And Babies Make Five / At Long Last, a Bride: And Babies Make Five

He couldn’t help scanning the length of her, completely forgetting she was pregnant until he noticed how her classic black dress fit snugly over her baby bump. Yet he still found her as sexy as hell.

But he’d be damned if he’d ogle her any more than he probably already had.

“You’re ready,” he said, making light of it all.

Her lips, which bore a pretty shade of pink lipstick, parted, and she glanced at her bangle watch. “You said twenty minutes …?”

Yes, he had. But he’d never known a woman who could pull off getting dressed within the time allotted, especially when it appeared as though she’d been fussing in front of the bathroom mirror for hours.

“You look great,” he said.

“Thanks.” Her face lit up, as if she hadn’t been complimented in ages and had taken it to heart. Then she reached for her purse, which had been sitting by the door on an entryway table, locked up the house and walked with him to his car.

The soles of their shoes—his Italian leather loafers and her sling-back heels—clicked upon the sidewalk and echoed in the evening air, which was clean and fragrant after the rain.

Her shoulder brushed his upper arm, setting off a rush of hormones in his blood, and he had the strangest compulsion to take her hand in his. He didn’t, though, and the fact that he’d wanted to made him realize he might have made a big mistake by asking her out to dinner.

But there was no way to backpedal now, so he shook it off, determined to enjoy a casual, carefree evening with his neighbor—even if he wasn’t feeling the least bit neighborly.

Once inside his car, he stole a glance at her, saw her profile as she glanced out the passenger window.

Damn, she looked good sitting across the console from him.

Nevertheless, he turned on the ignition, started the car and backed out of the driveway.

Ten minutes later, they arrived at the bistro. He parked at the curb, just two shops down from the entrance, and escorted her to the front door.

A hostess in her mid-thirties stood at a podium and welcomed them.

“Reservations for Garza,” he told the woman.

“Yes, sir. Right this way.” She reached for two faux-leather-covered menus and led them to a linen-draped, café-style table in back, where a violinist played softly. Votive candles and a single red rose in a bud vase added to a romantic ambience Hector hadn’t expected.

He pulled out Samantha’s chair, and before taking a seat, she scanned the white plastered walls, the dark wood trim and the various pieces of art that had been tastefully placed throughout the restaurant.

“What a nice place,” she said. “I don’t remember seeing it before.”

“It opened up about six months ago.” He sat across from her. “I was told the service was excellent and the food even better than that. So I’ve been meaning to try it.”

“Who told you about it?”

“My sister and her husband found it one day while they were shopping, and they’ve been raving about it for weeks.”

“Your sister?” she asked. “The pregnant one?”

He nodded. “Her name is Yolanda, and she’s my only sister.” He chuckled. “She’s three years younger than I am, but you’d never know it. She’s been mothering me for as long as I can remember.”

Samantha smiled and leaned into the table, clearly engaged in the conversation. “Do you have any brothers?”

“One. His name is Diego.”

“So your parents had three children?”

“Yes.”

Her smile broadened, and her blue eyes glimmered in the candlelight. “That’s a nice family size.”

He shrugged. “I guess it is.” He’d never thought about his family in terms of the number of siblings he had.

Was she thinking about having another child down the road, maybe giving her baby a brother or sister?

He couldn’t blame her for wanting to create a family, but you’d think that she’d consider adding a husband for herself, and a father for the baby. Yet that didn’t seem to be part of her game plan, and he wondered why.

Had she loved Peter too much to consider replacing him in her life?

That was hard to imagine. But then again, maybe that was because Hector hadn’t really liked the guy. Either way, it wasn’t any of his business.

Silence settled over them until the maitre d’ arrived. “Can I start you out with a bottle of wine?” he asked.

“Not for me,” Samantha said. “I’ll stick with water.”

Hector ordered a glass of merlot from his favorite California winery.

“Good choice, sir.” The maitre d’ motioned for one of the other waiters to bring water for the table, then left.

When they were alone, Samantha leaned forward again and said, “I’m curious about your sister.”

“What about her?”

“How’s she feeling? When is she due? Has she taken any childbirth classes?” She gave a little half shrug. “Just that sort of thing.”

“Oh,” he said. “I get it. Being pregnant means the two of you have a lot in common. And now that I think about it, I’ve noticed that expectant mothers tend to gravitate toward each other at every opportunity.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I’ve been with Yolanda at a couple of social events recently, and she’s drawn to any other pregnant woman within fifty feet of her.”

Samantha chuckled. “I’d probably do that, too. I’m going through so many physical and emotional changes right now. It would sure be nice to have someone to share it all with.”

But not a husband?

Why had she gone the sperm-donor route to get pregnant? A woman as beautiful as Samantha shouldn’t have had any trouble finding a man willing to donate his sperm—especially the old-fashioned way.

Hector certainly would have been tempted.

“You know,” he said, resting his forearm on the table, “this really isn’t any of my business, but I’m surprised that you went to the Armstrong Fertility Institute.”

“Why would that surprise you? They’re one of the most reputable and successful fertility clinics around.”