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“I’m not a slut,” Olympia said low and fiercely.
He swallowed hard around the pain. “It’s a reasonable question. I only met you at the wedding, and you slept with me.”
Her head snapped up from where she’d let it drop onto her knees. Her slanted eyes narrowed further, the tabby-brown darkening to near black. “So I’m the slut, and you’re what, just a stud? How do I know you’re not a serial impregnator? You said the broken condom was an accident, but was it?”
“‘Serial impregnator’? That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Maybe you get some kind of sick thrill out of being a baby daddy and abandoning your children. Men are like that.”
Now she was starting to piss him off. “I have one child. I guess now I’ll have two. That’s it. And the reason I’m with you is because I want custody of my son.”
“Probably for the child support,” she muttered.
Hostile witness. Think of her as a hostile witness. He took a deep mental breath and worked on moving his features into a friendly smile, something that crossed good old boy with beta male. “Come on, darlin’, the floor in here is cold, and we’ve got some heavy-duty jawin’ to do. Let’s go sit on the couch so we can figure all this out.”
She pulled away from the fingers he’d laid on her shoulder. “That really works on people?” She clasped her hands together until her knuckles went white. “The test could be wrong. It says so in the fine print...”
“Darlin’—”
“Don’t call me that. I am not your darlin’, and you are not a cowpoke or whatever the hell you’re pretending to be.” Her chin came up, matching the flat annoyance in her eyes.
New tactic. He dropped the drawl and went for reasonable attorney. “Do you really think you’re not pregnant? You’ve been throwing up. You haven’t had your period, right? And the condom broke. How likely is it that the test is wrong?”
“It’s possible.”
“Take another one,” he said, holding on to his reasonable tone by the last thread of his patience. “I got three different ones.”
He hesitated a moment, then moved out of the bathroom to give her time for the news to sink in. He needed a few minutes, too. As an attorney, he knew how to look calm, cool and collected, even when he wasn’t. He went to the bucket with its celebratory bottle of champagne. No. He hated the stuff, plus this called for something stronger. Cracking open the minibar, he got out the two tiny bottles of whiskey and gulped down the liquor in the first one without bothering to find a glass. He enjoyed the warmth as it hit his stomach and spread out from there, thawing the cold ball of dread...and excitement...that had lodged in his gut. For the second bottle, he found a glass and left the room quietly for ice.
“Oh, my God,” he said to himself as he walked the corridor. A wife and a baby. That had not been how he’d imagined this day ending. Actually, his hope had been to convince her that there was no reason they shouldn’t enjoy each other again. They were married, after all, and had proved that night they were compatible sexually—more than once. The night, apparently. He stopped in the middle of the hall with the ice bucket, trying to take in the fact that he was going to be a father again. Maybe a little girl this time?
When he got back to their room, she’d closed the bathroom door again. He poured his whiskey on the rocks, went to the window and stared out over the golf course below them. Lifting his glass to take a drink, he stopped when he saw his reflection in the window, a silly grin splitting his face. Maybe this wasn’t exactly how he’d wanted things to go, but having another child, making a family would never be a bad thing.
They needed dinner—an amazing dinner with a spectacular dessert to celebrate. It was their honeymoon, and they were going to have a baby.
“Olympia, I’m ordering room service. Steak, beans, salad, with something decadent and chocolate for dessert. Is there anything you want?” He stepped back surprised when the door opened.
“That’ll be fine,” she said.
He looked her over. Other than the pale face, she appeared composed, her usual competent, cowgirl self. Actually, she looked better than when they’d said, “I do” this morning. Had it only been this morning? He waited for her to say more, but she just walked past him and sat on the couch. He called in the order and worked hard to wipe the stupid, sappy grin off his face before sitting down with Olympia. She’d turned on the TV, putting it on mute.
“The food should be here in fifteen, twenty minutes.” He paused, letting his brain sort through possible ways to get them on better footing. “You know Jessie from some rodeo camp you went to as kids, right?”
Olympia nodded, her eyes not meeting his. “Is there something to drink?”
“I can go to the soda machine. What would you like?”
She sat for a moment, her face blank. Then she shook herself and said, “An orange soda?”
“Sure thing. If room service comes, just put it on the room tab.” He pulled his wallet from his pocket and gave her a twenty. “Here’s a tip, too.”
He hurried from the room. Olympia’s blank eyes were disturbing. He needed to remember that she’d never gone through this before—the delight and fear of pregnancy.
* * *
HE SMELLED THE FOOD as soon as he stepped back into the room with four cans of soda, none of them orange. He’d even tried different floors, hoping that the machines had different offerings. But no orange, so he’d gotten a variety that excluded caffeine—not good for the baby, not that any of the other ingredients were exactly healthy.
The room-service table sat by the window, covered with silver-lidded dishes. Olympia stood by it, looking out at the peaceful desert, just as he’d done.
“Why don’t we eat? You’ll feel better. It’ll help with the nausea,” he said. Her shoulders went up around her ears. “Come on. I know you’re hungry. I’m starved. Plus we need to celebrate.”
“Celebrate?” she whirled around, her mouth contorted in rage, pain or maybe terror.
“Sure. A baby and a wedding.”
“A fake wedding and a baby that neither of us wants.”
“Well, at least you’re admitting you’re pregnant.”
She barked out a laugh. “Three pee sticks don’t lie. I’m a James. Of course I’m pregnant. It’s what we do. Hook up with some random guy, get pregnant, hope that it’ll last, then when it doesn’t, look for the next guy willing to—”
“Whoa. Hold on. I won’t abandon—”
“You’re all puffed up and proud because your swimmers won, but it doesn’t last. It never lasts.” Her words devolved into a sob.
Spence took one small, slow step closer, wanting to comfort and reassure her. He picked up her hand and held it. She didn’t pull back. “I’m fighting for custody of my son. I won’t walk away from another child.” His heart flopped again as he thought about another baby in his life.
“No,” she said, pulling away. “You’re not going to negotiate or talk me into this.”
“I’m not talking you into anything.”
“I know we’re married, but it’s fake. We’re not a forever kind of thing.”
“Maybe, but—”
She cut him off again. Her face lightened two shades, and her mouth clamped into a firm line. “I’m giving the baby up for adoption.”
“What? This is my child. You can’t do that.”
“No. It’s mine.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Who’s the one who’s pregnant? Huh? Plus, we’ll be divorced before I have the baby.” Her chin thrust out again.
“Whether we’re divorced or not, the baby is mine, too, just like Calvin. A real man doesn’t walk out on his family. My God, the whole reason we’re married is because I want my son in my life. Why do you think this baby will be any different? You can’t give the baby up for adoption without my consent.”
“What if I run away? I bet they wouldn’t care in Mexico.”
His hands went clammy, and the collar on his shirt suddenly felt too tight. Would she really do that? Or was it just fear talking? He stared at her hard, assessing her as he would an opponent across the negotiating table. Her lips trembled just a little. She wasn’t an opponent. She was the mother of his baby and, for now, his wife. “You’re not runnin’ away, darlin’. We’ll work this out,” he said in his most reasonable voice.
“You can’t stop me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. We have a contract, and I know the law.” He let that hang there because she was right. He couldn’t force her to have the baby or to stay in Arizona, but by the time she figured out all that, he’d have her sign an addendum to their contract. He waited for her to say something. He hated to lie to her, but this was about his baby. He’d do whatever it took to save his child.
Chapter Three (#ulink_ac4aa075-db85-5058-a935-a07627e0232f)
Olympia sat down suddenly. Her head whirled; the room wavered. She couldn’t think about keeping a baby, even if he told her he’d stick around. A big lump settled midway up her throat. Throw up or pass out—those were her options. Her vision started to darken around the edges. She swallowed hard.
“For God’s sake,” Spence said, firmly grasping her by the neck and pushing down her head.
She tried to suck in a deep breath, but her insides were being crushed. Was that what happened? She remembered Mama waddling around, pregnant with her sister Rickie. She couldn’t train for the rodeo while she was pregnant, could she? What would she do? She’d waited so long to get on the circuit. “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God,” she moaned. A garbage can appeared under her nose. She batted at it. She wasn’t going to be sick, and the dark spots were disappearing. She sat up and stopped moving abruptly when the room whirled again.
“Here,” Spence said, thrusting a doughy white roll at her. “You said that you haven’t had any food, and even if you did, you left it out there along the 10.”
She cautiously took the roll. Regardless of her state of knocked-up-ness, not eating would make anyone sick. She nibbled at the bread while he lifted the silver covers from the plates and put them back. After a deep breath, he smiled at her. She guessed it was the smile he used in court to win over the ladies on the jury.
“Looks good,” he said, his dimple deepening.
She continued to munch on the bread, which seemed to settle just fine. Spence didn’t sit down but watched her as though he’d taken up guard duty.
“Aren’t you hungry?” she asked after finishing the roll and thinking that the steak and cowboy beans—even cooled—smelled good.
He gave her another for-the-jury smile. “No, ma’am. Not right now. Maybe later.”
Great. He was back to pretending he was a cowboy. Annoyance flooded her, and bile threatened to choke her. The food was no longer tempting. “So you have me trapped in this room. What are we going to do?” she asked, not caring that she sounded belligerent.
“Well,” he drawled, “I’m going to finish my drink here, then mosey on down to the bar.”
“I thought you were proving to anyone who cared that we’d actually gone on a honeymoon.”
“The receipts will be enough. There isn’t a PI tracking us.”
“Whatever.” She lifted the cover on the food again, just to give her something to do, because she was not going to eat it. Maybe a milk shake would be okay. She’d call room service once he left.
“I’ll see you later. Make sure you lock the door. I have my key. By the way, I’m sure I can see the lobby from the bar,” Spence said.
She heard the implied threat. Still, after he’d gone, she almost missed his hint of licorice and leather. For the first time since Spence had pulled off the road for her to be sick, Olympia took a deep breath. She pushed the cart away. After calling for a triple-thick vanilla shake, she went to look through the bag of things he’d bought for their overnight stay. Thank goodness there was a T-shirt and sweatpants. At least she wouldn’t have to sleep in her clothes.
She got as comfy as she could while ignoring the reality of her situation. She turned on the TV, loud, and forced herself to enjoy her extralarge milk shake.
* * *
“WHY ARE YOU sleeping here?” Spence asked later, appearing over her nest of pillows on the couch.
“This is more comfortable.” The king-size bed in the other room intimidated her.
“This is where I’m sleeping. I’m not going to let a pregnant woman sleep on a couch when there’s a perfectly good bed.”
Fully awake now, she felt her gorge rising again at the word pregnant. Why had he said that? She swallowed.
“Are you going to be sick?”
“No.” She shook her head but stopped quickly. Maybe the overly rich shake hadn’t been such a good idea after not eating all day. She didn’t move and closed her eyes again, turning her head away and slowly rolling so her back was to him. She didn’t care what Spence thought or wanted. She was staying right here.
His hand, with its smooth—but not girlie—palm, rested against her forehead as she tried to move farther away.
“No fever,” he grunted.
“You woke me out of a sound sleep.”
“I wouldn’t have woken you if you’d been in the bed.”
“I was comfortable here.”
“I’ll help you to bed.”
“You will not. I’m staying here.”
“Olympia, I’m not letting you sleep here. Come on.” She turned enough to see him towering over the couch, his arms crossed over his chest—his broad chest, where she’d laid her cheek after they’d made love.
“Go away.” She squinched her eyes closed against him and the memories of that night. Dear Lord, the night she’d gotten pregnant. Her stomach heaved, and she fought her way out of her nest of pillows.
When she finally came out of the bathroom, she didn’t fight Spence as he helped her to the bed. Exhausted, she just wanted to lie down and have her head stop spinning. Spence held up the covers for her, and she carefully slid in. She lay there in the middle of the huge empty bed, listening to him in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and doing all those domestic things that she’d imagined in her silly girlhood would mean that she finally belonged somewhere and to someone. Now here she was, married to a man she didn’t like most hours of the day, pregnant—there, she’d thought it without hyperventilating—and alone on her wedding night.
Tears tracked down her cheeks. She wiped at them and buried her face farther into the pillow. She hated crying but couldn’t stop the sob that bubbled up and out. She tightened her jaw to keep the next one in. Her chest hurt from holding back her gasping breaths. Her eyes burned from the tears, then the sob parted her lips and she couldn’t stop. What the hell was she crying about? The bed dipped. She popped up, wrestling with the blankets and sheets.
“Everything’s okay,” Spence whispered, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Lie down.” He pulled her toward him, bringing her cheek to rest on that solid chest, where she could hear the thud of his heart. His hand rubbed her back. She wanted to tell him to get away from her. Instead, she lay there, clutching his shirt and blubbering. Damn it. She wasn’t the kind of woman who cried. She’d always prided herself on that.
Hours passed. It had to be hours. Her tears left tight, salty trails on her cheeks. Her eyelids rasped across her eyes. She tried to push herself away from Spence, but he just tightened his hold.
“Relax. Go to sleep. Morning will be here before we know it.”
Even those inane words made her feel better as she drifted into sleep, thinking that this would be something to tell their children. She jerked awake. She wasn’t keeping the baby, and she wasn’t keeping Spence. None of that was in the life she had planned. James women made horrible wives and even worse mothers.
* * *
THE COMBINATION OF a vibrating pocket and deliciously round female butt against his crotch brought Spence slowly and pleasantly from sleep as an imaginary Olympia asked him, “Is that your phone? Or are you just happy to feel me?”
The vibration paused for five breaths as he gathered himself to figure out where he was and why his mouth tasted as if he’d eaten dead coyote for dinner. He rolled slowly away from Olympia. His wife. Had he really married her? Had they really gotten pregnant? Was that the sun coming in through the curtains?
He sat up slowly, making sure he didn’t jar his head. He knew that once he really woke up, the hangover he deserved would pierce his brain. “Hello,” he whispered hoarsely into the phone.
“Daddy,” Calvin said. “You forgot to call.”
Spence stood quickly and hustled from the bed to the window. Crap. The sun was bright and way up in the sky. Then the spike-through-the-head hangover hit. Why had he sucked down four whiskeys? Whiskey always gave him a bad hangover. “Calvin...” Spence started, then cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, buddy. I got busy.”
“You’re always busy. When are you going to come and get me? I don’t want to live here anymore.”
