Expecting...And In Danger

Except for the mess. Her mouth curved. She’d never pictured her dream apartment with so many piles of misplaced objects. Or a hammock. But the expensive furnishings, the artful use of color and space, the curving iron staircase and fireplace and beautiful rugs—she’d dreamed of a place like this, possessions like these, for years.

Charlotte had a hunger for nice things. A product of my deprived childhood, she thought with bitter humor, dipping her leg beneath the water to rinse. It wasn’t a quality she admired in herself, but she accepted it. Possessions would probably always matter a little too much to her.

She leaned against the back of the tub. Had he really dreamed of her?

It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter, she told herself fiercely. She knew better than to confuse fantasy with reality. Maybe he had dreamed of her. They’d been incredibly good together in bed. But dreams weren’t a guide for real life, and great sex wasn’t a basis for a marriage.

In dreams, she thought, her eyes drifting closed, anything could happen.

Someone rolled over inside her.

Her hand went to her stomach. It amazed her every time, this motion created by another being right inside her body. Would she grow used to the sensation in the next four months? Would she be more grouchy than awed when the baby was bigger and woke her up at night, kicking?

She smiled. She didn’t think so. Much to her surprise, she loved being pregnant. Oh, at first she’d been scared and nauseous, appalled that this could happen to her, that she could have been so irresponsible. But the first time the baby had moved…she rubbed her middle, smiling, her eyes still closed. Now she even liked the way her body was expanding, the solid shape the baby made inside her. After being alone in her body all her life, she couldn’t stop marveling at being two instead of one.

Funny. She’d never dreamed about being pregnant, yet now that she was, she loved it. Her fantasies had usually revolved around success in some form. Stock options. A well-fed 401K. Beautiful things of all sorts, from handmade quilts to designer suits to a hopeless craving she’d suffered from for months for an antique rolltop desk.

Though there had been another dream…. No, that was too important a word for her foolishness. A silly fantasy, that was all it had been. It had seemed harmless. She’d worked at the Connelly Corporation for three years and as Grant’s assistant for two, and Rafe had never asked her out. She’d been sure he never would, sure her longing would go safely unrequited…until the night five months ago when the Connellys had held a barbecue at their lakeside cottage.

She’d gone there to get Grant’s signature on a contract. And Rafe, damn his observant eyes, had realized something was bothering her. Grabbing at the first excuse that had come to mind, she’d claimed to be ill. Big mistake. Grant had refused to hear of her driving back to work. He’d refused to hear of her driving at all.

Rafe had offered to take her home. And she, foolish dreamer that she’d been, hadn’t protested nearly enough….

One night in May

“So what’s wrong?” Rafe asked as they headed back to the city on Lake Shore Drive.

“Just a bug, I guess.” Outside, the air was dreamy with dusk. To their left, the vast waters of Lake Michigan were turning gray and secretive in the fading light. There were secrets inside the car, too. They pressed on Charlotte, weighed her down, made her want to be anywhere but here, with this man.

She leaned her head against the headrest and tried to relax. The ride was smooth and quiet, the leather seats absurdly comfortable. But the tension vibrating inside her wouldn’t let go. “I’d pictured you with a sporty little two-seater.”

“If I get the urge to travel with my knees jammed up to my chest, I fly economy class. No need to buy a car that does that for me.”

A smile tugged at her mouth. Rafe had a way of making her smile, making her angry, making her feel all sorts of things she didn’t want to feel. “I’ll bet you’ve never flown economy in your life.”

“You’d lose.” He signaled and slowed the car. “I don’t think you’re sick.”

She sat up straight. “What a strange thing to say. Unless your ego is crowding out your brain, and you think I lured you away from the party to have my wicked way with you.”

He chuckled. “Don’t I wish. No, you did your best to get out of accepting a ride. You’ve got an annoyingly large independent streak, Charlie.”

“My name is Charlotte,” she corrected him automatically, looking down at her lap. Her fingers rested there calmly enough, but inside she was rattling like a poorly tuned engine. There was a giddy intimacy in riding in Rafe’s car, alone with him as darkness eased up on the city. But this pull she felt was the last thing she needed right now. It distracted her. She needed to be thinking about how to find out what that tech had done so she could undo it, not about the way Rafe’s forearms looked with his sleeves rolled up.

He glanced at her, his grin flashing. “Nervous about being alone with me?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“If Dad hadn’t been there to bully you, you’d never have gotten in this car with me.”

“Your father doesn’t bully. He’s been very good to me.” And in return, she’d betrayed him. But what else could she have done? Oh, Brad, she thought, miserable in her love and guilt. Somehow she would make things right again. If she had to go to the office every weekend, she’d make things right.

For everyone else, a little voice inside whispered. She might be able to put things right for others, but her own dreams were forever spoiled. There never had been any chance of a future for her and Rafe, she reminded that whispery voice. They were too different. Besides, he liked to tease, he liked to flirt, but he’d had three years to fall for her, if he was going to.

Obviously he wasn’t.

She kept her eyes closed, faking the sleep her unquiet mind wouldn’t allow. Rafe either believed she’d dozed off or was willing to let the conversation drift to an end. Neither of them had spoken for perhaps fifteen minutes when he broke the silence. “Here we are.”

She straightened, frowning as he pulled to a stop. “Where are we?”

“A couple blocks from a great Italian restaurant.” He turned off the engine, got out and came around to her side. She remained where she was, flustered and angry. When he opened her door she said, “I’m not in the mood for a kidnapping.”

“This isn’t a kidnapping. I’m taking you to dinner.”

“I don’t recall being asked.”

“If I’d asked, you’d have said no. Look, Charlie, you’re not sick. You just said that because you didn’t want to talk about whatever has you upset. Man problems, probably. But I’m not a bad listener. You might try not holding everything in, see if it helps.”

Oh, yes, he was just the person for her to confide in. You see, gangsters forced me to let them do something to the computers at your family’s corporation….

“No,” she said firmly. “Thank you, but no. I’ll be fine.”

He nodded. “That’s what I thought. You look like a woman in need of a good cry, but you aren’t about to let your hair down and take advantage of my broad, manly shoulders, are you? So I decided to feed you instead. Tony makes great lasagna.”

To her alarm, the quivering inside threatened to spill outside. She bit her lip to keep it steady. “I’m sure you know a lot about women, but I don’t think you know much about the therapeutic effects of a good cry.”

“I’ve got sisters.” He heaved a huge sigh. “Lord, do I have sisters.”

“Three sisters might make you seem like a poor, outnumbered male if you didn’t also have five brothers.”

“Seven brothers now.”

Of course. She felt like a fool for forgetting. Rafe had grown up with five brothers, including a half brother, but last month the family had learned of two more Connelly men—twins, the product of a youthful affair of Grant’s that had taken place before he married Emma.

A discovery like that might have torn another family apart. Not the Connellys. Oh, there had been some turmoil. She’d heard raised voices in Grant’s office a couple of times, but that sort of thing happened from time to time anyway, and meant little. The Connellys were stubborn, strong-minded people, every one of them. Sometimes they were angry and loud. But the storms came and went, leaving the family still solid. United.

What would it be like to have such a family? So many, and so close. There would always be someone to listen, to help if you needed it…. The squeeze of something horribly close to self-pity made her voice sharper than she intended. “You prove my point. Testosterone seven, estrogen three. The testosterone count wins.”

“Come on. You’ve met my sisters. Can you really believe any of us poor males ever wins?”

She chuckled in spite of herself.

“That’s better.” He reached in and took her hand. “Come on, Charlie. Eat. You’ll feel better. If you’re good, I’ll even spring for tiramisu.”

Charlotte lay in the cooling water, remembering the crowded little restaurant, the wobbly table covered by a cheap vinyl tablecloth and the incredible lasagna. They’d shared a bottle of wine while they talked, teased and argued. And she’d forgotten to worry. Or maybe she’d willfully shoved worry aside, seizing the chance to feel good with both hands, like a greedy child.

Rafe had taken her home. He’d insisted on walking her up to her apartment. At her door he’d kissed her…and all those dreams, all those foolish, impractical dreams had blazed to life along with her body.

She remembered the look in his eyes when he’d lifted his head. The way she’d felt when his hand sifted through her hair. His hand hadn’t been entirely steady, and she’d let herself hope. For a moment hope had bloomed in her, bright and mute as sunrise.