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“Har-har.”
“Last week, you said the baby was due in six weeks.”
“Yes. On the sixteenth of May.”
“Which is five weeks away now.”
“I may not be a banker, Dalton, but I do know how to count.”
“We don’t have much time.”
She pressed her lips together to keep from saying, Time for what?
And he went on, “I should be with you.”
Okay, that sounded kind of sweet. She tried to think of something nice and helpful and conciliatory to say.
But before she could come up with anything, he said, “You could have the baby any time now. What if I’m not there?”
She had never expected him to be there, so she had no idea what to say to that.
And then he said, “Are you still on the line, Clara?”
“Yes.”
“Call Astrid. I mean it.”
And then he hung up.
And she did not call Astrid. But she was thinking about it. A lot.
The next weekend, Rory and Walker, Ryan’s brother, had a little party out at the Bar-N, their ranch. Clara went. So did Ryan and a bunch of their mutual friends and Clara’s sisters and three of her brothers.
Rory took her aside and asked her how she was doing, how it was working out with Dalton. And Clara was vague and unhelpful in her answers, causing Rory to ask if she was all right.
Clara lied with a big, fat smile and said she was doing just fine and no, she hadn’t told Ryan about Dalton yet. She hadn’t told anybody, she confessed.
“I will,” she promised her favorite cousin and dear friend. “Soon...”
Sunday night, Dalton called again.
It was just more of the same. He told her get in touch with Astrid and she said again that she was giving it some thought.
“Four weeks left until the baby comes,” he said bleakly. “This is wrong, what you’re doing, Clara. It’s wrong and you know it.”
And, well, after she hung up, she felt really depressed. Mostly because he was pretty much right.
So she did it. She called Astrid.
Dalton’s wife—all right, all right, ex-wife—answered the phone on the first ring and sounded quite nice, actually. She said that yes, she would be happy to meet with Clara at Clara’s convenience.
“Will you come to the house?” Astrid asked. “We can chat in private, just the two of us.”
Clara took down Astrid’s address and said she would be there at two the next afternoon. Then she called Renée, who said that she would have no problem handling the restaurant tomorrow without her.
But of course, Clara went in anyway. She might be about to have a baby, but the café was her first baby. She didn’t like deserting her business or her staff with hardly any warning. And it turned out to be another busy day, so she was glad she’d gone in—and hated to just walk out on the lunch rush.
But Renée reassured her and sent her on her way, adding that she really ought to start cutting back on her hours. She was about to have a baby, and she needed to take better care of herself.
Clara promised she was fine. And then wondered the whole drive to Denver why she was even going to meet Astrid. She didn’t really believe that Dalton was still married to—or even dating—his ex. He’d been right that she’d totally jumped to conclusions.
And now she was too proud to give it up and admit that she’d been wrong.
Astrid lived in an exclusive gated community. And she was every bit as beautiful as the pictures Clara had seen online. She congratulated Clara on her upcoming motherhood and Clara wondered if she knew that the baby was Dalton’s.
Astrid led Clara into her beautiful home and served her a delicious late lunch of penne pasta with fennel sausage, broccoli, garlic cream and grana padano cheese.
As they enjoyed the wonderful food, Clara went ahead and admitted, “This is Dalton’s baby.”
Astrid nodded. “I had a feeling that might be the case. I...wish you both the very best.”
What to say to that? “Thank you.”
Astrid confirmed what Dalton had already told Clara, that Dalton had occasionally helped her with her causes and served as her escort at a couple of events. “But that was months ago. I’m actually seeing someone now. Someone very special.” A slight, tender sort of smile curved her perfect lips. “Dalton and I are not getting back together. The marriage is over. It’s been over for a long time.”
“What went wrong?” Clara dared to ask.
Astrid only shook her head. “It’s never a good idea to ask the ex what went wrong. You should take it up with Dalton.”
Clara could hardly picture herself taking anything up with Dalton. But she only nodded and agreed that yes, he was the one she ought to ask about that.
She left Astrid’s house at a little after four and fought rush-hour traffic until she finally got north of the metro area. All the way home, she stewed over how she needed to get straight with Dalton. She needed to start working with him instead of avoiding him; they needed to begin to adjust to their roles as parents of the same child.
At home, she dug her phone out of her purse, dropped the purse on the hall table and carried the phone through to the great room, where she sank to the sofa and kicked off her shoes. With a tired sigh, she let her head drop to the sofa back.
Dalton. She needed to make peace with him for the sake of the baby. But she hated that she was still attracted to him, even though he’d turned out to be nothing like the man she’d fallen for on the island.
Plus, hello. Extremely pregnant, big as a cow. And tired. Tired to the bone. She just couldn’t talk to him right then.
And she wouldn’t.
Tomorrow. Yeah. She’d get a good night’s rest and call him in the morning.
The phone rang in her hand.
Dalton Ames, read the display. She put the damn thing to her ear. “What?”
“Astrid tells me you went to see her.”
She stifled another groan. “Yes, Dalton. Astrid has set me straight.”
“Good. Let me take you to dinner tonight.”
She cradled her enormous belly with her free hand and sighed. “I’m eight months pregnant, Dalton. I just drove five hours round-trip to and from Castle Pines Village.”
“You should have called me. I would have sent a car.”
“The point is, I’m not going anywhere this evening but to bed.”
Dead silence. Then, “My God, Clara. Are you all right?”
She wasn’t, not really. She felt torn in two. But she was much too tired to do anything about that at the moment. “Dalton, we’ll talk, I promise.”
“When?”
“Soon. I really have to go.”
“I’ll be there by nine at the latest.”
“What? Here? No. Why?”
“I want to see for myself that you’re all right.”
Clara gathered every last ounce of will and determination she had left and she told him, “Don’t you dare, Dalton. You had better not knock on my door tonight.”
More silence. Finally, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
She wasn’t, as a matter of fact. But no way was she telling him that. “Yes. I’m fine.”
“Get some rest, Clara.”
“That is exactly what I plan to do.”
He said good-night then. She breathed a careful sigh of relief as she hung up the phone. Then she dragged her poor, tired body up off the sofa and into her bedroom, where she fell into bed.
In spite of her exhaustion, she didn’t sleep well.
In the morning, she considered taking the day off. But that seemed wrong, after cutting out on her crew the day before.
So she pulled herself together, threw on a comfy blue dress with a handkerchief hem and a sturdy pair of flat-heeled sandals. She gathered her hair up into a scraggly ponytail and went in—and found Dalton there, sitting at a window table, sipping coffee and eating a Tuscan omelet. At the sight of him, in yet another of those beautiful tailor-made suits of his, looking fresh and rested and ready to get right to work bossing her around, her heart actually seemed to skip a beat.
Seriously?
What was the problem with her heart, anyway? It had no business skipping beats over him. She was as big as a barn and her ankles were swollen. The last thing she needed now was to get all excited over the guy who’d gotten her into this condition in the first place.
Some people’s hearts just never learned.
Through a monumental effort of sheer will, she put on her calmest expression and toddled over to deal with him.
The first words out of his mouth were “You look terrible.”
As if that was news to her. Of course she looked terrible. She was beat. Just completely exhausted from the constant, months-long strain of this whole situation.
And her restaurant was packed, as usual. Which was a good thing—except that all of her customers seemed to be staring at her and the big, handsome man in the great suit who gazed up at her critically, as though he, and only he, knew what was good for her.
Wonderful. Just what she needed. The whole town up in her business all over again, the way they were when she almost married Ryan.
And then he did something even more annoying than telling her she looked like crap: he actually put on a smile. And damned if that smile didn’t tug at her silly heartstrings.
“I like your café.” The blue gaze scanned the two-story wall of bookshelves that gave the café its name. He took in the tan-and-coffee-colored walls hung with art by local artists. He glanced approvingly at the many windows, most with mountain views. He nodded at the cast-iron spiral staircase in the center of the room, which led up to a second dining room open to the floor below. “It’s beautiful, Clara. And the food is excellent.”
“Thank you,” she said with careful control, keeping her voice just loud enough to be heard by him and him alone. “Tell you what, why don’t you join me in my office when you’re finished eating? We can speak privately. It’s through that arch on the right as you’re facing the counter.”
He frowned up at her. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Why are you always asking me that?” She spoke through clenched teeth.
“Because you look like you’re about to fall over.”
She lifted a hand and smoothed her scraped-back hair. “I’m just fine, thank you. My office, then?”
“I’ll be right there.”
“No hurry. Take your time.” Take forever. Please.
He nodded and picked up his fork again. She seized the moment and made her escape. Head high, giant belly leading the way, she turned for the back rooms.
In her office, she shut the door, sagged against it and stared blindly at the tiny window high on the back wall that looked out on the alley. Really, she didn’t feel well.
Her hands were chilly; her forehead was sweating. Her stomach churned and her overworked heart pounded away like a herd of wild mustangs trapped inside her chest.
What did he want from her?
To break her heart all over again?
For the past eight months, her previously well-ordered life had veered right off the rails into Crazyland. Her life had been one giant, tangled ball of anxiety and upheaval for way, way too long.
Logically, she knew that it wasn’t Dalton’s fault, that they’d had an agreement on the island and she was the one who’d wanted to make it more than it was. But in her heart, she blamed him. For not being there. For not wanting her more, for not being the perfect man she’d let herself imagine he was.
A tap on the door.
Time to face him again.
She pressed cold fingers to her hot, itchy eyelids and dragged herself up straight.
“Clara?” His voice, from the other side of the door. Gentle, for once. Maybe even a little concerned.
She didn’t need or want his concern. “Yes. Yes, all right.” She pulled the door wide.
