Baby Fever

“We’ve all seen Pretty Woman, honey, where the poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks makes the rich man throw caution to the wind, no matter what the public’s opinion might be. It was just a modern-day fairy tale, and women like Jazz and me know it. So treat her with fairness. That’s all I ask.”

“I give you my word.”

She nodded. “You have kind eyes.”

Did he? While he’d never been accused of mistreating anyone, he didn’t think there was a well of kindness in him beyond the average. Maybe the heart attack was changing him more than he thought. Then again, maybe it was just Jasmine.

Now or never, he decided, taking a deep breath as Maggie hurried away when she spotted Jasmine marching to his table. Taking care of business first, he asked for his bill and handed her the coat check stub, deflecting whatever emotions seemed anxious to spill out of her. By the time she returned with his jacket, he’d paid the bill, and she seemed calmer. But the sparks he’d seen intrigued him more than her pretense of flirting.

He stood as she arrived, and she held up the jacket, indicating he should turn around. He couldn’t remember anyone doing that for him, ever, and he was uncomfortable letting her. Then he felt her fingertips graze his neck as she straightened the collar before brushing her hands across his shoulders, patting the fabric in place, a wifely gesture that startled him into stillness.

When he could manage it, he turned around. “I’d like to take you out when you get off work. You know the city, so you could choose where.”

Her gaze settled chest-level on him. “Thank you for the invitation, but I’m exhausted.”

“Tomorrow, then? During the day? Breakfast or lunch? You name the time and place.”

Her eyes flickered briefly to his face, then lowered again. “I’m sorry. I can’t tomorrow.”

He bent down a little, keeping his voice low. “Have I misinterpreted?”

Jasmine held herself still. His breath was warm against her forehead. She could lean forward two inches and be able to rest her head against his shoulder. “misinterpreted?”

“Your interest?”

Anticipation surged through her. Misinterpreted? Not likely. But she couldn’t tell him that, not tonight. She wanted—needed— him to come back tomorrow and maybe the next and the next, until she was ovulating. “I’m just saying no for now.”

“So if I ask tomorrow, I might get a different answer?”

“Maybe.” She should smile at him, flirt with him, something. But she couldn’t even look him in the eye. The lies would show.

He was quiet for too long. She finally looked up.

“I won’t promise, but I’ll try,” he said.

“I hope you do,” she answered quietly, giving him a smile of sorts. “If not for dinner, maybe you’d enjoy a card game or two upstairs. I’m sure you could find a table to join.”

“Good night, Jasmine.”

“Good night.”

He waited, just staring at her.

“Patrick,” she added. “Good night, Patrick.” Come back tomorrow, please, she begged him silently as he walked away.

“I don’t mind you talking to him when I’m there, but I don’t trust you alone with him,” Jasmine said in clipped tones as she cornered Maggie in the hallway a few minutes later.

Maggie’s eyes opened wide. “I wasn’t trying to lure him. I wouldn’t do that to you, Jazz. You know that.”

“I’m just telling you I don’t need your help where he’s concerned.”

“Help? We were just shooting the breeze. Honest.”

Jasmine wished she could take her sister into her confidence, but she knew Maggie would go crazy if she knew. Jasmine had never known anyone who so totally believed in the sacred order of things the way Maggie did. Dating, marriage, then children. Well, Jasmine had tried that once. It had been enough.

But if Maggie knew Jasmine had every intention of seducing that glorious man solely for the purpose of having his child, not only would she interfere, she would probably even tell Patrick. Patrick. Even the name made her shiver with anticipation.

“Shooting the breeze? I don’t believe you,” Jasmine said. “You know how I feel about men. I have good reason to feel nothing but contempt. One seemingly nice man isn’t going to change my opinion of the gender.”

“Jazz--”

“I mean it, Maggie. Don’t interfere with—”

Maggie’s hand landed against Jasmine’s mouth. “Hush.”

The hairs on the back of Jasmine’s neck stood up. Even without confirmation, she knew Patrick had come up behind her. He must have gone to the rest room before he left. She’d been vaguely conscious of the door opening, but she hadn’t tempered her speech. Please let us have an earthquake right now, she prayed uselessly.

“You’re going to pay for this one with more than quarters,” Maggie whispered to her before disappearing.

Steeling herself, Jasmine turned around. Had he heard her words to Maggie?

“Good night again,” he said as he started to move past her in the narrow confines of the hallway, brushing against her and smiling.

Relieved, she concentrated on the sensation of his body skimming hers, then he stopped, pressed her against the wall and kissed her. Not a hard, quick kiss but a gentle merging of lips and breath, a kiss meant to entice. A kiss that started at their mouths but flowed the way of hot, thick, maple syrup over pancakes, down, around and through her body, saturating her with sweetness and temptation.

He settled his hands at her waist; hers glided up his chest. He slid his hands over her rear and pulled her closer; hers slipped behind his back to curve over his shoulder blades, bringing their chests as close as their hips. His tongue swept her lips then dipped inside her mouth. Was that sound coming from her? God, he was so warm, so very warm.

He lifted his head and stood in silence until she opened her eyes. She saw that his smile was gone, replaced with an intense expression she could put no name to.

“What you have to understand, Jasmine, is that seemingly is your operative word. A man can be seemingly nice. Then again, he may be an expert at pulling the wool over the eyes of unsuspecting women. It’s probably better that you continue to feel contempt for all men than to trust any of us individually. You might end up lonely as hell, but you’ll find comfort in the knowledge you’re right, I’m sure.”

He strode away from her as she wilted against the wall and closed her eyes, blocking her final glimpse of him.

She wouldn’t look, not yet, Jasmine decided as she continued serving the party of eight. From the corner of her eye she could see J.D. leading a single customer to a booth in her section, the same booth where Patrick had sat the previous two nights. Patrick, who had given her hope before her foolish words had sounded a death knell to her dream, mournfully, dolorously, plaintively.

Yet a small part of her still clung to a fragment of hope that he was a man who didn’t give up easily.

She held her breath as she tucked her tray under one arm and casually, almost carelessly, glanced at the lone man…with the fringe of shockingly white hair.

I am not going to cry. Again and again she repeated the order as she slipped into the kitchen and busied herself by slicing bread and building two salads.

“Why’d you put ten dollars in the jar?” Maggie asked, coming up beside her. She leaned a hip against the stainless-steel counter. “Crime and punishment?”

“It was the tip he left last night. I couldn’t keep it, so you might as well add it to your dress fund.”

“He really got to you, didn’t he, Jazz? In a way that no man has, not in a long time.”

Jasmine scooped dressing on the salad. “You’d think I would have learned with Deacon, wouldn’t you?”

Maggie made a crude noise. “You can’t compare Deacon with anyone.”

“Rich is rich. Power is power. I’m not blaming Patrick, you understand. It was my fault entirely. But I was foolish to think for even a minute a man like that might want me. In the end, I’m glad he overheard. Better to kill the possibilities now than later, I think.”

“But some part of you wants the fairy tale.”

“I’m human,” Jasmine said, forcing the words past a lump burning her throat. “But if I really do want to have a relationship with a man again, I need to look at my own kind. Someone from the diner, instead of here.”

Maggie raised her brows. “From the sublime to the ridiculous. The people you meet at that afternoon job of yours swing to the other side of the pendulum, don’t you think? And since when did you start defining yourself by your job? You’re smart, you’re beautiful, and any man would be lucky to have you, especially your Patrick-the-gorgeous-hunk-of-masculinity.”

Jasmine hugged her sister. “Have I told you lately how much I love you? For all that I resented Mom getting married again and having a baby when I was ten, you were the best thing that happened in my life.” She stepped back and moved to the sink to wash her hands.

“What’s weighing on you, Jazz?” Maggie asked softly, following her. “I can’t remember seeing you this emotional since—”

Jasmine let out a shaky laugh. “Don’t mind me. I’m ovulating.”

“You mean, PMS’ing.”

Jasmine shrugged, then lifted the salads onto her tray, choosing to forget her problems by working harder than usual. She kept up a constant dialogue with customers, drawing Maggie’s curious looks as she laughed, sometimes a little too boisterously. She would not cower. She would not grieve. She would continue to be strong and independent and—

Oh, God, and childless.

Midnight came. She changed into a sweater, jeans and tennis shoes for the walk home. Usually J.D. played bodyguard, but he had a late date. The problem with living only four blocks from work was that it was too close to justify a cab ride, and waiting at a bus stop seemed more dangerous than walking.

She stepped out into the night and glanced at the sky, sensing imminent rain. In a way she welcomed it, because it kept some of the crazies off the street. She could make a dash for home without looking around every bend and within every doorway. Cursing her all-day distraction, which had resulted in her forgetting her windbreaker, she folded her arms across her stomach, put her head down and began walking against the wind.

Up the concrete walkway she hurried, then out the gate with its discreet wrought-iron C, identifying the club to its members. She latched the gate and turned in the direction of her apartment. A man blocked her path. Knowing instinctively who stood there, she slowly lifted her gaze, taking in the look-alike wardrobe of sweater and jeans. His expression broadcasted his reluctance to be there, as did his words.

“I tried to stay away.”

Four

Patrick lifted a hand to her cheek and felt her shiver from the touch of his icy skin. He’d been waiting for almost an hour. Perhaps waiting wasn’t the right word. He’d walked past the building then returned three times, not wanting to see her, not being able to keep his distance.

“Jasmine.” Her name sound magical and mysterious to him, conjuring up visions he should probably ignore. “Did you mean what you said last night?”

She looked away from him and sighed. “Yes and no.”

“Meaning?” Somehow her hands had settled within his and her warmth radiated to him.

“What I said to Maggie was just automatic reaction. It didn’t really pertain to you in particular.”

“You’ve been hurt before.”

“Haven’t we all?”

“But you more than most, I think.”

She shrugged one shoulder, and he focused on their joined hands, feeling her anticipation as she waited to learn what he wanted from her.

“I’m not making any promises—”

“I don’t want promises, Patrick.”

“I just want to spend some time with you. You can’t imagine the loneliness.” The nights are long and scary, he wanted to tell her. I lie awake listening to my heartbeat, and sometimes it feels like it stops.

“Yes, I can,” she whispered. “Oh, yes, I can.”

He heard it in her voice, too—loss and longing. “Night Flower,” he said softly, “will you spend an hour with me?”

She rubbed the bridge of her nose in a nervous gesture. “I could use some warming up.”

He leaned a little to block the rain from her face as it began to fall. The wind howled. “What’s open around here where we could get coffee?”

“Do you have a coffee maker in your hotel room?”

Surprised, he focused his gaze intently on her. “Yes,” he answered slowly. “And a fireplace. Two, as a matter of fact.”

“Sounds good to me.”

If it hadn’t been pouring he would have made her be specific about what she expected of him. But first he needed to get them out of the rain.

They ran the short distance, splashing through potholes of trapped water that was accumulating quickly in the deluge. He tugged her around a three-story house that had been converted into a hotel, then followed a pathway until they ended up at a brick cottage nestled in an Edenlike garden of greenery behind the building.

“Quick,” he said, urging her forward with a hand at her lower back as he unlocked the door.

“I can’t go inside like this!” Jasmine pressed herself against the building, under a short overhang, as he swung open the door.

“Why not?”

“I’ll get everything soaked. So will you.”

“People will clean it up.”

The patient exasperation in his voice made her smile. “Men. You know, if you had to do the cleaning, you wouldn’t be so blasé.” She glanced inside. “Go get some towels from housekeeping.”

“At this hour?”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought about the time. Well, I guess—”

Patrick swept her into his arms and carried her over the threshold, then kicked the door shut. He walked directly into the bathroom and set her in the claw-footed tub. “Take off your shoes. I’ll get towels.”

“Take yours off, too,” she said, grabbing his arm. “You’re squishing water out with every step.”

They sat on the rim of the tub and each pulled off soaked leather sneakers. The intimacy of the act struck Jasmine as soon as they both set their bare feet flat in the tub and looked at each other.

“Do you want to take a hot shower?” he asked finally.

“Okay.”

He sat up a little straighter. After a few seconds he climbed out and grabbed the hotel-provided, navy blue velour bathrobe, laying it within arm’s reach of the tub. “You don’t need to lock the door behind me,” he said carefully. “I won’t come in.”

Why, he’s nervous, Jasmine realized, more nervous than she was. The thought relaxed her. She smiled. “I trust you.”

He nodded. “I’ll fix something to warm us. I’ve got coffee and tea, or—”

“You.”

His head jerked back a little and his nostrils flared. “Me.” Not a question, but a statement of controlled surprise.

Jasmine stood and moved close to him. She lifted her hands to brush back his wet hair, not daring to look at his face until she thought she could actually get words out. She settled her hands at the back of his neck, letting her thumbs brush his skin from his ears to the base of his throat. “I haven’t made love in seven years.” If his pulse hadn’t started pounding in the neck veins beneath her fingers, she never would have known how her words affected him. She tried not to smile. “I’d like to end the drought.”

“With me?”

She laughed. “No, with the president.”

“It’s just…You don’t know me.”

“I know what I need to know, and I’m afraid if I wait, there won’t be a chance at all. Am I right?”

“Maybe.”

“You probably don’t like forward women,” she said as she pressed her lips to his throat. “You probably like being the one who initiates everything—”

“No.” Ba-boom. Patrick’s heart announced its reaction. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. The sound vibrated in his chest and echoed in his ears. He took a deep breath. Her rainsoaked hair smelled of strawberries, inundating him with anticipation of the sweetest dessert in his memory. “Your full participation is welcome,” he said finally, putting his arms around her as she laid her head against his shoulder. “But I can’t help wondering, why me? Why now?”

“Why not you? Why not now?”

Ba-boom. Her arm snaked around his waist and glided under his sweater to stroke his damp skin. Ba-boom. He clamped his hands on her elbows, pushing her back a little. “I don’t have protection,” he said.

“You don’t need any.”

He searched her face, seeking answers she either didn’t have or didn’t want to give. “I’m forty-seven years old. I don’t have any desire to become a father at this age.”

“I should have phrased it differently,” she said, calmly meeting his gaze. “You don’t have to worry about my getting pregnant. I’m no spring chicken, either. I’m not going to trap you. I just want to be with you.”

“And when I go home?”

“I know you live a life totally different from mine. You belong with your own. I belong with mine. That’s it.”

“But for now—”

“For now, we can ease the loneliness for each other.”

Because he couldn’t wait another minute, he kissed her, softly, briefly. Ba-boom. “I’ll be waiting,” he said, then turned to leave.

“Patrick?”

He faced her and saw shyness as she twisted her hands together, an action distinctly at odds with her boldness of just a minute ago. “I have just one favor to ask.”

“What’s that?”

“Could you, just for tonight, pretend you love me? Just a little?”

Ba-boom. Ba-boom. He hadn’t loved a woman in twenty-five years, not since Priscilla. She had died because he’d gotten her pregnant again when the doctor had said she might not survive another pregnancy. “I’m not a monster, Jasmine. I’ll treat you with respect.”

Jasmine closed her eyes for a moment, waiting for lightning to strike her at her half-truths. But all she felt was a sense of rightness. She wanted her baby created in a loving moment, if not out of love. It was important that he or she be conceived in a night of beauty, not just physical pleasure. She looked at him, the man she had chosen to father her child. He was a good man, and strong. A kind man who didn’t deserve to be lied to. But didn’t she deserve something, too?

His silence unnerved her. She almost told him to forget it—she didn’t need this extra tension.

“This is the honeymoon cottage,” he said at last.

Hope filled her again. “Is it?”

“My son-in-law arranged the room. He told me he hoped I enjoyed my visit as much as he had.”

“What does that mean?”

“He and my daughter—” He looked around, obviously uncomfortable with the sudden thought. “They were here.”

“For their honeymoon?”

“They didn’t wait that long.”

Jasmine smiled. She liked that he was protective of his daughter, even though she was an adult. “You’ve already carried me over the threshold, but it would just be pretend for us, Patrick.”

He stared at her for so long she felt mesmerized. Then he walked toward her, his gaze on hers, and stepped into the tub. He grasped the hem of her sweater and pulled it over and off her. She was grateful that she’d worn her only remotely sexy bra and panties, ones she hadn’t worn in years. But she’d been hopeful tonight—

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