Honeymoon For Three

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They dealt with the bill and the tip, then Cory led the way into the foyer. When she had her coat on, Slade said, “I’ll walk you to your vehicle before I call a cab.”

Suddenly aware that she was exhausted, Cory also realized there was no point in arguing with him. She walked out into the dark street, pulling her coat closer. “Is it ever going to warm up? I’m only a couple of blocks away.”

Slade took her by the elbow. Music drifted from a jazz bar; traffic lights blinked red and green, and a crowd of teenagers jostled them on the sidewalk. Cory walked fast, her heels tapping on the concrete, her one desire to be alone in her little house. She’d made a fool of herself tonight. An utter fool.

When they reached the truck, she turned to face Slade. “I don’t expect we’ll see each other again,” she said. “Thanks so much for all your help with the land, Slade. And good luck with all your other projects.”

The wind was playing with her hair; she looked as remote as a statue. He had nothing to lose. Nothing. He cupped her face in his hand, kissed her parted lips and stepped back. “Goodbye, Cory,” he said, and to his considerable satisfaction saw that she no longer remotely resembled a statue. Rather, she looked as if she’d like to run him over with her truck. He added blandly, “I’ll wait here until you’ve driven off.”

With uncharacteristic clumsiness she unlocked the truck and climbed in. Then she slammed the door, and with a roar of the accelerator drove away down the street.

Slade headed up the hill, his hands in the pockets of his raincoat. He’d eaten too much; it would do him good to walk back to his hotel. Besides, he was too riled up to sleep.

Cory Haines wasn’t any more indifferent to him than he was to her.

Not that it mattered. Because he was going to put her right out of his mind.

Two days passed. Slade met with the mayor and the city council, pushed through his plans for the waterfront, inspected several sites on the Bedford Basin, and was approached about a lucrative contract in Montreal. But all his spare moments were spent thinking about Cory. Cory and her idea that he father a child.

Why didn’t she want to get married? Was she widowed or divorced? Why had she been so rigid in his arms on the dance floor, so resentful of his kiss by the truck? And why had she chosen him as the sole recipient of her idea?

It was an atrocious idea. So why the devil was he thinking about it night and day?

He knew why. For one thing, if he agreed to it, it would mean he’d be able to make love to her. Assuage the gnawing hunger for her body that had been with him ever since he’d first met her. Maybe then he’d be able to forget her, and she’d stop figuring in his dreams every time he laid his head on the pillow.

The other reason was one he had difficulty bringing himself to acknowledge even in the privacy of his own thoughts. If Cory got pregnant, then a child of his would be alive in the world. His own flesh and blood. Alive. Living and growing and learning.

Cory would be a good mother; he’d stake everything he owned on that. But he, Slade, would be an absentee father, his sole act that of procreation. He wouldn’t love the child. He wouldn’t even see it.

He’d be uninvolved. Safe.

His thoughts went round and round in his head, like hamsters on a treadmill. But, unlike the hamsters, he couldn’t get off the treadmill. Let alone out of the cage.

He spent the weekend with his mother, hanging pictures, carrying boxes up from the basement and painting the smaller of the two bedrooms; on Sunday they drove to Mahone Bay, where she bought herself a lovely antique armoire that he lugged into the newly decorated room and polished with lemon oil.

He planned to go back to Toronto before the end of the week. On Tuesday evening, irritable and out of sorts, he walked to the squash club. He’d booked a court for an hour, which should be long enough to wear himself out; Tom had promised to meet him there. At least when he was playing squash there wasn’t time to think about Cory. Nor was he worried about meeting her there; she and Joe always booked for early in the morning.

He played like a man demented, fighting for points he wouldn’t ordinarily have contested, risking shots that more often than not paid off, to his surprise and Tom’s chagrin. Because he was totally focused on the game, he didn’t notice the small crowd of onlookers in the gallery above his head, their heads swiveling to follow the shots. He certainly didn’t see Cory among them.

She was standing well back, clutching her racquet to her chest. For a big man Slade moved like greased lightning, his sneakers squeaking on the floor, his racquet digging the ball out of impossible situations; he was constantly on the attack, only rarely allowing himself to be caught defensively. A lot could be learned about someone by watching him play a game. He was, she thought fancifully, playing as though demons sat on his shoulder.

Ten minutes before she was due for her own game, she edged free of the spectators and ran downstairs to the women’s locker room.

Slade, had he been asked, might have agreed with Cory about the demons. But Tom, a chemistry professor, had had an extremely frustrating day at work, and at the end of fifty-five minutes Slade won by only a narrow margin. They shook hands, laughing, then Tom wandered over to the benches to talk to one of his students. Slade strode down the narrow corridor towards the locker rooms, swiping at his wet hair with his towel. He had to figure out a way to return those high-lobbed serves of Tom’s and keep control of the T at the same time.

He didn’t even see the woman until he had collided with her. His elbow brushed the softness of a breast, his arm automatically clutched her round the waist and her racquet dug into his ribs. Then she pushed back from his chest and he saw that it was Cory. She was wearing shorts and a white knit shirt, a sweatband holding back the thick sheaf of her hair. He said blankly, “You only come here in the mornings.”

“Joe’s out of town. So I’m playing with a woman friend.” Slade’s T-shirt was soaked with sweat, clinging to his chest so that she could see the curl of dark hair from throat to navel and the jut of his collarbones. He was still breathing hard.

Feeling breathless herself, her palms tingling from the contact with muscles as hard as a board, she heard him say, laughter warming his voice, “You don’t want to be within ten feet of me right now. I’m in need of large quantities of soap and water.”

This man to be the father of her child? Heaven help her. Cory said ironically, “I was watching you for a while. Remind me never to get in a squash court with you—you’d pulverize me. Do you always play like that?”

“Cory,” he said, “after your game why don’t you join me at Harold’s Pub for a snack and a beer? I’ve been thinking about your idea.”

She said vigorously, “That’s one discussion I do not want to reopen.”

“I might agree to it,” he said.

She paled. “Are you serious?”

“Given certain conditions. I think we should at least talk about it some more.”

With a hunted look she said, “I’m late; I’ve got to go. All right, I’ll meet you there in about an hour.”

Sweat was stinging his eyes. Slade wiped his face again and headed for the shower. He’d really only opened the way for negotiations, he told himself as he pushed open the locker-room door.

He hadn’t made any hard and fast decisions.

CHAPTER FOUR

SLADE had eaten a plateful of nachos with very hot salsa and downed two beers by the time Cory walked in the door of the pub. Several of the men eyed her speculatively, and in a primitive surge of possessiveness Slade stood up, waving to her. She smiled, wending her way through the tables; she looked slim and attractive in jeans and a brown leather bomber jacket. He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders and kissed her, unsurprised to feel tension knot her muscles.

“You’re quite a woman,” he murmured. “Fifty-five minutes of squash and I still want to throw you down on the floor and make love to you.”

Color crept up her cheeks. “The bouncer wouldn’t approve.”

“Plus the carpet needs cleaning.”

With great relief Cory saw the bartender approaching. They ordered burgers and draught beer, then Slade asked, “How did your game go?”

“I lost—couldn’t concentrate.” She hesitated. “I thought you’d have gone back to Toronto by now.”

“Friday afternoon.” As their beers were delivered, he paid for them, waited until the bartender was out of hearing, then added, “Although I could delay my flight until Sunday. That way we could spend the weekend together. During which I’d do my best to make you pregnant.”

“Slade, I—you’ve got the wrong idea.” As if she knew exactly what she was talking about, rather than having only the haziest of notions from reading popular magazines, Cory said in a rush, “There are clinics—it can all be done artificially.”

“What did you say?”

“You heard.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’ve applied several adjectives to you in our brief acquaintance, but cold-blooded wasn’t one of them. Artificially, for Pete’s sake!”

“The whole situation’s artificial! And I’m not cold-blooded. We hardly know each other, and we certainly aren’t in love with each other—how can we make love?”

“Very easily, I assure you. People do it all the time.”

“I’m not people. I’m me.”

“Then we’re both wasting our time. I won’t bring a child into the world that way, Cory. You can find someone else.”

She couldn’t even imagine broaching the subject with someone else. As Slade stared moodily into his glass, she studied his face, seeing as if for the first time the strongly boned jaw, the fan of laughter lines radiating from the corners of his eyes, the cleanly sculpted mouth and cleft chin. Right now he looked older than his years. He’s suffered too, she thought humbly, and remembered the pain that had convulsed his features at the restaurant. She said steadily, “I don’t want to ask anyone else.”

He looked up, his gray eyes unreadable. “But you want me to disappear once you’re pregnant.”

“That’s right. I’d be the sole parent.”

“What have you got against marriage, Cory?”

“I’m an independent, financially secure woman. I scare the heck out of eighty percent of men. The other twenty percent have already been snapped up by women quicker on the draw than me.”

“I have no doubt there’s an element of truth in that. But it’s scarcely the reason you react like a gun-shy dog every time I mention the word ‘marriage’. Why don’t you want to get married?”

Shrugging, she said, “Been there, done that.”

He said flatly, “You have this habit of giving flip answers to serious questions. Neat way to keep people at a distance.”

She frowned at him, disliking how easily he seemed to see through her. “With most men it works.”

“I’m not most men.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” She paused while the waiter put their food in front of them, and reached for the ketchup. “I was married once. I never want to be married again. And that’s all you’re getting out of me. Because I’d be willing to bet you’re not going to tell me why you’ve changed your mind. About my idea, I mean.”

“You’re right. I’m not.”

“This isn’t about building a relationship. It’s about making a baby.”

Slade didn’t want a relationship; that had been achingly clear to him every day of the last two years. So why did he dislike Cory’s honesty so much? He said obliquely, “I’ve got a clean bill of health. What about you?”

“Me too.” She gave a rueful smile. “It’s not even an issue.”

Almost sure she wouldn’t answer if he asked why, he said, “How much financial support will you want?”

Her fork stopped halfway to her mouth. “None! This has got nothing to do with money.”

He’d sensed that would be her answer. “Once you find out whether or not you’re pregnant, I’ll expect you to let me know.”

“I don’t want you keeping tabs on me!”

“If you’re not pregnant,” Slade said smoothly, “you’ll presumably want to try again. Won’t you?”

And what was she supposed to answer to that? Scarlet-cheeked, Cory said, “I hate talking this way... it sounds so—so utilitarian.”

“The same goes for the baby’s birth—I’ll want to know when it happens.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said shortly.

“I said I had conditions, Cory. There are three more. One, if you ever need help, you’re to get in touch with me—I mean that. Two, I’ll be contacting you once a year to hear how things are going. And three, once I know you’re pregnant I’ll change my will so that you and the child will be beneficiaries.”

Cory gave up any pretence of eating. “You know what I feel like? A fly that’s blundered into a spider’s web. At first just one foot’s stuck. But the more the fly struggles, the more bits of web it gets entangled in.”

“We’re not talking about something simple here—a game of squash, for instance,” Slade said in a hard voice. “This is a new life you’re going to bring into the world—a baby. Not something to be done lightly. If one of the reasons you chose me is because I have principles, you can’t expect them to fly out the window when it suits you.”

The trouble was, he was right. “Maybe we should give up the whole idea. It’s getting more and more complicated.” She poked at a dill pickle with her knife and burst out, “Slade, am I wrong to want a baby? I know you’re supposed to get married first and then have children. But I hated being married! It seems to have immunized me against falling in love again. I don’t want to fall in love. I just want a baby.”

Clearly she wasn’t talking just for effect; she wanted an answer. But she was asking the wrong man. He was immune to both marriage and children. He said carefully, “Being a single mother won’t always be easy.”

The pickle was being reduced to a series of neat cubes. “All the other women I know are either settled with families, or else they’re having affairs and falling in and out of love. I don’t fit; that’s part of the trouble.”

“Have you thought of adoption?”

“There’s a huge waiting list—it could take years. I’m too impatient for that, Slade; I want the baby now. And I know you’re right—being a single mother and holding down a job won’t always be a bed of roses. But I’m learning to delegate at work. Dillon—my right-hand man—could manage the firm in a year or two, especially if I got into the perennials.”

That nasty little jab in his gut—of course it wasn’t jealousy. “So why don’t you ask Dillon to be the father?”

She gave a rich chuckle. “Oh, no, not Dillon. It’s not that he’s uninterested in women; he’s the very opposite—altogether too interested. A bad case of rampant hormones. When he first came to work for me, I had to set him straight in the first week... and now we’re buddies.”

Then she sobered, pushing a French fry around her plate. “I have some money put away, from the tourist agency and from when my aunt died. I know Sue would pass on baby clothes and cribs and things.” Then she looked straight at him, and said with passionate honesty, “I have so much love to give, Slade. I’d make a good mother; I know I would.”