thought the point of me being here was that we have another child.”

Her chin quivered. “The point is that we have a healthy child.”

A slow resentment was rising in him. “You must have been damn sure I’d go along with doing it your way.”

“No. I wasn’t sure. I just prayed you would.”

“And what if I said let’s not do the bit with the lab and the mad scientists. Let’s have a kid the old-fashioned way.”

To his consternation, her eyes filled with tears. “I couldn’t stand to take the chance. I couldn’t stand to have another child at risk the way she is. I’d rather die. You can call me a coward, but I c-couldn’t.”

She began to cry, and she was a woman who cried so rarely that the sight half-killed him. He understood her torment and hated himself for fueling it. “You’re not a coward,” he said. “Not you. Never you.”

He folded her into his arms, gently this time, making no erotic demand, only holding her and letting her weep. “We’ll do it your way,” he said. “You’re right. The baby will be safe. Shh. Our baby will be strong and healthy and fine.”

Our baby, he thought with a conflict of emotion that half-dazed him. We won’t make love. But we’ll have a baby.

At last her tears slowed, then stopped. She stepped back from him, shamefaced, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Maybe you needed to do it.”

“I’ll try not to do it again.”

He looked at her streaked face. “In all my life I’ve only seen two woman who could cry and still be beautiful. Ingrid Bergman—and you.”

She gave him a weak smile that made his heart twist in his chest. His desire for her hadn’t vanished. It intensified so keenly that it hurt.

“I should go.” He said it abruptly, but she didn’t look surprised.

She seemed to understand and nodded. “I’ll get you the keys.” She went to the kitchen counter, where her handbag lay.

To have something to say, he asked, “Did my package for Nealie come?”

She opened her bag, took out the keys. “Yes. I put it away for Valentine’s Day, like you asked. She doesn’t know it’s here.”